“And then there’s you!” He leveled the pistol at her. “Poor little Maureen Allen. You think that the men of God who tried to drive that evil out of you mistreated you. So you live on the road, living as other people, surviving through thievery, medicating yourself with ill-gotten drugs, and drowning yourself in alcohol. He wants so badly to save you, you know. He wants to bring you back to God because he believes your visions are divinely sent!” Father Preston let out a single, scornful laugh. “He can’t see you for what you really are: a despicable whore whose abilities come from the Devil himself. Your mother was right about you!”
Maureen felt her face twist in anger at the mention of her mother. She pushed herself to her feet and stood rigid, fists clenched. She had no plan for getting past the gun, but she almost didn’t care. Almost. That minute amount of fear and uncertainty kept her feet rooted to the floor in front of the priest.
“Did I hit a soft spot?” he said with mock sympathy. “Well, your reaction just proves that you know what I say is true. You are a child of evil and beyond redemption. Fortunately,” he grinned as he spoke, “I can put you out of your misery.”
Maureen eyed the gun pointed at her chest. “Go ahead,” she replied coldly, trying her best to remain defiant to the end.
“I shall, but first, I think I’d prefer you on your knees before me.”
No chance in hell, Maureen thought. She didn’t move a muscle.
“Do it, or I’ll shoot the cop first and make you watch!” he shouted as he swung the pistol to the side and pointed it at Manny. He was still lying face down on the floor, breathing, but nothing else.
At least he’s not going to have to watch me die. Defeated, Maureen bowed her head, gritted her teeth, took a step forward, and knelt in front of Father Preston.
The priest re-aimed the gun at her head and began to chant the prayer that she had felt come from her own throat in her dreams:
Abwûn
d’bwaschmâja
Nethkâdasch schmach
Têtê malkuthach.
Nehwê tzevjânach aikâna d’bwaschmâja af b’arha.
Hawvlân lachma d’sûnkanân jaomâna.
Waschboklân chaubên wachtahên aikâna daf chnân schwoken l’chaijabên.
Wela tachlân l’nesjuna
ela patzân min bischa.
Metol dilachie malkutha wahaila wateschbuchta l’ahlâm almîn.
Amên.
Maureen closed her eyes. The gunshot shattered the air.
FORTY
The silence of the church swallowed up the echo of the muzzle blast. She couldn’t count the seconds that she knelt there in the darkness behind her closed eyes, waiting for the pain of hot, burning lead to engulf her body. The sensation never came. Her chest continued to inflate and deflate, and the sound of her own breath returned to her ears.
I’m alive, she told herself.
Maureen opened her eyes and was met with the sight of Father Preston’s body sprawled out at the base of the altar. His eyes were open, unblinking. A stream of blood was oozing from a gaping wound in his chest and collecting in a dark pool on the floor. Maureen slowly got to her feet and tiptoed to the body. Her eyes immediately found Manny’s pistol lying some five feet from the priest’s outstretched hand. She picked it up as quickly as she could and pointed it down at Father Preston, waiting for a twitch, a muscle spasm—any sign of life. When none came, she nervously kicked one of his feet. Nothing. Father Preston was dead.
Maureen let out a sigh, but her relief quickly turned to confusion as she turned around to see Manny only now beginning to pull himself off the floor and into a seated position, rubbing the back of his head and jaw with both hands. He didn’t have another backup firearm, as far as she could see anyway, so it couldn’t have been him that fired the shot. But then who did?
As she scanned around the shadows of the church, her eyes fell upon a dark mass in the back corner. As she looked on, it began to move toward the candlelight, its footsteps clattering on the stone floor. Maureen raised Manny’s gun.
“That’s the second time tonight you’ve pointed a gun at me, Maureen,” an all-too-familiar voice rang out in the darkness.
