Unholy Shepherd

by Robert W Christian

  “Maureen—”

  “I just need to be the one to finish this.” There was no point in playing it close to the vest anymore. “I can’t explain it, but something inside me is screaming that it needs to be me who brings him down. If I do that, I’ll have used these visions and dreams for good, and maybe—just maybe—they’ll go away. Please, Manny.”

  Manny’s eyebrows furrowed with skepticism, but he nodded, said nothing, and put his hand back on the steering wheel. The lights of the town were dimming behind them and in the ambient glow, she could see the river glistening ahead. Within moments, a small, sand-colored brick building loomed up out of the darkness on their right. Manny pulled the truck over on the side of the road fifty yards from the front door.

  “I’m only going to give us a few minutes to get this done,” he said, reaching for the radio and holding it up to his mouth. “Base this is Benitez.”

  “This is Collins,” came the reply.

  “Jack, I’m checking a lead on a potential suspect in the Naismith abduction. It might be nothing, but if you don’t hear back from me in fifteen minutes, send a backup unit to the old St. Mary’s west of town, by the river.”

  “Shouldn’t you be calling the Feds on this one?” Collins asked.

  Manny paused and stared at Maureen, tilting his head before continuing. “Looks like I hit a dead spot and don’t have any service for my phone. You’ll have to pass it along for me if you need to call in that backup. I’m clear.” He hung up the radio and said to her, “We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

  The night hung close around them, and without the truck’s headlights to guide them, they had to feel their way along the grass and gravel with their feet. The shadow of the church greeted them as they ran the last few yards to its side. There were few windows in the old building, and those that were there were leaded. They couldn’t see in. Maureen took a step back and scanned the entire building. Now adjusted to the dark, she could detect a faint flickering light emanating from one of the square windows near the back of the church.

  Candles, she thought.

  Manny must have seen them too, because he laid a hand on her elbow and guided her in the direction of the rear of the church. “There’s got to be a back door,” he whispered. “It’s probably our best way in.”

  Maureen nodded and followed along silently, keeping as low as he did to avoid their heads casting any shadows across the window. They rounded the corner and continued to creep along the back side of the church, searching for a rear door. They didn’t find one on the back of the building, but as they rounded the opposite corner, they were confronted with three concrete steps leading up to a landing and their way in.

  Manny was first to the door, holding Maureen back with one hand as they took to the stairs. He stepped up and quietly tried the knob. Nothing.

  “Locked,” he hissed, stepping back and appearing to contemplate for a moment. After a breath, he shrugged and reached into his holster to pull out his gun.

  Maureen stepped to his side and put a hand on his, making him lower the weapon. “Let me have a look.”

  In the dark she couldn’t make out his eyes very well, but was able to detect the movement of his head nodding his agreement. She moved in close to examine the door. It was a hollow, metal door, probably thirty years old or more. Her hand moved to the knob. It, too, was old, without an exterior keyhole that she could pick. She jiggled it as quietly as she could, noting how loose the latch bolt felt inside the plate.

  “I think I can get this door open,” she said reaching behind her and opening her hand to him. “Hand me a credit card.”

  There was a pause before Manny spoke. “How about my library card? It’s easier to replace.”

  She felt the plastic rectangle hit her hand and tested it with both hands. It seemed strong enough. She slipped the card into the jamb above the bolt and felt her way down, working the knob as she did. It only took a few moments before the old lock gave way, and she was able to push the door open. The hallway that the door opened to was dark except for the dimmest of lights showing around a corner some thirty feet away. Maureen recognized the flicker. Candlelight. She edged forward but felt herself suddenly jerked back by the shoulder.

  “Let me go first,” Manny’s voice rasped. He had his gun raised and moved past her into the hall, reaching back to grab her wrist and lead her. “Stay behind me and keep close.”

  The candlelight they were heading toward offered no real light to go by, so they went slow, taking all the care they could not to let their footsteps fall too hard.

