Unholy Shepherd

by Robert W Christian

  “We shipped over in the spring of 1969 after five months of jungle training and briefing. Our missions were going to all be behind enemy lines, all geared toward cutting supply lines, POW rescues if they were possible, that sort of thing. At least, that’s what they told us. It all started that way, but as the missions started to pile up, we found ourselves doing less and less subversion and more and more—what they called—extreme interrogation. Soon, all we were doing was kidnapping suspected Vietcong and torturing them for information. It didn’t even seem to matter how credible our intel was.

  “We’d been in country for about a year, and around this time, word came to us about a pro-North terrorist cell across the border in Laos. This was one of those tips that didn’t actually come from our military intelligence, just some vague rumors among the locals, but our Sergeant decided to pursue it. A lot of us felt it was a little thin, and we debated the ethics of entering that country, but we had our orders. It was a long, two-day slog through the jungle, up around the peak of Rao Co, and over the border. Our Vietnamese guides left us at this point, and we continued toward the village for another half a day. We circled it just before nightfall. It was as small of a jungle settlement as you could imagine, a collection of less than a dozen thatched huts. A few small fires were still lit, but we saw no one moving around. No insurgents, nothing. It was decided that we’d proceed at dawn.

  “The next morning, we rounded up everyone in the village. We were surprised at the lack of resistance. There wasn’t a single weapon fired by anyone in their defense. A search of the village and surrounding area didn’t yield anything to show the rumors that brought us there were true. No guns, no explosives. They must have been dealing in information, our officers thought, helping the Vietcong by spying, by playing the innocent villagers. A few members of our team were well versed in interrogation tactics and spoke Vietnamese. Of course, that was useless, as the villagers were Laotian, but that didn’t seem to matter to them. They screamed at the villagers—at a mother clutching her crying baby, at an old man cowering on the ground—trying to extract any information they could. Each villager had the same response: a wide-eyed look of horror, a ferocious shaking of the head, and tears. Hardly the behavior of hardened agents for the North.

  “Finally, our sergeant called a stop and told the company to line up the villagers and execute them for aiding the enemy. And we did. Seventeen women, fourteen men, and nine children, all their lives snuffed out in a burst of machine gun fire. Afterwards, we followed orders to set fire to the village and left.

  “A few days after we returned, I went to see the unit’s chaplain to talk about the morality of what we had just done. The chaplain assured me that we, and by extension America, were doing God’s work by defeating the evils of Communism and bringing light to a dark world. He assured me that the villagers did not know the light of Christ, and therefore what I had done was just: no different from the Children of Israel cleansing the Promised Land of the Canaanites. Needless to say, I was disillusioned by this. How could a God of love condone this type of atrocity? Wars are fought, true, and people die in them, that is unavoidable. But the intentional murder of innocent civilians based on very thin and questionable intel? That couldn’t be right. The God I knew would never condone that. I resolved to leave it all behind.

  “The counterintelligence training I’d been through taught me well, so slipping out of the unit and through the jungle was not a problem. I lived off the land for a good six months, always making my way south, until I came to a fishing village and was able to barter some of my tools to get river passage down to the southern tip of Vietnam. From there, I made my way across the South China Sea to the Philippines and stayed there for a few years before managing to get myself onto a transpacific ship and eventually back to the United States. The whole time, I was searching for answers—in churches, in shrines, in the streets among the poor—and at last, I came to the conclusion that my life—the life of Corporal Mullen—had to be put to an end, and a new life must rise in its place. And so, when I finally made it home nearly eight years after my desertion and a full three years after the war had ended, I enrolled in Seminary. And on that day, Corporal Patrick Mullen died, and Father Patrick McGill was born.”

  Father Patrick finished speaking and sat up again, leaning back in his chair. He reached out to the table, picked up his glass, and drank down the rest of the port. He had yet to look at her since beginning to tell his story, and all Maureen could do was stare at him. She could obviously tell that the effort of relating the story had taken a toll on him emotionally. There was even the stain of a single tear tracing its path down his face. She detected a feeling in him that she knew all too well herself. Shame.

  “Is that all true?” she asked quietly. “That’s your whole story?”

  “That’s two different questions,” Father Patrick said, turning and smiling sadly at her. “Yes, everything I’ve just told you is true. No, I have not told you everything, but I have told you enough to make you understand. I’ve seen enough violence to last me more than one lifetime, and I’ve done more than any man should. I have just as many demons to fight as you do, likely more, which is probably why I am able to speak of these things to you. My nightmares might not tell me the things that yours tell you, but they haunt me nonetheless. Another way you and I are a lot alike.”

  “How do you handle it?” Maureen found herself almost forgetting why she had come in the first place. The anger she’d felt toward the man had almost turned to pity. If this all was an act, she was certainly convinced.

  “Prayer, lots and lots of prayer. Seems like a fairly obvious and standard thing for a priest to say, but it’s the truth. I know that God knows what I have done, and I know that I’ll be judged justly when my time comes. I’m not one who necessarily believes that I can erase my sins with a string of good deeds, but I do believe in atoning for them as best I can. When I pray, I acknowledge to the Lord that I am mortal—I am flawed—but I really am trying to be better and to serve others because it’s right, not because I’m hoping for some reward.”

