Unholy Shepherd by Robert Christian (rooftoppers txt) 📕

the criminal profiling department at the St. Louis branch, and he thinks I should apply.”

“Yeah, absolutely, why not?” She had no doubt he’d do fine and anyway, after all that had happened here, why would he want to stay in Sycamore Hills just to go back to what he was doing before? She knew that if he joined the FBI, a relationship would be nearly impossible for them, given what had just happened to her with regards to Agent Layton, but maybe that was for the best. After all, she wasn’t really the type to settle down the way she sensed he would want her to.

“Well, it’s been a long day for us,” he said. “Can I take you out for a drink or three?”

“No,” she said firmly. His face fell but she put on her best smile to comfort him. “No drinks for me tonight. You can take me to dinner though. And, who knows, maybe we can go to your place afterwards?”

She moved in close to him and put her arms around his neck. Poor man, she thought, the least I can do is give him one more night before I go.

“I have to warn you up front though, I can’t stay,” she said. “I have some place that I have to be in the morning, and there will be hell to pay if I’m not there.”

EPILOGUE

Father Patrick flipped the car into park, sighed, and stretched, his hand brushing against the rosary beads hanging from the rearview mirror. It had been a twelve-hour drive up from Missouri, and he had only stopped for gas; he wanted to be sure he was here on time. He kept the old Volvo running so the heat stayed on. Back home in Sycamore Hills, the winter hadn’t been all that bad, but it had seemed there was going to be another cold snap and dusting of snow before spring really settled in. It didn’t look like spring was anywhere near up here in Minnesota. He checked the clock on the dashboard. 8:58.

Glancing in the rearview mirror again, Father Patrick noted a black sedan pulling into the lot and parking about two hundred yards down. No one got out. Obviously doesn’t think he’s been made, he thought to himself, but Father Patrick had been tracking his tail since the Highway 14 exit. The black sedan had been fairly conspicuous on the side of the roundabout exit off I-35. He even caught a glimpse of the driver, a very young-looking man in a black suit. Agent Layton hadn’t even given him the courtesy of sending out a veteran! The rookie had done everything by the book: pulled up to the rear of the Volvo to identify the license plate, then dropped two car lengths back and one lane over, and maintained pace with him the rest of the way. Father Patrick had made no attempt to shake his pursuit. It wasn’t yet time.

The loud horn signaling the opening of the security gate shook him out of his thoughts. Father Patrick turned his eyes to the passenger’s seat where a bulky manila envelope sat. He wondered how this would all be received. He’d held the debate in his head over and over for six months, wondering if he was overstepping his bounds, even resolving less than a week ago to not even drive up. In the end, though, his sense of duty had prevailed, and even promises made to oneself were promises that needed to be kept.

He turned back toward the gate, which was now beginning to slowly crawl open. A small, flannel-clad figure had appeared, waiting to cross over the threshold to freedom. She had a large duffel bag slung over her shoulder, and her honey-blonde hair was pulled back in that familiar ponytail. Father Patrick wondered how she could stand the cold with no jacket. He honked the horn once, loud and sharp, and flashed the high beams. The woman turned her head and began to make her way over to the vehicle. Father Patrick leaned over to the passenger’s side door and pushed it open as she approached the car.

“Well, Father,” said Maureen as she stuck her head into the car, “fancy meeting you here.”

“Yep,” he replied, “even though you didn’t answer any of my letters, I had a feeling you were going to need a ride when you got out of this place.” He reached over to the passenger’s seat and removed the manila envelope, using it to wave her into the car. “Get in before you freeze.”

Maureen stood for a moment before shoving her bag over the headrest into the back seat and climbing in herself. She looked the same as the day the Feds had taken her out of Sycamore Hills. There had been many questions among the locals as to where she had gone and, though Father Patrick had insisted to all who had asked him personally that she was safe, he didn’t divulge anything else as to her whereabouts. The town had eventually settled into quiet gossip, most of it inaccurate, about the strange young lady who had only been a part of the community for a few short weeks, and her ties to the unsettling events that were now, thankfully, behind them.

Father Patrick backed the car out of the parking space, turned, and headed toward the long entrance road that led back to the highway. Looking in the rearview mirror, he could see the black sedan pulling out of its spot, giving him a short lead, and heading down the same road. He smiled to himself and switched on the radio, turning the sound down low so he could talk with Maureen.

“So how was it inside?”

“I’ve been in worse places,” she responded casually. “It’s pretty low security as far as those things go. I even had a cell to myself. Little present from Agent Layton, I guess. Did you know the Enron guy was here before they turned it into a chick jail?”