Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (rooftoppers txt) 📕

priest, “this is Father Preston. He’ll take you back to our sacristy and go over the inventory and the books. You’ll be in better hands than mine.”

“If you’ll follow me, Detective,” the young priest said, inclining his head and gesturing behind the detective. The two men headed off around the opposite corner, leaving Maureen and Father Patrick alone.

The silence that hung in the air was palpable. Maureen stared at the old priest and he stared back, his face even with the faintest twinkle in his eye. If the situation were different, she might have almost thought him amused by her presence. She wrapped her arms around herself, as though doing that would keep her nervous energy from erupting onto them both.

“Well, this has certainly been an interesting visit so far.” Father Patrick smiled, sadly she thought, and slowly made his way into the nave of the church. Maureen followed behind.

“So, how did you become the detective’s partner?” he asked her, after kneeling in the aisle briefly and sitting in one of the back pews.

“Detective Benitez came and got me at my work a couple of days ago,” she replied, taking a seat next to him. “He seems to think that I can be helpful in solving the case, since the FBI has decided I’m not a suspect anymore. Or if they do, I guess they’re waiting for me to off another kid.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding as if he understood completely.

“It’s just messed up, you know?” she continued. “He thinks like you. That my dreams can be some sort of trump card against this guy.”

“So you’ve told him.”

“Yeah, I didn’t have much of a choice,” she confessed. “I guess I’m helping a little. Maybe. In my last dream, I was in a candlelit office or den or something, and I guess I was reading a Bible. That’s why the detective asked you about Leviticus. That’s what I was reading.”

“I see. That’s why you think the children might be burnt offerings,” he affirmed.

“Yeah, pretty much. But there was something else in the dream, too. On the table next to the Bible, there was an old piece of paper—if you could call it paper. It had writing on it but it wasn’t in English. I was definitely reading that too, but right to left instead of normal. Do you have any idea what that might be all about?”

“Could be the writing was in Arabic,” he said, stroking his short beard in thought. “Or Urdu. Or Hebrew. Or even Aramaic. And that’s just naming a few, but if the person responsible for these crimes is the type to use biblical imagery in staging the crime scenes, I’d bet on the last two.”

“Can you speak it?”

“Back in the seventies, we had the option to learn Hebrew and Aramaic while in seminary. I could still recognize it if I saw it, but I can only speak the basics. Lord’s Prayer and the like.”

“What does it sound like?”

The priest shifted in his seat momentarily before clearing his throat. “Well, let me think here for a second. In Aramaic I think it goes: Abwûn d’bwaschmâja Nethkâdasch schmach . . .”

Father Patrick’s voice faded, but his lips continued to move, as he closed his eyes. It seemed to Maureen that he was searching his memory and trying to speak the prayer to himself before continuing out loud. After a moment he gave up and uttered a defeated laugh.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember much of the middle,” he said, “though I remember the last. Metol dilachie malkutha wahaila wateschbuchta l’ahlâm almîn. Amên.”

His last words hung in the air as Maureen felt her stomach sour. A lump formed in her throat. She looked away for a moment to hide her gulp. She realized, now that they had been said out loud, that she had heard those words before.

“Are you all right?” She heard Father Patrick’s voice at her shoulder.

“Yeah, sure,” she replied, smoothing her face and turning to face him with a halfhearted smile. “It was pretty.”

“Many of the ancient languages are,” he said.

“Do you speak any others?” she asked, hoping to distance them from the subject at hand.

“Ancient languages? No. Not Really.”

“How about just regular languages?”

Father Patrick looked as if he was about to answer, but before he could, Father Preston and Detective Benitez appeared at the entrance to the nave. Maureen and Father Patrick stood up and walked over to meet them.

“I hope you found everything in order,” said the old priest as he came up to stand beside the detective.

“Yes, Father,” he replied. “Your associate was very helpful. I think we’ve got what we came for. Thank you for your assistance, Father Preston.”

The younger priest bowed his head slightly and quietly excused himself, slowly making his way out of sight. The remaining three walked to the door where the detective turned around and stuck his hand out to the priest.

“Thank you as well, Father Patrick,” he said as the old priest grasped his hand and shook. “I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”

“I’ll keep you in my prayers, Detective,” the priest replied, smiling warmly, before turning to Maureen. “And you as well, Ms. Allen.”

The notion of a Catholic priest offering her his prayers left her with a disquieting feeling, but she nodded her head just the same. The detective began the descent down the stairs toward Main Street. Maureen stayed where she was.

“I think I’ll take you up on dinner,” she said quietly, as soon as she was sure that the detective was out of earshot.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said, beaming his wide smile. “How about tonight?”

That was too soon for her. A good part of her truly wanted to sit down for a meal with the old man. “How about a week from today? Next Wednesday. Around eight?” Maureen wanted to make sure she could back out if the case was cleared and she could get herself back on the road.

“A little later than I usually eat,” he said with a laugh, “but