Father Patrick stepped into the light. His eyes were somber as he slowly made his way over to her. His right arm hung at his side, weighed down with his own pistol that looked much like Manny’s backup service weapon. He gave her a weak smile as he reached into his pocket. “You ran out before I could stop you,” he said, handing her the clip he had taken from her. “I was worried you wouldn’t be able to properly defend yourself if Father Preston got the jump on you.” He looked over her shoulder at the body of his junior priest and shook his head sadly.
“You followed us here?” Maureen said, still in shock to see the old man, let alone wrap her mind around the fact that he had just saved her life.
Father Patrick nodded. “I felt a certain responsibility to you and the children. Once I had all the facts, I realized I should have seen Preston for what he was. All that time, I ignored that gut feeling that you get when you first meet someone and they seem a little off, you know? I thought he was just a very buttoned-up, young priest who held too strictly to the old Catholic ways. He laid his true soul bare though, didn’t he? Is the boy all right?”
“Yes, it looks like he’s knocked out by the same chemical that Father Preston used on the others, but he’s breathing,” Maureen responded before she had fully processed what he had just said. “Wait, you mean you heard that entire speech and waited that long to shoot him? I should kill you for that!”
“I’m not as young as I used to be,” the old priest replied, his voice full of sadness. “I needed time to make a clean shot.”
Maureen opened her mouth to say something, but there were no words. As angry as she wanted to be at him, she couldn’t do anything except hug him. “Don’t get used to it,” she said as she released her embrace.
The old priest smiled at her.
Maureen went over to pick up the second pistol, and Manny, now moving a little steadier on his feet, came up to them. His eyes were still blinking rapidly to push away the pain, but his voice was strong.
“Is everyone all right?” he asked.
Maureen and Father Patrick assured him that both they and Ben Naismith were all right. He wore his relief like a badge and gathered her in his arms, holding her close. Maureen placed her head to his chest. His heart was beating fast as he kissed the top of her head.
“All right,” said Manny, releasing her and taking his sidearm back, “I admit, I got knocked around pretty hard there, and I was in and out for most of it. So, let’s go over what happened.”
Before Maureen could say anything, Father Patrick spoke up. “I’m afraid I was forced to kill Father Preston. It was, of course, in defense of Maureen and the young boy, but nevertheless, I believe you’ll have to take me in.”
He placed both his hands in front of him while offering Manny his gun. Manny looked apologetically at Maureen before turning to the priest and nodding his head in agreement. He put his pistol in its holster and began reaching around his back for his handcuffs.
“Wait!” Maureen broke in and turned quickly to Manny. “Am I correct in assuming you have to account for every discharge of your service weapon?”
Manny nodded slowly, a suspicious look breaking on his face.
Maureen didn’t let him get any questions out. She ripped his gun from his belt and ran out the side door into the night air. She stopped several paces from the edge of the river and fired a single shot out into the water. A small geyser erupted from the surface, but her eyes stayed on the casing that flew away from the weapon. She picked it up and ran back inside with it.
Father Patrick and Manny had begun to run out behind her and were just reaching the door when she came back. She pushed past them without a word and rushed back to the altar to com
plete her plan. She rubbed the spent bullet casing on her shirt and let it fall on the ground near Father Preston’s body. Manny and Father Patrick came up behind her a moment later.
“Maureen, what the hell are you doing?” shouted Manny.
“Completing the story,” Maureen said, her eyes still down on the fallen priest.
“What story?” asked Manny.
“The story we’re going to tell to the police.”
“Oh I see,” he said, “and what story would that be?”
“We’re going to tell them everything that happened,” Maureen asserted, “except for one thing. I struggled with Father Preston for your gun, and it went off and killed him. Father Patrick was never here.”
“Maureen, I don’t think—” Manny began.
“He was never here!”
Father Patrick laid a hand on her shoulder. “Maureen, what I’ve done, I was compelled to do by my conscience. But that same conscience also compels me to face the repercussions of my actions. I hoped never to have to take another life for the rest of mine, and now I have. Even though the cause would seem just, I don’t have any divine right to exact this type of punishment, even on someone as far gone as Father Preston. The heavenly court will judge me one day, but the earthly courts should handle my fate now. It would be best if I turned myself in.”
