Unholy Shepherd

by Robert W Christian

  Manny got up from the bar, turned, and scanned the dining room. A small group of officers from the precinct had taken a table in a corner to his right and had begun their socializing. Manny didn’t want to be spotted as he left if he could help it; the way he felt about his coworkers was complicated. They were all brothers-in-arms as civil servants, but he’d never really assimilated into the rest of the fraternity. He chose a longer path to the exit, around the tables to his left, hoping to get by unnoticed. He’d just reached the door and was about to push it open when a familiar, gravelly voice rose above the rest of the noise.

  “Hey, Benny!” It rang out, and the rest of the patrons seemed to lower their voices in response. “Where the hell d’ya think you’re going?”

  Manny tried to hide the cringe that came to his face as he turned. The voice had come from Sergeant Sam Wentworth, seated in the middle of a semi-circle of four other officers. Around him were the men who could usually be found with him when out on the town: Alan Scottsdale, Mike McKeegan, and the Henderson twins—Lance and Todd. These five had all been high school friends and came through the academy together. It was clear to all, even to the grade schoolers of the mid-80s like Manny, that Wentworth had always been the group’s leader. Everyone knew the Wentworth Gang.

  “Heading home, Sarge,” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I got an early morning.”

  “Yeah,” Wentworth snickered, “huge day of pushing those six papers from one side of your desk to the other!” The entire table burst into laughter. Manny couldn’t tell if it was sincere, or if they were just humoring their king. He figured it was probably fifty-fifty. He smiled along, gave a wave of his hand and, leaving them to their merriment, turned around and headed out into the night.

  It felt strangely warm and muggy, even for the middle of August. Manny sighed as he walked to his car. Wentworth and the others weren’t wrong. There was a reason that there was only one detective in the Sycamore Hills Police Department. It was a small town in the middle of nowhere, and there were very few crimes that were committed that needed much more investigation than talking to some of the locals or making a few phone calls. He sometimes thought about going back to school.

  Manny reached his truck, and the driver’s seat groaned slightly as he sat down. The truck was nearly a decade and a half old, but it was the one thing in his life that he counted as a truly prized possession. He could still remember the day he bought it during his junior year of college. It had nearly one hundred thousand miles on it then, and its frame and body were starting to go, but he kept the engine running as well as ever. It was a point of pride for him to be able to work on his own vehicle; a little bit of his father rubbing off on him. He started the truck, rolled down his window to let in the night air, and drove off toward home.

  It would take less than ten minutes to get from Smokey’s to the house he rented on the northern end of town, and there were very few other cars out on the road after nine on a Wednesday. In a town of barely four thousand, the only ones out and about were civil servants and maybe some students from the local junior college. Manny switched on the truck’s radio and turned right off Main Street onto the road that would take him home. He’d been listening to public radio on his way to work that morning, but switched to FM for his Top 40 for the ride home. With the strong bass beats of the latest release playing, he retreated into his thoughts.

  Thus far, in his eighteen months on the force, his toughest case had been tracking down the culprits of a graffiti spree last fall. The only reason the department had even given it as much attention as they did was because the teens responsible had tagged the county courthouse, which stands within the municipal borders of Sycamore Hills. It had been a sneaker footprint preserved in mud that had confirmed what everyone already knew: the place to start shaking down potential suspects was the high school. Manny had a better rapport with the students, being much closer to their age than almost anyone else on the force. It only took him speaking to about a dozen of them before they took in the group of five boys, got their confessions, and sentenced them to probation until they turned eighteen.

  It wasn’t that he wanted more serious crimes in his hometown. The job simply hadn’t fulfilled him from day one. As time went by, he found himself falling further into the trappings of self-analysis. Nights were the worst, when he had nothing but his television to keep him company. The more he allowed himself to delve into the depths of his soul, the more he became aware of some truths.

  The most pervasive was his Latin American heritage. It opened the doors to Saint Anselm in New Hampshire, but it had never helped that he was constantly reminded that his college scholarship was one reserved specifically for minorities. Or that Wentworth, McKeegan, and the others insisted on Anglicizing his last name and calling him “Benny”. He hated the name. Was it so hard to just call him “Manny”?

