Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (classic literature list .txt) 📗

up at the altar, leaning his head to the side as he spoke to her, as if he was a friend sharing an intimate secret. “I sometimes feel that I have more darkness than light inside of me,” he confessed. “I’ve been a clergyman for three decades, and in that time, I’ve met and counseled hundreds—if not thousands—of people who have considered themselves consumed by it. And every single time, I could just as easily be counseling myself. I simply mean that it’s up to each person to really look inside themselves and acknowledge that there is a deeper darkness but also a brighter light that can combat it.”

“Ever met someone beyond hope?”

“I don’t believe there is such a thing.”

“You will if you keep talking to me.” It just slipped out.

“It’s kind of funny that we first met when you were running down the street, because I can see by looking at you that you’ve been running in a much different sense for most of your life,” he replied in a cool tone. He still didn’t turn his head to look at her, continuing to stare up at the altar. “It may surprise you that I have more insight into matters like this than one might think. But saying that, I can’t imagine there’s anything in your past or present that could make you a lost cause in the eyes of God.”

“God doesn’t want me,” she said sullenly, looking down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She expected to hear Father Patrick instantly contradict her assertion, but he remained motionless in silent contemplation.

“There was a time in my life when I felt the same,” he eventually said.

Maureen looked over at him. He was still staring up at the altar, but now his hands were clasped like hers. There was a forlorn look in his eyes, as if thinking of a memory that pained him. The absence of the friendly demeanor he had shown her up until now was staggering.

Father Patrick seemed to feel her staring at him and broke his eye contact with Jesus to turn his head and offer her a half smile and a subtle, dismissive chuckle. “Listen to the old man talking about himself when someone else is in need of aid.”

“I don’t want any help, Father, thanks,” she replied.

“Most of the time what we want and what we need are two completely different things.”

“Another kid was found murdered this morning,” she whispered, barely audible even to herself. “He was killed and then burned on this big bonfire just like the other one.” She hesitated, struggling with what she wanted to say next. The words felt as though they would die in her throat. “I . . . I was there. I saw the body.” She turned her head to stare at Father Patrick.

He was facing the altar again, but his eyes were closed. After a moment, he made the sign of the cross and met her eyes. “A silent prayer for the child’s soul,” he explained. “Now, since you’ve seen fit to divulge this information to me, I have to ask what you were doing there.”

“I was with the police.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything,” he replied, apparently having caught her tone. “But why were you, a civilian, with the police at a murder scene?”

“I was in custody,” she admitted quietly, her eyes falling to her shoes. “They—the cops—think I had something to do with the first kid. I was in jail being questioned by a detective when the call came in. He made me go with him to the scene.”

“And did you have something to do with the first crime?”

“No! You know what, this is a bad idea.” Maureen got up and turned to leave, but the old priest grabbed her hand and held tight.

“Please, sit down,” he urged in a gentle tone, yet he firmly pulled her back into the pew. “We’re just talking. I’m just a little confused about why you would be arrested on suspicion of a child’s murder.”

Maureen hesitated, not sure if she could afford to tell another person her secret.

“I assure you, you are quite safe talking to me.”

“I . . . I had a nightmare where I saw the first child killed. The next morning, I went for a run and came across the crime scene. It reminded me of the dream, so I ran. I ran straight into you.”

“That explains a lot,” he said, nodding. “Please, go on.”

Maureen recounted the rest of the events of the past few days. When she had finished, she waited for him to dismiss her as crazy.

“It’s not the first time you’ve dreamed like that, is it?”

“No, it’s—wait. You believe me?”

“I have no reason to doubt. Yes, Ms. Allen, I believe you.”

“No one’s ever believed me, just like that,” she said mindlessly, almost to herself. She had no idea how to feel now that someone was taking her at her word. It almost scared her more. What kind of person was this okay with you being a freak?

“As a man of faith, I do believe that sometimes there are forces which connect people to the spiritual plain. There’s no rational explanation and no choice really but to call it a miracle.”

That word was too much for Maureen. “Okay, I can handle it if I’m just some freak, but miracles? Don’t feed me that line of bull, Father!”

“Ms. Allen, if you really are seeing what you say, then I can think of no other explanation than that God has bigger plans for you than you might realize.”

“Now you listen to me, Father,” Maureen’s voice echoed off the walls of the church as she emphasized every word. “God. Doesn’t. Want. Me. God. Hates. Me. And if He’s up there playing with my mind for some reason, then you know what? I hate Him too!”

She found herself standing over the priest shouting those last words into his face. He never blinked once. There was nothing else to do but leave.

“I’m sorry, Father,” she said,