Birth of the Shepherd

by

Rick Ready

            I never realized I could kill someone.  The very thought caused goose bumps to run up my arms and tingle the back of my neck.  I believed that everyone had the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, as guaranteed by the Constitution, as long as those rights didn’t interfere with my life.  I guess I still believed the tenets expressed by that group of old white men more than two-hundred years ago.  But I knew that I’d changed forever.  Some things can’t be undone.  Nor should they.

            My wife and I celebrated our twentieth anniversary on Halloween.  We began with our favorite meals at Carraba’s.  I dove into my Filet Florentine and Maggie dabbled with her Chicken Bryan.  We laughed about me being the red-meat eater without regard for my arteries while she was the sensible one eating small portions of white meat.  We said a short prayer thanking God for all the blessings we’d received, especially the good fortune we’d had with our two kids, Bill, Jr. and Paula.  A year apart, Junior looked forward to graduating in May and Paula wanted to stay in school forever.  So different, yet so much alike.  Bill looked like me but had his mother’s temperament.  Paula looked like Maggie and exhibited my trait of analyzing things too much before making a decision.  I liked to say they had the best of both worlds.  They looked at me like I was an alien.

            We left Carraba’s and headed to Seville.  First, we toasted each other in Apple Annie’s with a glass of wine, hers white, mine red.  She seemed surprised when I kissed her in the bar.  As she used to tell me, public displays of affection were not part of my charm.  When I asked her to dance, she almost fainted.

            What’s got into you,” she asked as I whirled her around the dance floor.

            “You got into me.”  I grinned and swung her around.  When she came back into my arms, I whispered, “I love you, Maggie.”

            She laughed, dipped away, and returned to my arms.  I hugged her and she held me close.  I smelled the gardenia in her hair and kissed her forehead.  When she touched my lips, I tasted the saltiness of her tears.

            ‘Tears of happiness, I hope.”

            “I love you, Bill.  Can you believe it’s been twenty years?  We got married so young.  I heard the whispers that it would last.  Guess they were wrong.”

            Two months after we graduated from high school, we stood in the courthouse exchanging vows.  I was so nervous my knees were knocking.  I was afraid Maggie’d run off before the words were completed.  But she was stronger than me, and always had been.  She knew what she wanted and went after it.  And she wanted me.  For a moment, I was overwhelmed with emotion as I felt her soft skin against me.  One thought kept repeating itself inside my mind:  how lucky I was that day, and how lucky I am tonight.

            “They were wrong.”  I kissed her again.

            We managed to dance in every bar in Seville Quarter.  Then we headed for the Coffee Cup for a few last moments before returning home.  After the waitress brought our cups—mine black, hers with cream and sugar—I reached across the table and placed my hand on top of hers.  We sat that way, sipping our coffee, not saying a word.  Sometimes, conversation is unnecessary.

            When I squeezed her hand, we both knew it was time to go.  One last kiss before we got into the car and headed home.  I parked in the drive, walked around and opened her door.  I held her hand as our hearts matched beats with footsteps.  I unlocked the door and performed a cavalier bow as I motioned her inside.  Then I heard Paula scream.

            “Call 9-1-1!” I yelled as I ran up the steps.

            Junior’s body was the first thing I saw when I turned on the landing.  Then Paula whimpered.  I rushed into her room and the last thing I remember was the searing pain in my head.

            When I came to, the house was quiet.  I touched my head and my hand came away red and sticky.  I focused my eyes and saw Paula’s nude body lying beside her bed.  I struggled to my feet and made my way to her.  No pulse, and dead eyes stared at me.  The nausea and revulsion sent me to my knees.

            “Maggie!”  I croaked.  I felt as though my throat had closed and my breathing turned shallow.  “Maggie!  Did you call 9-1-1?

            No answer.  Then I remembered Junior.

            I stood again, the blood rushing to my head causing dizziness.  I stumbled into the hall, fell to my knees, and vomited.  Maggie’s body lay next to Junior’s.  I knew they were gone.

            My shock and grief turned to anger over the next several months.  First, I was the prime suspect.  The cops treated me like a murderer and the newspaper ran a front-page story every day.  My neighbors shunned me and whispered to themselves.  I didn’t care.  Not about anything anymore.  One week after the three funerals, the cops arrested me.  I was booked and thrown into a cell.  The clanging finality of the iron doors slamming shut shocked me.  I examined the cold, sterile grayness of my eight-by-eight room.  Two bunks hung by metal straps from the wall, one on top of the other.  The metal toilet had no seat and the floor around it hadn’t been cleaned in years.  I gripped the bars, feeling the hardness of forever.  I wanted to bang my head against them and rail at God.

            The cops let me go two days later.  Said there’ been a mistake.  Seems the lead detective had misread the evidence.  The blow to my head could’ve only been administered by someone else.  After checking Maggie, Junior, and Paula, they determined that someone had entered our home and committed unspeakable crimes.  I just looked at them.  I guess that was their apology.

            I was numb went I went in to work.  I was stunned when I discovered all my personal things packed in a box.  Seems like I’d been let go.  I no longer cared.  In a daze, I filed the insurance papers and collected enough money to live on the rest of my life.

            A year went by and the murders remained unsolved.  The paper ran periodic updates and the neighbors still whispered.  The police stated the investigation was at a dead end and, unless they got a break, the killer might never be found.  They moved on to other crimes.  I was left with this one.

            Six more months passed before I made up my mind to do something myself.  I studied the paper, reading about terrible crimes visited on good people.  I met with a few at a grief counseling session.  Their shock moved toward anger as well.

