Hallowed

by Tonya Hurley

  Shouts of support and commiseration filled the venue. They could tell this was hard for her.

  “We love you, Cat!”

  “Cecilia was my friend. My mentor. My sister.”

  Cat could barely get the words out, even with all their encouragement.

  “I wouldn’t be here, or anywhere, without her. And neither would any of you. She brought us together. And that’s how we’ll get through this. We’ll honor her as she would have wanted. Together.”

  Catherine slung her guitar over her shoulder and strummed a single chord and looked upward toward the ceiling. To the sky. A few handclaps and whistles of approval quickly grew into a thunderous wave of applause, rocking the club from back to front. This was what Cecilia would have wanted. What Cat promised to do. To carry on.

  Cat ripped into her set, blood, sweat, and tears dripping from her onto the stage. She played a few of her own songs and a few of Cecilia’s, even one of the new ones, and some songs they both loved. The show was like an exorcism, driving the demons of doubt and pain and suffering out from the among them. Cathartic and celebratory.

  Ecstatic fans sang along, danced and twirled to her music. There were no jaded junior label execs with hands in pockets leaning against back walls tonight, no cooler-than-thou Brooklyn hipsters judging them, no radio and media types hanging at the bar abusing the company credit card. It was a fan’s show, a memorial, with Catherine as their pied piper, leading them.

  Cat was exhausted but satisfied. She’d given it her all, left it all on stage, just as she’d seen Cecilia do so many nights before. But with the last song came also a sense of finality, not only for the show but for Cecilia.

  “Cecilia wasn’t the first and she won’t be the last,” Cat began, channeling into a message much larger than she had intended. “I don’t want you to be bitter. Cecilia wouldn’t want that. Nor do I want you to be naïve. She wouldn’t want that either. Be vigilant. There is evil in the world. All around us. All the time. The only thing that protects us from it are our choices. The more of us, the more good, the less of them.”

  The audience was rapt. Cat began her final song. “Take Me to Church.” A melancholy and mournful ode about death and rebirth through love. It worked just as well for friends as for lovers. She turned up the amp and pressed down on the effects pedal at her feet, fuzzing up the tone on her guitar until it fed back through the PA and the onstage monitors. It was a wall of melodic but ear-piercing noise. Pretty and painful. A perfect tribute to her martyred mentor.

  My lover’s got humor

  She’s the giggle at a funeral

  Knows everybody’s disapproval

  I should’ve worshipped her sooner

  Cat’s voice was fervent, strong, and clear. She wanted every word to pierce their souls and rise up to heaven’s ear where Cecilia might hear them.

  If the heavens ever did speak

  She’s the last true mouthpiece

  Every Sunday’s getting more bleak

  A fresh poison each week

  Take me to church

  I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies

  I’ll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife

  Offer me that deathless death

  Good God, let me give you my life

  She sang. For them. For herself. For Cecilia. Eyes shut tight. Blood and tears flying from her onto the crowd in a sort of baptism, as she smote the guitar like a blacksmith might a piece of molten metal on an anvil, fashioning her future.

  In the madness and soil of that sad earthly scene

  Only then I am human

  Only then I am clean

  Amen.

  Amen.

  Amen.

  The music stopped and Cat looked out over the crowd and whispered a final time as the crowd joined her in unison.

  Amen.

  The song was over. She thanked them and left them with a final thought.

  “Never forget, she did it all for us. Be worthy of the sacrifice,” Cat said, her lips trembling. “My sweet Saint Cecilia. Pray for us.”

  13 The procession for Cecilia began at Saint Cecilia’s church in Williamsburg and wound through the thick crowds along Park Avenue through Fort Greene and Downtown Brooklyn into Cobble Hill and toward her final resting place at Precious Blood. Headlines blared from every newsstand, following her every step of the way. The investigation into the deaths had barely begun and she was being interred on no less an authority than the personal request of the Pope himself.

  TEMPLE SACRIFICE!