  He’d had the opportunity to interview with the FBI during his senior year of college. His teachers assured him he was a sure thing, and that his skill set would lend itself well to the work. But what would have happened when he’d actually have to work? Would he really have passed the FBI entrance exams? Been a good agent in the field? Risen through the ranks? He would have failed eventually, and that would have proven everybody right. He was nothing more than a man who got his opportunities based on affirmative action. He decided not to take the interview and accepted an entry-level position at the New Hampshire State Department of Justice, working as an aide to one of the junior district attorneys. In the five years there, he had never even tried for one of the four promotions that became available. That’s when he began to toy with the idea that he was afraid of failure and made the decision to move back to Sycamore Hills. He thought he was taking a big risk at the time, but now he knew it wasn’t true. He was running back home and hiding where it was safe.

  The headlights of the truck shone on his old burgundy mailbox, and the truck slowly climbed the gentle incline up to the garage. The garage door didn’t work, and the garage itself was packed with stuff, so he parked out front and headed inside.

  The house wasn’t large, but it was functional and offered a nice view of the lake, which was fed by a small river that flowed through the county. Inside, he had three bedrooms, a full bath, and plenty of room in his living room to fit his sofa and recliner. His landlord had opened up the kitchen a few years before he’d moved in, giving the old mid-century home a more modern flow. Manny liked the house and felt very comfortable there. He was even considering talking to his landlord about purchasing it.

  He tossed his keys on the end table and walked toward the couch. He grabbed the remote, turned on the TV, and scrolled through the channels to find the ball game. St. Louis was down a run in the seventh, and Manny scoffed as the announcer recounted the two-run lead they’d just given up in the top of the inning. They sure hadn’t looked like the World Series champs of a year ago this season, and Manny suspected there would be no miracle run to the playoffs this year. Shaking his head, he tossed the remote onto the couch and circled around into the kitchen.

  Manny opened the refrigerator and stood transfixed, not really looking for anything in particular. His dinner and drinks sat heavy in his stomach, so he wasn’t hungry or thirsty. A cheer erupted from the TV, shaking him out of his thoughts. He closed the door to the refrigerator and peeked around the corner to see two Cardinals trotting around the bases. Manny smiled. That was more like it. Pulling himself back into the kitchen, he decided to go ahead and have a nightcap and went over to the cabinet that held the silver tequila. He filled a glass and swallowed the entire amount before filling it again and carrying it back into the living room.

  After taking a tiny sip of the tequila, he placed the shot glass on the coffee table and sat back to enjoy the rest of the game. He was only half watching, though, as he retreated back into his thoughts. Why did he let Wentworth and the others continue to look down on him? Why couldn’t he f
ind satisfaction in what he was doing? Should he try to transfer to the County Sheriff’s Department? Should he pack up and leave Sycamore Hills? He sat and sipped, but he couldn’t see any of the answers, even when looking through the bottom of an empty glass.

  Manny stood up, shut off the TV, and walked to the window. In the west, he could see clouds beginning to blot out the night’s sky and dim flashes of heat lightning flaring up here and there. It wasn’t enough to light up the night, and there were no accompanying rumbles of thunder to warn of any summer storm. It was almost as if nature itself was teasing him, promising a change that wasn’t actually going to come.

  Manny closed the curtains and slowly shuffled to his room, hoping a new day would bring some kind of change.

  TWO

  Through the streets of Sycamore Hills, in and out of the glow of the street lights, Ra’ah walked slowly. The air was hot and had a wet tinge to it, filled with the subtle smell of the farms and fields to the west of town. It smelled of change. It was time to begin his mission.

  The world had become a vile cesspool, full of greed, war, and corruption. Even a just man hid secrets in his heart that spat in the face of the Creator. Ra’ah had lived in the slime with these creatures all his life and now, finally, had risen in his enlightenment to a plane that few others could reach. The muddy waters of existence were now as clear as glass, and their turbulence was no more. He had waited years, and now all was ready.

