The Shepherd (12 page)

The skyline had morphed into a glistening spectrum of reds and purples as the last fingers of the sun spread out across the darkening sky and began to lose their grip on the world. It was a sight of deep and majestic beauty. Under any other circumstance, he would have stood in awe of its magnificence. Now, however, something else had caught his eye.

A light shone in the window of one of the farm buildings behind the house.

“We checked all of the buildings and found nothing. None of them had any lights on,” the Sheriff said.

“You know that old cliché about the killer returning to the scene of the crime? This time, that may hold true.”

“You may be right.” The Sheriff pulled up his right pant leg to reveal a holster containing a backup weapon. The elder cop pulled back the slide, checked the gun, and then handed it to Marcus. “I suppose you know how to use one of these?”

The compact nine-millimeter resembled a backup weapon that he had carried himself in another life. It had been a long time since he had held a gun. He hated guns, even though he had always been talented in their use. He loathed the fact that his only real skills seemed to be the ability to cause damage and inflict pain.

Why couldn’t I have been born a painter?

~~*~~

Aware of their presence, a dark figure moved like a shadow among the buildings behind Maureen Hill’s home. He moved in the direction opposite the house. He floated unseen among the out-buildings. Then, he doubled back and swung around the far corner of the property. He circled behind Marcus and the Sheriff, preparing to spring the trap.

~~*~~

Marcus and the Sheriff crept up to the building, trying to stay out of sight. The small tool shed had doors on both ends, and the Sheriff motioned for Marcus to enter the east door.

Well, at least I’m getting a chance to bond with Maggie’s dad.

Marcus moved to the door and mentally prepared himself. His heart raced with adrenaline-inducing anticipation. He could feel that on the other side of the door lurked a wolf in the hen house. It fell on him to play the part of the good shepherd and drive the wolf back into the darkness from whence it came.

Steeling himself, he entered the small shed. He scanned the room, paying special attention to the corners, but found no one on first glance.

The shed contained all manner of tools and equipment. Woodworking implements and devices that he guessed would be used in the butchering of animals littered the shelves. The shed was larger than the impression given by its exterior. The inside consisted of one open room lined with several rows of tall shelves.

He had expected the shed to provide little cover to someone trying to avoid detection, but he had been mistaken. It offered several places to hide.

With cautious movements, he checked every row of the shelving.

A cold and foreboding silence filled the space. The only audible sound that he registered was a slight rustling of dirt that he reasoned to be the footfalls of the Sheriff. The smell of oil and dirt clung to everything.

A main workbench surrounded by open space stood in the middle of the room. He glanced around the corner of a shelf and could see a few other tables and tools littering the open space.

Weapon at the ready, he stepped around the corner, and his heart jumped as he realized that he had been right. The killer had returned to the scene of the crime.

A man with cold, gray eyes sat next to one of the tables. They were eyes that had stared down upon countless victims. They were the dead eyes of a predator that killed without remorse or mercy and held no capacity for either emotion.

Marcus knew that no good would come of this. Good things never came from days when the devil climbed up to play.

In a shed behind the home of a murdered woman, Marcus Williams stared into the eyes of a madman. He stood frozen, entranced by the killer’s hypnotic gaze. It took a moment for him to look beyond the eyes and notice the rest of the man.

Handcuffs and ankle chains bound Ackerman’s hands and legs to the chair. An old cloth with duct tape placed over it covered his mouth and ensured that the killer would issue no screams for help. Dried blood encrusted his face. The term Southern Justice was the first thing that came to mind, and after seeing the psychopath’s handiwork, Marcus couldn’t pose much of an argument against the concept.

The man in the chair deserved whatever he had coming to him. But then again, where was the line drawn? When does a person cross the boundary between punishing a murderer and becoming one? What’s the real difference between justice and vengeance? It wasn’t his job to ask those questions anymore. That was the Sheriff’s concern now.

He expected the Sheriff to join him in his astonishment, but as the older man came around the corner, he seemed no more surprised to see the bound man as he would be surprised to see stars in the heavens.

The Sheriff stood with his gun dangling in his left hand. His posture wasn’t indicative of a man entering a room containing even a murder suspect, let alone a serial killer.
Unless, the Sheriff already knew what to expect…

This is going to be a really long day.

He turned the aim of his weapon away from the killer and toward the Sheriff. “It looks like you’ve caught a big one this time. Are you gonna keep him or throw him back?”

“I think he’s a keeper,” the Sheriff said, his gun still pointed at the floor. The Sheriff seemed almost as worried about the gun pointed at him as he would be about rain on a Sunday afternoon.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

Their eyes met. In that moment, he realized from whom he had received the gun. He chastised himself for not checking the ammo. Now that he thought about it, the gun did seem light. He should have known that it wasn’t loaded.
I’m getting rusty—no doubt about it.

Since the Sheriff was still going along with the charade, he figured that he might as well keep up the act as well. He continued to point the nine-millimeter paperweight at its target.

“I bet you were a good cop, Marcus,” the Sheriff said. “I think being a law enforcement officer is one of the hardest jobs in the world. People count on you to make the world safe. And the fact of the matter is that sometimes the world is a dark place filled with evil. There are monsters under the bed. There are wolves out in the darkness, waiting for one of us to stray from the herd. And to whom do we turn to keep the darkness at bay? We look to the police, a group of regular men and women who have taken a supreme oath to protect and serve.”

