Maureen couldn’t hold his gaze for long. She simply looked down at her feet. “I didn’t ask to be like this,” she mumbled.
“I believe it,” said Agent Layton, his tone suddenly softening. “I can’t imagine anyone who would ask to be able to do what you seem to be able to do. I’m still not one hundred percent sure I believe it myself. But, I do know a useful resource when I see one. So, let’s just call your position a ‘consulting profiler’. It’s pretty simple, really. We find ourselves stumped on a case, we bring you in, you sleep a little for us and see if whatever you see in your dreams can give us the missing pieces. Doesn’t come with much in the way of monetary benefit, I’m afraid, but look at it this way, you’ll be able to balance the karmic scales a bit, and what’s more, you’ll be allowed to start fresh without all those warrants hanging over your head. And as for the prison time, judging from what I’ve seen in the paper trail of your various identities over the last decade or so, Waseca will be an improvement over quite a few of the places you’ve called home. So what do you say, do we have a deal?”
Maureen could see she had very little choice. The out that she was being given was probably more than she deserved. The prospect of being treated like a performing monkey for the FBI for three years was less than appealing, but she had six months to figure out how to wriggle off that hook. She raised her head and looked steadily into Agent Layton’s eyes. “Do you have a pen?”
Agent Layton got up as soon as she had signed the paper and quickly walked out of the room without saying another word to her. Maureen followed him with her eyes and watched intently, shifting her head so that she could again see through the blinds as he stopped in front of Manny. He got to his feet and stood in front of the agent for a few brief moments. Agent Layton was clearly doing the talking, and after he had finished, he reached into his pocket and handed Manny a small, white card before turning and heading for the exit. Manny stood in the hall for a moment before rushing in the opposite direction to come around to the door to the interrogation room. There was a look on his face that seemed to her to be equal parts confusion and elation.
“What was that all about?” she asked, not wanting him to have the first word. It would probably just have been something sappy.
“What? Oh, that? Agent Layton just congratulated me on a job well done and gave me his card. Seems there might be an opening in 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?” Father Patrick shook his head. “Yeah me neither. One of the guards told me. I didn’t have his cell, though.”
“So, does that mean you got my letters?”
Maureen looked over at him. “Now look, Father, I know you meant well and everything, but I was just trying to make a clean break. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but me being a part of your life
. . . well, you’re just going to end up in a bad spot. I’m not worth it, believe me.” She turned her head back to the window.
“Then why did you take the ride?” he asked. She made no answer so Father Patrick removed the envelope from his lap and slapped it down into hers. “Why don’t you let me decide what’s worth it,” he said firmly.
“What’s this?” she asked quietly.
“Five grand to get you started.”
She pulled out the tightly banded brick of cash. “I can’t take this!”
“You’re going to have to, because I’m not taking it back.” He had come to the end of the entrance road and paused for a minute. The black sedan would need to catch up a bit to be able to take his bait. Smiling to himself, he turned the car right and headed west.
“Now listen to me, Maureen,” he continued. “Don’t worry about the money, I’ve got a lot more stowed away in case I ever had to disappear. I made up my mind to stay with you for a little while and help you find your way. I got a visit from Agent Layton over the winter, and he told me why I was never questioned after Father Preston’s death. Probably trying to rattle me, make sure I knew I was free on the back of his charity, in case he ever needed some leverage. Whatever the case, he told me what you agreed to.”
“Yeah, well, he can think again if he thinks I’m going to be his little dancing monkey!”
“Maureen, you have been given a gift, and I truly believe that it comes from God as a means to do good in this world. But—”
“Oh, cram it with your God crap! Whatever the hell is in my head, it hasn’t ever done me one bit of good! I did what you said and used it to help, and I still got screwed! And don’t you dare start in with your whole ‘God afflicts those he loves’ bullshit, either!”
“It’s not supposed to do you good, but it made all the difference in the world to a little boy in Sycamore Hills and his family!” Father Patrick was beginning to feel the blood rush to his face. He paused for a minute, took a deep breath and regained control of his voice. “But if you had let me finish, I was going to say that it’s not up to me to convince you of what you’re meant to do. I know you’re not truly ready to receive God back into your life and embrace the role He’s given you. Yet. So I’m going to help you disappear for a while. I’ve got a little place in eastern Wyoming with a few trustworthy people I know close by. I’ll take you out there and get you settled, and I’ll stay as long as you feel you need me to. I gotta warn you though, I’m going to have to take you on a very roundabout way, and so it’ll take us a week or more to get there. And I don’t want any questions.”
“Guess that means we’ll be spending some time in some seedy little motels on the way?” she asked in a mocking-seductive tone. “You wouldn’t want to go breaking your stupid celibacy vows now, would you?”
