“Listen, Maureen,” he said, trying to sound as calming as possible, “I’m sorry that you’re involved in this. And I’m sorry I tried to use you as some kind of tool back there. But take some advice. You’re going to need to be careful. I got a feeling this all might get worse before it gets better.”
“I’m not stupid,” she said as she pushed her door open. She hopped out of the truck and began to close the door before she stopped and leaned back into the cab. “Listen, I don’t blame you for trying to do what you did. I might have done the same. But you should know something. The nightmares force me to look through the eyes of someone doing evil things. That much I figured out a long time ago. But I never put that into context until the other night. I always figured that there’s evil that puts out—I don’t know—imprints into the world, and when I’m around, they fill me up like a cup. When I was in the little boy’s room, I found something that told me the truth: I see these things as they’re actually happening. Not in the past, not in the future. Right then and there. So you see, I’m more cursed than I thought. There’s nothing I can do to help you. Anyway, thanks for the ride, Detective.” She stepped back and closed the door slowly.
Manny watched as she walked across the street, her eyes still down, arms wrapped around her. He had to say something, if only to indicate that he had heard and understood her, even if he didn’t completely. He rolled down his window. “It’s Manny!” he called to her.
“No, it isn’t,” she called back, not bothering to look. She reached the door to one of the buildings and disappeared inside.
THIRTEEN
Agent Layton stalked through the sheriff’s department building toward his makeshift office. It was poorly ventilated and the summer heat made sitting in this interview room a trial, but at the moment, he didn’t mind. He was eager to read the fax that he had just received. It had only taken a few hours for the information he was seeking to reach him, and that put him in a very good mood.
The conversation he had with the young detective about Maureen Allen’s ability to predict a crime had shaken loose an old memory of some Bureau gossip regarding a case up in Massachusetts from when he was a young agent. He’d always thought that the veterans were just pulling his chain, that the FBI didn’t really keep files on this sort of paranormal activity. In the intervening years, he personally had never worked any case that dealt with the kind of circumstances that a TV show could be built around, but the gossip still ran strong within the Bureau, and he’d heard his fair share of odd cases. He thanked his lucky stars that his best friend from those days held the same position in the Chelsea Field Office that he did out here. He might not have gotten a look at this otherwise.
Layton sat down at his desk and opened the folder to reveal case number 7-3919: the kidnapping and unsolved murder of Braden Allerton in the town of Duxbury. There were a few lines redacted from the document, but on the whole, it was pretty much intact. The reading was fascinating, but most intriguing was the collected notes from an FBI psychologist’s examination of the victim’s sister, eight-year-old Maureen.
Layton pored over the three pages of notes twice before closing the file and sitting in silence, pondering everything that he’d just read. A child’s disappearance with no solid leads and a little girl named Maureen whose dreams had apparently led her to call the police, who in turn were able to discover the body. He needed to find out what happened to that little girl, who would be about thirty-four years old by now. If his suspicions were right, an ordeal like the one she’d been through would probably lead a person to change their name at the first chance they got.
FOURTEEN
Maureen was grateful for one thing as she paced back and forth between her bed and couch: she didn’t have to go into work. Saturday nights at Anderson’s was Angela and Shelly’s night. Mr. Anderson used the two brunettes to make sure each Saturday drew in a horde of horny college boys. The two girls didn’t even look old enough to be serving, and they spilled or gave away far too many drinks, but with the makeup they wore, and the tits-and-ass show they put on, Mr. Anderson couldn’t care less if he had to spend most of Sunday cleaning the floor and massaging his books.
She didn’t actually expect to keep her job much longer, anyway. She was pretty sure that news of her arrest had made the rounds in the small town and, even though she had been released, she was still a person of interest in the murder of two children now. She could just imagine the next time she stepped foot into that bar. Her weeknight regulars would look at her differently, though it might be a nice respite from their usual booze-soaked leers, and Mr. Anderson would call her into the back room and inform her of her termination. That would be fine, as she decided she had enough money to move on after all. The only problem was, now she was being watched not only by the local police but by the FBI as well.
She had seen the way Agent Layton looked at her at the crime scene that morning when he and Detective Benitez were having their little private conversation. She had hoped that the detective wasn’t telling the agent about her latest nightmare and how it had predicted the discovery of the latest body, but she could tell by the man’s look and body language that her hope was futile. Now, the FBI didn’t just have a suspect but a freak on their hands. He must have sanctioned her release in order to bait her into something. What exactly, she didn’t know, but she was positive that trying to get out of town would be just the excuse they were looking for to arrest her again.
“I’m screwed either way,” she mumbled to her dim reflection in the front window. “They’re going to find out about the rest of it. I’ll be put away no matter what.”
The anxiety of her comeuppance being so close behind her was starting to make the walls close in. Maureen pulled herself away from the window and walked to her nightstand. She pulled out the brown bottle, took out a pill, bit it in half, and swallowed it. The dulling effects of the pill should be just enough to calm her, but she didn’t want to wait around in her apartment for them to take hold. She grabbed the flannel shirt off her bed and headed out into the deepening evening.