The Sheriff walked forward as he spoke. “We’re not like knights in shining armor. We can’t just ride out and slay the beasts of this world. But sometimes, we’re expected to rise to that challenge anyway. We operate within a system where an innocent man can be put to death, and a man who’s without a doubt a cold-blooded murderer can go free on a technicality. Where are the people who will stand up for what’s right, even when it’s not popular; the ones who sacrifice themselves for the good of others? You know, I don’t think of myself as an enforcer of the law. I think a cop is more like a shepherd, protecting the flock. We keep the wolves away.”

“Is that what you’re doing here? You keeping the wolves away?”

“I don’t expect you to understand. But in a sense, that’s precisely what I’m doing. I’ve caught up to a lot of people who thought they could run from justice. But contrary to popular belief, true justice isn’t blind. She’ll find you, no matter where you go. No juries, no trials. We skipped all the formalities and went straight to the punishment.”

“That’s not your decision to—”

The Sheriff moved closer and interrupted. “I found a car that he had stolen and abandoned. Knew he was on foot, so I set the dogs on him and tracked him here. If only I would have gotten here sooner… Well, anyway, thoughts like that’ll drive you crazy. I followed the trail out here and caught this psychopath sharpening one of the knives he had used on Maureen. Apparently, he wanted to make sure it was nice and sharp for the next kind grandmother he planned to mutilate. So I caught him, chained him up, and beat him unconscious. Then, when I went back into the house, I must have locked the back door behind me. Force of habit, I guess.”

While the Sheriff spoke, Marcus considered the older man’s words. In many ways, he agreed with what the Sheriff was doing, but he also knew that the more you kill, the easier it becomes. The more you rationalize your actions, the more excuses you tell yourself. The farther you go down that path, the more the lines between good and evil begin to blur until you don’t know which side you’re standing on anymore.

He didn’t know what to think about the moral ramifications of what the Sheriff was doing, but it didn’t really matter. Whether he agreed with him or not, he did know one thing for sure. The Sheriff had no intentions of letting him leave there alive.

“Don’t come any closer,” he said.

The Sheriff ignored him. “My plan was to cover up Maureen’s death and somehow make it look like an accident. And then…I had some bigger plans for our friend, Ackerman. Your theory from earlier was accurate.”

“What theory?”

“The one about it being the perfect time to kill someone. Like you said, we’ve got the perfect scapegoat right here. Completely believable. And, you see, I have someone that I need to kill.” The Sheriff sighed and shook his head. “But damn it, kid, you stumbled into this mess and changed those plans. I guess I didn’t act soon enough. I’m telling you this because I just want to say that I’m sorry, son, but sometimes the wolves aren’t the only danger to the flock. Sometimes, one of the flock becomes sick and is a danger to the whole group. For the greater good, you have to sacrifice the one for the many. Sometimes, people need to be protected from themselves, and I’m truly sorry for that.”

~~*~~

“How about I develop a case of amnesia, let you get on with your business, and go along my way like nothing happened?” Marcus said, having no intentions of doing so and no expectations that the Sheriff would agree.

“You think I’m completely crazy, don’t you?”

“No, actually, I think you’re in perfect mental health, and I’d be willing to testify to that at your trial.”

The Sheriff laughed. “I wish we would have met under different circumstances, but you can’t change the hand that you’ve been dealt. You know in your heart that what I’m doing is right. Take this animal we have here.” He gestured toward Ackerman. “He’s probably sitting there thinking of all the different ways he could make us suffer. I feel for the little boy in that video, but that little boy is dead. I can’t let another person suffer at his hands. I won’t allow it. These aren’t men we’re dealing with here. They’re monsters, and they don’t deserve to live.”

“And who are you to decide who has a right to live and who should die? You’re playing God here, Sheriff, and I don’t think the good Lord looks too kindly upon impersonators.”

Their gazes locked, and the Sheriff said, “I’m sorry, son.” With those words, the gun in the Sheriff’s hand began to rise.

Without thinking and acting on pure instinct, Marcus hurled the useless handgun at the Sheriff.

The world slowed.

As soon as the gun left his hand, he grabbed the end of the table on his right. With all his strength, he flipped up the table and heaved it onto the Sheriff.

It struck the older man on the left side. A shot—likely intended for Marcus’s chest—ricocheted off the grimy part-filled shelves.

With blazing speed, he navigated the maze of shelving. He heard the Sheriff’s footfalls behind him, and as he reached the door, he turned and gave a hard kick to the last set of shelves. Like dominoes, the shelves fell into each other and cascaded toward the center of the shed.

He didn’t take the time to watch. As he slipped through the door, he heard the Sheriff cry out in pain behind him.

As he stepped out of the shed, the darkness engulfed him. Night had fallen, the only light being cast by a couple of scattered pole lights. He ran into the cover of darkness and started moving back to where he had parked his truck.

He knew that he had to move fast. It wouldn’t take long for the Sheriff to climb out of the mess and exit the door on the other side of the shed.

But where will I go even if I make it to my truck? I can’t go to the local police, for obvious reasons, which only leaves the state police. But even if I make it to the state cops, what proof do I have? How do I convince them that a local Sheriff, whom they probably all know, has gone rogue and tried to kill me?

He pushed the thoughts from his mind. Such questions weren’t important now. He had to focus on one thing at a time, and right now, escaping with his life took the highest precedence.

Marcus made his way around the western side of the farmhouse. He ran in a full sprint, having no intentions of giving the Sheriff a chance to catch up.

As he reached the edge of the house and was about to turn the corner into the front yard, he heard a noise that seemed out of place. His instincts cried out and told him to stop. Momentum carried him around the corner, but he was able to put the brakes on just in time to pull back.