  “Not very Catholic of you,” Maureen chided. It wasn’t a very tasteful thing to say, she knew, but she had to break this tension somehow.

  Father Patrick let out a short, soft laugh then paused for a moment while staring down at his empty glass and passing it from hand to hand, once again deep in thought. “Maureen,” he said finally, “there are more than half a dozen churches and even more church leaders in this town. How is it that I became your prime suspect?”

  “It seemed to fit so perfectly. It became pretty obvious to me and Manny after the second murder that whoever was doing this was targeting people who had sinned. Lying, stealing, and now Tasha Naismith just admitted to adultery. This guy is killing the children of commandment breakers as a sacrifice of atonement. It’s straight out of the Old Testament. Leviticus is practically a how-to manual for the crimes. All the families of the victims go to St. Mary’s, and at least one of each of the sets of the parents has been to confession within the last ten days, so I just assumed that . . .”

  Maureen’s voice trailed off as Father Patrick got up from his chair and, almost trance-like, slowly made his way over to the bookshelf on the opposite wall.

  “Father, what is it?” she asked.

  “I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I was planning on retiring at the end of the year. Because of that, I’ve been handling less of the day-to-day responsibilities of the church.” He turned and looked steadily at her, his unblinking eyes burning with an earnest horror. “Maureen, I haven’t taken a confession in nearly two months.”

  Maureen opened her mouth, but the words got lost on their way out. The final piece hit her all at once. She quickly shot her gaze over to the clock on the wall. 11:16. If he was going to kill the boy tonight, it would be soon. There wasn’t much time.

  “Father, I have to go! Right now!”

  Father Pat
rick began to protest, but she had run through the house and was out the door and out of hearing range before she heard what he had to say. She was running as fast as she could, stopping only to stuff the pistol back in her waistband. She ran another block and was now within view of Main Street when she remembered the mobile phone in her front pocket. She pulled it out and saw that she had missed six calls from Manny in the last forty-five minutes. She flipped it open, hit re-dial, and continued to run.

  “Manny, it’s me,” she panted as she went along, not slowing to talk. “What? Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. Long story, but listen. Meet me in front of the courthouse as quick as you can. I think I’ve got it all figured out. No. No time to talk now, just get your butt over there with your truck, and I’ll explain everything!”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Father Patrick shook his head sadly as he reached into his pocket, pulling out the clip and the bullet. The haste of youth. Of course, he had figured out the answer as soon as she had mentioned the confessions. It was still a shock, and he could hardly believe it himself, but ever since his dinner conversation with Maureen, her descriptions of the crime scenes, and the symbols and writings in her dreams, he too had been suspecting someone whom he knew well. Now a choice was before him, but in truth, he knew what he was going to do, though it was with no small reluctance.

  He stuffed the clip and bullet back into his pocket and returned one more time to the bar cart. He set down his glass and picked up the bottle of port. He pulled out the cork and was about to pour when he froze. Going back to the bottle wouldn’t give him any more courage, and in fact would prove detrimental if he were to go into action. The momentary sadness of the thought shook him. Back to action. I hope you have it in you, old man. Quickly, he put down the bottle and went upstairs to his bedroom with as much speed as his old bones could muster.

  Father Patrick turned on the small lamp on his nightstand and knelt down to reach under his bed. His hand found the small metal box that he had been searching for, and he slowly pulled it out and placed it on the bed. His fingers ran over the olive green lid, and he closed his eyes for a moment before unlatching it and pushing it open.

  “I was hoping you’d never see the light of day again.”

  Whether he was speaking to the contents of the box or to Corporal Patrick Mullen, he did not know.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Maureen paced back and forth along the sidewalk in front of the steps of the courthouse, shifting in and out of the glow of the streetlight. It had taken her no more than five minutes to run from the rectory to Main Street, and she wondered what was taking Manny so long. After all, it should have only taken the same amount of time for him to drive over from the police station, and that included the time it would probably take him to run out to his truck.

  As afraid as she was that they might not be able to save the Naismith boy, she was very much relieved that Father Patrick wasn’t involved. She couldn’t have forgiven herself for revealing so many of her most intimate thoughts and feelings to someone who could do this type of thing to a child. Another child might die tonight, but at least she now knew who was to blame. No, I can’t think like that! Ben Naismith won’t die! She surprised even herself with that thought, but it galvanized her reserve. Just once—just once—the dreams were going to help prevent tragedy rather than just allow her to helplessly look on as it unfolded.

  The headlights from Manny’s truck hit her square in the face as he turned the corner onto Main Street. She shielded her eyes from the beams as the truck pulled up to the curb. Manny reached over from the driver’s seat and pushed open the passenger’s side door for her.

  “What the hell took you so long?” she shouted as she jumped into the seat and slammed the door. “It’s almost midnight. The kid is going to be dead any minute.”

  “You’re yelling at me?” he shouted back as he pulled the truck into the street and sped away. “I should be asking you the same thing. What the hell were you thinking running off like that?”