The breeze had freshened as the sun’s last rays were now fully below the horizon, but it still was a warm night, so Maureen tied her long-sleeved shirt around her waist as she walked. She had no clear picture of where she wanted to go. Perhaps it was simply a case of wanting to take in as much fresh air as possible before she was thrown back into that stale cell at the police station; the impending loss of her freedom had triggered a desire to be outdoors.
She made her way north toward Main Street. She thought about stopping into one of the bars for a drink and a bite to eat, but she cast that notion aside quickly. The gossip of the small town would almost assuredly destroy her anonymity, and she didn’t want to face the stares and whispers. Though, she admitted, she didn’t know for sure that her name and photo had been released to the papers and news stations. She didn’t have a TV at home nor did she read the paper, so much of her assumptions were completely created by her own imagination.
Doesn’t mean they’re not true, she thought sourly.
In truth, she would gladly get lost in a crowd if she didn’t have to be around people to do it. She’d spent so much time alone that she didn’t even think she still possessed the ability to hide among people. For years, she had believed that people could sense her scars, and the few that she had associated with over that time simply didn’t possess the empathy to care about her baggage. In most cases, those individuals were men who were only after one thing.
Without realizing it, her feet had brought her to the sidewalk in front of St. Mary’s. Maureen looked up at the red-brick building illuminated by lights in such a way that the church’s name, spelled out in black metal letters, was easy to read from the street. There was very little light coming from behind the stained glass windows, which rose up on either side of the church’s arched front door.
Maureen turned her head back down the street. S
everal groups of people were crisscrossing back and forth, some to cars, others ducking into bars. A large group of young men had clearly already begun their night’s frivolities, and were hooting as they walked in the opposite direction of where she now stood. She watched as they turned down a side street in the distance, clearly heading over to throw their money at Shelly and Angela. No one seemed to give her a second look.
A force drew her away from Main Street and up the stairs of the church. Maureen recalled her conversation with the priest on the sidewalk two days back. The door was never locked, he’d said. She eased herself up to it, laid a hand on the wrought iron handle, and drew in a breath. She had no idea what she would do once inside, but she thought that maybe she could find some solitude within, even if she didn’t find any spiritual fulfillment. She had long ago given up looking for anything of that sort in a building like this.
The door’s hinges creaked as she pulled it open. She was surprised at how much the sound actually startled her, and it forced her to walk in slowly and ease the door shut behind her. Something about crossing the threshold of a church made her feel like an intruder, and she did not want to draw any attention to herself. Maureen inhaled deeply and walked further inside, swinging her head from side to side, scanning for anyone else.
The church was elegantly appointed. As she moved through the front welcome area and into the nave itself, she could see that the pews, divided into two sections by a center aisle, were made of richly stained wood and each contained a kneeler, thickly cushioned with red velvet. Wouldn’t want to hurt their knees, she thought of the parishioners. Each side of the nave was adorned with a row of stained glass windows, much the same size and style as those at the front of the church. Maureen counted fourteen total, seven on each wall. They were dazzlingly colored, and each contained what she knew to be the image of a particular saint, though which ones, she hadn’t the foggiest idea. Most of her childhood Catechism had left her.
The altar area was set a few feet above the congregation, on a stone platform of two concentric circles rising from the floor. The altar itself was draped in white linen and adorned with several tall candles in golden holders. The candles on the altar, as well as several smaller ones behind, were all lit and, along with a few of the dimly lit sconces hanging from the rafters, were the only source of light in the church. And, as in any Catholic church she had ever entered, a gaudy, golden statue of Jesus, arms spread on a mahogany cross, stood in the center of the altar, towering above the rest of the scene.
Maureen kept one eye on the statue of the crucified man as she took a seat in one of the pews in the middle of the church. She hadn’t come to pray, of that she was certain. God had abandoned her long ago. And after the events of the last few days, all logic in her mind would scream against sitting in a Catholic church if one were looking for a place free of judgment where they could sit and be alone. She was relieved to see that St. Mary’s was not one of those churches that hosted a Saturday night mass. Had anyone else been present when she entered, she would have turned right around and headed straight back to her apartment.
Maureen continued to stare at the crucifix. Even as a girl, she had always wondered, if what scripture said was true, why a person would allow themselves to be put through that much torment and misery. Did he have any idea beforehand what it would feel like? She had always been sure that if he did, he’d have never gone through with it all. Her mother and others like her had called it The Passion, meaning that their Lord willingly went through all that out of love for all mankind in order to forgive the world’s sins. Given all that she had seen in her life of the worst in humanity, and what they were capable of inflicting on one another, she couldn’t understand why God would forgive rather than punish. It definitely felt like He’d been punishing her for the last two decades.
“It’s been a long time since anyone has come into the church at this hour on a Saturday night,” a voice said behind her.
