by Tonya Hurley
“It is a sacrifice I make gladly.”
“Your only legacy will be one of wasted sacrifice. A lesson for all eternity.”
The emperor handed the document over to the jailor and turned to leave. The prisoner called out to him.
“No,” Valentius smiled. “That will not be my legacy.”
“What then?” Gothicus asked indifferently.
“Love,” Valentinus replied. “It will be love.”
The bars of the cell faded away before Martha’s eyes, the sky opened, and the prisoner priest’s modest robes transformed from sackcloth into the finest silk and linen of red, purple, and gold. He glanced off in the distance. Approaching him were two figures. A boy and a girl.
“Agnes,” she gasped.
The girl was adorned with a floral headdress and a flowing gown of blinding white. The boy in soldier’s armor, a bow slung around his chest and a leather quiver hanging from his back. The couple stopped before the priest and joined hands. Valentinus blessed them and spoke.
“Who gives this woman Agnes to be married to this man Sebastian?”
Martha burst into tears. She did not respond.
Agnes and Sebastian turned to face Martha.
“No, please,” Martha begged.
Agnes smiled at Sebastian and then at her mother, and as she did, her heart became visible through her chest.
“I . . .” Martha began, barely able to speak.
Agnes’s heart burst into flame, the fire of eternal, sacred love.
“I do,” Martha said at the sight.
The fumes of the prison disappeared from Martha’s nose along with the vision. Her body relaxed. She was able to breathe once again and as she exhaled she felt as if she’d received the answer she’d been seeking. She received it with both unbridled joy and terror. Martha looked down at her hand and found she was holding onto a white rose from Agnes’s headpiece.
Jesse opened the app for his favorite online radio station and out from his speakers poured one of Cecilia’s songs. The label might have put the project on indefinite hold due to the shadowy circumstances surrounding the release, but despite cease and desist orders and pending copyright infringement suits being drawn up by label lawyers, there was no stopping it now. Club DJs, radio jocks, and streaming services had the material, thanks to him, and whatever their motives, they were playing the hell out of it. Lucy’s video had gone viral and was chalking up millions of views. Jesse smiled, despite his regrets. If he couldn’t save their lives, he thought, he had at least preserved their legacies, their message, the thing that ultimately they’d lived and died for. For the longest time he’d been trying to figure out where he fit in all this, but it had suddenly become clear. His mission now was Agnes.
Smoking out the vandals housed at Born Again and tightening the noose on Frey had bought him some time, but it was clear to him that Agnes and her baby were at the top of Frey’s agenda. There was a sharp knock at Jesse’s door. He looked through the peephole.
“Mr. Arens,” the police captain said.
“Come to arrest me, Captain?”
“No, should I be?”
“Nice try.”
Jesse opened the door and let the captain in.
“I just came to give you a heads-up.”
“Oh, well, that’s mighty considerate of you. About?”
“I’m removing the police detail from the Fremont house.”
Jesse seethed. “Why? You guaranteed she’d be protected.”
“Listen, these men are police officers, not crossing guards. They aren’t on the force to walk Agnes to school. Besides, there hasn’t been anything of concern there for weeks. No sign of trouble or of anyone, for that matter.”
“Yeah, not yet,” Jesse grumbled.
“It was an order from downtown,” the Captain shot back. “I don’t run the department.”
“No, that’s true. You don’t.”
“What are you getting at?”
“Agnes is pregnant. And she’s in danger. Without protection, she won’t make it.”
“You mean from those Born Again junkies?”
Jesse didn’t know how to begin without sounding like a loon who’d be sent right to Frey’s psych ward. “I’ve been telling you for months now.”
“Your story is that there is some supernatural war between good and evil going on in the streets of Brooklyn and that Alan Frey is at the center of it?”
“I know it’s hard to fathom, Captain, but that is it.”
Murphy took a seat on Jesse’s couch and turned suddenly pensive, debating with himself how much he should tell Jesse. He was still, after all, a suspect.
“Daniel Less’s phone records show that the last call he made was to Doctor Frey.”
“Excuse me if I don’t sound surprised.”
“The thing is, there was no love lost between them. Frey was bitter about losing Cecilia to his custody.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Ever heard that one?”
“You think Less is part of the whole thing?”
“I know it. And Cecilia knew it,” Jesse said. “He got her out, gave her what he thought she wanted, what she thought she wanted, built some trust, to catch her off guard.”
“It squares with the facts kid, but . . .”
“But nothing, Captain. What are you going to do about it?”
“You got to prove it, Jesse. You can’t just throw charges around with a guy like Frey. This isn’t a blog, kid. This is real life.”
“I know, believe me,” Jesse said, holding his hands up. “I’ve got the real-life scars. That’s my proof.”
Murphy paused again and spoke quietly, as if he were thinking out loud more than speaking to Jesse.
“I also did a little digging into the doctor’s past and it turns out he knew the Papal Nuncio as well, from way back.”
“That connects him to Lucy and Cecilia’s deaths, Captain. What else do you need?”
“He needs to show himself.”
