Passionaries (The Blessed)

by Tonya Hurley

  Jesse was unsure how much to disclose. If he told Murphy about the heart, he’d probably find himself locked up in Frey’s ward before he could get the words out. Still, Murphy was listening, engaged. Jesse took it as a positive sign.

  “I happen to know the guy they found in the Gowanus yesterday.”

  “Is that so?”

  “He was a source of mine.”

  “Birds of a feather.”

  “What is it going to take to make you see,” Jesse pushed back. “Frey is going to kill them and use his rejects at Born Again to do it.”

  “Spare me your insensitivities, Mr. Arens.”

  “Spare me the sanctimony, Detective,” Jesse snapped. “You let him skate once before.”

  “If you had a single fact to present, I might continue this conversation. Right now, all you have is a grudge. The police don’t investigate grudges, and the prosecutor’s don’t try them.”

  “Not until someone is dead. Is that it?”

  “Careful, son. You’re playing in the big leagues. Another man might take that as a threat.”

  “Another man might pull his head out of his ass!” Jesse shouted, banging his hand on Murphy’s desk.

  The captain’s door opened and the desk sergeant popped his head in.

  “Everything okay in here, Captain?”

  Murphy nodded. He looked into Jesse’s eyes and spoke calmly.

  “You still haven’t answered the big question. Why. Why would Dr. Frey want to do that?”

  “Frey isn’t who you think he is,” Jesse said.

  “Listen, kid, in the grand scheme of things, these girls aren’t worth risking his reputation over.”

  “It’s the grand scheme of things I’m talking about, Captain,” Jesse argued. “He will risk anything. Because he knows who they are. And he’s afraid.”

  “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “No, Detective. You haven’t heard the last of this. I guarantee that.”

  “Would you like to make a formal complaint, Mr. Arens?” Murphy asked condescendingly. “I can send someone over to your apartment to take a statement. And have a look around while we’re at it.”

  Jesse pushed back. “How many more dead bodies need to turn up before you’ll listen to me?”

  “We aren’t new at this,” Murphy railed. “We have our best serial killer units out there, scouring other clinics and out-patient facilities around the city.

  “The problem is they are looking for a killer, not a demon.”

  Murphy exhaled.

  “There’s nothing supernatural at work here. Whoever is doing this will reveal himself before too long.”

  “Apparently not,” Jesse mumbled. “He’s even got you totally fooled.”

  “When you have something other than your opinion for me to go on, come back and see me.”

  “By that time, it will be too late.”

  The small dingy Bushwick nightclub was nearly empty. A typical, all-ages, open-mic night in the neighborhood. A comedian, poetry slammer, a few folkies taking the stage one after another. Content to entertain each other for the most part.

  The music had been lowered in preparation for the start of the show and all that anyone could hear were the waitresses calling out mixed drink orders for the customers and the clinking of cracking ice in cocktail glasses. A blaring voice from offstage shot through the PA system and attempted to awaken the gathering.

  “Welcome to the stage, Cat Walsh.”

  Catherine stepped up to the postage-stamp-size platform to indifferent applause and began to strum, finding her key.

  “Hi,” she said shyly to the few girls seated nearest the stage.

  She recognized them from Cecilia’s shows. She felt both grateful and embarrassed, suspecting that the ten-dollar cover charge each had paid was mostly a pity purchase. Still, she was proud to have peeled off a few of her mentor’s staunchest supporters. They were genuine if nothing else, and they raised their nonalcoholic brews, air clapping furiously in encouragement.

  Catherine began to sing, one song after another, originals mostly. Songs about love, about hurt, about loss, about struggle, about dreams. Everything she’d been feeling. The crowd might have been small but she was winning them over, moving them with her tales of misplaced trust and love gone wrong. As she finished the third song of her short set, Catherine noticed a man enter the room and walk toward a table near the back, obscured by shadows. He was wearing a suit, that much she could tell from the silhouette as he moved, and a tall drink was already sitting on the table as if he’d been expected.