  SUBWAY SAINT IN DOUBLE MURDER

  SHADOWY WORLD OF MEDIA MAVEN REVEALED

  Jesse, Agnes, and Catherine followed right behind the casket, which was dripping with blue orchids, dark irises, and black beauty roses. Tears of mourning flowed freely from the eyes of her followers and fans. With Cecilia gone, they were now apostles in the truest sense, left to carry on her legacy. They carried pictures of her, poster-size, and raised high in the air. Jesse did as she’d asked, as he promised. He uploaded her album and now her music blared from speakers in cars, from apartment windows, from cell phones and bodegas.

  As the procession arrived at Precious Blood, Captain Murphy stepped from the crowd and approached Jesse. “Mr. Arens?”

  Jesse looked at the captain and ignored him.

  “Jesse. Listen, I’m sorry about Cecilia.”

  “This really isn’t a good time, you know? What do you want, Captain?”

  “I want to talk.”

  “Not now. Not ever, to be honest with you.”

  “I can make you talk, but you don’t want me to drag you down to the station, do you?”

  Jesse was unimpressed. “Nice turnout from the precinct, Captain. Shame you couldn’t find a few men to put at the club the other night.”

  “I warned them but I’m not a fortune-teller, kid. Know what I mean?”

  “You didn’t need to be. I warned you a long time ago what was going on.”

  “Frey was nowhere near that club and neither were any of the Born Again residents. I already checked.”

  “Check again, Captain. There’s still one girl left. You know what I mean.”

  “We’re still investigating. What can you tell me about Less?”

  “Nothing you don’t already know.”

  “He gave her a deal. He sprang her from the hospital. His lawyers got her case dropped. Why would she want to kill him?”

  “Correction. He killed her. Self-defense.”

  “You know what I’m asking you.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Was there anything between them? An affair that went wrong maybe?”

  “You need to turn her, all of them, into whores now? Is that it? Would you be doing this if they were dudes?”

  “First, I don’t need any lectures in ruining people’s lives from you. Second, I’m not the one destroying reputations, and I’m certainly not sexist,” Murphy said, pulling a newspaper from his jacket pocket. “Have you seen this?”

  Jesse scanned the banner item on the top of the city’s most-read gossip column. It was titled “Immaculate Deception” and it was a story about Agnes being pregnant. Jesse’s expression spoke volumes to Murphy. They both understood what it meant.

  “This is crap,” Jesse replied, crumpling the tabloid and tossing it to the street. “People won’t believe it.”

  “People believe all kinds of crazy shit, Jesse. Perception is reality, buddy. Now you’ve got three saints that turned out to be a suicide, a murderer, and a tramp. Frauds.”

  Murphy’s attempt to provoke Jesse was nearly successful. “If you weren’t a cop I’d punch you in your face.”

  “Tell me what you know and I’ll forget I heard that. As I recall, you don’t do too well in jail.”

  “I’m going into the church now, Captain, to bury my friend. If you want to know about Less, dig a little deeper and maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  “A connection to the doctor?”

>   “You’re the detective. You figure it out. Until then, I’ll do what I have to do. This isn’t going to stop.”

  “Don’t be a hero, kid. I’ll assign some men to Agnes’s house and to the church for a while until things calm down.”

  “Better late than never, right?”

  Jesse turned away from the cop and entered Precious Blood. He saw Agnes in the front pew alone and walked toward her.

  “What did Murphy want?” Agnes whispered.

  “We can talk about it later,” Jesse deflected.

  Cecilia’s funeral mass was just beginning. It was a somber affair and an uncomfortable one. Emotions were running high, and just as the crowds of followers had grown larger, the divide between those who believed and those who didn’t was growing wider. The Pope had said Lucy’s mass, but this time, it was just a parish priest. While the investigation was going on and the actual circumstances of her death so unclear, the archbishop wasn’t going to get anywhere near Cecilia’s funeral. Politics, Jesse surmised.

