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

Christ hanging from it in his familiar position. Maureen walked closer to it and stopped to stare into the eyes of the Christian Savior. The artist responsible had done their work. The face was so lifelike and detailed that Maureen, herself, could almost feel the anguish of crucifixion that was being portrayed, just like the one in the newer St. Mary’s. She followed the eyes down to the altar and felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight that confronted her.

Little Ben Naismith was lying, shirtless, on top of the altar. His body had been obscured by the wood that was no doubt meant to be set alight as soon as the sacrificial ritual was finished. But now, Maureen could observe the child’s serene features. His eyes were closed, and his face was without any trace of pain. She was relieved at the absence of a wound on the child’s neck and of blood on the altar. Still, she was concerned by the raspy and ragged sound of his breathing, likely the result of whatever had been used to drug him into his current unconscious state.

Maureen reached out to try to gently shake the boy awake. As her hand brushed his hair, she felt something wet and oily on his forehead. It glistened in the candlelight as she brought her fingers closer to her face. The oil gave off a faint odor of incense that she recalled as a child, seated next to her mother on a hard, wooden pew in Massachusetts all those years ago. Now that it was in her nose, the odor seemed to get stronger around her. She allowed her eyes to dart around the altar at the rest of the wood piled up. Now that she was looking for it, the glistening, wet appearance of the oil on the logs became apparent. So, too, did the presence of the long, curved knife with the carved, wooden handle that she had seen in her dreams. It now appeared in the flesh, lying next to the Naismith child on the altar, ready to do its work.

Maureen’s skin began to crawl. Something wasn’t right. Father Preston had apparently finished the baptism of the boy and was preparing to begin the sacrifice. Where was he? Did he forget something and leave the boy, trusting that the chemicals he used would keep him knocked out? Did he hear Manny and Maureen break in the back door and flee? Or were the eyes of the crucified Jesus behind her not the only eyes looking at her right now?

Her eyes darted around the church looking for Manny. She saw his form at the edge of the candlelight, pistol cradled in both hands at the ready, checking up and down the rows of pews. Clearly he, too, was looking for the missing priest.

“Manny,” she called out, not bothering to adhere to stealth anymore, “get up here. We gotta get the kid out of here.”

Maureen saw him turn and begin to make his way toward her. She looked back down at Ben Naismith, closed her eyes, and put her hand on his chest. It gently and slowly rose up and down, and she could feel his heart beating behind his tiny rib cage. She didn’t know much about kids or medicine, but to her touch, his skin felt too cold and his heartbeat too slow.

“You’re going to be fine,” she whispered, “you’re going to be just fine.”

Manny’s footsteps were getting close, but just as they reached the foot of the altar, they stopped abruptly, and a loud thud replaced them in the silent air. Maureen heard Manny let out a sharp groan and opened her eyes just in time to see him limply fall sideways, sending his pistol sliding across the stone floor and coming to rest in front of the front pew.

Maureen’s eyes left Manny lying on the ground and moved up to the figure looming over his body.

“You will not stop my work,” its cold voice said.

THIRTY-NINE

Maureen drew a deep breath and slowly circled around the altar to confront her would-be attacker. She kept her hands near her sides, waiting for the opportunity to reach around her back, grab the pistol from its hiding place, and force the man to his knees. She gritted her teeth, trying to keep her jaw from quivering and betraying her nerves.

Poker face. You can do this.

She inhaled deeply and exhaled. The sound of her breath seemed to rattle off the stone walls. Maureen tried to keep her face smooth. She stopped in front of the altar and planted her feet firmly, facing down the priest as an Old West gunslinger would have. She stood as straight and confidently as she could, trying to look as strong as possible.

Father Preston came forward a couple of steps, allowing the candlelight to fully illuminate him. He wore a white alb over his priest’s collar and a purple stole with elaborate stitching near its ends draped over his shoulders. His lips were creased in a bemused grin, but his eyes, like Manny had described, seemed emotionless. He carried a large, tubular object in his hand that glinted gold in the flickering light. Maureen stared closer at it and then cast her eyes up to the altar at the holder that held the candle. They were a match.

So that’s why there was only one, she thought grimly.

It was clear now, despite their best efforts, that Father Preston had heard her and Manny break in, grabbed the candlestick, and hid in the shadows, waiting for the right time to strike. Manny had given him that opportunity when he rushed heedlessly to her call. She pushed away the thought that she was to blame for him being blindsided and hurt. She looked down at him lying on the stone floor at the priest’s feet. Thankfully, she couldn’t see any blood on the ground, and as she looked on, he began to stir and try to get up onto