  She was intrigued. Bushwick wasn’t exactly suit-and-tie territory. By the fifth and final song, “I Wanna Be Adored” by the Stone Roses, the mystery man at the back was tapping his knuckles to her beat.

  I don’t need to sell my soul

  He’s already in me

  Catherine’s eyes were closed when she ended the song. It was her call to action, her desperation on the surface for all to see. Raw, just like Cecilia. Cat smiled and bowed to the scattered applause as she left the stage, looking back over her shoulder toward the rear of the club.

  She crossed paths with the next act, who handed her a folded piece of paper.

  “From the dude in the back,” the MC whispered and shrugged. “You never know.”

  Catherine stopped in the backstage hallway and placed her guitar in its case, rubbing the note between her fingers, deciding whether to open it or not. Her curiosity got the best of her and she flicked it open.

  Come see me, it read. It was signed DL.

  “No. Shit!” she screamed, banging her hands angrily against her head. “I’m really going to do this?”

  Catherine fussed with her hair, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead, straightened her sleeveless vest and headed over to the mystery man’s table. He stood before she got to within ten feet of the table.

  “You were great,” he said as she came into earshot.

  He was tall, thin, well dressed. Older. Serious.

  “Thanks,” Catherine said, “but who are you?”

  “Daniel. Daniel Less.”

  Catherine’s knees wobbled and her heart started to pound.

  “F-from Tritone Records?” she stammered. “The Daniel Less?”

  “Call me Danny.” He gestured for her to join him at the table and sit down.

  Now that she was closer, she recognized him from features in the music trades and interviews on the cable networks. Here he was. Head of the most cred indie label in the world. Sitting not more than eighteen inches away from her. Catherine tried to find words.

  “Did you come here to see me?”

  “Does that surprise you?”

  “No, I mean, that’s cool,” Catherine gushed. “I just never imagined you’d even know who I was.”

  “Word gets around.”

  “Even from a black hole like this place?”

  “Pop stars, rock stars, don’t come preloaded with mansions, yachts, and Rolls Royces,” he said. “Everyone starts at a place like this.”

  “At the bottom,” Catherine replied, flashing a knowing smile of her own.

  Danny looked around the joint. “Yes, the bottom,” he laughed.

  “Well, no place to go but up, I always say.”

  “If you’re lucky,” Less said. “The girls in front seem to dig it, anyway.”

  “Oh, them, they’re fans of Cecilia Trent’s.”

  “Makes sense,” Less said, taking off his horn-rim glasses and cleaning the lenses. “There is a lot of her in you.”

  “You really think so?

  “I really do.”

  Less could see that Catherine was flattered.

  “That’s so cool. We’re really good friends. That’s how those girls know about me.”

  “You don’t say,” Less replied. “I’ve been trying to track her down for a while now.”

  “For?”

  “A deal, possibly.”

  Catherine was suddenly wary and more t
han a little jealous. “Oh. Well. She’s not easy to reach. I don’t know how much you know about her, but—”

  Danny interrupted. The no-nonsense record executive in him breaking through the niceties. “But you know how to reach her, correct?’

  “I’m not her agent,” Catherine snapped, the street-smart performer in her emerging. “I have a career of my own to look after.”

  The two stared at each other across the table for a tense moment.

  “I like you,” the executive said. “Bring me to Cecilia and let’s see if we can’t work something out. For both of you.”

  13 Cecilia spent the afternoon preparing her things and herself. Getting her affairs, few though they were, in order. She cleaned, wrapped, and boxed the things that were most important to her and dropped individually written and addressed notes inside. The same independent streak that led her to New York, to the stage, would not permit her to turn her personal history over to anyone else. Into a box with a spare set of keys, checks for rent, and utilities, she dropped an envelope that read Landlord. Into another filled with souvenirs, press reviews, fan mail, and personal photos, she dropped an envelope that read Mom & Dad. Into the final open carton, filled with CDs and memory sticks of her demos, song notebook, and laptop, she placed an envelope that read Catherine.