  Turning north out of the downtown district, Ra’ah threw up his dark hood for protection against unfriendly eyes. Eyes that wouldn’t see with the heart, nor with the soul, seeing only the flesh of the man and misunderstanding what was beginning here tonight. Ra’ah understood. He knew and did not fear any consequence, for the rewards far outweighed the punishment. He stopped for a moment and reached under his shirt to the hilt of his knife. It, like him, had been made for this purpose: an instrument to serve in the great work ahead. He continued down the street, now lined with homes, silhouetted against the moonlight.

  After a few minutes, Ra’ah stopped at his destination: a large two-story home in the heart of the little neighborhood. The sole source of light came from a lamp above the front porch. Everything else was dark and still, and somewhere inside, his first task awaited. He looked down at his watch. The face was barely visible, but there was just enough ambient light to read it. Three minutes until midnight. It was nearly time. Ra’ah looked up and down the street. All was silent. He crept along the fence line of the house and made his way into the rear corner of the backyard, next to a woodpile and under the shade of a small tree. He still had a few spare moments before he needed to spring into action.

  And so, in the darkness before the new day struck, Ra’ah knelt and raised his eyes toward Heaven.

  THREE

  It was as if she was looking through two eye holes in a mask as she peered down at the sleeping boy. She could hear a muttered whisper, a low, hypnotic voice, speaking rhythmically, and though she couldn’t understand the words, somehow she knew they were coming from her throat. A brown, unlabeled bottle in a gloved hand appeared in front of her, followed by another that lifted out of the darkness to uncork it. The second hand disappeared from her sight and then returned holding a white cloth. Delicately, the first hand poured some of the liquid onto the cloth and pressed it over the child’s nose and mouth. Almost immediately, the young boy’s eyes snapped open, and there was a moment of recognition in them before they rolled back in his head.

  The eyes looked toward the half-open door for a moment, as if expecting someone to come rushing through. No one came, and the room spun with a blur back to the child on his bed, taking slow, shallow breaths. Her own will struggled to help him, which proved useless, and within seconds she could feel the weight of the child in the arms. Within moments, the hallway and staircase were rushing by, barely visible in the peripheral, and before she knew it, she felt the night’s air rush onto the face. The arms laid the child down in the grass, and the eyes turned to look at the back of the house. Through the darkness, she thought she could just make out what looked like an upside down U above the back door. The eyes would not allow her to focus on anything else and turned back to the boy, lying peacefully in the grass. The arms appeared again to carry him a dozen steps further.

  A pile of wood came into view, stacked about three feet high. On top, there were several longer pieces that formed a make-shift platform. She felt the weight in the arms lighten, and the eyes looked down at the young boy, now lying face down on top of the woodpile. Her own consciousness began to wrestle against the prison of the mask again as she felt the right hand grip the handle of something hidden under the shirt. The hand came back into view and she saw the knife: a long and curved blade with a carved wooden handle. She tried to shut the eyes but, though a gray veil began to fall over her sight, she could not shut out the image of the left hand grasping the boy’s hair and raising his head while the knife was moved into position under his chin. The eyes looked to the night sky, and as her vision continued to fade, she heard those same low, muffled words. Just before the blackness finally took her, she felt the violent jerk of the right hand.

  Maureen’s eyes snapped open and she kicked the sheets off her legs as she leaped out of her bed. She could feel her breathing come in short gasps, and she felt dizzy from standing up too fast. She sat against the wall, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths. Her heart was pumping in her ears, but ever so slowly, it began to slow and the thumping faded. She opened her eyes again to look over at her nightstand. The green numbers of her clock radio were the only thing showing in the darkness. 2:47. Maureen felt a slow churning in her stomach but managed to stand and creep back over to her bed. She reached down to find that her sheets were completely soaked. Balling them all up and raising them to her nose, she was grateful to find that it was just sweat. Still, it would be uncomfortable sleeping in her bed the rest of the night, especially since she found more sweat on her pillows. That, and the nausea which now began to build inside her, promised to keep sleep at a distance.

