Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (rooftoppers txt) 📕

little thing I found. Makes it seem like you’re trying too hard to be liked. Like you want daddy’s approval. I mean, what do you really have except a theory? Also, what do you think he’ll say when you tell him you’ve got me hostage over here? I’m sure he’ll just love that.”

Manny paused for a minute and let her comments sink in. She made a point, though it wasn’t one that gave him any real comfort. True, he had a theory about why the children were killed, but he didn’t have any clear picture about who was doing it. Maybe it would be best to have a little more insight on that before going to the Feds. He wasn’t officially part of the investigation after all, and they had access to the same information that he had in that box. More, probably, since they had greater resources and manpower.

He wasn’t happy about Maureen being right, but he flopped down in his chair and tossed his phone on the coffee table. He sat back and glared at her for a few heartbeats. He thought he could see the barest hint of a smile form on her lips as she stared ahead at the TV.

TWENTY

Agent Layton took a long, slow sip out of his glass of water and adjusted the desk lamp to illuminate the contents of the folder he was just handed. Seated in that cramped, makeshift office, he began to trace in great detail the winding road that one Maureen Allerton had traveled since her brother’s death.

After the eight-year-old girl had been examined by the FBI’s psychologist, she vanished for a time into a boarding school in the northeast. All the file had was a name, but there were stories about this institution that he was at least nominally familiar with. The school had been shut down just before the turn of the century, but its reputation lived on, and it wasn’t a good one. This was just the type of place that would create a guarded, untrusting type of person. Maureen Allen certainly fit the bill.

She cropped up again as an adult. The fingerprint analysis brought up a variety of misdemeanors and a felony, spread across four known aliases. And she wasn’t overly sophisticated. They were all variations on her birth name and kept the same initials. He was puzzled by this at first, but after looking at the signature on a forged prescription for pain killers and a signature on an old car title registration, he understood the method to her madness. Despite representing two different names, the signatures were identical; the M and A letters of the first and last name were clearly legible, while the rest of the writing was no more than a couple of wavy lines. Layton found himself smiling at the fact that he didn’t need to waste much time making connections between her identities.

So Maureen Allen, or Allerton, was a con artist and petty criminal. She had engaged in identity theft and forgery in her past. There was probably more that she hadn’t been caught for, but what he had was enough for now. The only thing he still questioned was why she chose to live the way she did. His working theory was trauma from her childhood, and if she truly did have second sight, that might be another contributing factor. He’d need to know for sure, however, if he was going to follow through with his plan.

And of course, she’d be of no use to him if she was indeed capable of murder.

TWENTY-ONE

Maureen opened her eyes and stared up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Her arm, resting underneath her head, was numb and stiff, and the pillow she was lying on had an unfamiliar smell. She moved her legs and found that they were covered with a knitted quilt. Gradually, the fog of sleep wore off, and she realized she was lying on the couch in the young detective’s living room. Her mouth was dry and as she turned her head, the half-full bottle of whiskey came into view. She had no headache, but she reached out for it all the same, sat up, and tipped a small amount into her mouth. She swished it around and swallowed.

“Well that’s one way to start the morning,” a voice behind her said.

Maureen turned around and saw Detective Benitez standing on the edge of the living room, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and several papers in the other. He was barefoot, dressed in an athletic T-shirt and mesh shorts, and his physique was more apparent to her than it had ever been. It was nice. He was certainly in shape but didn’t seem obsessed with his body.

“What time is it?” she asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes and trying not to stare at him.

“It’s about quarter to ten,” he answered, coming over to the easy chair next to the couch and taking a seat.

“I don’t do anything earlier than noon,” she replied, laying back and covering her face with the blanket.

“There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want.”

“I’m not a coffee drinker.”

“There’s cereal and milk, too, if you’re hungry.”

“Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t do anything this early.”

“I’d think you’d be nice and rested after conking out the way you did last night.”

His words made Maureen throw the blanket off her face and sit up abruptly. She could barely remember when she fell asleep, but she was certain it was only a few hours ago, like usual.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“You were out like a light pretty early,” he said, setting the papers on the coffee table and taking a sip from his mug. “I was kind of surprised. You struck me as more of a night owl.”

“What time was I out?” This was very confusing for her.

“Well, I was up until almost one,” he said, cupping his coffee thoughtfully. “You’d been out for at least an hour.