  The investigation into Cecilia’s death wasn’t the only scandal rearing its ugly head in the cathedral. As Jesse approached Agnes he picked up on the icy stares from parishioners, not for him but for her. The news was obviously traveling fast and it was clear to him that she was beginning to notice. She might as well have been wearing a scarlet letter.

  “The mass is ended, let us go in peace,” the priest concluded.

  The parishioners blessed themselves and filed out from the pews and into the throng of media that had gathered outside. Some stopped to be interviewed by the local reporters, expressing their sorrow or consternation at the events of the past few days. They talked of miracles and of murder. The presence of something either holy or horrid in their midst.

  Jesse and Agnes remained inside, alone with the priest, pallbearers, and Cecilia. They accompanied the casket down to the chapel for a final blessing. Jimmy, the old man from the ironworks was waiting inside, standing beside an ornate, black wrought-iron frame that would be the permanent stand for Cecilia’s bier. Agnes and Jesse both noted the unique carvings that matched the ones on Cecilia’s bow. He nodded respectfully at them and placed one hand gently on the glassket.

  “It’s beautiful,” Agnes said. “Thank you.”

  Jimmy smiled sadly. Cecilia’s encasement was guided carefully onto the platform where it sat perfectly, opposite Lucy, like a piece of art.

  “It was an honor,” he said and left the room, followed by the pallbearers.

  The priest began the Rites of Committal and Commendation.

  “Receive her, we pray, into the mansions of the saints.

  As we make ready our sister’s resting place,

  look also with favor on those who mourn

  and comfort them in their loss.”

  The words rolled solemnly and sweetly off the priest’s tongue and echoed in the small chamber.

  “Saints of God, come to her aid!

  Hasten to meet her, angels of the Lord!

  Receive her soul and present her to God the Most High.”

  The priest’s eyes and his voice rose as he sang in supplication.

  “To you, O Lord, we commend the soul of Cecilia your servant.

  In the sight of this world she is now dead;

  in your sight may she live for ever.

  Forgive whatever sins she committed through human weakness

  and in your goodness grant her everlasting peace.”

  Jesse knew that these ancient prayers for the dead were traditional, but the thought that Cecilia needed forgiving, from God or anyone, was irritating, even in this peaceful moment. Incense was lit and holy water was sprinkled on Cecilia’s casket as the prayers of pardon were offered. The familiar scent filled the chapel and Agnes was comforted by it. She stared at the chaplets on the stilled arms of Lucy and Cecilia and at the one dangling from her own. Then at the statue of Saint Sebastian standing between them. Jesse took her hand and squeezed it gently, sharing the moment of grief.

  The priest concluded:

  “Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord.”

  “And let perpetual light shine upon her,” Agnes replied.

  “May she rest in peace.”

  “Amen.”

  “May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.”

  “Amen.”

  The priest extended his hand to each of them as the church bells rang out. “I’m sorry for your loss. And for ours. All of ours.”

  Sister Dorothea squeezed Jude’s hand tightly as they rode the elevator up to the psych ward at Perpetual Help. Jude was incredibly serene, not the least bit agitated as he might normally be for an appointment with Frey. She, on the other hand, was beside herself, unsure if she was doing the right thing. They stepped out into reception and approached the desk nurse, who was genuinely surprised to see them.

  “Too much for you, Sister, caring for the boy?” the nurse queried snidely. “We’re not the dead-letter office here you know.”

  “Nor am I delivering a package,” Sister Dorothea sniped, showing uncharacteristic venom. “Do your job and tell Doctor Frey we are here to see him.”

  The nurse buzzed the doctor. He responded immediately.

  “Bring him in,” Dr. Frey said.

  The boy stood in the doctor’s office doorway, the nun directly behind.

  “Hello, Doctor,” the woman said coolly.

  “Hello, Sister. How nice to see you both.”

  “We are not here for a social visit, as I’m sure you have guessed.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, Sister. What exactly does bring you here?”