  “You couldn’t have brought a flashlight?” Maureen grumbled in a low whisper as they felt their way along.

  “Shush,” came Manny’s response from the darkness ahead.

  They came to a doorway that led to the side of the altar. Manny stuck his head around just far enough to see out, but Maureen could not wait behind him any longer. The drive to finish it all overwhelmed her, and she bolted past Manny, around the corner, and into the candlelight. His surprised exclamation broke the eerie silence and resonated off the walls of the empty church. The sound made her freeze as she realized the foolishness of her action. To her surprise, there was no movement within the church. They were alone.

  Maureen turned to Manny and beckoned him to join her. He cautiously crept to her side, and they continued forward into the nave. The lacquered, wooden altar ahead, on which the largest candle she had ever seen burned and served as the sole source of illumination, was surrounded by a pile of sticks and logs. Maureen’s eyes scanned the rest of the room in the dim light. From what she could make out, it was modestly decorated—as far as Catholic churches went. The pews were set in two rows and were made of the same wood as the altar. The altar itself was set on a short, raised platform of stone, surrounded by a simple wooden rail. The baptismal fount that Manny had mentioned sat off to their right. Even from the twelve or so paces that she stood from it, Maureen could see the candlelight flickering on the water inside of it.

  She took two more steps toward the altar and looked to her left at the only visible sign of ostentatious décor in the place. A golden crucifix hung on the wall behind the altar with an ornately carved and polished image of Christ hanging from it in his familiar position. Maureen walked closer to it and stopped to stare into the eyes of the Christian Savior. The artist responsible had done their work. The face was so lifelike and detailed that Maureen, herself, could almost feel the anguish of crucifixion that was being portrayed, just like the one in the newer St. Mary’s. She followed the eyes down to the altar and felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight that confronted her.

  Little Ben Naismith was lying, shirtless, on top of the altar. His body had been obscured by the wood that was no doubt meant to be set alight as soon as the sacrificial ritual was finished. But now, Maureen could observe the child’s serene features. His eyes were closed, and his face was without any trace of pain. She was relieved at the absence of a wound on the child’s neck and of blood on the altar. Still, she was concerned by the raspy and ragged sound of his breathing, likely the result of whatever had been used to drug him into his current unconscious state.

  Maureen reached out to try to gently shake the boy awake. As her hand brushed his hair, she felt something wet and oily on his forehead. It glistened in the candlelight as she brought her fingers closer to her face. The oil gave off a faint odor of incense that she recalled as a child, seated next to her mother on a hard, wooden pew in Massachusetts all those years ago. Now that it was in her nose, the odor seemed to get stronger around her. She allowed her eyes to dart around the altar at the rest of the wood piled up. Now that she was looking for it, the glistening, wet appearance of the oil on the logs became apparent. So, too, did the presence of the long, curved knife with the carved, wooden handle that she had seen in her dreams. It now appeared in the flesh, lying next to the Naismith child on the altar, rea
dy to do its work.

  Maureen’s skin began to crawl. Something wasn’t right. Father Preston had apparently finished the baptism of the boy and was preparing to begin the sacrifice. Where was he? Did he forget something and leave the boy, trusting that the chemicals he used would keep him knocked out? Did he hear Manny and Maureen break in the back door and flee? Or were the eyes of the crucified Jesus behind her not the only eyes looking at her right now?

  Her eyes darted around the church looking for Manny. She saw his form at the edge of the candlelight, pistol cradled in both hands at the ready, checking up and down the rows of pews. Clearly he, too, was looking for the missing priest.

  “Manny,” she called out, not bothering to adhere to stealth anymore, “get up here. We gotta get the kid out of here.”

  Maureen saw him turn and begin to make his way toward her. She looked back down at Ben Naismith, closed her eyes, and put her hand on his chest. It gently and slowly rose up and down, and she could feel his heart beating behind his tiny rib cage. She didn’t know much about kids or medicine, but to her touch, his skin felt too cold and his heartbeat too slow.

