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

pull the gun and shoot him right there on the doorstep? Would she force him to take her to wherever little Ben was being held? Did she really have it in her to be the hero of this story? She wasn’t sure of anything, but she felt her hand reach behind her back once again while she was pondering all her options.

The front door opened, and Maureen jerked her hand back to her side and stood rigid as the outline of Father Patrick filled the opening. He was barefoot and dressed in shorts and a button-up, short-sleeved shirt, which he hadn’t quite finished buttoning. He wore his glasses and had a thick, leather book in his hand. His face was even; he only appeared to be marginally surprised to see her. His eyes made her stomach drop.

“Maureen, it’s awfully late for a visit, isn’t it?” he asked, his lips widening into a grin to show that he didn’t mean it.

“Well, you know me,” she replied, trying to sound like her usual self, “it’s barely suppertime by my clock. Sorry if I woke you up, there was just something that couldn’t wait until morning.”

“Oh, I was up reading. Perhaps you’d like to come in for a drink?”

Maureen shifted uncomfortably from side to side, hesitating. “Sure, why not?”

Father Patrick nodded and stood to the side, motioning her to enter. She stepped across the threshold, keeping her face to him and stood to one side while he closed the door. She tilted her head in silent indication that he should lead the way.

They walked through the house into the back den where they had had dinner just a few nights before. As then, the two leather chairs sat in their place on the far end of the room, the small bar cart standing nearby. The larger table they had eaten at had since been removed.

“What can I fix for you, Maureen?” Father Patrick’s voice roused her out of her thoughts.

She stared at him for a moment before finding her voice. “I’ll do some of that scotch. Rocks.”

As he nodded and turned to the small bar cart, Maureen saw her chance. She eased the pistol out of the back of her jeans as quietly as she could, took off the safety, flinching at its click, and pointed the barrel at the priest’s back. Father Patrick seemed to take no notice and continued to busy himself with the ice and crystal glassware.

“Father,” she said, her voice shaking a bit, “I need you to turn around slowly.”

The old man turned to face her, not too slowly, and almost too calmly for a man who had a gun pointed at him. He held in his right hand one of the glasses, filled with three ice cubes and scotch. He glanced at the gun for only a brief moment, almost as if he expected it to be there, before raising his gaze to meet hers. A thin smile creased his lips, but his eyes remained solemn as he raised both hands slightly.

“I know what you’re doing, Father,” Maureen said as sternly as she could, using her anger toward the man she thought was her friend to steady her hands. “Now where is the kid?”

“I don’t think you know as much as you think you do. Why don’t you put that down, and let’s talk like civilized people.” He took a step forward, lowering his hands slightly.

Maureen jumped back a pace and stiffened, tightening her grip on the pistol and pushing it forward. “Stay right where you are, you bastard! I swear to Christ, I will shoot you where you stand if you move again!” Her heart was beating even faster and she felt her hands begin to shake. Whether it was out of fear or rage, she couldn’t tell.

Father Patrick froze and raised his hands back up again. The room was silent for an agonizing moment before he spoke again. “Maureen, you might think you’re capable of this because of the other things you’ve done in your life, but trust me, you’re not a killer.”

“You don’t think so? You don’t think I’ll put a bullet in your head if it’ll stop all of this?” She felt a tear begin to well up in her eye, but she pushed on. “I’d shoot my best friend if I had one. I’d shoot my own father—wherever the hell he is—if it stopped all this! If I can do that, what makes you think I can’t shoot you? You mean less to me than anyone right now!”

“I’m sorry, Maureen. I’m sorry that you feel this way. I’m sorry that you think this all has to end with more death. And I’m sorry for this.”

With lightning speed, Father Patrick tossed the contents of the glass in the air. Maureen felt her eyes instinctively rise to follow the liquid and ice, and before she recognized it as a distraction, he had crossed the distance between them, twisting her wrist awkwardly and planting a leg behind her to use his momentum to trip her to the ground. She regained her awareness almost instantly, only to find him standing over her with the gun now in his hand, barrel pointed at her chest.

“Once a soldier, always a soldier,” he said grimly, almost to himself, as he raised the gun away from her and nimbly removed the clip and the chambered bullet. He put both of these in his front pocket and then, to her astonishment, reached down, grasped her hand, pulled her almost effortlessly to her feet, and handed the empty weapon back to her.

“A gesture of good faith,” he said as he moved back toward the drink cart. “I’m sorry to have ruined your drink. Would you like me to fix you another one?”

“No,” she found herself answering before she knew what she was doing.

“No? Well then, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll pour myself a little port instead. I never drink scotch alone.”

He selected a small, dessert-wine glass, poured the dark wine