Maureen’s head snapped around to see the old priest walking up the middle aisle toward the front of the church. As before, he was dressed in his black shirt and white collar, and his footsteps echoed on the bricks of the church’s floor.
“It’s Ms. Allen, right?” he asked, stopping alongside the pew.
Maureen nodded. The jovial smile that she remembered from their first meeting was nowhere to be found on his face, but his eyes were still relaxed, even kind.
“I saw you come in,” he continued, casually looking about the church. “I didn’t want to disturb you, but you look uneasy. And I must say you don’t exactly seem comfortable sitting in that pew. Would I miss my guess if I surmised that you have not been to church very often in your life?” He chuckled at his own observation.
“Not since I was a kid,” she found herself answering.
The old priest paused for a moment before sliding into the pew next to her. The two sat in uncomfortable silence, staring up toward the candlelit altar. Maureen clasped her hands and shifted in her seat, trying to anticipate what the man was going to say next. She wasn’t used to any man, even a priest, showing her kindness without eventually exposing an ulterior motive. Her mind calculated all of the possibilities, and she turned her head slightly to make sure the front door was still where she left it. Yet, even though the desire to leave was strong in her mind, something held her fast to the church pew.
“I’ve never liked the decor in here myself,” Father Patrick said, breaking the silence.
“What?” blurted Maureen, taken off guard at such a mundane comment.
“The decoration of the church,” he said gesturing about. “I’ve never been a fan of stained glass, and the crucifix is very ostentatious. And grim too, don’t you think? I’ve always favored ones that do a better job of conveying Christ’s love as opposed to focusing on his suffering.”
Maureen looked closer at the image of Jesus on the cross. She could now see that the artist had indeed taken extra care to ensure a look of utter pain and sorrow on the face of the crucified man.
“Would you have a different expression on your face if you were nailed up on a piece of wood?” she retorted. “I would think a Catholic priest would relish the idea of showing the flock that your Savior went through horrible pain for you. Isn’t that what it’s all about?”
Father Patrick let out a soft, sighing chuckle. “I can see that you had some much harsher church leadership in your youth. I admit that there are those within the church who harken back to the days of fire and brimstone teaching and focus more on repentance as a means to forgiveness.”
Maureen saw a shadow cross his eyes.
“Not to say repentance doesn’t have its place,” he continued. “God knows, we’ve all got things we need to atone for.” He turned and looked steadily at Maureen. “But the world isn’t going to change based on admonishment alone. People need to look deeper into themselves than I feel the church asks them to sometimes. They need to find the light in the darkness as it were.”
Maureen stared back into Father Patrick’s unblinking eyes. “So, what? You’re a ‘light in the darkness’?”
The priest shook his head and turned to stare back up at the altar, leaning his head to the side as he spoke to her, as if he was a friend sharing an intimate secret. “I sometimes feel that I have more darkness than light inside of me,” he confessed. “I’ve been a clergyman for three decades, and in that time, I’ve met and counseled hundreds—if not thousands—of people who have considered themselves consumed by it. And every single time, I could just as easily be counseling myself. I simply mean that it’s up to each person to really look inside themselves and acknowledge that there is a deeper darkness but also a brighter light that can combat it.”
“Ever met someone beyond hope?”
“I don’t believe there is such a thing.”
“You will if you keep talking to me.” It just slipped out.
“It’s kind of funn
y that we first met when you were running down the street, because I can see by looking at you that you’ve been running in a much different sense for most of your life,” he replied in a cool tone. He still didn’t turn his head to look at her, continuing to stare up at the altar. “It may surprise you that I have more insight into matters like this than one might think. But saying that, I can’t imagine there’s anything in your past or present that could make you a lost cause in the eyes of God.”
“God doesn’t want me,” she said sullenly, looking down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She expected to hear Father Patrick instantly contradict her assertion, but he remained motionless in silent contemplation.
“There was a time in my life when I felt the same,” he eventually said.
Maureen looked over at him. He was still staring up at the altar, but now his hands were clasped like hers. There was a forlorn look in his eyes, as if thinking of a memory that pained him. The absence of the friendly demeanor he had shown her up until now was staggering.
Father Patrick seemed to feel her staring at him and broke his eye contact with Jesus to turn his head and offer her a half smile and a subtle, dismissive chuckle. “Listen to the old man talking about himself when someone else is in need of aid.”
“I don’t want any help, Father, thanks,” she replied.
“Most of the time what we want and what we need are two completely different things.”
“Another kid was found murdered this morning,” she whispered, barely audible even to herself. “He was killed and then burned on this big bonfire just like the other one.” She hesitated, struggling with what she wanted to say next. The words felt as though they would die in her throat. “I . . . I was there. I saw the body.” She turned her head to stare at Father Patrick.
He was facing the altar again, but his eyes were closed. After a moment, he made the sign of the cross and met her eyes. “A silent prayer for the child’s soul,” he explained. “Now, since you’ve seen fit to divulge this information to me, I have to ask what you were doing there.”
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