Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (rooftoppers txt) 📕

UNHOLY SHEPHERD

A NOVEL

ROBERT W. CHRISTIAN

Ten16 Press

www.ten16press.com - Waukesha, WI

Unholy Shepherd

Copyright © 2021 Robert W. Christian

Paperback ISBN 978-1-64538-203-4

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64538-239-3

Second Edition

Unholy Shepherd

by Robert W. Christian

All Rights Reserved. Written permission must be secured from the publisher to use or reproduce any part of this book, except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles.

For information, please contact:

Ten16 Press

www.ten16press.com

Waukesha, WI

Cover design by Kaeley Dunteman

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Characters in this book have no relation to anyone bearing the same name and are not based on anyone known or unknown to the author. Any resemblance to actual businesses or companies, events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

For my beautiful wife, Sarah.

Thank you for encouraging me to chase my dream.

“143”.

“They sacrificed their sons and daughters

to false gods.

They shed innocent blood,

the blood of their sons and daughters . . .

. . . and the land was desecrated

by their blood.”

Psalm 106:37-38

Duxbury, 1981

The flashing blue and red lights of the police cars hit the peripheral of Maire’s vision as she stood by the roadside, blanket wrapped, staring into the trees. The bustle of police, reporters, and locals hummed about her. She was aware of it all, yet there was no cohesion to any of it. She could not pick out a single voice through the haze in her mind. She simply stared, blinking now and then, but never shifting her gaze. If she tried hard enough, perhaps she could move her sight a mere three hundred yards down the bank, through the mass of greens, reds, yellows, and browns, and rest her eyes on her precious baby boy, who now lay on the forest floor.

“Mrs. Allerton? Mrs. Allerton?” a voice cut through the cone of silence she’d wrapped herself in. Maire felt herself blink twice before turning to find one of the policemen on the scene uncomfortably close to her. It seemed plain to her, now that she had returned from her private thoughts, that he had been trying to get her attention for some time. He was a short man, not more than an inch or two taller than Maire herself. Dennis, she thought to herself, the short one is Officer Dennis. He’d been one of the two men from the department to come tell her just a few short hours ago that they had found her son. The other had been the captain, Alvin Lodge, who she could now see over Dennis’ shoulder talking to the group of reporters that had flocked to the scene. Vultures, she thought sourly to herself. Shaking her head clear, she focused her attention back on Officer Dennis, who she could now see was holding a notepad in one hand and tapping a pen nervously upon it with the other.

“Keane!” she snapped, almost surprising herself with her sternness. She had not meant to round on the young man in such a fashion, but there was no way she was going to be called by her bastard of an ex-husband’s name. Maire cleared her throat, took a breath, and tried to force a small, reassuring smile. “Apologies, Officer Dennis, but I prefer my maiden name, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m no longer married.” That wasn’t technically true, but close enough for her.

“Of course,” said the officer, though still clearly taken aback. “Ms. Keane,” he continued, “I know this is a difficult time for you, but I need to ask you a few more questions.”

A difficult time! Maire turned back toward the wood line and closed her eyes for a moment. The man had no idea what a difficult time meant. All the platitudes in the world wouldn’t change what had happened. What could he know of her heartache? What could any of them know, these disingenuous charlatans, offering her their hollow sympathies and lip service prayers! Maire’s eyes flung back open as she felt herself begin to shake. She must maintain some level of composure. The tears, the anger, none of it would bring back her darling boy. None of it would lift him from the hastily dug hole he was now lying in, covered only halfway with dirt and dead leaves, and carry him home safe and alive. He was in God’s hands now. She at least, unlike all these other people, truly believed that. Maire brushed her hand over her eyes as subtly as she could. Still dry. For now, she thought.

“Go ahead, Officer,” she said, not looking away from the trees and in a voice a bit less than a whisper. She half-expected to have to repeat herself, when, to her surprise, Dennis responded.

“Ms. Keane, I was looking over my notes from our first conversation back at your home, and I was hoping to go over it again. You see, the boys from Chelsea are going to take over the investigation and before they do that, they want us to construct a clearer timeline of events. They seem to think there’s an inconsistency with your original statement and asked me to get a second one from you.”

Maire sighed and turned around to look at Officer Dennis. “You think I don’t know what Agent Mansfield is thinking right now?” she asked flatly. She was losing the strength to keep her composure. “Just because I wasn’t born here, doesn’t mean I don’t know who the cops’ prime suspect always is when a child goes missing!” Even in her own ears she could hear her native Cork accent begin to sharpen as she tried to hold back her agitation. In the twelve years since her marriage had brought her to this side of the ocean, her friends and family both here and back home had noted with a perverse delight how her speech had become muddled with the thick New England accents that surrounded her. They could always tell whenever she was losing her temper, however, when