Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (rooftoppers txt) 📕

the bed in front of her. She could feel him wiggle under the force of the hands holding a rag to his mouth. She saw the hallway she had just crept down rushing by in the opposite direction. The woodpile in the backyard. The knife. And finally, the one moment of it all that wasn’t in the nightmare, she saw her own clock radio reading the time. 2:47. Sixteen minutes later.

The horror of the realization spun Maureen’s head in circles, and she threw the clock to the ground with a sharp cry. She finally realized what it was all about. For all these years, she’d accepted that the nightmares showed her what evil people were doing. She had even accepted that, somehow, she was seeing these things from the perspective of the people who were doing them. Now she realized that, all this time, in her sleep, she had been seeing them as they happened. Her heart rate climbed, and sweat broke out on her brow. Why, out of all the people in the world, would something like this happen to her: To see evil being done, but to be cursed to be unable to prevent it? To see through a killer’s eyes, but to be unable to stop their hands? To see a young boy ripped from his bed, to feel his weight in her arms, but at that exact moment, to be miles away, trapped in slumber?

It was all too much. Telling someone never helped; a lesson she’d learned young. She had to get away. There was nothing she could do. She couldn’t identify the killer, and no one would believe her anyway. Run. Don’t think, just run. She still had time. Twenty miles to the bus station wouldn’t be so hard, and it would still be dark for a few hours. What were the chances she’d be seen? She’d be gone, and by tomorrow, she wouldn’t be Maureen Allen anymore. All she had to do was make it back to her apartment without anyone seeing her. She turned to go.

A white light hit her face, and the shadow of a pistol passed in front of it. She was blind to everything beyond the light, but a voice sounded from the doorway.

“Don’t move, Ms. Allen,” it said. She immediately recognized it as the young detective from the bar. “On your knees, please, hands behind your head.”

His voice is oddly calm, she thought as she obeyed his order, slowly sinking to her knees and placing her hands behind her head.

EIGHT

Maureen had been sitting in the interview room for what seemed like days. He had hauled her straight in from the house, processed her, and shoved her into a holding cell. While there, she had resisted the urge to sleep for fear of more torment and took to pacing the three to four steps of the cell, stopping every few minutes to do some push-ups or use the low bed bolted to the wall to do a few dips. Anything to keep awake. The young detective had come back a few hours later, judging by the sunrise, looking as though he had only gone home to change clothes and shave. An attempt to look more formidable perhaps? It wasn’t fooling her. She recognized the bags under his eyes all too well. They probably mirrored her own. In any case, he’d led her into the room she was currently sitting in and had left her to herself, most likely hoping that the time alone would bring her further discomfort and give him the edge he was looking for.

“Okay Ms. Allen,” Detective Benitez said, slapping down his notebook and taking a seat at the steel table opposite her. “Let’s just go over all of this again, shall we?”

The lamp that illuminated the room was behind his head, so she had to squint if she wanted to look at him. Once her eyes adjusted to the harshness of the glow, she was able to examine his face more closely. He was fairly attractive, she had to admit, with a strong jaw and dark, Latin features. Not necessarily her type, but his deep brown eyes were what caught her attention. They seemed as if they saw more than the average person. She was going to have to be exceedingly careful if she was going to explain her way out of this predicament, especially since the truth was so unbelievable.

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Detective,” she said. “I may not have the money for an attorney, but surely you have a public defender you can provide for me?”

“You haven’t been charged with anything, Ms. Allen,” he replied, allowing a grin to break on his face. “We’re just talking. But if you insist, we can find someone to be with you during this interview and take you back to your cell for now. We’re a small town, and the county courthouse doesn’t have a whole lot of public defenders on staff. I’m sure we could get one here in a couple of days. Or you could confess to the murder of Jacob Lowes, and your cooperation will be rewarded. We can get you in front of a shrink, and you just might avoid the death penalty.”

“Didn’t know Missouri still had the death penalty,” Maureen quipped, making no effort to hide her disdain.

“The death penalty isn’t used often, it’s true. It’s reserved for the most heinous of crimes. I’m sure the murder of a child and desecration of the corpse would qualify.” His tone raised slightly.

“Well, since I didn’t kill that kid, I guess I got nothing to worry about.” She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her.

“I thought you wanted a lawyer. You’re not doing yourself any favors making statements like that,” he replied.

“What’s the point?” She was getting tired of this already, and she knew she wasn’t going anywhere for a while. “A public defender won’t do me any good anyway.”

“Because you’re going to confess?” he smirked. “I’ll need to bring in