Passionaries (The Blessed)

by Tonya Hurley

  “I want you to have these just in case,” Cecilia said.

  “Just in case what?” Catherine queried.

  “In case you ever need to get into my apartment.”

  “The keys to the kingdom,” Catherine shouted, raising her arms with faux-evangelical fervor. “Praise be!”

  “And pass the ammunition,” Cecilia laughed, motioning for her guitar.

  “Sure you don’t have time for more than one song?” Catherine asked. “The crowd is really here for you.”

  “They’re here for us.”

  “No pressure.”

  “Listen, Catherine, there’s something I need to do tonight and I might not see you for a while.”

  “Anything I can do to help?” Catherine offered.

  Cecilia fumbled for words. “No, but I want you to know two things: One, I’m proud of you.”

  Catherine was moved by her kindness and also ashamed that she was so jealous of her when she talked to Less.

  “And two, I’m glad you didn’t take my advice about leaving Brooklyn. You belong here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t give up. Ever.”

  They sat in the dressing room, in the wall-to-wall, overlit makeup mirror, tuning their guitars, warming up their voices, letting the crowd and anticipation build. CeCe was preoccupied with thoughts about Lucy and Agnes. About Jesse. About Bill. About Sebastian. She stood and removed her black ostrich-feather coat she’d been wearing, almost ready for the stage.

  “That’s amazing,” Catherine said, pointing to the jeweled metal belt Cecilia sported around her waist. “Vintage?”

  “It was a gift from Bill. From India. Said he got it outside the shrine of Saint Alphonsa.”

  “Makes sense, it looks like a talisman or something.”

  “It’s for protection, his note said.”

  “Protection from what? Bad reviews? Horny guys?”

  “Not exactly,” Cecilia explained. “It’s an urumi. An ancient weapon.”

  Cecilia reached for the leather grip that she’d inserted into her back pocket and whipped the belt from her waist, decimating the hospitality tray and water bottles on the vanity into a volcanic spray of Swiss, cheddar, and crackers.

  “Right,” Catherine said nervously. “That kind of protection.”

  “Yeah, that kind of protection.”

  Cecilia coiled the urumi back around her.

  The knock from the stage manager came, and Cecilia placed the guitar strap over her head. They walked down the narrow hallway to the stage steps.

  Catherine took the stage first. The crowd warmed to her quickly, but it was obviously Cecilia they were waiting for. A few songs into her set, Catherine stopped and pointed stage right. The rafters of the old club shook as fans in the balcony stomped their feet in anticipation.

  There was no introduction. None was necessary. She walked out onto the stage and the crowd exploded. She smiled and spread her arms wide, offering herself up to them.

  “This is for the one I love. And, for me. And for all of you.”

  White light flooded the stage, bathing them in brightness, obscuring them. Catherine turned to the small vintage drum machine next to her and adjusted a few knobs, programming the beat. The cold, mechanical snares snapped out a rhythm, and Cecilia began the slow, somber, hypnotic riff of The Cure song “Faith.” Catherine joined in the vocals, weaving in and out of the verses like a ghost. The crowd began to sway from the orchestra to the balcony. The whole building was moving, like a joyless revival.

  Catch me if I fall

  I’m losing hold

  I can’t just carry on this way

  Cecilia sang soulfully, but softly, almost swallowing the words.

  And every time

  I turn away

  Lose another blind game

  The idea of perfection holds me

  Suddenly I see you change

  Everything at once

  The same

  But the mountain never moves

  Each verse more intense than the next. Hitting her strings a little hard, her voice growing softer. Tears were falling from their eyes and soon from the audience. Blood and water dripped from Cecilia down the neck and body of her guitar onto her outfit, and to the floor.