            I started going to unsavory hangouts.  I learned to dress like the people who made their own rules and answered to no one.  I learned the colors of the gangs.  I grew my hair long and tied it into a ponytail.  After a while, I blended in, and the regulars called me the Loner.

            The break came the following Halloween.  I sat in Bamboo Willie’s sipping Jack Black and Coke when the loudmouth walked in.  Several guys jumped up, shook his hand, and slapped him on the back.  They all moved to the table next to me and started in on him.

            “We was wonderin’ when you was comin’ back,” the one with the three front gold teeth said.

            “Had to wait for things to cool off,” the new guy replied.  “Heard they arrested the husband and was hopin’ they’d send him to jail for it.  Guess he convinced them he didn’t do it.”

            They all laughed.  I sipped my Jack and Coke and studied the new guy.  Average height, medium build, sandy-brown hair receding a little.  Appeared to be around thirty.

            “I was so high on crack I don’t even remember much.  But I do remember that little girl and the wife.  How sweet they were.  I still dream about them.  Shoulda kept them around a little longer.  Had to take out the boy first.  Thought I was gonna get outta there without any ruckus but the mom and dad returned.  Heard ’em laughin’ and kissin’ as they was comin’ up the sidewalk.  The girl screamed as soon as she heard the door open and I had to pop her one.  Then I heard the husband tell his wife to call 9-1-1.  He sounded like a horse runnin’ up those stairs.  As soon as he came in the room, I popped him with my gun.  Went down like a sack of taters.  The wife ran in after him and I laid her out.  Then I had some more fun with the daughter before movin’ on to the wife.  In the end though, they all had to pay the price.  Couldn’t leave no witnesses.  Thought the husband was dead too, but his head musta been harder’n a rock.”

            I put my drink down and turned to the man.  He caught my movement and stared at me.

            What’re you lookin’ at?  he asked.

            I’m looking at you,” I replied.

            “Then you need to be lookin; somewhere else.  I don’t like people starin’ at me.”

            “I have a question for you.”  I stood and walked over to him.

            “I’m tellin’ you to move on.  I won’t tell you again.”  He stood and faced me.

            “Doesn’t it bother you?  What you did?”

            “Whys should it bother me?  They didn’t mean anything to me.”  He smirked and the others around the table laughed.

            “What about how they might have felt?”

            “Didn’t matter to me.  And since it’s none of your business, it shouldn’t matter to you either.  What are you?  Some kind of shepherd taking care of his flock?”

            I stared into his brown eyes.  The smirk remained in place.  For the first time I noticed the small scar on his left cheek.  An instant later, his eyes turned hard.

            “If you want to keep your nose, then you’d best keep it out of my business.  That’s the last advice I’m givin’ you.”  I saw his hand move behind his back.  “As for them, well, dead people don’t care.”  He smiled and everyone around him laughed again.

            “But the living do.”

            I pulled out my nine-millimeter Glock and shot him in the teeth.  His head snapped back and he fell to the floor.  I walked over and fired into his left eye.  His head bounced off the floor before settling back.  His one remaining eye stared at me.  I shot it too.

            No one moved.  Then several chairs scraped.  I turned and faced the table.  Everyone froze.

            “Is there a problem?”  I asked.

            No one spoke.  I put the gun away, turned, and walked out.

            I kept to myself for the next week, waiting for the cops to come.  They never did.  The paper said a guy was murdered at Bamboo Willie’s but there were no witnesses.

            I sat in Apple Annie’s drinking a glass of white wine.  I turned and looked at the dance floor, remembering Maggie’s laugh, her touch, her scent.  I held up my glass and silently toasted her.  I said goodbye to Junior and Paula.  I drained the glass and set it on the bar.

            I felt the presence next to me, then smelled the perfume.  I swiveled around to see a young woman, maybe early thirties.  Blonde hair, blue eyes with green eye shadow, small, thin lips painted pale pink.  Slender build on a five-six frame.  The sadness in her eyes stole some of her beauty.

            “Excuse me, sir,”  she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

            I looked at her, staring, hoping she’d walk away.  I noticed the wetness forming at the corners of her eyes as her lips started trembling.  She looked as if she’d fall any second.

            “What is it you want?”  My voice surprised me.  I didn’t sound angry or mean, just resigned.

            “I was told you might be able to help me.”  She leaned against the bar next to me.  “May I sit?”

            I motioned for her to take a stool.  She almost fell and had to grab my arm.

            “I’m sorry,” she said as she finally settled in.  “I just don’t know what to do.”

            “About what?”

            “My sister was raped and murdered.  The police have given up trying to find the guy, but I’m sure he’s still in the area.”

            “Why are you telling me?”

            She looked at me, unsure, scared.  “I need help.”  She glanced down, then back up.  A tear trickled down her left cheek.

            “What do you want from me?”

            “I was at Bamboo Willie’s that night,” she said.  “Will you help me?”

            I took a deep breath, watching, waiting.  She continued to stare at me.  The decision was easy.

            “Yes.”

            She folded against me, relieved, horrified, determined.  I put my arm around her and held her.  Tears soaked my shirt as she sobbed.  Moments later she pulled her head back, reached for a bar napkin, and began dabbing her eyes.

            ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.  I’ll pay whatever you want.”

            “We’ll discuss that later.”

            “Oh!  Okay.  Uh, my name is Sara.  Sara Dunbar.  What’s your name?”

            I turned my head and surveyed the room.  A few servers cleaned tables while two others brought drinks.  The bartender dried glasses with a white towel.  The door to the courtyard was open and I felt the whisper of a breeze touch my cheek.  I completed my sweep before looking at her again.  Then I reached out and brushed the wetness on her cheeks.