Unholy Shepherd

by Robert W Christian

  “You’re not giving me any choice, Benitez. I can’t have officers getting into fist fights in the bullpen.”

  “He shoved me first, and you didn’t hear what he called me. I won’t repeat it, but I will say that I thought we had grown beyond that type of racial slur as a society.” He gritted his teeth at the thought of the word. “I guess I was wrong.”

  “Look, I’m not suspending you. You can still come in and work on anything else we have for you. As for Sam, I do plan to put him on administrative leave while we have an internal investigation into the handling of the Locke situation.”

  “So he gets to sit at home and collect a paycheck?” Manny scoffed. “I’m sure he’ll be heartbroken.”

  “You’d rather I just fire him?”

  “I don’t know, why don’t you ask his daddy what you should do the next time you two play golf.”

  That was the sore spot. It was a well-known fact that the captain and Sam’s father were longtime friends.

  “Get out,” Wellner hissed, his face turning a bright crimson and his body shaking.

  Manny shoved open the captain’s office door with a flourish and headed over to his desk without saying a word to anyone. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wentworth, tissue still in his nose, and T.J. heading in the direction of Wellner’s office.

  His desk was piled up with papers: notes on the Lowes family and Sandra Locke. A large cardboard box was on his chair. That was new. Manny leafed through the first few pages of its contents and realized it was the financial statements and other background information on both parties that he had requested late on Saturday. It looked as if whoever handled this at county had just printed out everything they could find and threw it all into the box. It was going to take an eternity to get it all in order.

  “I hear there was a little excitement,” a voice said over his shoulder. Manny spun around to see the unwelcome sight of Agent Layton. He was dressed in his usual neatly pressed black suit, and he had a dark green file folder in his hand.

  “Which part?” Manny retorted, placing his case notes in the box.

  “Why don’t you run it all down for me?”

  Manny shook his head and turned to face him. Agent Layton stood still, nodding his head, while Manny related the day’s events.

  “Well,” Agent Layton puffed once Manny had finished, “it’s a good thing I ran into you before you ran off and did something stupid. Let’s take a walk out to your truck. You don’t want to hang around here anymore.”

  Manny nodded slightly and hefted up the box of papers. The two men made their way out of the building to Manny’s truck, and only then, did the agent break the silence.

  “I’m going to need that box of material, Detective,” he said formally.

  “Can I ask why?” he asked, startled by the agent’s demand.

  “If you’re not going to be part of the case, I can’t allow you to drive away with evidence.”

  “Fine,” Manny replied curtly, shoving the box into the agent’s chest. “I’ve had enough of this!” He turned to unlock the driver’s side door.

  Agent Layton set the box on the ground and placed his palm on the door to stop him. “Hang on, son.”

  Manny blinked, unsure of why the agent was stopping him.

  “Look,” Agent Layton explained, “I can see you’re invested in this case, but I have to keep up appearances. I’m not going to stop you from continuing to investigate on your own. In fact, I encourage it. So let’s make a deal. You get to do whatever you need to figure out who this child-murdering bastard is—so long as you don’t break any laws yourself—and I get periodic check-ins—no need for full disclosure. If you get any useful information, you tell me immediately. If local authorities harass you, I’ll step in. The FBI’s going to take credit for this case, but I’ll be sure you get the recognition you deserve when it’s all said and done. Sound fair?”

  “I’ll need that box of notes,” he said after a moment of thought.

  “No,” Agent Layton said firmly.

  “But you just said—”

  “You didn’t listen. I said I couldn’t let you drive away with this box of evidence. I’m officially taking control of it on behalf of the FBI. I look forward to reading your notes and insights. But keep an eye on your front porch later today,” he lowered his voice and leaned in. “A sealed brown box about the size of this one is scheduled to be delivered. There might even be one or two extra little goodies in there for you.” Agent Layton winked and picked up the box.

  “Do you know where I live?” Manny responded, taken slightly aback.

  “Of course. I take the time to read up on anyone I’m working a case with. By the way, you were recruited to the FBI directly out of college, weren’t you?”

  Manny could tell it wasn’t really a question. He gave the agent a measured nod.

  “Why aren’t you my partner on this right now instead of some local, hothead detective?”

  “It wasn’t a good fit.” It was a lie, but it was better than the truth.

  “Somehow I don’t believe that.” Agent Layton turned and headed back toward the station.

  Manny pulled open the truck door and jumped into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life, and he headed to the first destination on the new path that his investigation was going to take. The moment Agent Layton had said that he didn’t need to report everything, he knew exactly where he was going to begin.

  He pulled onto Main Street, hoping his decision was the right one.

  SEVENTEEN

  Maureen gazed out of the mask that covered her face. Through the eyes, she could see a book. It was a large, leather-bound tome with yellowing pages. Red ink marked the pages with odd symbols and words in a language she didn’t know. The field of her vision widened, and she could observe that she was seated or standing over an old, wooden desk. The light in the room was dim, with bright spots illuminating small halos about her. The light flickered irregularly. Candles.