  Maureen tossed the bedding back onto the bed and felt her way across the creaking wood floor to the small bathroom that stood on the opposite side of the tiny studio apartment that had only been home for three weeks. She knew the way should be clear, but her feet still hadn’t memorized the path.

  Her head still foggy from the nightmare, Maureen fumbled with the pull chain that hung along the wall next to the door. The harsh light from the single bulb disoriented her as she hunched over the sink. Staring at her reflection, she felt her knees buckle. She tried to steady herself using the sink, but it wasn’t enough.

  At that moment, she lost control of herself and fell to her knees. Her stomach convulsed violently, and she only just crawled over to the toilet before a torrent of vomit erupted from her mouth. The world went upside down for a few moments, and a grizzly slideshow of the images from her sleep rushed before her eyes, burning themselves into her memory, all punctuated by the inverted U above a white door. Another convulsion drove her forward, and she spilled more of her stomach’s contents into the toilet—nothing but yellow bile and stomach acid.

  The tempest continued in cycles until finally, stripped of nearly all her strength, Maureen lifted her hand one last time to the handle, flushed the last bits down the toilet, and gingerly pushed herself back into a seated position against the wall. It was only then, as she stared back through the door into the darkness of her apartment, that she became conscious of the tears slowly making their way down her cheeks. She raised a hand to her eyes and brushed away the moisture. It wasn’t much, and she wasn’t even sure why she was crying, but she felt somewhere deep inside of her a strange sense of disgust at her weakness. Her mother speaking.

  Maureen quickly wiped her eyes one more time and, finding them dry again, struggled up to her feet and made her way back to the mirror. She examined her reflection. Her hair lay flat and stringy, still
wet as if she had been caught out in the rain. Her eyes seemed slightly sunken in. She looked closer and saw that in her convulsions over the toilet, a blood vessel in her left eye had popped, and the white was now crisscrossed by ugly red spiderwebs. Frowning at her reflection, Maureen turned on the cold water tap and splashed her face. The water from the sink was usually cold, even when she turned on the hot water tap, but in that moment it felt as if a thousand icy needles hit her face all at once. It was both painful and exhilarating and cleared her senses so completely that she began to notice the dull throb in her temples. A headache had often accompanied the nightmares in the past, so it did not catch her by surprise. She knew just what to do if she wanted to ever get back to sleep.

  Keeping the light on in the bathroom, Maureen plodded back to her bedside. She pulled the top drawer of her nightstand open and stuck her hand to the very back, searching for the familiar plastic bottle. She pulled it free and poured its contents into her hand. She turned slightly to allow the light to illuminate the dozen and a half little pink tablets until she found the half of one she was looking for. A half tablet of Darvocet, courtesy of Marie Adams, chased by a shot and a half of whiskey would get her back to sleep.

  After putting the half pill into her mouth, she tipped the rest back into the bottle, and stuck it back where she had found it. She then shuffled over to the kitchen, which was really just some cabinets and a sink set on the wall with a refrigerator next to it. Maureen stooped as she reached the lower cabinets, searching for the bottle that she had taken from the bar where she spent her nights slinging drinks for the same half dozen people. In the three weeks since she started the job, she’d taken at least four bottles from the store room. It was the cheap stuff, not really fit for the consumption of decent individuals, and no one ever ordered it. Judging from the dust, she was fairly certain that Mr. Anderson had ordered the case more than ten years ago and was never going to reorder it. It might as well not go to waste, even if it did taste like lighter fluid. In truth, Maureen wasn’t scared about losing her job over some pilfered liquor. A big, fake smile, a tight, white tank top, and her most flattering pair of jeans was all it took to have her boss and those slobs perched on the bar stools ready to hand over their car keys to her. To her dismay, though, the spot in the cabinet where the whiskey usually was was empty. She forgot she had finished the bottle before going to bed.