Passionaries (The Blessed)

by Tonya Hurley

  “Well, Agnes collects all kinds of things. She’s certainly not a widow.”

  Frey gently gave the vial a shake and noticed there was indeed water inside.

  Martha felt unsettled, watching Frey fondle Agnes’s prized possession. She grabbed it and put it back, locked the box, and returned the key.

  “We shouldn’t be in her private stuff like this,” Martha said.

  “I agree,” Frey said. “But if those are her tears, I should probably take them with me.”

  “I can’t let you do that,” Martha said definitively.

  “It would only be for testing. So I can see if she’s taking anything,” Frey said, wanting desperately to leave with the fluid.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you take her things.”

  “As you wish,” Frey said, finally focusing on Agnes’s desktop. He hit the space bar and the computer screen lit up.

  The first open window that caught his attention was a search for Saint Jude. Frey examined the page for insight into Agnes’s state of mind, and possibly Jude’s as well. The window behind it was her e-mail in-box.

  “I don’t think we should,” Martha said, guilty over such an invasion of Agnes’s privacy.

  “It’s for her own good,” Frey said flatly. “The more I know about your daughter, the easier it will be to treat her.”

  Martha relented, and the doctor scrolled through the incoming and saved entries. Most were from school friends or social-media notifications, local discounts, and spam. The e-mails that jumped out at him, however, were from a boy: Finn Blair.

  “A boyfriend?” Frey inquired. “That’s a good sign.”

  “Apparently he’s a new boy in school that likes her. I’ve encouraged it because I thought that might help take her mind off things, turn her around, but it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.”

  Frey was perturbed. “She is quite tied to her notions of idealistic love,” he commented. “Now more than ever, it seems.”

  “Those two girls and that boy are to blame for all of this; God forgive me!” Martha wailed. “It’s like she’s brainwashed. Possessed.”

  Dr. Frey leaned over and placed his hand on her shoulders as she heaved in distress. “Such a heavy cross to bear.”

  “I can’t do it anymore, Dr. Frey,” Martha pleaded. “Please, please help us!”

  Frey stepped back, put his hands in his pockets and paced the living room floor pensively. “It will be difficult,” he said, “but if you and I are on the same page, if you are willing to join me in what is necessary for Agnes’s own good, then I may be able to help her.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  The bath water was milky, like her skin.

  Agnes submerged her naked body in the warm liquid and held her breath.

  The only thing that stayed dry was some of her wavy copper hair still floating on the surface. And her black-and-gold mourning ring that she had on her finger, her arm on the rim of the porcelain claw foot tub.

  Once under, she opened her eyes wide and stared at the ceiling through the cloudy water.

  This is what it must be like to be dead.

  This wasn’t the first time she practiced. But, it was nearer to her now. More of a realistic run-through. She wanted to know what it felt like. What he felt like when it happened, and what she would feel when it eventually, inevitably happened to her.

  After a short while, it seemed as though she could breathe under the water.

  She felt heavy, but calm.

  Feeling with her breath.

  The ripples from a violet flower petal caught her attention. It was floating on the water above her head. She watched it float around like a tiny vessel. Vibrant. Then, a magenta petal followed. Next, white. And then scarlet.

  Agnes looked up and saw a figure sitting on the edge of the tub, above her arm, by her head. She couldn’t make out who it was. But, she knew it was a guy. He was throwing the petals onto the water from a lush bouquet that he was holding.

  She tried desperately to lift herself out of the water, but she couldn’t. Her body was too heavy.

  She mouthed the words please help me out of here, but he couldn’t hear her. He just kept showering her with petals.

  Agnes wanted to grab him with her hand, the one laid on the side of the tub, but even that wouldn’t move. It no longer felt part of her body. Numb.

  He was so close above her, but she couldn’t reach out for him, call out to him. She was trapped inside her own body.

  Like a lover throwing petals on the grave of his beloved.