  Christened in blood

  Painted like an unknown saint

  There’s nothing left but hope

  Your voice is dead

  And old

  And always empty

  Trust in me through closing years

  Perfect moments wait

  If only we could stay

  The communion between Cecilia and the crowd reached a zenith. This, she thought, was what Sebastian had sought them for. Was their real power and what Frey feared the most. The joining together of minds, hearts, and souls in an unforgettable moment that would be shouted, broadcast, tweeted, and posted from the mountaintops.

  Slowly, imperceptibly at first, Cecilia began to rise from the stage. The audience gasped, and even the crew shot looks at one another, curious about the special effect CeCe had planned without telling them. She levitated a few inches at first and then higher, a few feet from the floorboards. Some were astonished, some confused, others frightened, but nobody moved. They were transfixed. Cecilia rose, playing and singing, and the spotlight followed her up, bathing her in a full-body yellow-white halo, like a human exclamation point.

  “A miracle,” someone shouted. The more skeptical in the venue craned their necks, looking for wires. Catherine fell to her knees, and many in the crowd followed her lead. Cecilia remained suspended there, opening her arms to her apostles. They cheered and roared their approval. Their acceptance. Their understanding.

  I went away alone

  With nothing left

  But faith

  Cecilia descended gradually to the stage as the song ended. The crowd was hers to do whatever she wished with them, like a puppeteer. But, she did nothing.

  She was done.

  It was dark inside Born Again. No lights shining in the upper-story windows. It was late and the residents had a curfew. At least they were supposed to have a curfew, Jesse thought as he approached the building. He tipped his head, noting an as-yet-unconnected video camera mounted onto a streetlamp. Whatever was about to go down would not be recorded or monitored by Murphy’s pals at central command.

  Jesse walked up the recently restored steps to the large wooden double doors. If he didn’t know better, he might have assumed he was calling on one of the doctors, lawyers, or Wall Street brokers that populated these neighborhoods. He reached into his pocket for a pick and slid it inside the keyhole. It was a skill he’d become expert at years ago while breaking curfew in his parents’ home. His dad used to joke that he could have a great career as a cat burglar. Jesse always assumed what his dad was telling him was that he was a sneaky bastard, so his transition to a blog gossip king made perfect sense.

  As he brought his ear closer to the metal plate and listened for the sound of the lock popping open, he quietly twisted the doorknob, only to find it already unlocked. He pushed and felt the door give way. He didn’t call inside for permission. He just stepped inside, the flashlight app on his phone blazing. At first glance there was nothing unusual. Just a small desk and a phone in the foyer, which doubled as a visitor’s lobby. Flocked floral wallpaper and refinished vintage furniture captured the period feel of the building and added some charm and a lived-in vibe. It looked more like a shabby-chic Maine bed-and-breakfast than a halfway house.

  “Our tax dollars at work,” Jesse mumbled.

  He felt for the blackjack in his pocket and lit the way upstairs to the first landing. Houses like these were all the same. He could have found his way around blindfolded.

  There were two doors at either end of the narrow hall. Piled next to the far door were construction tools, folded tarps, and paint cans. He turned the knob on the one closest to him. It was empty except for the dry and dusty new paint smell that wafted toward him. He t
urned and walked to the other end of the hallway and was startled by a loud thud, as if someone had fallen from the floor above. Or jumped.

  He brought up his phone for a better look and felt a powerful smack against his forearm, knocking the phone out of his hand and him off balance. He tumbled to the wide-plank pine floor. Hard.

  “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Sorry, the door was open,” Jesse said, wiping at his lip.

  “Visiting hours are over.”

  “I’m not here to visit anyone,” Jesse said, removing the blackjack from his pocket. “I’m working. Cleaning up.” He crouched. Ready.

  “Cleaning up is woman’s work,” the attacker growled.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where are the girls?”

  “They’re planning your funeral, douchebag,” Jesse cracked.

  The vandal rushed him, but Jesse sidestepped and brought the blackjack down swiftly on the back of the man’s head. Jesse wasn’t a tough guy, but the rush he got fighting back, cracking this animal’s skull, defending Lucy, Cecilia, and Agnes, was more satisfying then anything he’d ever felt. Jesse pounced. He slammed his weapon over and over into the vandal’s body, drawing blood and shattering teeth.

