by Tonya Hurley
“Why am I here?”
“You are here to answer questions.”
“What questions?”
“The Church’s questions,” he declared.
“You mean your questions, don’t you?”
The cardinal retreated to the desk and chose a file, the one marked Lucy. He picked up his bag and placed it on a small table in front of her.
“Let’s just say for our purposes here, I am the Church.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I am charged with a great responsibility. You see, my congratio was known at one time as the Holy Office of the Inquisition.”
Lucy didn’t fully grasp his meaning. The whole ludicrous farce, being hunted, attacked, kidnapped. Inquisitors and mad scientists. It was all too surreal.
“So you’ve come to excommunicate me?” she asked incredulously. “Or exorcise me?”
“An exorcist’s job is to extract demons.”
“But you have come to extract a confession, isn’t that right?” she presumed.
The cardinal opened his bag and removed several vintage implements and placed them on the table. Lucy eyed each of the ancient instruments of torture, sensing their purpose.
“I have come to find out the truth.”
Cecilia and Agnes met at Perpetual Help to visit Jesse and to check on Lucy.
“It’s past visiting hours. Only family are permitted,” the nurse advised.
“We are family,” Agnes said.
The nurse looked over at Dr. Moss, who saw Cecilia and Agnes and nodded affirmatively to let them in. The girls walked toward the back of the ER. It was grim and busy as ever. Buzzing with life-support machinery, smelling vaguely of drying blood, warm vomit, and disinfectant. They stepped into the curtained space and saw Jesse, but not Lucy. He was motionless, several pints of blood and an IV tethered to him, gauzed and bandaged, wrapped tightly in sheets and blankets to keep him warm.
“He looks bad,” Agnes whispered, tears in her eyes.
“But he’s alive,” Cecilia said hopefully. “Let’s not mourn him yet.”
Agnes sat next to him and spoke. Encouraging him. Thanking him. Praying for him. Fussing over him. Cecilia checked his chart and his meds, the names of his doctors, and the frequency of his examinations. They behaved like advocates. Caretakers. Roles they had no experience with, but seemed to come naturally, almost instinctively, now.
Time passed and Lucy had not shown up.
“Where do you think she is?” Cecilia asked, rubbing her hand.
“I don’t know. I’ll text her.”
“I need a cigarette.”
“I’ll come with you,” Agnes said.
They headed down the hall for the exit, smiling at the desk nurse who’d let them through.
“Have you seen anyone else in the room this evening?”
“We were supposed to meet our friend here.”
Once again, Dr. Moss intervened. “Lucy Ambrose was here a little while ago.”
“She stepped outside and that was the last I saw of her,” the nurse added.
“Thanks,” Cecilia said, taking Agnes by the arm and walking toward the lobby. “I don’t like this.” Just as the words were tumbling from Cecilia’s mouth, Agnes face filled with surprise. She pulled CeCe toward the wall, out of sight.
“It’s Frey,” Agnes said.
The doctor was wearing his coat and carrying his oversize satchel, obviously leaving for the night.
“Where do you think he’s going?” Cecilia wondered.
“And what’s in the bag?” Agnes asked.
Sister Dorothea was awoken by a sharp knock at her door. “Sister!”
The nun rose, put on her robe, and rushed to answer the urgent rapping. She checked her clock and noticed it was long past midnight. “What is it?”
“A call from a neighbor of Jude’s foster family. They need you to come right away.”
“Did they say what was the matter?”
“No,” the novitiate informed. “I took the liberty of calling the car service for you.”
“Thank you,” Sister Dorothea said. “I’ll be down in just a moment.”
The nun dressed and arrived in the foyer of the convent just as her car pulled up. She got in and gave the driver an address in Carroll Gardens, not very far away. Even in the few minutes it took to get there, the street was already filled with police and emergency vehicles and an ambulance from Perpetual Help. Sister Dorothea feared the worst. She exited the vehicle and ran quickly down the block as fast as her legs would take her.