  She started to panic. Suck in water, but there was no water. It was air. She was only breathing.

  He threw more petals until the water was covered.

  Was it him?

  Was he there to shower her with flower petals to take her to himself?

  She was ready now.

  Agnes could see his silhouette stand up and face her. He watched her, and then, slowly, started to take off his clothes.

  First, his shirt.

  Next, he peeled off his black jeans.

  Finally, his boots.

  He dipped one foot in the water and then the other.

  She scooted over to make room for him. But, he moved her back in the middle with his foot.

  She watched him. His every move. She wanted him more with each passing second. She was craving his touch.

  He placed one foot near her right leg and the other on her left side.

  He slowly fell to his knees.

  She could feel his legs cocooning hers. Feel his thighs on hers.

  As he pulled her hips closer, she could feel everything.

  His face skimmed the water.

  He was not him.

  It was Finn.

  No! she silently screamed!

  But, there was nothing she could do.

  He ran his fingers along her jawline, down her throat, then to her stomach. He felt her pelvis. Grabbed it with both hands and propped it up.

  “NO!” she demanded.

  “You are acting like you’ve never seen evil before,” he said. “Evil is a mirror.”

  She was his to have. To do whatever he wanted to do.

  She could see a dark mass growing up from her feet, over her legs and up her body. Agnes noticed the hair. Sebastian’s hair. Growing once again, from the strand she had kept safe in her mourning ring. It was growing over her exposed body. Protecting her nakedness. Her vulnerability.

  Finn could not penetrate it. Or her.

  The hair finished covering her and then wrapped itself around Finn’s throat, choking him. His veins popped out of his temples. His body thrashed around, trying to break hold, but it was no use.

  Agnes was safe. Silent. Under Sebastian’s hair. She felt nothing.

  After a few minutes, Finn stopped fighting and fell from a standing position out of the bathtub. Replaced on top of her by Sebastian.

  She could speak, move, and hear again. She lifted her head above the water. Born again into the world. Back to life.

  “Are you really here?” she asked him.

  “Where else would I be?”

  “Am I really here?”

  “Where else would you be?”

  “I can be in two places at once.”

  “You can live your life, and always be with me.”

  “That is not possible.”

  “Then you don’t think love is possible.”

  “That is not love.”

  Suddenly, the petals from the water swirled together into an elaborate, lush headpiece and wound around her gorgeous wavy hair.

  She was righteous. Glorified. Triumphant. Beautiful.

  You legend.

  You martyr.

  Take me.

  The cab rolled quietly down Henry Street, passing brownstone after brownstone, schools, shops, and restaurants as midnight approached. It was a beautiful spring night, dry and clear. She was sober, very different from the last time she had been here.

  “Far corner,”
Lucy told the cabbie, reaching into her purse.

  The driver pulled to stop. “Here you are, miss.”

  “Thank you.” She handed a twenty-dollar bill through the plexiglass partition.

  The driver shook his head and cleared the meter.

  She looked at his rear view mirror and saw a rosary hanging from it.

  She smiled at him and stepped from the car. He waited for a moment, watching her, his lips moving, praying as she walked across the street to Precious Blood.

  Lucy stopped in front of the old church and took it in. The scaffolding and mesh were gone, out of caution that the winter weather might have caused an accident. There was no need to erect them any longer since the conversion of the place was now very much in doubt. Score one for them, she thought, and for the separation of Church and real estate. Thanks to the petitioners and their tireless social-media campaign.

  The neighborhood people had gotten the attention of the press, who’d gotten the attention of the Archdiocese and the city that had put the hold on construction and short-circuited Frey’s investor group, whose names had not been revealed. It was one big bureaucratic circle-jerk, from the bottom up.

  “Lucy.”

  She tightened up. Ready for anything. Unable at first to place the deep throaty voice. A burly guy stepped out of the shadows. Tall, muscled, well groomed. Like a security guard. Or a bouncer.

