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

nothing better to do than squeeze it with all the reassurance she could muster. It was only then that she became aware of a single tear that had begun to well up in her eye. She hadn’t realized how much, but in the short time she’d known him, she’d come to care for Father Patrick. The feeling was clearly mutual, and it saddened her to think that it might be the last time she’d see him. After all, once this whole mess was cleaned up, she could hardly stay in Sycamore Hills, even if she was now cleared of suspicion. There was too much of a stain on her name. And besides, she couldn’t be sure the dreams wouldn’t return.

Manny went up at the altar to check on little Ben Naismith. His eyes were still closed but his breathing seemed a little stronger. Manny picked him up, and together they walked through the darkened nave toward the front door. They left Father Preston where he lay, the single candle keeping vigil over his body.

They were greeted by the sight of two Sycamore Hills police cars pulling up with lights flashing. Manny carefully handed Ben to Maureen and walked with the priest to greet them. As she hoisted the boy up, she felt his little head nestle onto her shoulder. He let out a soft coo and almost instantly, a tiny pair of arms were clasped around her neck. Maureen realized in that moment that she’d never held a child before. She was surprised at how easy it was.

Before she stepped out into the night air, a strange sensation overcame her. She turned and stepped just to the threshold of the nave and stared up at the altar to meet the gaze of the statuesque Christ. Closing her eyes, she began her silent conversation.

All right, I used whatever this thing is in my head for good. I don’t know if You gave it to me, but I’ve done what Father Patrick said I needed to do. So, can You please, PLEASE take it away now? I’ve never asked for anything, so, maybe You kind of owe me this?

She felt a bit silly. She didn’t really know how a person was supposed to talk to God. And so, she did what only seemed appropriate if the Almighty were actually listening.

There, in the dark, Maureen Allerton prayed—for the first time since her brother died—the only prayer she still remembered:

Our Father, who art in Heaven

Hallowed be thy name . . .

FORTY-ONE

“Well, Ms. Allen,” Agent Layton said as he slammed his briefcase on the table in front of her and pulled out a manila folder stuffed with papers, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Maureen had been waiting for over three hours for him to come and release her. She had given her statement to the officers who arrived on the scene. Their explanation of the priest’s plan, and the fantastical nature of the events that had occurred, had been met with skepticism to be sure, but she had been certain Manny had convinced his coworkers that their account was indeed the truth. That was, of course, until Agent Layton had arrived and ordered her and Father Patrick taken into custody. Her neck was still sore from trying to sleep on that jail cell bed. She wondered how the priest had fared. Manny had advocated for their release, but to no avail. His reward was being banished to the hallway bench outside the interrogation room of the Sheriff’s Department, presumably waiting for Agent Lorenzo to take him to another room in an attempt to poke a hole in their story. If she moved her head to the right, Maureen could see his face through the half-drawn blinds.

“Ms. Allen,” Agent Layton’s voice rousted her from her thoughts, “I’ve gone over your file, and I’d like to go over a few things with you.”

“Don’t know what I can add, Agent,” she said matter-of-factly. “I know it all sounds a little crazy, but it’s the truth.”

“Oh, no doubt there,” he replied. “We have plenty of evidence to support that from the search of Preston’s home. It’s just like you and Detective Benitez said. We found an excess of holy oil, purchased via account book manipulation. We found the bibles with his scribblings in them and a small, basement altar and shrine. We’ve got a supply of chloroform and some black gloves that we’re testing for the murdered boys’ DNA. There’s little doubt that you found and killed the man we were looking for. But it’s not the case file I’d like to go over with you.”

He picked up the manila folder and began leafing through it, almost too casually for Maureen’s liking. “Lots of great stuff in this file, Ms. Allerton. Oh! I mean, Ms. Allen. Or do I mean Ms. Anderson? Or is it Mary Allen? Or maybe I should call you Maria Adams?”

Maureen frowned. She’d been waiting for the hammer to fall, and now the time had come. He knew he had her, and she could see he was reveling in it.

“You’ve been quite a few people in your life, haven’t you?” he pressed. “I have to wonder, though, why you’ve never used Keane as one of your identities.”

“If you knew my mother, you’d understand,” Maureen said flatly. She could see there was no point in denying anything.

“Well, for simplicity’s sake,” said Agent Layton, “what should we call you?”

“Allerton’s fine. I’ve always called myself Maureen Allerton in my own mind.”

“Very good then, Ms. Allerton! Let’s talk about your friend, Father Patrick.”

“What about him?”

“I won’t beat around the bush,” he said, folding his hands on the table and staring earnestly at her. “We took notice of your relationship pretty early on. It wasn’t too hard for us to find the FBI file on one Corporal Patrick Mullen, a former Green Beret who deserted in Vietnam thirty-seven years ago. And it took us even less time to determine the good Father and the Corporal were