  The eyes moved to another book on the right. This book was marked with strange lettering. It was also in a language that she did not understand. A hand reached out of her view and returned with a foot-long baton. It was made of wood, and the fingers could feel a variety of bumps and crevasses. Carvings, she decided. The point of the baton was placed upon the book, underneath one of the strange letters. It traced a line across the page, from right to left before continuing on to the line below. A low voice came from the throat. She could feel the speaking. Not speaking, reading.

  She felt her own consciousness begin to struggle for control, and the fog began to cover her sight. A snap of black gave way to Maureen’s kitchen cabinets coming into focus across the room. She raised her head from the couch and sat up slowly, searching inside her skull for the familiar headache to come. None was yet apparent, so she decided to get up and check the time. She grumbled unhappily as she saw that she still had two hours before her alarm was due to go off.

  Maureen felt grimy from the previous night’s shift at the bar, and decided to jump into the shower. She was surprised to find she still had a job, but Mr. Anderson never brought up her arrest, if he knew about it at all. Maureen stepped in once the water was hot and inhaled the steam deeply, clearing the remaining fog from her mind. She almost regretted it. A lack of clarity would have been more than welcome, but nothing she’d tried so far could erase the imprints the nightmares left on her. She had to find a way out of her situation and this town.

  Maureen dried herself off and threw on a pair of jeans and a white tank top, while grabbing a few dollars from her duffel bag. During her shower, she had felt her stomach rumble and decided to take a walk down to Main Street for a quick bite and grab some semblance of normalcy before the hammer fell on her. She stuffed her key and cash into her pocket and ventured out onto the street, shuffling her way north, scrutinizing her options as she went. Among t
he storefronts on and around Main Street, one finally caught her eye.

  The Proper Cup was Sycamore Hills’ only non-chain coffee house. It was a weekday hangout for many of the kids from the college and a midday fueling station for soccer moms and other Main Street business owners or employees. It was a quintessential coffee shop, featuring artisan-style pastries and baked goods along with fancy coffee drinks that the upper class liked. They prided themselves on roasting their own beans and only sourcing from local, organic purveyors, something they made certain to plaster all over the windows.

  Maureen normally wouldn’t go to a place like this, but she was hungry and didn’t want to sit down at a restaurant. Given her limited knowledge of the town, it seemed like the best option. She never fancied herself a coffee drinker—she certainly never made any for herself—and when she did drink it, it was only ever the crummy, roadside-diner kind.

  She was staring at the menu, trying to find just plain coffee, when a voice from behind startled her out of her thoughts.

  “Maureen?” it said. “Ms. Allen, is that you?”

  Maureen turned toward the door and saw that it was filled by the silhouette of Father Patrick, dressed in tennis shoes and jeans with his typical black shirt and priest’s collar. His smile broadened as he closed the distance between them. She wasn’t sure how she felt about being spotted in public, much less by a priest she’d yelled at a few days ago. Judging from the old man’s beaming face, however, it seemed to be water under the bridge.

  “So nice to run into you again,” he said as he came up to her, tucking his newspaper under his arm. “I didn’t know you were a customer here.”

  “Never been before,” she said uncomfortably, scanning the room to see if his jovial greeting had caused any of the other patrons to take notice.

  “Ah, well then, welcome. It’s a favorite of mine. I admit, I have somewhat of an addiction to their caramel lattes. Isn’t that right, Sophia?”

  The young lady behind the counter nodded.

  “One for me, please,” he said.

  “Medium, right?” confirmed Sophia.

  “Absolutely. And for my friend here?” He gestured to Maureen, apparently indicating that she should order as well.

  “Oh, uh, that’s okay,” she stammered. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I insist.”

  “Just a regular coffee, then.” She looked over at him to find his eyebrows raised expectantly, as if he knew that she had intended to order something to eat as well. Maureen turned back to the lady at the counter. “And a raspberry Danish.”

  Father Patrick nodded in approval and handed Sophia money, telling her to keep the change.

  “Come sit with me for a minute, won’t you?” he said after they picked up their order. He led her over to a high-top table with two stools by the window, pulling out one for her before hopping up onto the other. He extended a hand toward the stool, inviting her to sit.

  “Listen,” Maureen said, trying to sound civil, “I appreciate you paying for my coffee, but I’m not really in the mood to talk. I got things I want to think about. Besides, don’t you want to read your paper?”

  “I’ve already read it,” he said. He grinned, then pulled a pen out of his pocket and began to twirl it in his fingers. “I don’t have much to do on Mondays so it’s a good day to sit, have some coffee, and work on the crossword puzzle.”

  “See, you do have better things to do,” she replied and turned to leave.

  “You had another dream, didn’t you?” His words froze her in her tracks.

  How does he know? She sighed, turned back, and slowly climbed atop the stool opposite him. Staring at the table top, she nodded, took a sip of her coffee, and immediately gagged.

