Passionaries (The Blessed)

by Tonya Hurley

  “Psych,” he said, as the car arrived at its destination.

  He pulled the handle. The cage opened and Cecilia was released into an unsettlingly quiet, white-walled reception area. The elevator door closed quickly behind her. She saw a desk a few feet ahead, situated behind thick soundproof glass. It was empty. Unattended. She approached it, and through the pane she saw nothing. No papers, no folders, no logs. The desk was totally clear of clutter, spotless. Beyond it all she could see was a dimly lit hallway bordered by closed doors.

  “Must have had an influx of OCD patients,” she whispered to herself.

  Another buzzer startled her, like a morning alarm clock ringing after an all-nighter. It was followed by the sound of a metal latch clicking open. She walked to the door and pushed it into an even more oppressive silence.

  She continued slowly past door after door toward a faint glow coming from an office at the end of the hallway. She stood in front of it, unsure whether to knock or just kick it in. Before she could decide, a voice called out to her.

  “Look who’s here: The local stigmatic.” Frey’s voice was filled with condescension. “Won’t you come in?”

  Cecilia spread her fingers wide and pressed them against the office door, opening it inch by inch until the man in the white overcoat was fully revealed. Her face flushed in anger at the sight of the doctor merrily going about his business.

  “You work late,” she said, trying desperately to keep her anger at bay and her emotions in check.

  “I find it easier to get things done.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Lovely corset you’re wearing, by the way,” he said. “That thing could stop a bullet.”

  “Yeah, it’s a real lifesaver,” she hissed.

  Cecilia was seething but did her best to keep her composure, at least until she got the answers she’d come for. She entered the room, closing the door gently behind her. Whatever happened in Frey’s office would stay there. In the full glare of his overhead light, Frey could see the drying blood covering the disheveled girl’s clothing.

  “Well, it’s nice to see you in a more professional setting,” he said, standing. “What can I do for you?”

  His reference to their last moments together at Precious Blood, which also happened to be Sebastian’s last moments, did not escape her.

  “You can start by telling me why you had my friend murdered tonight.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he replied wanly. “Did somebody Kill Bill?”

  “How’d you know it was Bill?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  The self-satisfied smirk on his spectacled face sent chills through Cecilia. He had the whiff of movie villain about him—erudite, obnoxious, cold, calculating. Perfect casting. All that was missing was the hairless cat.

  “I should end this right now.”

  “You’ve killed before,” Frey observed undaunted. “Why stop with Ricky?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  She was certainly angry enough to kill him, and the circumstances seemed favorable. They were alone, at least she thought so. But then, there had been witnesses in the lobby. If Frey turned up dead, they’d come for her. She’d be tried and jailed. Vilified. Nullified. A supposed saint committing the ultimate sin. Even his own death would be a victory for his cause. It was his trump card. And he knew it. It emboldened him.

  “I’m honored to have the starring role in your revenge fantasy Cecilia,” Frey countered.

  “Not revenge. Justice.”

  “Vengeance is easier.”

  “You would know.”

  “What I know is the murderous mind, Cecilia. It’s what I do. A person with bad intentions in your present state would come in here guns blazing. Full of righteous anger. Shooting to kill, not shooting the shit, so to speak.”

  “A person like me?” she asked. “You have no idea what I’m like.”

  “They say that we stop looking for monsters under the bed when we realize they’re inside of us.” He paused. “Just as we stop looking for evil. There’s evil inside all of us, Cecilia. You are no different.”

  “The only reason you’re still breathing is because you have something I want.”

  “And what is that?”

  “You know,” Cecilia seethed. “Where is Sebastian’s heart, you sick bastard?”

  Frey laughed, pulled open the drawers of his desk, unfastened his lab coat, and raised his arms as if preparing for a frisk. “If it makes you feel any better, look around,” he invited.

  Cecilia didn’t bother. Frey would never keep the relic where it could be easily found. Instead, she came closer, around his desk, stopping inches from his face. For the first time, she could sense fear in him. She, on the other hand, wore a blank expression. One probably familiar to a doctor who spent his life dealing with the emotionally disturbed and unpredictable.