The closer she got to the modest home, the more worried she became; the only two sounds reaching her were sirens and a distinct high-pitched squeal, one she recognized as Jude’s. Police barricades and tape had already been erected. Neighbors’ homes were being hastily evacuated. Local news trucks were on the scene, beginning to raise their satellite dishes and unload their correspondents. It was officially a crime scene. Sister Dorothea pressed forward, getting as close as she could before running into a wall of blue.
“That’s as far as you go, Sister.”
“What’s happened here officer?”
“Gas leak. Took out almost the whole family. Shame.”
Sister Dorothea was in shock. “Almost?”
“There’s a kid in there screaming. He’s off the rails. We’re trying to get him under control, but he’s got a knife.”
“Jude,” Sister Dorothea said.
The block was cordoned off and NYPD officers were crouched behind their vehicles, guns drawn.
“I know the boy, Officer. I can help you.”
“I’m sorry, Sister, but this is an active crime scene. Leave this to the professionals.”
An unmarked car pulled up and Captain Murphy jumped out, taking charge.
“What do we got?” he barked.
“Gas leak. Suspicious. Three dead. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Young boy inside. Armed. Resisting.”
“He’s not resisting. He’s scared. He’s disabled, Captain. Autistic,” Dorothea advised, intruding on the conversation.
“You know the boy?”
“Yes, I’ve taught him,” she advised. “He will listen to me.”
“All right, come with me.” Murphy took the nun gently by the arm and escorted her slowly to the front door, where several more armed officers were positioned. She stepped through the front door and Jude let out a horrible wail. She’d heard it before. On playgrounds when noisy garbage trucks rolled through, or when the jackhammer pistons of Con Ed workers tore up the street, or when someone unexpectedly sneezed. When Jude was overloaded, he was impossible to reason with, in total fight-or-flight mode. At school, it might just warrant a trip to the nurse’s office; now it could mean a trip to the morgue.
“Jude,” she called out.
The only response she got was the reflective glint of the overhead kitchen light from the blade of his knife, which he was brandishing menacingly.
“Jude, it’s Sister Dorothea,” she said. “Please come out. The police won’t hurt you.”
Still nothing from the boy.
“Sister, we’re out of time. This whole place could blow.”
Murphy motioned for his men to come closer.
“Jude,” she called out desperately a third time.
The boy stepped into view, shaking and unsteady. Overwhelmed by his raw emotion and the odorless gas, which still permeated the home.
“It’s okay. It’s okay, Jude.”
Murphy signaled for his men to stand down temporarily. Sister Dorothea got down on her knees and opened her arms to the boy, who inched forward, still holding the knife. She could see tears running down his cheek. He stepped closer, and the officers raised their Tasers, ready to fire.
Jude dropped the knife and ran into Sister Dorothea’s arms.
“Thank God,” she cried.
She began to sob, relieved that the danger to the boy was over and overcome for the loss of his family. She brushed the hair from hi
s face and the tears from his eyes, and after a moment stood and turned to face Captain Murphy.
“I’ll take him back to the convent with me, at least for tonight.”
“No, Sister, you won’t.”
“This boy is traumatized. Surely you aren’t going to arrest him? He can’t answer any of your questions.”
“We ran a background check on the family and the kid. He’s in the city system. Under psychiatric care at Perpetual Help.”
“But, Captain.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have the authority to release him to you or anyone.”
“Who does have the authority?”
“Says on his paperwork he is a patient of . . . Alan Frey,” Murphy informed her, surprised that Frey would be listed in the child’s file as physician of record. “I’m sure they’ll send him up there after the ER checks him out. You can speak to him in the morning.”
