Hallowed

by Tonya Hurley

  This waiting game was just another way for Frey to inflict suffering on them, he supposed. Sebastian, Lucy, and Cecilia’s deaths were clearly not enough. Discrediting them at every turn, leaving him mangled at Born Again, torturing a child under the guise of therapy, betraying even Daniel Less, his own colleague. He wouldn’t stop until Agnes and her baby were dead and the threat to his agenda nullified. Frey was the conductor on this night train, punching tickets, collecting fares with a handshake and a smile, all the while making sure that none of the passengers reached their destination. It was actually admirable to Jesse in some ways in its pure, cold, calculated, über-efficient, and clandestine brutality.

  Jesse pondered the immediate future that was revealing itself when a group text buzzed him back to reality. It was to him and Hazel, from Agnes.

  Pls Come. Now!

  Jesse texted Tony and put him on stand-by, threw on his jacket, slipped the gun in his waistband, and hailed a gypsy cab outside his apartment.

  He glanced down at his phone and read a second text from Agnes:

  It's Time.

  It is Not by Words

  But by Deeds

  That a Better World is Born

  One by One

  That Darkness Recedes

  That Light Shines

  This is Faith

  This is Knowledge

  Have Insight to See

  Have Courage to Change

  Have Love to Accept

  Your True Self

  And You Will Be Forever Blessed

  Sebastian, Pray for Us

  Lucy, Pray for Us

  Cecilia, Pray for Us

  Agnes, Pray for Us

  The doctor was conducting the latest in a series of late-night sessions designed to break Jude’s will, to elicit from him whatever secret Frey imagined he possessed. This was now a matter of utmost urgency for him. His rivalry with Less had been a dangerous diversion and waiting for the music man to metaphorically hang himself had used up precious time. Less was gone now, as was the challenge to his authority from within. But in the wake of Cecilia’s dramatic death the followers had grown far beyond a cult or even the protesting mob that had spurred Jude, Cecilia, and Agnes’s release from Perpetual Help. It was a citywide movement now, and beginning to catch on nationally.

  Sightings of Sebastian, miracles and healings attributed to Lucy and Cecilia, were on the rise. Thanks to increasingly rabid media reporting, their fame began to rival that of the biggest film and rock stars. Lines outside the Precious Blood chapel stretched for nearly a mile now and the space within it was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with young and old alike. Sunday mass in the cathedral above also overflowed with new parishioners and was more like a rock concert than a religious service. And Frey was determined to put an end to it. For him, Agnes was the answer and Jude was the key.

  The boy was dragged out of bed and brought to Doctor Frey’s office by two of the psych ward orderlies for questioning.

  “Hello, Jude,” Frey said snidely. “I’m sorry to wake you at this hour but it’s been such a busy day and I know how much you look forward to our visits.”

  The boy was groggy but wiggled himself into an upright position in the uncomfortable chair and faced the doctor.

  “Is there something you’d like to tell me? About Agnes? About her child? Something that Sister Dorothea has confided in you?”

  Jude shook his head no, as he had many times before.

  “I understand that Agnes is unwell. That she could give birth at any time. You know when it will be, don’t you, and where?”

  The doctor’s frustration was evident. He sensed that time was short. He stood and thrust his hands in the pockets of his sports slacks and paced slowly behind his desk. Frey began to mumble, more to himself than to the boy, thinking and fretting out loud.

  “You certainly have kept me busy, Jude.”

  The boy did not respond but his eyes moved involuntarily from side to side, which the doctor duly noted. He stopped pacing and brought his hand to his chin, pondering his own words as a moment of clarity struck him.

  “You’ve kept me busy,” he repeated. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  The boy swallowed hard, nervously.

  “The reason you came back.”

  Frey sat down and folded his hands, like a principal preparing to scold a naughty student.

  “You are a very clever boy, Jude. Psyching out the psychiatrist. I’ve underestimated you.”

  Jude did not react.

  “And I’m a fool,” the doctor said, chastising himself. “Playing a game of wits with a mute.”