  “We were defending ourselves, Doctor,” Cecilia said. “As you well know.”

  “Defending yourself or killing to satisfy the delusional demands of your bipolar boyfriend?”

  “We loved him in a way you will never understand. We did what we had to do to protect him and ourselves,” she said, glowering, “from you.”

  “Love?” Frey laughed derisively. “Lucy loves only herself. Agnes is in love with love. And you . . .”

  “Tell me, Doctor. What about me?” Cecilia opened the top drawer of his desk and ran her fingers along the blade of a long, sharp letter opener.

  “You, Cecilia, are in love with pain, not people. Rejection. It’s why everything around you suffers and dies. It’s why you are here. You’re clinical. Textbook.”

  “Sounds like you’ve spent a lot of time thinking about me,” Cecilia scoffed.

  “You’re the focus of a lot of attention, for better or worse,” he added. “For worse in my view.”

  “Not very insightful,” she said, “since the source of my suffering is you.”

  “Maybe, but I’ve heard even the Vatican has an eye on the three of you.”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  “They don’t take kindly to blasphemers.”

  Cecilia laughed. “What would you know about that?”

  “More than you think,” he said cryptically. “I’m not the one you have to fear.”

  “I’m no angel,” Cecilia countered, rotating the letter opener like a knife in the palm of her hand, as if she might be preparing to plunge it into him. “But I’m no killer.”

  “Let me help you, Cecilia,” Frey asked. “Rid you of this delusion.”

  “Like you wanted to help Sebastian?”

  “I was cleared of any wrongdoing,” Frey boasted. “The authorities chose to believe me instead of you three and that blogger. Have you forgotten?”

  “Dead men tell no tales, unfortunately,” Cecilia countered. “The most powerful witness against you was never heard from. I’m honored to be his voice.”

  Frey slammed his fist down on his desk in an uncharacteristic show of emotion, staring down Cecilia and the blade.

  “Look at yourself!” he shouted. “You come here flashing your teeth, dripping blood. Angry, bitter, full of threats. Making accusations without a shred of evidence. Saint Cecilia! What a joke.”

  “Yes, I should have learned to mask my true intentions, like you have.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve learned nothing from me, Cecilia.”

  Cecilia suddenly brought the point of the letter opener to the base of his throat. He didn’t flinch.

  “How did you become such a soulless prick?” she spat.

  “Google me,” he said snidely.

  She pressed the point deeper into his flesh, nearly drawing blood before pulling it away. Frey remained impassive.

  “There is one thing I have learned from you.”

  “Now you have me curious,” he said. “What might that be?”

  “That evil is real.”

  The doctor smirked. “We are beyond good and evil, Cecilia. We exist in a post m
oral world now.”

  “Thanks to you and those like you,” she said. “Speak for yourself, not for me.”

  “Nobody wants to be judged a sinner or a saint, Cecilia, certainly not by the likes of you.” Frey smirked and raised his hand in a heavy-metal, devil-horned salute.

  “I don’t judge, Doctor,” CeCe replied, glaring at him. “I embrace differences, not treat them.”

  “People say they want to be different, but what they really want is to be the same.”

  “So just take two and call me in the morning. The easy road.”

  “The easy road,” he agreed.

  “Then it all depends on who they choose to be like, doesn’t it?”

  “There is a lot of Sebastian in you.”

  “Not nearly enough,” Cecilia said, turning her back on him to leave.

  “Remember, Cecilia,” Frey insisted. “No good. No evil. Only choices.”

  “And consequences,” Cecilia reminded through gritted teeth.

  “The three of you can choose to stop this.”

  She turned quickly toward him, raised her hand with the letter opener above her head.

  He looked her square in the eye. “I want to see your face when you kill me,” he said.

  She brought her hand down without hesitation, hard and swift, and drove the sharp point of the letter opener into his desktop, right between his pointer and middle finger, barely missing both. She left the opener standing upright, like Excalibur in the stone.