  “You’re going to be fine,” she whispered, “you’re going to be just fine.”

  Manny’s footsteps were getting close, but just as they reached the foot of the altar, they stopped abruptly, and a loud thud replaced them in the silent air. Maureen heard Manny let out a sharp groan and opened her eyes just in time to see him limply fall sideways, sending his pistol sliding across the stone floor and coming to rest in front of the front pew.

  Maureen’s eyes left Manny lying on the ground and moved up to the figure looming over his body.

  “You will not stop my work,” its cold voice said.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Maureen drew a deep breath and slowly circled around the altar to confront her would-be attacker. She kept her hands near her sides, waiting for the opportunity to reach around her back, grab the pistol from its hiding place, and force the man to his knees. She gritted her teeth, trying to keep her jaw from quivering and betraying her nerves.

  Poker face. You can do this.

  She inhaled deeply and exhaled. The sound of her breath seemed to rattle off the stone walls. Maureen tried to keep her face smooth. She stopped in front of the altar and planted her feet firmly, facing down the priest as an Old West gunslinger would have. She stood as straight and confidently as she could, trying to look as strong as possible.

  Father Preston came forward a couple of steps, allowing the candlelight to fully illuminate him. He wore a white alb over his priest’s collar and a purple stole with elaborate stitching near its ends draped over his shoulders. His lips were creased in a bemused grin, but his eyes, like Manny had described, seemed emotionless. He carried a large, tubular object in his hand that glinted gold in the flickering light. Maureen stared closer at it and then cast her eyes up to the altar at the holder that held the candle. They were a match.

  So that’s why there was only one, she thought grimly.

  It was clear now, despite their best efforts, that Father Preston had heard her and Manny break in, grabbed the candlestick, and hid in the shadows, waiting for the right time to strike. Manny had given him that opportunity when he rushed heedlessly to her call. She pushed away the thought that she was to blame for him being blindsided and hurt. She looked down at him lying on the stone floor at the priest’s feet. Thankfully, she couldn’t see any blood on the ground, and as she looked on, he began to stir and try to get up onto his hands and knees.

  It would have been better for him if he had stayed down. As she looked back at Father Preston, she could see that his eyes also had shifted behind him to the fallen detective. He looked back at her and, almost arrogantly and without breaking eye contact, stepped back two paces, turned and unleashed a savage kick to the side of Manny’s head. Manny flopped down on his side and lay still once again.

  Maureen wasn’t sure if this was the chance she had been waiting for, but as soon as the priest’s eyes shifted to a different prey, her body took over. Her right hand flew behind her and grabbed the pistol from her waistband. She swept it around in front of her and held it, aiming it at his chest and trying to look as threatening as she could. She cocked back the hammer of the pistol to make the message sink in.

  Maureen locked eyes with Father Preston once more. For the first time, she felt as though she could detect the slightest hint of emotion in them. Was it indignation that she was seeing? Was it scorn at her audacity to pull a gun and attempt to kill him? Maybe amusement at her feeble threat? Maybe a perverse assurance that his faith would protect him from a bullet? Whatever it was, it was clear to her that he was silently daring her to pull the trigger. She was caught. Maureen felt her face twitch as she uncocked the hammer. Her heart sank into her stomach further as she let her arms fall and dropped the gun.

  At that moment, another image flashed into her head. Manny’s gun. She had a vague idea of where it had come to rest. If she could just get by the priest and get to it before he had a chance to react, she might still have a chance to end this. She tensed her muscles, getting ready to spring to her left. As she did so, she broke eye contact with Father Preston and shifted her gaze toward the area in front of the front pew where she knew the pistol lay. Its barrel caught the candlelight and glinted just enough for her to mark its position.