  “Say hello to Dr. Frey,” Jesse said.

  A single desperate blow knocked Jesse off the man and against the railing. He was dizzy and hurting. Jesse rose, but his opponent rose faster, kicking him in the stomach and punching him squarely in the jaw. His cheeks swelled and his mouth fill with blood. His gasps for breath released a gooey torrent of red down his shirt and pants. A final kick to the head did him in and he fell, nearly unconscious, to the floor.

  The vandal limped over to him, grabbed Jesse by the shirt, sitting him up against the plaster wall.

  “Next time, you should knock first.”

  The man stretched over to the doorway, grabbed the nail gun, tugging at the hose that connected it to the portable air compressor.

  “I’ve never seen people seek out suffering like your crew.”

  He flipped the switch on the compressor with his foot and lifted Jesse up against the wall, his feet dangling a few inches above the floor. Jesse was limp. Unable to resist.

  “Let’s try this the Roman way,” the vandal taunted, spitting out a few last bits of incisor in Jesse’s battered face. “This will only hurt for a second. I think.”

  He held Jesse against the wall, his hand to Jesse’s chest, and placed the head of the nail gun into the palm of Jesse’s left hand. He pressed it against the wall and raised his arm to shoulder height. The pop of the compressor and the snap of the nail gun were almost instantaneous, like flashbulbs going off at an A-list soiree. The flathead nail was through Jesse’s hand and into the wall stud before he could feel it. Jesse cried out as his entire body shivered in agony.

  The vandal raised his other arm to equal height and fired again, sending a spike through Jesse’s right palm. Muscle, bone, and blood vessels were shredded as the second nail affixed him firmly to the wall. Hung like a painting. The pain was so intense it returned him fully to consciousness. He stared wide-eyed at his assailant, the weight of his body pulling downward and making it harder and harder to breathe.

  The vandal reached down to the floor and picked up Jesse’s phone. He opened the camera app, turned on the flash, and took a picture.

  “There’s an exclusive for you,” he mocked, tucking the phone in Jesse’s breast pocket. “Make it your homepage.”

  Jesse moaned and tried unsuccessfully to pull his arms free. The vandal dipped his fingernail in Jesse’s blood and drew a halo on the wall above his head.

  “By the way, what you’re looking for? It ain’t here. You should have just asked.” He smiled. “It was those girls I was waiting on. But you’ll do for now.”

  Jesse was fading.

  “You know, the thing about crucifixion is you don’t actually die from the nails,” the man said, reaching for his jacket and slipping it on. “You die from suffocation.”

  Jesse continued to gasp, and to bleed.

  “It takes a while, but you’ll die,” he said indifferently, walking down the stairs. “Eventually.”

  The motorcade transporting Cardinal DeCarlo approached the archbishop’s residence on Madison Avenue. The cardinal spent a restless night and all of the short flight from DC pondering Dr. Frey’s offer, not so much whether to take it, but how he could persuade the emissary and the pope to see the wisdom of it. Alternatively, he plotted to bypass them completely, if necessary.

  “Your Eminence,” the young priest greeted, kissing the cardinal’s ring.

  “Has the appointee arrived?

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. There is still much to be done.”

  He was escorted to a visiting dignitary’s suite complete with chapel, office, dining, and bedroom. The door to the office was closed, and the cardinal took a seat at a large desk beneath a recreation of Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. He placed the leather satchel he was carrying on the floor beside his chair.

  “Here are the files you requested, Father.”

  The priest handed the cardinal three files, which DeCarlo placed down on the desk. The tab on each carried a different name, written in black marker.

  Cecilia Trent.

  Lucy Ambrose.

  Agnes Fremont.

  “These are the testimonials?” DeCarlo asked.

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Thank you. You are excused.”

