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

I remember because I looked over at you after Letterman’s first guest, and you were slumped over and asleep. You didn’t even wake up when I took your shoes off, lifted your feet up, and threw the blanket on you.”

Maureen looked down at her feet. She hadn’t even noticed that she wasn’t wearing her shoes.

“I must have drunk more than I thought,” she said, trying to rationalize what had made her sleep so easily in a strange place.

“Not really,” the detective said. “We each had about the same amount. A couple of pours from the whiskey bottle. I don’t suppose you had any dreams last night that might be useful?”

The question took Maureen off guard. She didn’t recall any nightmares. She counted the hours in her head. If the detective was telling the truth, she’d been asleep for somewhere around ten uninterrupted hours. It almost didn’t seem real.

“No, I didn’t dream at all,” she told him. “I was really out that long?”

The detective nodded his head and let his self-satisfied smirk take over his face. That seemed to be the only facial expression that he was capable of around her.

“That’s not possible. I don’t sleep like that.”

“I guess you just really needed the rest then,” he said. “Or you’re just really comfortable here.”

“I think I’ll go ahead and take you up on that cereal,” she said, reaching out and taking one more swig from the whiskey bottle to show him that she wasn’t affected by anything he said. “Where do you keep it?”

“I can get it for you,” he replied, setting his coffee on the table and rising from his chair.

“Not on your life,” she said, jumping off the couch and shoving him back down. “Just tell me where the stuff is.”

“Cereal is in the cupboard to the left of the sink,” he said, shrugging and inclining his head in the direction of the kitchen. “Bowls are on the other side, third cupboard to the right from the corner. Milk’s in the fridge, second shelf.”

Maureen quickly walked into the kitchen. She wasn’t sure that she was all that hungry, but she needed an excuse to get out of the living room for a few minutes. The young detective’s patronizing way of speaking to her threatened to heat her up to a point where she would either slap him right in his face or shove her tongue down his throat. Neither option would do.

She stood staring at the cabinets for a moment before opening the one to the left of the sink. She scanned the shelves packed with the bachelor’s survival kit of canned soup and boxed dinners and found a box of generic corn flakes. She pulled it off the shelf, hopped up onto the counter, and began to nibble the cereal straight out of the box. From her perch, Maureen could just make out the back of the detective’s head poking out above the easy chair. She sat, wondering why she had allowed herself to get into the situation she found herself in. Getting involved with people went against every rule she’d lived by her entire life. She really didn’t think that the detective needed her dreams to solve the case, unless the killer happened to be looking into a mirror. And the longer she stayed in town, the more sure she was that the Feds would force her to face her past sins. Of course, it may just happen that if her help really ended up being integral in finding a double murderer, she could find a way to leverage it into some sort of clemency. At the moment, though, the former seemed more likely than the latter.

Maureen sat in silence, continuing to nibble on the corn flakes and wrestle with her thoughts as they turned toward the detective. She still wasn’t entirely sure what to make of him. On the one hand, that smug air of his trampled all over her last nerve and on the other, she almost felt a sense of pity for him. It was clear that he felt like he wasn’t being afforded the respect he deserved from his fellow officers and his bosses. She hadn’t seen a whole lot of their interactions firsthand, but from what he said, it was probable that this was the case. The short time that she’d already spent with him taught her that he was tenacious at the very least. And he certainly seemed stubborn enough to become the kind of detective he wanted to be.

She hopped off the counter, leaving the cereal box behind, and slowly walked back into the living room. The detective was shuffling through several papers, frowning as he looked at them and mumbling something to himself that she couldn’t quite understand.

“Something wrong?” she asked as she sat back on the couch.

“At the second crime scene, Stacey Winherst mentioned finding what she thought was some kind of accelerant used to set the fire,” he said without looking up at her. “We’ve got a decent amount back from the crime lab from the scene, but nothing on that. I’d really like to have a look at it.”

“How’s that going to help?”

“If there’s something unusual about it,” he said, tossing the papers on the table and looking up at her, “then it might point us toward the person responsible. We can’t afford not to have every piece of information, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

“So why don’t we just go over to the crime lab and ask someone?”

It seemed like an obvious solution to Maureen, but the detective made a face that signaled to her that he didn’t think much of her suggestion.

“It’s going to be difficult to get anyone to talk to us,” he said, thoughtfully. “But maybe we have no choice.”

“Well then, I’m going to take a shower,” she said, looking forward to taking advantage of a house with a proper water heater.

“Towels are in the linen closet in the hallway,” the detective said. He was wrapped up in looking over his