  The doctor picked up the phone and buzzed the night nurse.

  “Nurse, please check with the ER and with the ob-gyn department to ask if they’ve been notified of any imminent arrivals,” he requested, a definite urgency in his voice. “Yes, the name is Fremont. Please check with the other ERs in the area as well. A pregnancy. Likely a C-section.”

  He summoned the orderlies to come and get the young patient.

  “I’ll deal with you after Agnes, and more importantly, her baby, is dead, Jude.”

  The orderlies arrived in seconds and took hold of the young patient.

  “Take him away.”

  Jesse ran up the steps to Agnes’s house two at a time and pushed the doorbell. He waited anxiously, looking over both shoulders, and started knocking furiously until Martha answered. Agnes was sitting on the living room couch, in a cold sweat and breathing heavily.

  “I told her I wanted to call the EMT but she insisted on waiting for you.”

  “I got here as fast as I could,” Jesse said.

  He walked over to Agnes and knelt down, taking her hand. She looked relieved but in obvious distress.

  “How are you?” he asked gently.

  “Not good,” she moaned.

  “Agnes, we need to call now.”

  “No, I don’t want to call. I don’t want to be in an ambulance.”

  “Please, this is not the time, Agnes. It’s the closest hospital to us. You need a doctor now,” Martha insisted.

  “Will you go if I take you, Agnes?” Jesse asked.

  She nodded yes reluctantly.

  Jesse looked up at Martha reassuringly.

  “I have a car waiting outside. I’ll take her.”

  “I don’t know,” Martha fretted.

  “Mother, it will be fine. Maybe you can get some clothes together for me and meet me at the hospital.”

  Agnes reached up to her mom for a hug and the two embraced.

  “I love you, Agnes,” Martha cried, worried for her daughter more than she could or would say. “With all my heart.”

  “I know, Mother. And I love you. Always.”

  Agnes was concerned not only about her health, but also her safety. And her child’s. Who knew how long it would take for Frey to figure it all out? Not long, she assumed. A birth was not exactly something you could keep secret.

  “Let’s go,” Jesse said hurriedly.

  He helped Agnes with her coat and took her by the arm, escorting her out the door and down the steps.

  “You’re not taking me there, Jesse.”

  “I just promised your mom, Agnes.”

  “It’s not safe for the baby,” she insisted.

  Jesse opened the door to the backseat, pondering the best alternative. She got slowly into the car, leaning on him almost entirely for support, and suddenly doubled over, clutching her belly in pain. Martha was right, Jesse thought. She needed a doctor right then, and there was no time to waste getting to another hospital farther away. Jesse yelled to the driver.

  “Perpetual Help!”

  The car sped off, down the quiet, tree-lined Park Slope side streets.

  “No, Jesse,” Agnes pleaded. “I don’t want to go there.”

  “Agnes, I’m not going to lie to you. You look terrible. You need help now. I’ll deal with Frey. Tony and his guys can meet us there. I’ll call Murphy, too. Your mom will be there in a few minut
es.”

  “No,” she said softly. “I want to have this baby where I was born.”

  Jesse looked quizzically at the girl. He was alarmed, wondering if she was delirious, losing it.

  “What?”

  “I want to go to Precious Blood.”

  3 Martha rummaged frantically through Agnes’s room, doing her best to stay focused and pack the things the girl would need the most: several changes of clothing, underwear, bathrobe, slippers, toiletries, and a few photos of friends and family to place on the hospital nightstand. She double-checked the room, satisfied she hadn’t forgotten anything important, and as she reached for the light switch, she turned to take in Agnes’s room. The decor, the lighting, the furniture, the carpets and bedding, all of it screamed how wonderful and unique and creative her teenage daughter was. How romantic.

  Martha allowed herself a moment as she was totally overcome with emotion. She sat on Agnes’s bed, recalling every intimate conversation they’d ever had, every moment of her daughter’s childhood, the good and the bad, and sobbed. Martha stood and took a few steps toward Agnes’s desk and pulled a drawer open. She saw the tear catcher and also a torn piece of vellum. The page of Saint Sebastian Agnes had removed from the Legenda at Precious Blood. She read the page and dropped her head in her hands.