Maureen stared into his eyes. They were unwavering in their resolve. She looked to Manny. He crossed to her and put his hand on her shoulder, taking back his gun from her.
“Father Patrick is right,” he said gently. “Response teams will be here any minute. He’s not going to be able to leave without being seen. It’ll be fine. Father Patrick shot Father Preston to keep him from killing you. Nobody would bring charges against him.”
Maureen turned her head to the priest, who smiled solemnly and nodded his head. He handed his weapon to Manny and took Maureen by the hand. She could think of nothing better to do than squeeze it with all the reassurance she could muster. It was only then that she became aware of a single tear that had begun to well up in her eye. She hadn’t realized how much, but in the short time she’d known him, she’d come to care for Father Patrick. The feeling was clearly mutual, and it saddened her to think that it might be the last time she’d see him. After all, once this whole mess was cleaned up, she could hardly stay in Sycamore Hills, even if she was now cleared of suspicion. There was too much of a stain on her name. And besides, she couldn’t be sure the dreams wouldn’t return.
Manny went up at the altar to check on little Ben Naismith. His eyes were still closed but his breathing seemed a little stronger. Manny picked him up, and together they walked through the darkened nave toward the front door. They left Father Preston where he lay, the single candle keeping vigil over his body.
They were greeted by the sight of two Sycamore Hills police cars pulling up with lights flashing. Manny carefully handed Ben to Maureen and walked with the priest to greet them. As she hoisted the boy up, she felt his little head nestle onto her shoulder. He let out a soft coo and almost instantly, a tiny pair of arms were clasped around her neck. Maureen realized in that moment that she’d never held a child before. She was surprised at how easy it was.
Before she stepped out into the night air, a strange sensation overcame her. She turned and stepped just to the threshold of the nave and stared up at the altar to meet the gaze of the statuesque Christ. Closing her eyes, she began her silent conversation.
All right, I used whatever this thing is in my head for good. I don’t know if You gave it to me, but I’ve done what Father Patrick said I needed to do. So, can You please, PLEASE take it away now? I’ve never asked for anything, so, maybe You kind of owe me this?
She felt a bit silly. She didn’t really know how a person was supposed to talk to God. And so, she did what only seemed appropriate if the Almighty were actually listening.
There, in the dark, Maureen Allerton prayed—for the first time since her brother died—the only prayer she still remembered:
Our Father, who art in Heaven
Hallowed be thy name . . .
FORTY-ONE
“Well, Ms. Allen,” Agent Layton said as he slammed his briefcase on the table in front of her and pulled out a manila folder stuffed with papers, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”
Maureen had been waiting for over three hours for him to come and release her. She had given her statement to the officers who arrived on the scene. Their explanation of the priest’s plan, and the fantastical nature of the events that had occurred, had been met with skepticism to be sure, but she had been certain Manny had convinced his coworkers that their account was indeed the truth. That was, of course, until Agent Layton had arrived and ordered her and Father Patrick taken into custody. Her neck was still sore from trying to sleep on that jail cell bed. She wondered how the priest had fared. Manny had advocated for their release, but to no avail. His reward was being banished to the hallway bench outside the interrogation room of the Sheriff’s Department, presumably waiting for Agent Lorenzo to take him to another room in an attempt to poke a hole in their story. If she moved her head to the right, Maureen could see his face through the half-drawn blinds.
“Ms. Allen,” Agent Layton’s voice rousted her from her thoughts, “I’ve gone over your file, and I’d like to go over a few things with you.”
“Don’t know what I can add, Agent,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know it all sounds a little crazy, but it’s the truth.”
“Oh, no doubt there,” he replied. “We have plenty of evidence to support that from the search of Preston’s home. It’s just like you and Detective Benitez said. We found an excess of holy oil, purchased via account book manipulation. We found the bibles with his scribblings in them and a small, basement altar and shrine. We’ve got a supply of chloroform and some black gloves that we’re testing for the murdered boys’ DNA. There’s little doubt that you found and killed the man we were looking for. But it’s not the case file I’d like to go over with you.”