  Maureen cast her eyes down for a moment, feeling her cheeks warm. “I thought it was Father Patrick, and I went to his house to stop him before he could kill the kid.” She swallowed hard, remembering her anger and hatred as she pointed the gun at her friend, and her shame and heartache after she had learned the rest of his story. “Only it’s not him. I’m sure it’s—”

  “Father Preston? Yeah, I came to the same conclusion.”

  Maureen’s eyes shot up and stared at him. “How in the hell did you figure that one out?”

  The smirk that came to Manny’s face had no real levity behind it. “I did a little more digging after you ran out on me. See, after what Tasha told us, I thought it might be Father Patrick as well. But, unlike you, I didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to be holding the kid at the rectory or St. Mary’s. That’s when I remembered something.”

  “What?” she shouted earnestly. “Time’s running out!”

  “We might have a little more time than you think, if I’m right,” he replied coolly. “I remembered the old St. Mary’s church along the river. When I was growing up, people would use it for summer weddings every now and then. They built the current one on Main Street in the early sixties because the town had grown, and the original church became too small to hold the congregation. But the Diocese never wanted to close it down because it was one of the first buildings ever built in Sycamore Hills, and they wanted to honor the history of the town.

  “Here’s the thing, though. When I first came back to town, I remember driving by there and noticing a for sale sign on the property. Sure enough, it was Tom Lowes who was the agent. Then I remembered, a little less than a year ago, the sign disappeared from the property. I didn’t think much of it at the time, just figured it was sold. But when I started to think about places that a priest could take a child where no one would find them, it jumped back to my mind. I did a quick check of the public records at the station and saw that the owner hadn’t changed, and that the Catholic Diocese still owned the property. So, I tried Tom Lowes on his cell phone. Took me three tries, but I finally got him to wake up and discuss the property.

  “It seems that the Diocese was selling it because St. Mary’s was short on money, and they figured that someone might want to buy the historic building. Well, the property sat for nearly two years until they pulled it from the market. I asked Tom why, and he said that the finances of St. Mary’s had been rectified, and there were some among the clergy who voiced the opinion that it was important to hang on to the property.

  “What put me onto Preston’s trail was the fact that it’s no secret that Father Patrick has never had a head for money or financing and has been really vocal in the community about his desire for most of the church’s funds to go to charitable endeavors. The timeline also fit that the property was pulled off the market no more than two months after Father Preston arrived in Sycamore Hills. That, and the one time I met him, there was just something that felt off about him. It was his eyes. No matter what else was going on with the rest of his face, they always seemed expressionless. When in doubt, I trust my instincts about people.”

  “So that’s where we’re going?” Maureen asked, admittedly impressed that Manny had made such a conclusion. If it were up to her, they’d be heading to Father Preston’s house instead.

  “That’s where we’re going,” Manny affirmed. “We should be there in a little more than five minutes.”

  Maureen grabbed her cell phone out of her pocket and checked the time. “That’s gonna be tight. It’s almost quarter to midnight. If our guess has been right on his patterns, he kills them as close to midnight as possible.”

  “Yes, but there’s one more thing,” Manny said calmly.

  “What?”

  “Ben Naismith hasn’t been baptized yet,” he replied, turning his head slightly to meet her gaze.

  “He’s had the kid for over a day and a half. You don�
�t think that’s enough time to baptize him?”

  “From what I know of the guy, and from what your dreams seem to tell you, he’s a stickler for the traditional ways. I can’t be sure, but I’m betting he won’t baptize the boy until it is officially Sunday morning. And that’s the other reason I think he’ll be at the old church. If I remember right from a wedding I went to there in high school, there’s an old fount that he can use. No reason to think it wouldn’t still be there. Also, and I know it’s a bit of a gamble, but I’m banking on the fact that he’ll use the full rite. He wouldn’t think he needs to hurry like with some of the other ones. Which reminds me.” He reached for his radio. “I doubt the Feds are looking at this guy. I should call Agent Layton about this. We should have some backup anyway.”

  Maureen’s hand shot out and pulled his away from the radio. He eyed her with sudden surprise.

  “Maureen, what the hell?”

  “What if you’re wrong?” she asked. She actually felt confident in his deductive abilities, but she needed a reason for him to listen to her. “You said the Feds aren’t looking at him. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe we’re jumping to too many conclusions. Maybe they’re going after someone else tonight that you don’t know about. Or, maybe he isn’t at this old church after all, and we’d just be wasting resources. We shouldn’t call anyone until we know for sure that we’re right.”

  “We need backup,” Manny insisted.

  “I’ll be your backup,” she said, pulling his service pistol out of her jeans to show him.

  “Is that my backup gun?”

  Maureen shrugged her shoulders.

  Manny turned the pistol over to reveal the empty clip. He made a face at her.

  “Father Patrick is faster than he looks,” she explained, embarrassed that it only took a few minutes for her to forget how easily the old man had disarmed her. “Besides, it doesn’t matter that it’s not loaded. Preston won’t know. Yours is. I’ll just point this one at him and hold him while you cuff him.”