  It took less than a second for her to realize she had made a mistake. As she glanced back toward the priest, she noticed how his eyes had followed hers and now, as they again made eye contact, a sickening, knowing grin broke on his lips. As if he had read her thoughts, he darted in the direction of the gun, and, despite his long priest’s garb, hurdled the railing surrounding the altar.

  The move threw Maureen’s timing off, and she darted around the railing as fast as she could in a desperate attempt to reach the weapon before her opponent. She was a split second too late as Father Preston made a baseball slide in front of her. Maureen leaped on his back. Her momentum betrayed her, though, and Father Preston managed with stunning ease to throw her over his shoulder and send her crashing painfully into the hard wood of the pew.

  The shock wave of pain that radiated to all the extremities of her body shut down Maureen’s thoughts for a brief moment. She recovered to find herself lying on her side, back still against the pew, with Father Preston hovering a few paces away. He was facing her, obviously pleased with himself, and holding her last hope firmly in his right hand.

  “It seems God is on my side,” he said triumphantly.

  “You actually believe that,” she snorted back. The wild light in his eyes had slowly begun to grow, as if the madness inside his mind had at last begun to seep through the cracks.

  “I know it, Ms. Allen,” he shouted, spreading his arms wide in emulation of the pose of the carved Christ behind him and looking up to the ceiling rafters.

  Maureen bristled at his use of her name.

  “Oh, you didn’t know that I knew who you were?” he continued, looking back down at her. His voice was rising to a manic tone. “Of course I know you. That old fool Father Patrick won’t stop talking about you. The mystery woman with the visions. I found it very interesting that you and he believe that you can see inside my mind. Well if it is true, tell me, do you understand the great work that I am undertaking?”

  “I understand that you’re insane and you think sacrificing children like they were a cow or a lamb is what it will take to gain your God’s favor.”

  Father Preston’s chuckle froze her blood. “You understand nothing,” he growled, gliding a half dozen paces away from her and placing himself in front of the altar. He then began to pace, as if he were giving a sermon to a full congregation seated in the shadows before him.

  “The world has descended into chaos,” he intoned in his most priestly voice. “The enemies of God are closing in on all sides. The faithful, those who truly understand the Bible’
s teachings, are scarce. The end times are approaching faster than you realize. This war in the Middle East is the prelude to Armageddon, and we have to choose the side we will serve. Will we join with the armies of Gog and Magog and be destroyed, or will we join the enlightened and the faithful and achieve paradise? That is the choice that lies before us.

  “But we must be ready, for those who would count themselves among the chosen must prove themselves obedient. I’m no monster, Ms. Allen. I am a shepherd. I am the Ra’ah! I do not sacrifice these children for perverse pleasure. I do it to wipe away the sins of their families, and in so doing, to bring them back into favor with God. Only when one loses something pure and precious to them, can one find atonement. They will not do it for themselves. These lip service believers will go to confession, and I will tell them that they are absolved, but I know the truth. This is the only way to build the Lord’s army for the coming war with darkness. The signs are clear; the enemy will be here soon. We must all be pure in the eyes of God in order to swell his ranks! Now do you start to understand?”

  “I understand that people like you are why I tend to avoid church,” Maureen hissed through clenched teeth. She had managed to pull herself up to one knee but still kept one hand on the ground for support. “I don’t see any reason your God would want you to do something like this.”

  “Then you are blind! Priests are specifically selected to carry out these duties!” Father Preston tightened his grip on Manny’s gun and continued to wave it about as he spoke. “Was it not the job of the Kohanim in ancient Israel to carry out these sacrifices? A sacrifice of atonement is not valid unless it is done by a priest! The priests of the Tribe of Levi were not only the most holy of men, they were warriors. Was it not they alone who could carry the Ark into battle and drive back the hosts rallied against the Army of God? All of this has been forgotten by the modern day clergy. They preach tolerance of those who set themselves against the teachings of the scriptures. Your own dear Father Patrick would take sinners like Tom Lowes and Tasha Naismith to his side and coddle them and console them if they came asking to be forgiven.