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

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.”

“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?”

She blinked and looked around. Father Patrick was staring at her with a look in his eye, as if she had been doing something very strange.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said. “I was just thinking about—” She looked down and saw what she had drawn on the paper. A strange, four-letter word and three more letters followed by some numbers. She realized right away that they were from her latest dream. They must be some kind of clue, but at the moment she didn’t want to