“By the time he shows himself, Agnes will be dead. Don’t you get it? These guys, Ciphers, Sebastian called them, operate behind the scenes, Captain. That’s their whole thing. You’re not supposed to see any of it. That’s how it works,” Jesse ranted in frustration.
Murphy continued to play devil’s advocate, keeping his skeptical detective’s hat on tight, testing Jesse.
“Sounds like another wild-eyed conspiracy theory,” Murphy challenged. “Illuminati, Freemasons, New World Order, Bilderberg Group, Ciphers, Fight Club.”
“Maybe they’re just different names for the same thing, Captain.”
“Maybe,” Murphy agreed.
“I’m not chasing a fantasy, Captain. I know what I know. I have faith in Lucy and Cecilia. They died for a reason and someday people will understand. Whether you do or not is irrelevant. Agnes is my priority now.”
It was the first time Jesse had made such an admission, such an unerring statement of faith. He surprised even himself.
“Somehow I don’t picture you as a knight in shining armor on a quest for the Holy Grail.”
“Listen, I’m busy,” Jesse said. “Is there anything else you came to tell me. ’Cause if not, I need to get back to work.” Jesse walked to the door and held it open, silently inviting the police captain to leave. Murphy took a deep breath and looked Jesse straight in the eye. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thirty-eight special revolver, its grip taped over, and handed it to Jesse.
“Yeah, there is. I came to tell you I believe you.”
Day after day Jude arrived at Doctor’s Frey’s office for his therapy session, with Frey trying to coax a reaction, or Sebastian, out of him. Yet the boy remained stoic—willfully so, the doctor thought. The focus of Frey’s curiosity was Agnes and her baby, and Jude’s lack of cooperation only intensified his curiosity. The boy knew something, he was sure of it. He pressed, both the urgency and volume of his voice increasing. Jude sensed his anxiety but was unmoved.
&nbs
p; The session began as it always had.
“Is there something you want to tell me?”
Jude did not answer.
“I want to know about Agnes.”
Once again there was no reply.
“There is a reason why you’ve come back here. You have something to tell me, or Sebastian does.”
Jude raised his eyes to make contact, acknowledging the question, if not answering it.
“Your eye contact is much improved, Jude. And some said it couldn’t be done.”
Jude averted his eyes once again. Frey was becoming increasingly agitated. He hung on Jude’s every breath, every movement, for a sign. A slight smile flashing across Jude’s lips sent the doctor into a fit.
“Are you here to mock me, boy?”
Frey slammed his clenched fist on the table and walked around his desk, approaching within a few inches of the boy. He grabbed him by the shoulders and picked Jude up like a doll, shaking him. Jude remained limp and did not resist, angering the doctor even more.
“Tell me what I want to know. Sebastian told you, didn’t he? Told you everything before he escaped. Tell me about Agnes!”
Jude closed his eyes and prayed silently. He was hurting but there were no tears, no fear in him. Frey released him, dropping him to the chair, and offered him a deal.
“I have the power to release you, Jude. You can return to the convent with the nuns. Return to school. Live your life.”
Jude shook his head no.
“This act of yours has become tiresome. Speak!”
Frey returned to his desk and sat, regaining his composure, but only to issue more threats.
“If you continue to play this game with me, Jude, I can make it very unpleasant here for you,” he swore through clenched teeth. “I will break you.”
The air in the room changed, becoming charged in a way that was noticeable to the doctor. The hair on his arms stood on end and his hands began to shake. Jude dropped his head and began to speak, quietly at first. The words were Latin and the doctor knew them well. A prayer to Saint Michael seeking his help. A prayer of exorcism.
“Sáncte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio.”
(Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle.)
Frey sought to interrupt the boy’s supplication, talk over it, neutralize in any way he could.
“Tell me what I want to know or you will never leave this place, Jude.”
“Cóntra nequítiam et insídias diáboli ésto præsídium. Ímperet ílli Déus, súpplices deprecámur.”
(Be our defense against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray.)
“You will grow old and die here. Mark my words!” Frey shouted.
“Tuque, prínceps milítiæ cÆléstis, Sátanam aliósque spíritus malígnos.”
(Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host.)
“Go ahead! Call upon all the saints in your fool’s paradise. None of them will be able to save you.”
There was fear in the doctor’s eyes. And desperation.
“Not Lucy, not Cecilia. Not Agnes. Not the nun. Not Jesse.”
“Qui ad perditiónem animárum pervagántur in múndo, divína virtúte.”
(By the divine power of God, cast into hell Satan and all the evil spirits who roam throughout the world seeking the ruin of souls.)
“Not Sebastian!”
“In inférnum detrúde.”
(Thrust to hell.)
“Not even God himself!” Doctor Frey roared.
Jude raised his head and paused, staring directly into the doctor’s eyes.
“Amen.”
3 As the nun approached Agnes’s home, she saw there were a few Valentines scattered about, little glitter and sequin hearts and a few flowers left for Agnes on the stoop. Not nearly what Sister Dorothea had expected to see. She looked up and saw that there were no admirers across the street. It was empty. A notable difference from the reports she’d seen on the news and from local parishioners dedicated to Agnes.