  “No,” she said. “We can’t stop this.”

  “A choice. And a consequence.”

  “When I find what I’m looking for, I’ll be back for you.”

  “Yes, you will be back and I’ll be here, Cecilia,” he said. “For now, I’ll let you leave.”

  “For now,” she replied, “I’ll let you live.”

  3 The bell rang. The hallways filled. Lockers slammed open and shut. Signs of spring were everywhere—relaxed attitudes and clothes, blaring music, and sexual tension. Agnes took a deep breath, still smarting from the verbal abuse she tried to ignore. She had her auburn hair loosely tied back in a gorgeous fishtail, and her lips were stained a cherry red. She wore a vintage rust, purple, and teal Indian tunic-style top as a minidress, with rust opaque tights and her worn-out brown biker boots.

  “Have you seen that hot new guy?” Hazel asked urgently.

  Agnes just smiled and shook her head. “No, but it sounds like you have.”

  “He’s amazing looking,” she continued. “Lives in the Heights, I think. On the promenade.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Agnes asked.

  “Um? Because he’s . . . hot?” Hazel said. “Can’t I help my best friend?”

  “If he’s so great, why don’t you want him?”

  Agnes wasn’t interested, but she needed to make the point that she wasn’t a charity case. It wasn’t like she had trouble getting guys. If she wanted.

  “Because I think you might have a lot in common.”

  Agnes stared at her skeptically. “What might that be?”

  “I hear he also tried to . . .”

  “Tried to what?”

  “You know . . . hurt himself,” she said.

  “Jesus, Hazel!”

  “He just got out of the hospital.”

  “Perpetual Help?”

  “Yeah,” Hazel replied.

  Hazel took Agnes’s arm, escorting her down the hall.

  “I just thought he could use a friend. Someone who could relate to him.”

  “Are you starting a suicide survivors club or something?” Agnes huffed.

  “No. You’re both alive. Very alive,” Hazel said, thrusting her hips back and forth.

  Agnes rolled her eyes. “If I run into him, I’ll say hello.”

  “Well, that won’t be long.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s in our next class.”

  7 Jesse wandered through East Flatbush past several boarded up houses and shops on his way to the morgue. He approached the nondescript building, a glass-fronted two-story construction with less character than the average elementary school.

  He pulled at a few of the heavy metal doors and found them all locked. Mayfield, the guy he’d come to meet, his “source,” as he’d identified him to Lucy, was nowhere to be found; at least, he didn’t think so. They’d never met face to face.

  One of the doors on the end of a loading bay cracked open and Jesse could see in; there were stainless steel tables stacked up in front of the double doors marked PERSONNEL ONLY. A young man, not much older than Jesse, stepped out. He was dressed in scrubs, the standard morgue technician gear, but also stained paper booties and a nylon cap that hid a tight Afro. He smelled intensely of cherry and almonds. Jesse recognized the odor from biology class. Benzaldehyde. A disinfectant. Appropriate, Jesse thought, considering the dirty work he’d come to do. Jesse breathed in through his mouth and held it, disgusted, trying to shut out the incongruous stink of death and fruit salad. The tech walked straight for Jesse. “Lookin’ for someone, man?”

  “How’d you know it was me?” Jesse jibed.

  “You stick out like a sore dick around here.”

  Jesse wasn’t used to criticism from his stoolies, but he knew the guy was right. His whole Smith Street shades-and-soul patch indie vibe didn’t cut it in Crown Heights. Besides, Jesse could tell Mayfield was not a man to fuck with.

  “What’s with the whole Mayfield bit,” Jesse taunted, trying to be hard before he got completely run over. “Some seventies B-movie pimp shit?”

  “Way too deep, son,” Mayfield explained. “Moms told me I was conceived to the Super Fly soundtrack.”

  “So she named you for Curtis?”

  “It fits, too, don’t you think? I’m fly, so the ladies tell me.”