  “Help us,” she prayed. “Please help us, Sebastian.”

  The text alert bell rang on Martha’s phone interrupting her meditation. Her car was outside. She reached for the bag she’d loaded, zipped it up, grabbed her coat, and left.

  “Where to?”

  “Perpetual Help Hospital.”

  The driver eyed his obviously distraught passenger in the rearview mirror.

  “Nothing serious I hope, ma’am?”

  Martha stared back at the kindly gaze reflected in the mirror.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

  Without speaking another word, the driver sped to the location.

  “What do I owe you?” Martha asked as they arrived, fumbling distractedly in her purse for her wallet.

  “Nothing,” the driver said.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “You’re an angel.”

  “I’m happy to help,” he said.

  Martha rushed through the ER doors at Perpetual Help with Agnes’s overnight bag full to bursting in her hand. She ran to the front desk. “I’m here to see my daughter.”

  “Name?”

  “Agnes Fremont.”

  The desk clerk searched his list but found nothing.

  “No, sorry.”

  “What do you mean? She should have arrived here by now?”

  Martha was petrified. The clerk checked his list again and made a few brief calls back to the ER and the OB floor as Martha waited on pins and needles.

  “I’m sorry, there is no record of any Agnes Fremont being admitted here tonight.”

  Martha stepped away from the desk, clearly distraught, and dialed Agnes’s cell. It rang into voice mail. She texted urgent messages to Agnes and Jesse. The elevator doors opened in the lobby and Alan Frey walked out.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fremont. Such a surprise to see you,” Frey said offering his hand. “How is Agnes?”

  Martha took a step back, as if she’d seen a ghost. Or a monster.

  “Is there something wrong?” Frey asked knowingly.

  “No,” she stammered. “I was just visiting.”

  “Visiting whom?”

  “Agnes,” Martha admitted reluctantly.

  “I had no idea she was back with us.”

  Martha was too distracted to be clever with the doctor. “She’s not.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  The message alert on Martha’s phone pinged and she looked at the screen in shock, unwittingly repeating the message loud enough for Frey to hear.

  “Precious Blood?” she read.

  Tony and his men were already at the church when Agnes and Jesse arrived. He took her arm and helped her from the car and up the steps; Jesse took the other arm. Tony raised his lighter and guided them through the dark church and toward the chapel.

  “I can walk,” Agnes insisted, seeming to draw some strength from her surroundings.

  They walked downstairs and entered the chapel. Agnes immediately fell into the first pew, closest , Sebastian and Lucy. She was sweating, her curls matted around her face.

  “Agnes, I think this is a really bad idea,” Jesse said.

  “You need to be in a hospital,” Tony agreed. “We’re not doctors. We can’t help you.”

  Agnes looked up at the bodyguard and reached for his hand.

  “No, Tony, I feel safest here.”

  Agnes let out a loud moan and grabbed at her belly as her water broke. A puddle of fluid stained her dress and dripped from the pew onto the marble floor. Jesse and Tony both looked at each other, panicked.

  “Agnes, I don’t know what to do. We have to get help,” Jesse implored. “Please, Agnes. For the baby’s sake.”

  She caressed her swollen belly and looked up at Jesse and over at the casements.

  “Okay,” she whispered weakly.

  Jesse called nine-one-one and texted Captain Murphy. Tony took off his jacket and Jesse did the same. They laid them on the floor and helped Agnes lie on top of them. The sound of footsteps from above broke the silence.

  “Agnes!” a shrill cry echoed through the catacomb.

  “Mother!” Agnes called back as loudly as she could.

  Martha rushed to her daughter’s side and kneeled beside her, stroking her face.

  “I came right from the hospital.”

  “From the hospital?” Tony asked. “Did you tell anyone where you were going?”

  “I don’t know. I was so confused when they couldn’t find Agnes’s name,” Martha explained. “Maybe the desk nurse or Doctor Frey.”