  “Tony! You came.” She ran to him and stopped, opening her arms for a hug. He stepped back, uncertainly.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know if I feel right kissing you,” he said. “I’ve kissed a few chicks in my time, but nobody like you.”

  “You’re gonna make me cry,” she said. “Come here.”

  She grabbed him and brought her cheek to his barrel chest. He held her for a minute, dropping his head and kissing her cheek as they parted.

  “Long time no see,” Tony said. “Guess you got better things to do than club every night.”

  “Things are different now, but I’m still the same.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  They both laughed and she grabbed his hand. “You got my message.”

  “I did. What’s up?”

  “I need to get inside.” Lucy pointed to the chained entrance.

  “No problem.” Tony slipped a long thick metal bar hidden in his pant leg up and out of the waistband of his jeans. He looked around and ushered her up the steps. He tucked the crowbar between the door and the links and twisted it once around, shortening and tightening the length of chain.

  “Look out,” he said to her.

  He raised the bar and slammed it down, again and again, as if he were starting the propeller of an old airplane, until the chain snapped open. He pushed open the door, but didn’t enter. “It’s all yours.”

  “This could be dangerous for you. Maybe you should leave?”

  “I’ll be okay,” he said.

  “My friends are coming in a few minutes, will you look out for them?”

  He stood tall and puffed out his chest. “I’m a doorman, ain’t I?”

  “Best in the city,” she said, raising her hand for a high five.

  “Damn right,” Tony replied, smacking her up top.

  “Their names are—” Lucy said, about to name them.

  “I know who they are,” he assured her.

  “Sorry, old habit,” Lucy said. “I’m going inside now.”

  Tony nodded.

  “Don’t worry, Lucy. Nothing is gonna happen to any of you,” Tony assured her, smacking the bar into the palm of his hand. “I guarantee it.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Tony.”

  “My word is good, Lucy.”

  Lucy got up on the balls of her spiked heels and gave him a kiss. She watched him blush and stepped inside. She pulled a small penlight from her pocket and shined it around as she walked through the vestibule into the nave. The church was filled with cool silence and little else. She reached down for the holy water stoup only to find it gone. Wall plaster was cracked and bubbled, and dust rained down from above with each of her steps, almost turning the space into a giant hourglass. The air smelled of smoke.

  Debris had been cleared or taken away as evidence, and the pews that hadn’t been burned had been removed. Votive stands remained, minus the votives. Piles of lumber, neatly covered, sat idle. The door to the sacristy that led to the underground chapel was boarded off. The confessional was gone.

  She turned her flashlight on the ceiling vaults to see gaps in the roof tarped over and then on the floor beneath her, which was dry as a bone. Puddles of rain she’d once sloshed through had evaporated, leaving behind only a gritty ashen film. There was nothing left but a faded, brownish stain in the center aisle, barely visible in the dim light. It was where Sebastian had fallen.

  She stopped, replaying those last horrible moments over and over again in her mind. Instant recall. The screams, the shouts, the smoke, the shots. Her own heart was pounding in her chest at the memory. And at her dream. She inhaled deeply and picked up the faintest scent of incense through the soot and mildew. It was calming. Lucy felt him. His presence. A living thing. Waiting for her, for them, as he had the night they met. If there was ever a place for them to launch their quest, it was here.

  “Hey,” Cecilia called out as she entered the church.

  Lucy raised her hand and lit CeCe’s path to the front of the church. Her boot heels echoed loudly through the cavernous space.

  “Hey,” Lucy said quietly.

  CeCe took the penlight from Lucy’s hand and shined it around as Lucy had. There was no need to speak. Lucy knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling.

  “Is Agnes coming?” Cecilia asked.

  “She’ll be here.”

  “I kinda wish she wasn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “You know what we’re planning to do isn’t going to be easy,” Cecilia said. “I just don’t want her to . . . get hurt.”

  “The cards have been dealt,” Lucy said. “You know?”

