Chapter 2: The Shepherd's File

Chapter 2: The Shepherd's File

The scent of sawdust and old motor oil in his personal workshop was a comforting balm, a world away from the stomach-turning stench of betrayal that still lingered in his memory. Arthur Vance didn't go back to the rental property. There was no need. The image was seared into his mind, more permanent than the marker graffiti on the wall. He had already dispatched a professional cleaning crew and a contractor, men from his network who knew his standards and worked without question. The physical mess was their problem now. The moral one was his to solve.

He sat at the heavy oak desk he’d built with his own hands thirty years ago, the surface clean save for a legal pad, a pen, and his laptop. The fury from the day before had not subsided; it had cooled and compressed, transforming from a raging fire into a solid block of ice in his chest. The landlord was gone. In his place sat a hunter, and the hunt had begun.

First, the numbers. He was a builder, after all, and every project starts with a foundation of facts. He itemized the damages with cold precision.

• Full hazardous waste cleaning and sanitation: $2,500
• Replacement of all carpeting and underlay: $3,800
• Drywall repair and full interior repaint: $4,000
• Replacement of stolen appliances (refrigerator, washer, dryer, microwave): $4,200
• Replacement of damaged light fixtures, mattress, repairs to mantelpiece: $1,500
• Three months unpaid rent: $6,000

The total stared back at him from the legal pad: $22,000. A significant sum, but as he looked at the number, he felt nothing. It was irrelevant. His gaze drifted to his phone, lying face down on the desk. He didn't need to see it to recall the message perfectly. Good luck getting your money 😂. That laughing emoji was the true debt, and it couldn’t be paid in dollars.

He turned to the laptop, his calloused fingers, more accustomed to a hammer than a keyboard, moving with a surprising swiftness. He didn’t start with a simple search. That was for amateurs. Arthur understood systems, be they the load-bearing walls of a skyscraper or the delicate architecture of a man’s reputation.

His first stop was the county’s public records portal. He cross-referenced Albright’s name with property deeds, tax records, and registered vehicles. A picture began to form. The pastor lived in a mortgaged house, nothing extravagant, but the two late-model cars registered to him and his wife seemed a stretch for a modest pastor’s salary. A thread. Arthur bookmarked the page.

He moved on. Pastor John Albright’s entire identity, his shield and his sword, was his position at The Shepherd's Flock Community Church. So, Arthur went to the source.

The church’s website was exactly what he expected. It was a sea of soft pastels and stock photos of smiling, multi-ethnic families. A prominent banner featured Pastor Albright, his doughy face radiating a professionally engineered warmth, his arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture. The 'About Us' page was filled with platitudes about faith, community, and service. It was a masterclass in pious branding, a digital facade as hollow as the man himself.

Arthur ignored the sermons and the donation buttons. He was looking for the wiring behind the walls, the structure that held the whole thing up. He found it under a small, unassuming tab at the bottom of the page: ‘Our Leadership’.

He clicked. And there it was. The church wasn't just Pastor Albright. It was governed by a Board of Elders. Six names. Six men, most of whom he recognized as locally prominent business owners. A car dealership owner, a real estate agent, an accountant. These men were the pillars of Albright’s professional ecosystem. They were his employers. They held his leash.

Arthur meticulously copied their names and, with a few more targeted searches through business directories and social networks, found their professional contact information. His quiet rage was now humming with the satisfying thrum of a well-oiled machine. He was stripping away the pastor’s holy armor, revealing the vulnerable man beneath.

He scrolled further down the leadership page, past the deacons and the volunteer coordinators. And then he saw it.

Under the title ‘Youth Coordinator’, there was another photo. A younger, cockier version of the pastor, with the same soft features but a sneer that his smile couldn’t quite hide. The name beneath the photo made the block of ice in Arthur’s chest crack with a grim satisfaction.

Mark Albright.

His son. The pastor hadn't just secured a job for himself; he’d put his own kin on the church payroll. Nepotism. A clear financial entanglement that reeked of self-dealing. Pastor Albright wasn't just risking his own livelihood with his arrogance; he was risking his son’s. It was a critical point of leverage, a second, more personal pressure point.

The hunt was over. Now it was time to build the weapon.

On his computer’s desktop, he created a new folder. He named it simply: ‘Albright’.

Inside, he began to assemble his arsenal. He saved screenshots of the public records. He saved the contact information for the Board of Elders. He created a document detailing the lease agreement and the payment history—or lack thereof. He uploaded the dozen high-resolution photos his contractor had sent from the rental property, each one a silent, damning testament to the squalor and destruction. Finally, he took a screenshot of the text message from the pastor’s phone, cropping it so the mocking emoji was the undeniable focal point.

He arranged it all into a single, comprehensive file. A dossier. It wasn't a plea for help or a cry of victimhood. It was a cold, factual indictment. A weapon of pure, unassailable truth.

He leaned back in his chair, the old oak groaning in protest. He looked at the completed file on his screen. It was all there. The crime, the proof, and the names of the jury.

A grim realization settled over him, as solid and certain as a concrete foundation. To attack Pastor Albright directly would be a messy, public brawl. The pastor would wrap himself in his collar, cry persecution, and rally his flock of true believers. It would be a fool’s errand.

But a shepherd, for all his posturing, is still an employee. Arthur stared at the names of the six elders. You don't take down a shepherd by fighting him in the middle of his flock. You go to the men who own the pasture, the men who sign his checks. You show them the wolf that has been hiding in their shepherd's clothing.

He closed the laptop with a soft, decisive click. The workshop was quiet again, but the silence was different now. It was the charged stillness before a storm, the deep breath a hunter takes before he sets his trap.