Unholy Shepherd, Robert Christian [fastest ebook reader TXT] 📗

wait outside just in case I need you. I might be a while, so try to stay awake.”

“What about the FBI?”

“I’m sure County will let them know what’s going on,” Manny said, maybe a little too sourly.

Collins rolled his eyes, but nodded and carefully took the evidence bag.

“All right, I’m heading in,” said Manny. “Lock the door behind me and don’t open it unless I knock.”

Maureen’s head raised as he shut the door behind him. He walked over to the table, put the aspirin bottle and water in front of her, and sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the table. She eyed him carefully as she reached for the bottle and poured out four tablets into her hand. She popped them into her mouth, took a sip of water, and tilted her head back to swallow. Manny nodded and tried his best to keep a pleasant look on his face as he took a sip of coffee. The flavor made it difficult, but its effect was more important than taste at the moment.

“Are you feeling better, Ms. Allen?” Better to keep it as light as possible. She had a lot of defenses up; he knew that all too well. If he was going to get her to open up, the last thing he needed to do was put her even further back on her heels.

“I’ve been worse,” she replied. She had retaken her position, slouched back in her chair, rubbing her temples with one hand while the other draped over the back of the chair to support her weight.

“Well, I thought maybe we could talk about what happened back in the holding cell a few minutes ago?” He phrased it as a question intentionally, hoping the illusion of the choice to answer would make her think she’s controlling the conversation.

“It was a nightmare, Detective.”

“About what?”

She said nothing, so Manny decided to push a bit.

“It sure looked like more than a nightmare. You were thrashing around on the cot pretty hard. And you were mumbling something in some foreign language. When you woke up, there was fear in your eyes. Then, of course, there’s the incident in the toilet.” He tried to be delicate.

“You can just say I puked, Detective,” she shot back. “Not like it hasn’t happened before.”

“Which part?” She wanted to talk; he could feel it. He just had to wait her out.

She sat still for what seemed like an eternity. It was so quiet that he could hear their breath.

“Ms. Allen—actually, can I please dispense with formality and call you Maureen?”

She shrugged.

“All right, we’ll go with Maureen from now on, and you can call me Manny if it suits you.”

She shrugged again.

“Okay, Maureen, this whole thing is starting to get a little weird. First, you ask me some pretty involved questions at the bar, then you mention details about the murder that were not public, and then I find you in Jacob Lowes’ bedroom later that same night. You tell me that you were there because ‘something about all this seemed familiar’, but you decline to offer anything further. And now, I find you writhing around like you’re possessed and vomiting like something out of a horror movie. What am I supposed to make of all this?”

“I have a condition.” She shrugged, looking at the table. “I appreciate the water, Manny, but do you have something in the neighborhood of whiskey? It helps me medicate.”

“Maureen, you act as if all this is a normal day for you. Now either you killed that kid or you helped whoever did, or you know who did it and you’re protecting them for some reason! Any way you slice it, you’re going away, so just help yourself out and give me something I can work with!” Her defiance had pushed him over the edge.

“I already told you. I had nothing to do with it,” she shot back, straightening in her chair and staring him dead in the eye for the first time since he walked into the room. Her breathing had become rapid, and her face was twisted into a pained look, as if his words had stabbed her in the heart. She sat frozen like that for a few agonizing moments before her expression fell, and she cast her eyes back down. “At least, I had nothing to do with it the way that you’re thinking,” she mumbled, almost inaudibly.

Manny unclenched his fists as he realized he had stood up in his frustration at her defiance. His back was arched and he was leaning over the table, looking at her. He composed himself and sat back down in his chair.

“All right Maureen, why don’t you tell me what you’re talking about?” He softened his tone one more time, hoping that he hadn’t blown it. “Please,” he added.

“You won’t believe me anyway, so why bother?”

“Maureen, tell me!”

“You’re going to find another kid dead!” she shouted, almost over the top of him. Her words hung in the air.

“Okay,” Manny said slowly, after a moment. “Let’s say that’s true. How do you know?”

“My dreams,” she said softly, staring at the table once again. “In the nightmare you saw me having, I was in a field. I’m not sure where, but it has to be close by. I’m looking through someone else’s eyes, like I’m wearing a mask. I can see what they see, feel what they feel. They’re chanting something in a language I don’t know. I feel the words coming from my throat, but it’s not my voice. In front of me, there is a large pile of wood, like a three-, maybe four-foot-tall log cabin. On top, there was a boy laid out. He was blonde, maybe a year or two younger than the other one, no clothes. I can see that his throat is cut, that he’s already dead. The hands come into view, only they’re not my hands. They’re holding a knife with a carved, wooden handle and a long, curved blade. The knife starts cutting