  “More like ‘fly on the wall’ if you ask me.”

  “That works. I hear shit. I see shit.”

  “Don’t flies eat shit too?” Jesse pressed.

  “Not this one,” Mayfield replied coolly, patting at a bulge under his armpit that looked a lot like the outline of a gun holster.

  “Chill, dude,” Jesse said. “Is this the morgue?”

  “What’s it look like?” Mayfield replied. “They kill ’em, we chill ’em.”

  “Can I check it out?”

  “Nah,” Mayfield said, pulling a smoke from his front pocket and lighting it. “We can talk here.”

  Jesse gagged a little as Mayfield blew a nicotine cloud in his direction. He looked around and saw no one. The coast was clear, which was either a good thing or potentially a very bad thing. “You know that kid the police shot a few months ago?”

  Mayfield’s expression changed. “You mean that dude that thought he was the messiah or some shit? Jesus Christ Superstar?”

  “Yeah,” Jesse said. “Sebastian.”

  “What about him?”

  “I heard some things,” Jesse said.

  “Like?” Mayfield asked, giving him nothing.

  “Like somebody did a little heart surgery on him before he was cremated.”

  Mayfield looked at him silently.

  “You accusing me of somethin’, bitch?” Mayfield said, pushing Jesse backward with two fingers.

  “Not at all,” Jesse said, showing some balls and walking back toward him. “I just want to know if you saw anything.”

  “I don’t know,” Mayfield said, looking at the ground.

  “You don’t know?” Jesse said, getting more aggressive. “A heart just disappears from a dead body and you don’t notice anything? Hear anything about it?”

  “All kinds of creepy shit goes on here, man. You remember a few years ago when a bunch of dudes got busted for taking pictures with frozen heads? Shit happens. It’s just another day at work around here.”

  Jesse remembered the stories. He wondered if the rumors about Sebastian were nothing more than the urban folktales church mice in the neighborhood told among themselves. Still, there was s
omething in Mayfield’s tone that said otherwise. Jesse had learned to read the signs of people hiding something. “Sorry, dude. I don’t believe you.”

  “Whatcha mean? I ain’t ever lied to you.”

  “Until now,” Jessed corrected.

  Mayfield took another long drag on his cigarette. “What’s that in your pocket?”

  “I don’t have a weapon,” Jesse answered nervously.

  “No doubt,” Mayfield said, puffing his chest. “But you did bring something for me, right?”

  Mayfield snapped the butt of his lit cigarette at Jesse’s front pocket. It landed with a dull pop and ricocheted away. Jesse caught his drift. He reached into his pants and pulled out a pocketful of cash. He handed it over.

  “Let’s talk,” Jesse said as Mayfield counted the roll and slipped it in his back pocket. “For real.”

  Mayfield lit another cigarette.

  “Chain smoking?” Jesse asked, trying to loosen the tech’s tongue. “It’ll kill you.”

  Mayfield laughed out loud. “It’s living that kills you, man.”

  “Give me one of those,” Jesse said, reaching out and grabbing a smoke from his pack.

  “When you work around here, you see ain’t none of us gettin” out of here alive.’ He took a long drag. “You figure out it’s not death that’s scary. It’s life you gotta be afraid of.”

  “What about Sebastian?” Jesse pressed.

  “Body parts go missing around here all the time, brah. Sometimes it’s black market shit, sometimes it’s voodoo. You know. Everyone’s got their thing.”

  “You mean their price,” Jesse said.

  “Why do you care? Ain’t celebrities your beat? This guy was a murderer.”

  “No, he wasn’t.”

  “Listen, I saw the orderly they found at the bottom of the Perpetual Help elevator shaft. He was beat to shit. Looked like a raw piece of meat sent through a grinder. He didn’t get that way from a fall. And the dude did escape the mental ward right afterward, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Leave the CSI shit to the experts. Tell me what happened here.”

  “Like I said, I didn’t actually see anything.”

  “But?”

  “I heard that what you said happened, happened.”