  Alone, the cardinal opened the files one by one and reviewed each. Police reports. Eyewitness statements. Media coverage. Medical files. Personal histories. Every aspect of the events preceding and following Sebastian’s death. The evidence was powerful as were the girls’ recollections of Sebastian and Precious Blood. The ecstasies they experienced and agonies they endured within the chapel’s underground walls rang with authenticity. He’d heard it, read it, seen it before, in others canonized by the Church with much less to recommend them.

  The processes to confirm or dispute claims of sainthood were lengthy and thorough, and the cardinal, as Fidei Defensor, Defender of Faith, was in a unique position to influence any Vatican investigation. He had seen many such claims, most unworthy of the time spent, but this was different. There was an authenticity to these girls, a reliability that, in an age of media fueled celebrity, also presented a great danger to the status quo. A challenge to their authority.

  The pope had a much softer spot for such claims. No doubt his handpicked investigator would as well. The boy’s death, the protests at Precious Blood, and the cult developing around the girls had drawn much unwanted attention. It had to stop. Once and for all.

  “This blasphemy must end now,” DeCarlo said out loud to himself. He pressed the button for his intercom. “Can you please call Dr. Alan Frey?”

  3 The doorbell rang at the Fremonts’.

  Ever since the police station, Martha had been in the habit of answering it herself. She peeked through the peephole. Even through the distorting fish-eye lens, she could see the boy on the other side was very good looking. She opened the door. “Hello, Finn. How nice to see you.”

  “Nice to see you too, Mrs. Fremont.”

  “I didn’t realize you two had plans,” Martha said, a surprised and hopeful tone in her voice.

  “Me either,” he said. “She just called a little while ago.”

  “Just a minute, I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  Martha walked back to Agnes’s room with a sly smile on her face and knocked on her door.

  “Agnes, your boyfriend is here.”

  Agnes rolled her eyes. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Whatever you say, dear. Inviting him over when you know I’m on my way out. Sneaky.”

  “We’re just going to talk.”

  “I don’t blame you; he is very cute,” she mused. “If I were just a little younger.”

  Agnes puked in her mouth a little, and exhaled in frustration. The whole cougar p
ose was getting so old. At first she thought Martha was just trying to shock her out of the “doldrums,” as her mom called it, but now it seemed more like wishful thinking. And gross.

  “How many times do I have to tell you, Mother? It’s not what I want.”

  Agnes followed Martha back down the hall to the living room where Finn was fidgeting. Agnes greeted him with a slight wave and he smiled back. Martha acknowledged the obvious connection with a coy smile thrown at Agnes. Martha reached for her coat and then for the door. “Have fun you kids,” she said, almost gloating.

  Agnes looked at Finn. Embarrassed. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

  Finn shrugged. “What’s up? Sounded urgent.”

  “Come with me.” Agnes led Finn back to her room. A place where she felt safe and comfortable enough to confide her deepest secrets.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s up?”

  “There is something that I have to do. Something that could be dangerous.”

  “You’re scaring me, Agnes.”

  “Can I trust you, Finn?” she said, sitting at the edge of her bed.

  “You know you can,” he said, sitting beside her. “Is it about what everyone says about you?”

  Agnes thought about how to put it without getting into the arcane and unbelievable details. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this . . .”

  “Seems like you need to tell someone.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” she agreed, her eyes lighting up. “And Hazel would never understand. She’d go right to my mom. I’m going to leave here tonight to meet my friends.”

  “The other two girls?”

  “Yes. And . . .”

  “And what?”

  “I don’t know if I’ll be coming back.”

  “You’re not thinking about running away are you?” he said, his hand unobtrusively taking hold of hers.

  “No, I mean never coming back.”

  He looked deeply into her eyes.

  “Agnes, don’t talk like that.”

  “I’m sorry to put such a burden on you,” she apologized. “But just in case, I needed for someone to know.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked sincerely, moving his hand up to her shoulder, gently tossing her hair behind her. “You can tell me.”