  There was one box left. Not one she’d packed, but one she still hadn’t opened. She approached and stood over it. She still wasn’t sure if she wanted to deal with the contents, but she forced herself to peel back the layer of masking tape, revealing a hand-bound book titled, Our Lady. She opened the book and began reading. It was her story. She told Bill to write it all down, and he had done just that. It was a beautiful take on her life. On the record. For her. A bootleg Bible. She was speechless, her tears began to flow. She set the book aside and dug deeper through the sheets of crumpled newspaper he used as padding. But not just any editions. These were pages of reports of the events at Precious Blood and what followed, of Sebastian’s death, of the investigation, all of it. The good, the bad, the ugly. A scrapbook of her sorrow and fame used to pad a bubble-wrapped gift lying at the bottom of the box.

  Cecilia removed the item, untying the twine around it to reveal a coiled metallic strip with an elaborately engraved handle. There was a card from Bill with a handwritten description of the gift and its history as he knew it. It was an urumi, a curling blade from India, the note explained. For her protection. She turned the card over and received his final words, an instruction. Keep fighting, it read simply.

  She grasped the handle of the urumi and watched it unspool, clanging to the floor like some kind of killer slinky. The only thing that had ever felt more comfortable in her hand was her guitar. She instinctively began to whip the sword, slowly, cautiously at first, then with increasing confidence and speed until she lost control. The air crackled all around her.

  “Oh shit,” she gasped, as the blade sliced through a thrift shop candelabra and some corner-deli flowers she had next to her window seat.

  She ran to the spot, stamping out the burning embers that had fallen to the floor, and examining the cuts the urumi had made in the wax stalks. Clean, precise cuts.

  She whirled the blade around again and again, striking the columns, brick walls, and wide plank flooring over and over, sending a tornado of plaster, wood, and stone flying everywhere. Time passed but she barely noticed, working her stroke until she was exhausted and sweating.

  “Practice makes perfect,” she said, placing the urumi on the floor.

  She had never loved Bill more, and knew he was with her in head and heart, just like a father would be. He believed she was destined for greatness, and she believed him.

  After a while, she reached for her guitar, the only personal possession still unwrapped in the apartment, and slung it around her shoulder. She knelt to the knotty, wide-plank floor littered with debris and took the simple urn containing Bill’s cremains. She placed the canister before her, lit a few candles and a cigarette, and began to sing, to serenade him, holding her own private memorial service just for him. Fragments of lullabies, hymns, ballads, and blues—whatever came to her—were played in his honor, played in gratitude. A sonic puzzle of words and music, which she felt Bill would have appreciated.

  When her tribute concluded, she wound the urumi around her chest like a beauty queen’s sash, grabbed the urn, and headed up to the roof. She pushed open the security door and ran out into the breezy dusk. She walked to the edge of the roof, stepped up on the ledge, closed her eyes, popped open the urn, and reached in, grabbing a handful of ashes. The dust trailed between her fingers down to her feet, coating her. Cecilia reached her long arm out and released the handful of dust into the wind.

  Again and again, she reached in and released, spreading Bill far and wide as the sun set, over the rooftops and empty lots, the abandoned factories and the dusty windows, mixing him, almost unnoticeably, with the grit and grime of the streets they both loved. Stretching her arm upon the wind for the final time, she noticed the tattoo of Sebastian on her wrist. She’d made him a part of her, but it was only appropriate, she felt, that she shared Bill with the city, his faithful mistress.

  Cecilia stood on the roof for a long while waiting for all traces of Bill to completely vanish along with the sun. As the first stars began to twinkle over the city skyline, she felt a buzz in her back pocket and reach for her phone. A text from Catherine: Coming tonight?

  Yes, Cecilia typed and sent.

