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

he had to say. She was running as fast as she could, stopping only to stuff the pistol back in her waistband. She ran another block and was now within view of Main Street when she remembered the mobile phone in her front pocket. She pulled it out and saw that she had missed six calls from Manny in the last forty-five minutes. She flipped it open, hit re-dial, and continued to run.

“Manny, it’s me,” she panted as she went along, not slowing to talk. “What? Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. Long story, but listen. Meet me in front of the courthouse as quick as you can. I think I’ve got it all figured out. No. No time to talk now, just get your butt over there with your truck, and I’ll explain everything!”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Father Patrick shook his head sadly as he reached into his pocket, pulling out the clip and the bullet. The haste of youth. Of course, he had figured out the answer as soon as she had mentioned the confessions. It was still a shock, and he could hardly believe it himself, but ever since his dinner conversation with Maureen, her descriptions of the crime scenes, and the symbols and writings in her dreams, he too had been suspecting someone whom he knew well. Now a choice was before him, but in truth, he knew what he was going to do, though it was with no small reluctance.

He stuffed the clip and bullet back into his pocket and returned one more time to the bar cart. He set down his glass and picked up the bottle of port. He pulled out the cork and was about to pour when he froze. Going back to the bottle wouldn’t give him any more courage, and in fact would prove detrimental if he were to go into action. The momentary sadness of the thought shook him. Back to action. I hope you have it in you, old man. Quickly, he put down the bottle and went upstairs to his bedroom with as much speed as his old bones could muster.

Father Patrick turned on the small lamp on his nightstand and knelt down to reach under his bed. His hand found the small metal box that he had been searching for, and he slowly pulled it out and placed it on the bed. His fingers ran over the olive green lid, and he closed his eyes for a moment before unlatching it and pushing it open.

“I was hoping you’d never see the light of day again.”

Whether he was speaking to the contents of the box or to Corporal Patrick Mullen, he did not know.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Maureen paced back and forth along the sidewalk in front of the steps of the courthouse, shifting in and out of the glow of the streetlight. It had taken her no more than five minutes to run from the rectory to Main Street, and she wondered what was taking Manny so long. After all, it should have only taken the same amount of time for him to drive over from the police station, and that included the time it would probably take him to run out to his truck.

As afraid as she was that they might not be able to save the Naismith boy, she was very much relieved that Father Patrick wasn’t involved. She couldn’t have forgiven herself for revealing so many of her most intimate thoughts and feelings to someone who could do this type of thing to a child. Another child might die tonight, but at least she now knew who was to blame. No, I can’t think like that! Ben Naismith won’t die! She surprised even herself with that thought, but it galvanized her reserve. Just once—just once—the dreams were going to help prevent tragedy rather than just allow her to helplessly look on as it unfolded.

The headlights from Manny’s truck hit her square in the face as he turned the corner onto Main Street. She shielded her eyes from the beams as the truck pulled up to the curb. Manny reached over from the driver’s seat and pushed open the passenger’s side door for her.

“What the hell took you so long?” she shouted as she jumped into the seat and slammed the door. “It’s almost midnight. The kid is going to be dead any minute.”

“You’re yelling at me?” he shouted back as he pulled the truck into the street and sped away. “I should be asking you the same thing. What the hell were you thinking running off like that?”

Maureen cast her eyes down for a moment, feeling her cheeks warm. “I thought it was Father Patrick, and I went to his house to stop him before he could kill the kid.” She swallowed hard, remembering her anger and hatred as she pointed the gun at her friend, and her shame and heartache after she had learned the rest of his story. “Only it’s not him. I’m sure it’s—”

“Father Preston? Yeah, I came to the same conclusion.”

Maureen’s eyes shot up and stared at him. “How in the hell did you figure that one out?”

The smirk that came to Manny’s face had no real levity behind it. “I did a little more digging after you ran out on me. See, after what Tasha told us, I thought it might be Father Patrick as well. But, unlike you, I didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to be holding the kid at the rectory or St. Mary’s. That’s when I remembered something.”

“What?” she shouted earnestly. “Time’s running out!”

“We might have a little more time than you think, if I’m right,” he replied coolly. “I remembered the old St. Mary’s church along the river. When I was growing up, people would use it for summer weddings every now and then. They built the current one on Main Street in the early sixties because the town had grown, and the original church became too small to hold the congregation. But the Diocese never