She hadn’t seen Agnes for a while and was becoming concerned, especially after the school nurse advised that she might not be returning for the rest of the school year. They were not exactly friends, but confidante in the unique way that only like-minded people can be. Sister Dorothea empathized with Agnes’s joy and her terror at the sacrifice she was making. Not so much at being pregnant, which was a condition she’d vowed sacredly never to experience, but with the idea of giving yourself over to a calling, to a power greater than yourself.
She rang the bell and waited. Martha opened the door slowly. “Hello, Sister. Thank you so much for coming.”
“I was quite concerned, Mrs. Fremont. How is Agnes?”
“She’s not very well,” Martha explained, eyes red with worry. “The doctor said she needs to remain as stress-free as possible and under the circumstances, school isn’t the best place for her right now. She could go into labor at any time.”
“I understand,” the nun said. “Surely there is much less stress at home for her.”
It was not so much an observation as a question for Martha.
“Yes, there is now, Sister. I believe her.”
The nun knew the history between the two of them and smiled, shedding a few tears of her own. “There is nothing like a mother’s love, Mrs. Fremont, to comfort and uphold us in our most difficult times.”
“I am here for her, Sister.”
The women embraced and Martha led the nun to Agnes’s bedroom. At the sight of the nun, Agnes’s eyes lit up. She walked to Agnes and hugged and kissed the girl, in the most comfortable of surroundings, lying uncomfortably in her bed.
“We miss you, dear,” Sister said sweetly.
“I’m not sure everyone misses me, but thank you. It’s so good to see you.”
Agnes did indeed look unwell to the nun’s eye. Swollen around her eyes and joints. Pale and obviously in some pain.
“Can I get you anything, Sister? Tea, coffee?” Martha asked.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Fremont.”
“All right, I’ll leave you two alone.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Agnes smiled.
As Martha departed, the nun praised the woman. “It must be such a relief to you to have your mother on your side.”
“Miracles do happen I guess.” Agnes laughed, reaching for her side to soothe a sudden stitch from stomach cramping.
“Is there anything I can do for you, dear?”
“No, just your being here means the world to me.”
“It is what you mean for the world, Agnes, that is important.”
It was a concept Agnes still had a hard time getting her head around.
“How’s Jude?”
“He is still at Perpetual Help.”
“By his choice?”
“Yes,” the nun confirmed. “It is taking its toll on him but he refuses to leave, and of course Doctor Frey is in no rush to see him go either. In my visits and consultations with him, he seems obsessed with Jude.”
“I’m so worried for him.”
“He is only a boy, but he is special. Right now, you must be concerned with yourself and your child.”
“I know I don’t have to explain this to you, Sister, but my concern for Jude is part of my concern for myself and my child. I feel that he’s there because of me.”
“I have faith in him and in his reasons. There is no need for you to carry any bigger weight than you are already.”
Agnes nodded. There was little she could do about it anyway. Trusting in Jude was part of the process of giving herself over. Sebastian had, Lucy had, and so had Cecilia. She would do no less.
“Have you made your plans? Your mother says the baby could come soon?”
“I have. Don’t worry, my mother is with me now. And Hazel and Jesse. I’m not afraid.”
“You are brave, Agnes.”
The
nun began to cry.
“Oh, please don’t cry, Sister.”
“You wept for your friends, and a boy, Agnes, and for what might have been. I weep for what might be, and for all of us.”
Jesse eyed the gun sitting on his coffee table. He’d never fired one before. Never even thought about it. But everything was different now. If ever there was a reason to use a weapon in self-defense, this was it. Murphy knew it; presenting the gun to him was an unusual act, of both trust and illegality on the policeman’s part. Frey’s vandals would come packing heavy this time, leaving nothing to chance. No margin for error. He was sure of that.
He was heartened by Murphy’s newfound support, but it changed little. The threat from Frey was ever present, despite the setbacks he’d engineered, and the police would be virtually useless against the doctor. Oddly, there’d been an eerie sense of calm since Born Again and Jesse was increasingly suspicious. The retaliation he and Tony expected hadn’t come yet and Jesse wondered more and more whether Frey was in sleep mode, waiting to power up for a bigger target, namely Agnes. She was the big variable now and until she was ready, everything seemed to be on hold.
Jesse flipped open the chamber, noted that it was filled with bullets, and began to plan, running different scenarios through his mind. How to keep her safe. Hospitals were no guarantee. In fact, it was probably easiest for Frey to reach her there. Home was little better. Without police protection, or even the watchful eyes of her fickle followers, she was vulnerable. Wherever fate, and her baby, led them, he knew it would be time to take a stand. Tony and his men were on call. He could count on them but that was about it. Murphy would really only be helpful after the fact. The police weren’t in the business of anticipating crime. But there was Jude.
He was Jesse’s trump card. Their first line of defense. As filled with fear as he was for Jude’s well-being, he couldn’t help but laugh to himself at the fits the boy must be giving the doctor. From what Agnes had told him of her conversation with Sister Dorothea, Frey was hanging on the boy’s every word, trying to read him like tea leaves. The boy was brave and selfless, he thought, to endure that kind of daily bombardment, and if he wasn’t crazy when he was readmitted, he would be a PTSD candidate by now for sure.