At the mention of Frey’s name, Jude became agitated once again and began to run. Two officers blocked his path and grabbed him, carrying him to the ambulance sent from Perpetual Help. The boy was placed on a gurney and restrained as Sister Dorothea called out to him reassuringly. The whole scene was violent. Tears welled up at the sight of him fighting to be let go. Jude knew what was waiting for him. Mercilessly he cried, like a lamb to the slaughter, as Sister Dorothea stood there helplessly. The rear door was slammed shut on the emergency vehicle. It peeled away, siren blasting, drowning out Jude’s last desperate wails.
Murphy ordered his men and the crew from the medical examiner’s office into the house to go about their dismal duties of collecting bodies and collecting evidence.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Sister Dorothea pleaded. “Please, let me help?”
“There is one way you can help.” Murphy answered.
“I’ll do anything.”
“Say your prayers.”
The cardinal studied closely the disheveled girl before him. She was unkempt but unbowed, sitting bolt upright, defiant, unafraid, not a tear in her eyes. Lucy was undeniably attractive and appealing, more so in person, he thought. Even a man of his advanced age, having taken a vow of chastity long ago, could not help but be moved by her. Her inner fortitude and outward beauty were a compelling and powerful mix. He understood almost instantly why she’d been so successful in transmitting her message. She had chosen her career wisely. Sebastian, too, had chosen wisely. Lucy was not one to wither in the limelight.
“Tell me about Sebastian,” the prefect asked.
“What do you want to know?”
“A question is not an answer to a question.”
“He was a beautiful, kind, and wonderful guy,” Lucy said. “A saint.”
“A saint?” DeCarlo recoiled. “He was accused of kidnapping and murder.”
“Lies,” Lucy spit. “Those files aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.”
“You acknowledge he was confined in the hospital,” DeCarlo continued, “under a psychiatrist’s care?”
“A psychiatrist?” Lucy mocked.
“Do you doubt Dr. Frey’s credentials?”
“His degree as a psychiatrist or his past as a priest? I dispute them both.”
DeCarlo seemed surprised that Lucy possessed this knowledge.
“You are not in a position to dispute anything,” DeCarlo reminded ominously.
Lucy struggled with the bindings, roaring at the prefect.
“Sebastian wasn’t crazy, if that’s what you mean.”
“We no longer use such terminology, my dear. The official diagnosis I see here was schizophrenia and bipolar disorder.”
“You can’t trust any of it.”
“False claims are made all the time, sins committed, particularly the sins of pride and vanity, Miss Ambrose. And it is upon me to expose them and root them out. For the good of the faithful, you understand.”
Lucy was beginning to understand. DeCarlo was not sent to investigate her and the others. He was there to indict them. “I don’t claim anything.”
“Yes, well the problem is that others do,” he countered. “Those who follow you, those whose modesty is not as evident or evolved as yours. They seek an answer to the troubles, but they are looking in the wrong place.”
“They find something to relate to in us as we found in Sebastian. Something they aren’t getting elsewhere in their lives. Is that so wrong?”
“Something to relate to?” he pondered, reviewing her file. “You are a vain, drunken, self-serving egomaniac, a profiteer and a profligate, with delusions of sainthood. The very definition of a blasphemer.”
“I am me. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“One man with a new idea and twelve followers from a tiny town in Judea brought down an empire and changed the world for all time. It is not you that concerns me. It is the idea of you.”
“Don’t blame me because so many have lost faith in you.”
“On the contrary, Miss Ambrose,” DeCarlo explained coldly. “I’m happy to trade the unpredictable, the disaffected, the disillusioned, for the docile, the obedient.”
“You’re as bad as Dr. Frey,” Lucy shouted. “I thought you would protect us, that you would understand.”
“You will have the chance to compare and contrast soon enough,” the cardinal informed.
A buzzing in Lucy’s purse interrupted the question and answer session. He reached into her purse and removed her phone. On the screen a signal text. From Cecilia: Where the hell r u?
The cardinal replied, typing in a Madison Avenue address as Lucy struggled to free herself of the bindings on her wrist.
“The doctor is on his way. And now, so are your friends.”
“Follow that car,” CeCe told the gypsy-cab driver.