  The nun paused and touched the boy’s shoulder. “He asked to come.”

  “He asked, you say?”

  “Yes. In his own words.”

  The doctor got up from his desk and walked around it, to get closer to Jude.

  “Is this true, Jude?”

  The boy said nothing.

  “He had an episode the other night. The night that Cecilia was killed,” the nun said.

  Frey got down on one knee, at eye level with the boy, and studied his face with utmost curiosity, especially the bruising and scabs around his eyes and his throat. Jude did not make eye contact with him. He examined the boy’s fingertips, noting the traces of dried blood still beneath his fingernails.

  “Yes, an episode at least,” Frey concluded. “Perhaps he shouldn’t be watching the local news, Sister. It’s not surprising that he would be so troubled and act out over it. He has a history of impulsivity and outbursts, as you know.”

  “This happened before we knew anything about it, Doctor.”

  The doctor was intrigued. Very intrigued, and the intensity of his interest was plain to both Jude and the nun.

  “You did the right thing bringing him here.”

  “I did as he asked. That he is here is his will and God’s.”

  “Yes, well, whatever suits you, Sister. With your approval, we will examine him and keep him under observation to see if there are any other recurrences of these episodes, as you call them, and to make sure he is not a danger to himself.”

  Sister Dorothea was clearly uncomfortable about leaving the boy.

  “Are you sure you want to stay here, Jude?”

  The boy nodded yes.

  “Don’t worry. We won’t keep him any longer then is necessary,” Frey assured her.

  “Necessary” was one of those vague words with loose definitions that the disciplined and fastidious nun despised. She was leaving the boy for now at her own discretion, she thought. Not Frey’s.

  “Yes, well, I’ll make sure of that, Doctor. God bless you, son. I’ll be in to check on you,” she said.

  Jude smiled slightly, as if to reassure her. She gave him a kiss on the cheek and turned to leave but suddenly stopped in her tracks.

  “Oh, Doctor, I understand that Daniel Less was a colleague of yours, wasn’t he?”

  “Not a colleague
exactly, Sister. But we had been known to travel in the same circles.”

  “Which circles are those?” she asked. “The ones in Hell?”

  3 Agnes arrived at home to find a squad car parked outside with two uniformed officers inside it, but no one else. Not a sign of the small crowd that had been gathering for months now. She was both relieved and dismayed. There was an odd sort of comfort in seeing them day after day. If anything, it had made her feel she wasn’t crazy. In fact, their presence was more than comforting; it was needed. More now that Lucy and Cecilia were gone.

  She trudged up the steps and walked in the house.

  “It was a beautiful service, Mother,” Agnes called out.

  Martha didn’t reply.

  Agnes called out to her again and walked to Martha’s room, to find Martha running around frantically, suitcases open.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Packing, and so are you.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Have you seen the papers?”

  “Mother, what are you talking about? I’ve been at church. You know that. What happened to everyone outside? Did the cops make them leave?”

  “No, Agnes, they left before the squad car arrived,” Martha said tersely. “No surprise.”

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, Mother, but why don’t you just spit it out!” Agnes shouted.

  Martha walked to the coffee table and picked up the morning paper, which she had open to the gossip page. “This is what I’m trying to tell you, Agnes!”

  Agnes took the paper and scanned the headline, bringing her hand to her mouth in surprise. “Oh my God.”

  “Have you been bragging, Agnes?” Martha fumed.

  “No,” Agnes said, letting the paper drop to the parquet floor. “Have you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Do you know how embarrassing it is for me to have that scandal printed in black and white?”

  “Is that what this is about? Your phony friends?”

  “No, Agnes, this is about your deluded friends. Former friends I should say.”

  Martha continued emptying drawers into suitcases, pulling coats and dresses from the hall closet.

  “What the hell is going on with you?” Agnes screamed.

  “I’m not going to stay here and wait for someone to throw rocks at our windows, Agnes, or burn a cross in our front yard or worse. You understand?”