“Trust me, child,” he replied, putting on his most priestly tone, “if I wanted to break my vows, you would not be high on the list of people I would call.”
“Too young and hot for you?”
Too Anglo, he thought to himself, while out loud, he dryly replied, “Something like that.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes before Maureen reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, black flip phone.
“They gave this to me as I was leaving this morning. Another little gift from Agent Layton,” she said, showing it to him. “I guess this is supposed to be their line to me. Cheap bastards could have at least gotten me one of those Blackberry phones or something. Well, here’s what I think of this.” She began to roll down her window.
“No!” Father Patrick yelled sharply, surprising even himself.
Maureen stopped and stared back at him, a stunned look on her face. “Why not? I’m getting out of this deal somehow, and you can’t stop me!”
Father Patrick glanced again into the rearview mirror. The black sedan had taken its place about five hundred yards behind. There were no other cars within sight at the moment.
“I’m not going to stop you, but you can’t throw it out the window right now, trust me. Give it here.” He put his hand out, and she hesitantly put the phone in his palm.
He inspected the phone as best he could while keeping one eye on the road. It was three-year-old technology at least, but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be a bug or tracker in it. In fact, he was almost positive there was. They’d have to dispose of it very carefully.
“I have a couple of ideas about this,” he said finally, “but we’ll need to take a couple extra days.”
“Whatever you say, Father,” Maureen said. It seemed to him that she’d resigned herself for the time being. “But you’re paying for gas and food, right?”
Father Patrick smirked at her. Prison hadn’t mellowed her at all. “I’ll pay. I’ve brought plenty of cash.”
Maureen let out a soft chuckle and turned back toward the window, letting her eyes close as she leaned her head to rest it on the seat, finally letting some of the tension release from her body. Father Patrick settled himself back in his seat. This trip would be trying on the patience, but he had made a vow. He had killed a man and, as evil as that man was and even in the defense of another, the taking of that life would not sit quietly on his conscience. The debt had to be paid, and he was now even further in the red than he had been. He would see this journey through to the end, wherever that might lead him. He flipped his blinker on and took the next exit off the highway.
The black sedan followed.
AUTHOR NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The core concept of Unholy Shepherd—what I call The Demon Sight—is, in its presentation in this book, a creation of my own mind. However, it does draw from its share of real-world phenomena and documented research. Government projects, such as Stargate in the 1970s (which will be touched on in later books), tested multiple purported “psychics” and reportedly documented their share of evidence supporting the idea as true (or, at least, plausible), especially in cases of remote viewing. Additionally, fringe theories also exist—occasionally promoted on certain entertainment shows—regarding the idea of prophetic dreaming potentially being genetic. Little true scientific evidence exists to support this theory—more a loose collection of anecdotes—but it’s fun to think about nonetheless.
I would tend to call myself a “skeptical believer.” I am willing to believe in almost anything as long as good evidence can be presented. As it pertains to the idea of true psychics, I would say that the overwhelming majority of those who hold themselves out as such are simply selling something and can be easily debunked by vigilant observers who can see through the various cold reading and other techniques that they use. As a man who was raised in the Christian faith and—while no longer affiliated with any hard religion—still considers himself a spiritual person, I do believe there is a higher power and energy that binds all of existence and directs our lives. It is this force that I believe a few select people can tap into, for reasons beyond human understanding, and it is that which gives Maureen her ability. The assertion that The Demon Sight is an Irish superstition is nothing more than an inside nod to my honeymoon in Ireland, from which my wife and I had recently returned when I began to write this novel.
While the people and places in the novel are fictional, I did want the world of The Demon Sight to be able to fit itself snugly into our world. Sycamore Hills is not a real town, but it was modeled on a real-world town in Madison County, Missouri which research told me mirrored everything I wanted in the novel’s setting. The reform school Maureen is sent to in her formative years, Saint Dymphna’s—named for the patron saint of mental illness and anxiety—was based largely on the Élan School, a therapeutic boarding school in Maine that employed a controversial behavior modification and attack therapy program. The school closed its doors in 2011 amid multiple investigations into allegations of abuses ranging from sleep deprivation to physical restraint to the policy of having students fight on
e another in a boxing ring, allegedly leading to the death of a student in 1982.
Additionally, I would be remiss if I did not thank those who allowed me to pick their brains regarding the scientific side of things, namely my good friends Dr. Carrie Gray and Dr. Abby Rothstein, who gave me invaluable insight into the world of pharmaceuticals, surgery, and human anatomy. I hope I got the details right. And finally, I need to thank the team at Ten16 Press for taking a chance on this quirky concept and, most of all, my talented editor, Leslie Stradinger. Thank you for helping me make this book what it is and helping me refine my writing technique. I look forward to our continued partnership. Maureen’s story is far from over, and she has several adventures and a lot of growing to do before the end.
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