Frey’s sedan was already halfway to Atlantic Avenue. Agnes and Cecilia’s only prayer of keeping up was the fact that it was late and traffic was light. As both cars crossed the Manhattan Bridge into the Lower East Side and headed up the Bowery, Cecilia received a reply to her text.
“What does it say?” Agnes asked.
“It says ‘come quickly,’ and there’s an uptown Madison Avenue address.”
Agnes punched the address into her phone search engine. She was stunned at the result. It was the direction they were already headed.
“It’s the archbishop’s residence,” Agnes said. “What would she be doing there?”
“That’s what I wanna know,” CeCe said. “And, what’s Frey going there for?”
Cecilia grabbed Agnes’s hand and they sped toward what they felt was their destiny.
“It’s a trap,” Agnes mused.
“Probably, but it doesn’t matter,” Cecilia agreed. “Does it? Lucy needs us.”
They were silent for the remainder of the ride. Watching Frey’s car bounce along the potholed avenue, eventually arriving at its destination. They weren’t following so much as being led.
“Stop here,” Cecilia said to the driver when they were half a block from the residence.
They waited until Frey got out of his car. He was met by several men, and they all entered the building. Agnes and Cecilia got out of their cab and walked guardedly toward the front doors. They were unlocked.
“Just like Precious Blood and Born Again,” Cecilia said. “We’re expected.”
Lucy could sense the cardinal becoming increasingly impatient with her. He got closer and began to run his fingers lovingly along the instruments he’d removed from his bag. He picked up a bottle of holy water and sprinkled her with it. Lucy blinked as the droplets dripped from her forehead and ran down her face like a stream of tears.
“Did you expect me to catch fire?” she said.
“No, I expect you to be forgiven,” DeCarlo said. “Even a heretic deserves as much.”
“I expect no forgiveness from you and I ask for none,” Lucy rebuffed. “I’ll leave it to a higher authority.”
DeCarlo was irritated by the challenge to his priestly power. “Do you know the story o
f Saint Lucy?” DeCarlo asked sternly. “The virgin martyr whose legend you dare to claim? Whose legend you stain with your every breath?”
“I do,” she said, fearlessly. “Do you?”
“You seek to wrap yourself in a legacy without any of the sacrifice.”
“And you wrap yourself in the mantle of respectability and holiness. Which of us is the bigger hypocrite?”
“The martyrs did not march off into the sunset as in some glorious Hollywood finale,” DeCarlo explained. “They suffered!”
“For what they believed,” Lucy answered.
“Stop this foolishness,” DeCarlo shouted. “Save yourself.”
Lucy laughed quietly at the cardinal’s admonition.
The door flew open suddenly and Dr. Frey walked in. He greeted them both casually, as if nothing extraordinary was happening.
“Cardinal,” he said. “Miss Ambrose. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Lucy stared daggers at him.
“Any news of the investigator?”
“Our time is short,” DeCarlo assured him.
Frey opened his satchel and removed a canister from the bag.
It contained Sebastian’s heart. He held it up, taunting her.
“Is this what you’ve been looking for?”
Lucy was overwhelmed but kept her cool.
The cardinal pointed to a large sack on the floor at Lucy’s feet, and Frey reached for it. He held it up, getting a sense of its weight, and placed it in his satchel, into the space the heart had occupied.
“These funds will be put to good use,” Frey noted. “We are planning a new Born Again facility in the city.”
“More soldiers for your psycho army,” Lucy snapped. “You call yourself a doctor.”
“Don’t be so judgmental,” Frey responded snidely. “It’s just brand extension. Surely you can appreciate that.”
“You’re a disgrace,” Lucy shot back.
Cardinal DeCarlo interrupted. “Saint Lucy’s eyes were torn from her by her own hand, rather than deny her faith and her virtue. She took her most attractive trait out of her head with her own fingers,” DeCarlo said. “From her empty sockets fell tears of milk and honey. Her’s was a brutal and painful death for her beliefs.”