  She left the roof, grabbed the guitar form her apartment, and headed off into the starry night.

  3 Agnes sat on the bench in her garden, the blank sheet of stationery staring back at her from her lap, dogwoods blossoming all around. She’d only been able to get two words down. The salutation:

  Dear Mom,

  Only two, but the two most important. Saying good-bye was harder then she expected. She’d skipped that step with the whole wrist thing. It wasn’t until she’d arrived at the ER that she even thought about dying.

  How could she explain to someone else, even someone so close, what she could barely comprehend? The easy explanation was also the most sanctimonious. Duty calls. I’m off to do something bigger than me. Some quote or legend they could carve into your memorial. The truth was harder to articulate. How do you explain a need? A desire, so deep that you are entirely without choice. A love, so strong that you willingly choose against your own self-interest, against your own instinct of self-preservation. But then, what would life be if she chose otherwise?

  Agnes went back into her room and opened her locked box. She pulled out the page from the Legenda that she’d taken from the underground chapel. Not so much to educate herself as to remind herself. Of what suffering meant. What it was really all about. What she was really all about. A victim soul.

  She put the pad down and bowed her head.

  “Why me?” she began to sob and to ask and to pray. “Why us.”

  She’d cried such self-pitying tears before. Over guys. Over her dad. Her mom. But never over herself. In the past, the very act of crying seemed to alleviate the problem. Getting it out made her feel better. Now the sobs that poured from her were born of a pain that could never be eased or answered, for the kind of suffering she was not just facing, but seeking. Courting.

  Dr. Frey had told her mother it was just some manifestation of guilt. Granted, she, Cecilia, and Lucy had plenty to feel guilty about. Frey understood the power of shame.

  But not the power of love.

  Agnes picked up her Victorian tear catcher, caught a few more of her tears, sealed it up tight, and left with it.

  7 “C’mon, pick up,” Lucy said impatiently.

  “You’ve reached the office of BYTE. Please listen carefully because the options have changed.”

  “What office?” she said out loud, waiting for the menu.

  “For editorial, press one. For advertising, press two. For tips, press three. For complaints and retractions, press star, go fuck yourself.”

/>   Lucy pressed three. It was the box he checked most often.

  “Jesse, it’s me,” Lucy said. “If you’re there, pick up. Jesse?”

  The frustration in her voice gave way to solemnity.

  “We’re going to Born Again.”

  She paused.

  “It’s time.”

  Again a long thoughtful pause and a deep breath.

  “If anything happens to us, or we don’t come back, it’s up to you to tell the story.”

  Then, a sweetness she rarely used with anyone, and never with him.

  “I know I can count on you, Jesse. I . . . always could. Thank you. For everything.”

  She ended the call and grabbed her coat.

  13 Cecilia carried her guitar case to Catherine’s gig and an odd feeling came over her. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel she was being followed. She walked up to the backstage door and knocked. The bouncer opened it a crack, saw who it was, and let her pass.

  Tonight’s performance was unannounced officially, but Catherine had gotten out quickly nevertheless and filled the place even on short notice. It was the biggest crowd Catherine had ever seen, so the local promoter was happy. Like comics who go back to the small clubs to work out new material, Cecilia had some things she wanted to work out, too.

  “How does it feel to be a very special guest?” Catherine asked, hugging Cecilia.

  “Feels good,” Cecilia admitted.

  “What are we gonna do?”

  Cecilia handed over a scrap of paper with a title and chord progression.

  “Know it?” Cecilia asked.

  “Perfect,” Catherine said. “Wanna rehearse?”

  “No,” Cecilia said, smiling. “I know it will be fine.”

  “Thanks,” Catherine said. “That means a lot.”

  “If you’re uncomfortable with me being here, you can say so,” Cecilia said sincerely. “I know it can get dangerous around me.”

  “That’s what I like about you,” Catherine said unflinchingly.

  Cecilia reached into her bag and pulled out a set of keys.