Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (rooftoppers txt) 📕

quickly pushing past him and into the aisle. “Thanks for the chat, but I have to go. I shouldn’t have come here.” Maureen turned and ran down the aisle, out the front door, and into the night.

FIFTEEN

Father Patrick watched the young woman flee the church. He had resisted the urge to prevent her from leaving a second time. Once was enough. In his years as a man of the cloth, he had found that his greatest asset was getting people to talk to him frankly and freely. Eventually, he’d get through to Maureen Allen as well. He had no doubt of that.

The old priest turned himself back to the front of the nave and rose slowly to his feet. The weariness of his years always showed themselves in the creaking of his joints whenever he got up from a seated position. How much of that was from his age and how much was from his old life seemed less clear as time went on. He had been a soldier back then and in some ways, the ones that counted, he was a soldier still.

He walked slowly up to the altar, replaying their conversation. For a man with less faith, the idea of a person’s nightmares coming true would seem inconceivable. For a person who had seen less darkness than he had, the notion would be almost too frightening to bear. He stared up at the image of his Savior on the cross and let out a long sigh. So many years, so many people he hoped he was helping in the name of Christ. The garb of a Catholic priest was one that he never thought would work with his mission, but it was the only faith he’d ever known and, though it had its faults, it was where he felt the most comfortable. The church hadn’t fallen so far that it couldn’t be used in his work. And there was still so much to do before he went to meet his Lord.

The priest crossed himself and turned to head toward his office. It was going to be a late night and reflecting on the enigma of the woman with sight was only going to push off finishing his notes on Preston’s sermon.

SIXTEEN

Manny pulled a tissue out of the box and delicately handed it to Sandra Locke before taking his seat on the other side of the table. She dabbed it gently at her red eyes, puffy from crying for the last several hours. He knew how sensitive he’d have to be in interviewing her, but it was important he get things rolling and get some good information out of her. This was going to be a delicate balancing act.

The ID on the victim had come back late on Sunday. It would have been difficult to get, but fortune struck the investigation when Stacey Winherst had found a small tubular object in the pile of charred internal organs. It was labeled with a serial number that had given them the identity of the victim. It was a shunt to correct a congenital heart condition which Evan, Sandra’s son, had been diagnosed with. The boy’s ninth birthday was only three weeks away.

The revelation that the victim was the son of the county treasurer had piqued Manny’s curiosity. The two boys were of the same age and were children of prominent figures in the community, both of whom had ties to the government. He knew that Tom Lowes had handled quite a few commercial building sales for the county over the years and Sandra, of course, handled all of the county’s money. There had to be a connection.

“Ms. Locke,” he said gently, taking out his notepad from his jacket, “I know this is going to be difficult for you, and I don’t want to upset you, but I’m going to need to ask you some questions.”

“I know,” she said weakly. “I’ll do my best.”

Despite the redness and puffiness of her eyes, Manny could discern the dark bags under them. If he looked in the mirror himself, he probably would have seen the same. He had known that he’d be interviewing her today, but had only found out a few moments before entering the interview room that he was to be the first one to talk to Sandra. It was a responsibility that he wasn’t expecting, but it sounded like the Feds were looking to use locals to interview locals.

“Can you please tell me about the shunt we found among the remains?” he asked as gently as he could.

“Evan was diagnosed with cardiomyopathy. Turns out it was genetic. We lost his father to the same condition while I was still pregnant. My OB thought it was a good idea to check out the baby at that point. I guess it was a good thing he did. Otherwise I would have lost him even before . . .” The recollection hurled her into another fit of crying.

Manny waited patiently for it to pass. He felt nothing but pity for her, losing both her husband and her child, but he hoped that he could get something useful out of her.

“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

“It’s okay. Please continue when you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” she said. She paused for a moment, blew her nose, and looked back at him. “It wasn’t easy. Evan was on the spectrum, you see. He’d wander off if you didn’t keep a tight eye on him. I’m lucky that I found a job where I can work from home relatively often.”

“Why don’t you tell me anything you can remember about Evan’s disappearance.”

“It must have been around ten in the morning or so. We’d been out in our backyard playing in the sprinkler most of the morning. I went into the house for a few minutes to make some juice, and when I came back out, he wasn’t in the yard. When he had run off in the past, he ended up