  “I know,” Cecilia continued. “But she’s different from us.”

  “I worry about her too.”

  “Don’t,” Agnes shouted from the entrance, pushing the door closed hard behind her. “Worry.”

  “Lucy and I can handle this,” Cecilia said.

  “Not without me,” Agnes insisted.

  “Agnes, you won’t be letting us down,” Lucy said.

  “We’ll do it together,” Agnes explained. “Each of us. All of us.”

  Agnes joined Lucy and Cecilia before the altar. They stood silently as Lucy shined her light, illuminating the ruin.

  “Not much left,” CeCe said sadly.

  “Not for long,” Agnes said.

  The intercom on his desk buzzed and Dr. Frey hit the reply button.

  “Your three thirty appointment is here.”

  “Show him in,” Frey answered.

  The door opened and a teenage boy walked through. At first glance, he appeared fragile, shy, even afraid. He was casually but conservatively dressed, hair neatly combed. The obedient, dutiful type. Anxious to please. He averted his sunken eyes as he took a seat, clearly fidgety and uncomfortable. Shaky, like a user in need of a fix.

  “Mr. Blair.”

  “Hello, Doctor.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Better every day, thanks to you.”

  “You were a model patient,” Frey extolled. “I understand you are back at school.”

  “Yes.”

  “Classes not too overwhelming?”

  “No. So far so good.”

  “Making any friends?”

  “A few. Well, one.”

  “Good,” Frey noted. “You remember we discussed the importance of strong personal relationships in your healing and recovery.”

  “I understand.”

  Finn continued to fidget, anxious at the direction in which the conversation was heading.

/>   “I know you understand, Mr. Blair, but I’m interested in actions, not words.”

  “She likes me.”

  “Once again, irrelevant,” Frey sniffed. “Do you have her confidence?”

  “We talk about this place. About Sebastian. About you.”

  “Does she trust you?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said honestly.

  “Without that, you won’t find your way into her head, her heart, or her bed.”

  “She’s so certain of what she believes,” Finn said.

  “So am I, son.” Frey replied. “You understand that I could change your status with the stroke of a pen.”

  “Why are you threatening me?”

  “You were released for one reason, Finn.”

  “Yes, I know,” Finn acknowledged, his voice cracking.

  Finn eyed the doctor’s prescription pad anxiously.

  “Then do what needs to be done,” Frey insisted, writing out opiate-painkiller and sleeping-pill scrips and handing them over to the teen. “Doctor’s orders.”

  Captain Murphy swirled the lukewarm coffee around his mouth as he studied the rap sheets of the two dead men from the subway and the OD they’d fished out of the canal.

  The two were repeat offenders, busted for drugs, robbery, assault, weapons possession. In and out of the system with increasing frequency and little notice. The usual. From the looks of things, their problems started at an early age. Broken homes, abuse, expelled from school. It was almost fated. The whole slippery slope argument that once seemed almost quaint—beer leads to heroin—was back with a vengeance these days. Theirs was a generation of conscienceless slackers, bent on taking rather than making a life for themselves. Lazy, short-tempered, and violent. Numb. It was no surprise that they’d turned to murder and no loss that they wound up dead. It was even predictable.

  The OD was a different story, but not much. Same background but a little more ambitious. He had a job. Looked good on the surface, but rumors had been building for a while that he’d been part of an elaborate organ-theft ring run out of the morgue. Employed, but no Boy Scout by any stretch of the imagination.

  The troubling thing, he thought, was that these guys were all Born Again residents and supposed to be on the road to recovery, examples of how the system could work even for the hardest, hopeless cases. Cecilia’s words echoed in the detective’s head—Dr. Frey had signed off on their cases and vouched for their progress, if not their character. In any event, they were deemed safe enough to release into the community, a pretty high standard had to be met. Why would he stake his illustrious reputation, as well as the mayor’s and police commissioner’s?