He picked up the manila folder and began leafing through it, almost too casually for Maureen’s liking. “Lots of great stuff in this file, Ms. Allerton. Oh! I mean, Ms. Allen. Or do I mean Ms. Anderson? Or is it Mary Allen? Or maybe I should call you Maria Adams?”
Maureen frowned. She’d been waiting for the hammer to fall, and now the time had come. He knew he had her, and she could see he was reveling in it.
“You’ve been quite a few people in your life, haven’t you?” he pressed. “I have to wonder, though, why you’ve never used Keane as one of your identities.”
“If you knew my mother, you’d understand,” Maureen said flatly. She could see there was no point in denying anything.
“Well, for simplicity’s sake,” said Agent Layton, “what should we call you?”
“Allerton’s fine. I’ve always called myself Maureen Allerton in my own mind.”
“Very good then, Ms. Allerton! Let’s talk about your friend, Father Patrick.”
“What about him?”
“I won’t beat around the bush,” he said, folding his hands on the table and staring earnestly at her. “We took notice of your relationship pretty early on. It wasn’t too hard for us to find the FBI file on one Corporal Patrick Mullen, a former Green Beret who deserted in Vietnam thirty-seven years ago. And it took us even less time to determine the good Father and the Corporal were one in the same. The man’s been left unmolested by the FBI for all these years for the simple reason that we’ve never seen him as much of a security threat. Especially given his choice to enter the priesthood. But now, who knows? It’s a hard thing for a soldier to completely forget who he used to be, and he’s now shown his willingness to take a life in what he believes is a just cause. What’s to stop him from doing it again? Would the community be safer if he were behind bars?”
That was too much for Maureen. “You can’t do that!
Manny promised that he wouldn’t be prosecuted.”
“Since when does the word of a local detective take precedence over the FBI? So I’ll ask you, Maureen. What are we going to do about this situation of ours?”
“Oh, we’re on a first name basis now? Fine. What do you want from me, Howard?”
Agent Layton chuckled softly and shook his head. “You’re right, Ms. Allerton, I do want something, but it’s likely not what you think.” He closed the folder in front of him, put it back into his briefcase, and pulled out another folder. This one was a dark green color and held only two pages inside of it. He opened it and slid it across the table. “I can send you away for a decent clip with the sheet I’ve got on you for your identity and fraud crimes. And if I felt so inclined, I could drag our good Father Patrick before a federal prosecutor. And I’m friends with one, so if I really wanted to, I could get something to stick and ruin that old man’s life. But instead, I called her and got this little deal worked out. You sign that paper in front of you, agreeing to six months in a female, minimum-security federal prison plus three years’ probation, during which time the FBI can call you in to utilize your—let’s call them—less-than-conventional techniques, and your original statement becomes part of a closed file. Patrick Mullen can go on being Father McGill, undisturbed by law enforcement, and his involvement in this case will be kept out of the public record. So what do you say, do we have a deal?”
Maureen felt her stomach drop. “What do you mean by ‘less-than-conventional techniques’?”
Agent Layton’s eyebrows raised slightly. “I’m not usually a man who believes in anything but the physical evidence presented to me, Ms. Allerton. Nevertheless, I am familiar with certain FBI, shall we say, legends? And this past week has brought to mind one that apparently happened in Massachusetts, oh, a little more than twenty-five years ago. Apparently, there was a little girl whose dream led to the discovery of her murdered brother’s body. Darndest thing. It was the perfect crime, too. No apparent motive, all of the people closest to the family had tight alibis, no clear direction to move the investigation in, and then a thirty-second phone call, a child’s hysterical voice on the other end, and lo and behold, the body was found the next day. It really defies explanation!” Agent Layton tilted his head and gave Maureen a long, knowing look.
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