  “Something wrong with the coffee?”

  “I wouldn’t know, honestly. I don’t drink it much.” Maureen found a bowl of different colored sugar packets. She grabbed three of the pink ones and stirred them into her coffee. She took another sip and found it more tolerable now that it was sweetened up. She looked up at Father Patrick who was hiding his laughter underneath his hand.

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he said, raising his own coffee and taking a big sip. “Mine has much more sugar in it than that.”

  Despite herself, Maureen smiled and then added one more packet to her drink.

  “So,” Father Patrick said, lowering his voice and looking at her intently, “you had another dream. Does that mean this person has killed again?”

  “No, it was different this time. I was reading books, by candlelight, in a language I didn’t understand. And I was reading it out loud. There were symbols written in red ink on one of the books. That was basically it.”

  “I don’t understand. You were reading?”

  “When I go into these nightmares, it’s like I’m putting on a mask. The person who’s doing these things, I see through their eyes. If they touch something it feels like I’m touching it with my own hands or fingers. I can even feel what they feel, but most of the time, I can separate out my own consciousness. The scariest part is when I fight against it. It’s like being a prisoner. Worse than that, I’ve only recently figured out that it’s all happening in real time. I’m not seeing something that happened in the past or will happen in the future, so there’s nothing I can do to help or stop it. I’m powerless.”

  The old man nodded as she explained. “And this is the only type of dream you have? Seeing through the eyes of other people?”

  Maureen had never been asked that question before. She thought for a moment, trying to remember a time she’d dreamed anything else. She’d tried so hard to repress the nightmares that she wasn’t sure she was even capable of having a pleasant dream.

  “I think so,” she said. “As far back as I can remember, when I do dream, it’s only these types of nightmares. My mother called it ‘The Demon Sight.’” At that, she stuffed a bite of Danish into her mouth.

  “Hmmm,” said Father Patrick, stroking the cropped hairs of his chin and taking a sip of his coffee. “As a man of faith, I can’t help but question the name. What would make someone so sure that a gift like this is demonic and not divine?”

  “I’ve never known anyone of faith to think otherwise,” Maureen said sourly, pushing away the memories of years long past. “Besides, why would I only see through the eyes of people doing evil if I weren’t filled with evil myself?” She allowed all the zealots’ words to echo in hers.

  “Perhaps it’s meant as a tool to stop the evil?” he offered.

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Father, but I’m far more sinner than saint. God, if He even exists, doesn’t choose people like me.”

  “Of course He exists, Maureen. And of course He chooses people like us. What better way to show His love than to redeem the fallen?”

  Us? The fallen?

  Maureen was silently pondering these last words when she heard the sound of scampering feet running in her direction. She turned to see the little boy from the second crime scene running toward her. He stopped a few yards away from the table and stared at her for a moment before bouncing up and down, clapping, and giggling. Maureen furrowed her brow at him and tried to shoo him away. It was too late. The boy’s mother was stalking over, carrying her to-go cup of coffee and frowning.

  “Looks like they decided to let you go,” she said, staring down her nose at Maureen. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t engage my son.”

  “Listen, lady, it’s your kid who keeps bothering me. I can’t help it that he finds me so fascinating.”

  “Whatever,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

  “Did I do something to you?” Maureen asked, doing all she could to stop herself from shooting out of her chair.

  “Come on, Benny,” she said, taking her son’s hand and dragging him away. “We need to get you home for a nap.”

&nb
sp; “Home!” the little boy sang, oblivious to the tension between Maureen and his mother. He waved at her as they left the coffee shop. “Bye-bye!”

  “Sorry about that,” she said to Father Patrick. “I don’t know what’s with that kid—or his mother. His dad’s one of the firefighters. They were at the second crime scene. I’m sure she thinks I’ve got something to do with all of this, and she’s probably not alone.”

  Maureen stuffed the rest of her pastry into her mouth and chased it down with her coffee. To her surprise, she’d gone through her entire cup.

  “The good book says that a little child shall lead us,” mused the priest. “It’s possible the innocence of that child can see something in you that others can’t.”

  “Oh, Christ,” grumbled Maureen. Now he was just serving her platitudes. Maureen grabbed the pen and newspaper from him and began to doodle in the margins.

  “You know, Maureen, I think I’d like to have you over for dinner sometime and talk more about these dreams of yours. I’d like to learn more about them, maybe find a way to help.”

  “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe.” She continued to doodle.

  Father Patrick was talking, but it began to sound like his voice was being swallowed up by water. The rest of the noise in the café followed suit. She was lost in an isolation chamber, staring at the newspaper, reading nothing, just seeing individual letters. They seemed to dance about the page, rearranging themselves into unreadable words. All the while she felt her right hand moving the pen throughout the margins.

  “Maureen!” Father Patrick’s voice cut through the fog and jolted her out of her trance. “Are you all right?”