  “Frey?” Tony asked nervously.

  Jesse locked eyes with the bodyguard. They both knew what that meant. It was just a matter of time now before the vandals arrived. They could only hope Murphy’s men arrived before Frey’s. Martha was frantic, begging her daughter to leave.

  “You need to get out of here, Agnes, to where they can help you.”

  “I’m not leaving here, Mother.”

  The tone of Agnes’s voice was not defiant, but resigned. The statement, Jesse thought, was as pregnant with meaning as Agnes herself.

  “No way she can move in her condition. The EMTs are on the way. And the police,” Jesse said.

  “The police? Why?” Martha asked.

  Before he could get his answer out, the sound of footsteps could once again be heard above. Even from the cellar chapel he could tell it was more than just one person. Loud shouts told Jesse this was not the EMT or the police.

  “I’ll check it out,” Tony said, heading toward the steps. “Don’t move.”

  Jesse fingered the gun in his waistband and nodded.

  As the sound of the ruckus above grew nearer, the situation in the chapel grew more desperate as well.

  “Push, Agnes!” Martha shouted.

  Agnes wailed in pain, using every ounce of the strength she had left to push. Tony rushed back through the door to warn them.

  “They’re here.”

  Jesse knew from the look on his face that it was not good. He drew his weapon as the sound of sirens began to fill the air. The cops would be there soon, he figured, but probably not soon enough. Agnes was straining and weakening fast. He bent down and whispered to her.

  “Don’t be afraid.”

  The words were more powerful than any others he could have spoken to her. She found the strength to continue. Martha felt Agnes’s belly for signs of contraction and told her when to push. She grasped her mother’s hands tightly and bore down once again. Agnes strained and began to bleed.

  “It’s coming,” Martha cried. “The baby is coming!”

  Jesse reached over near Cecilia’s casket and grabbed the iron bow she’d used to kill Daniel Less. He tossed it
to Tony, who stepped outside the door and closed it tight behind him. He faced the four vandals who were now at the top of the stone staircase, approaching him fast, like hellhounds, like barbarians at his gate. He had been a doorman, after all. The best in the city and he knew how to keep an exclusive space tightly guarded. “C’mon, you sons of bitches! I’m standing here.”

  They rushed him at once and he let out a terrifying cry, a war cry, and swung the bar, like a designated hitter, for the fences. Psalms that his grandfather had taught him as a young boy for protection against the local bullies spilled from his mouth. Words he had not spoken since childhood came to him as if he’d learned them only yesterday. It was as if the martyred souls of the chapel rose up within him. Empowering him.

  “Eripe me de inimicis meis, Deus, et ab insurgentibus in me libera me.”

  (Deliver me from my enemies, O my God, and defend me from them that rise up against me.)

  The bow struck the first vandal, smashing his face to pieces like an overripe watermelon. As the first dropped to the floor, the second approached. Tony brought the bow over his head and slammed it down, splitting the enemy’s skull; pieces of bone and brain sprayed him. He thrust the rod through the vandal’s chest for good measure, but before he could withdraw it, the last two were upon him.

  “Avertet mala inimicis meis; in veritate tua disperde illos.”

  (Turn back the evils upon my enemies; and cut them off in thy truth.)

  He barely felt the first knife tear through his skin. Or the second. Blood poured from his chest and out his mouth as the vandals stabbed him over and over. He grabbed them each by the throat, smashing the backs of their heads against the stone walls and choking them with all his might, keeping them at bay until he heard the sound he’d been waiting for—the cries of a newborn—before he expired.

  The sound of life in the chapel contrasted to the life draining from his own body and the vandals’ as Tony crushed their windpipes in a last heroic act. He laughed a bloody laugh at the loud cries of Agnes’s baby, released his grip on the dead men, and slumped to the floor with a loud thud. Jesse knew the sudden silence beyond the door could mean only one thing.

  “God bless you, Tony,” Jesse whispered sadly, speaking his friend’s name with gratitude and respect.