Precious Blood

by Tonya Hurley

  “I know you,” Cecilia sniffed. “You’re that evil little blogger douche. Right, Lucy?”

  “That’s him,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted nothing to do with you?”

  “He’s your friend,” Cecilia said. “You take care of this.”

  “He’s not a friend.”

  “Look, I know you hate me,” Jesse began. “But I’m here to help you. All of you.”

  “I . . . we don’t need your help.”

  “We? Are you choosing sides now? This is not a game, Lucy. He is not who you think he is.”

  “Okay, who is he, then?” Cecilia scoffed, grabbing a brass candlesnuffer and handing it off to Sebastian as he walked slowly, threateningly toward Jesse. “You have ten seconds.”

  “Yes,” Sebastian said. “Who am I?”

  “He is insane,” Jesse stammered, pointing at Sebastian. “Delusional.”

  With each invective hurled, each accusation made, Sebastian took a step closer.

  “He escaped from the mental hospital on Halloween.”

  “Did Frey send you?” Sebastian asked, now close enough for Jesse to see the intensity in Sebastian’s eyes.

  “Send me?” Jesse bristled. “I’m nobody’s butt boy. I was worried about Lucy. He told me what he knew.”

  “Told you what he wanted you to know,” Sebastian mocked. “What else did he say?”

  “That you’re a murderer,” Jesse screeched, as Sebastian got within inches of his face.

  “He’s a liar!” Sebastian shouted right in Jesse’s face, putting the fear of God into him.

  The light from the altar candle caught the bell cup on the snuffer as Sebastian raised it shoulder high. It gleamed like a guillotine blade about to do its swift and bloody duty. Jesse swallowed hard. Something inside Sebastian seemed to snap. The girls could see his expression change and harden before their eyes.

  “I could split your loser skull.” Sebastian grimaced.

  Sebastian took the brass bar and pressed it against Jesse’s throat.

  “Are you going to kill me now too?” Jesse said, gasping. “Which one of them is next?”

  Lucy had seen two guys she knew fight over her before, but never with so much at stake. She cared about Jesse enough not to let Sebastian hurt him and about Sebastian too much to let him do something foolish.

  She came up behind Sebastian and touched his arm, signaling a reprieve for Jesse.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Please.”

  Sebastian slammed the snuffer to the ground and stepped back. The rattling of the metal against the marble floor had them reaching for their ears.

  Jesse exhaled slowly and kept his eyes on Sebastian as he beckoned to Lucy. “He’s crazy, Lucy. And dangerous. You need to get out of here. Away from him.”

  “You lie for a living,” Lucy reminded him. “Why would we believe you?”

  “You don’t have to take my word for it,” Jesse said, reaching for his smartphone on the floor. “See for yourself.” Jesse swiped the touch screen and the app for his blog opened. He handed it to Lucy. She read the lead item he’d written, over and over, and followed the links to far more reputable outlets. Agnes and Cecilia came over and read it as well.

  “It’s all over the place already,” Jesse said. “Newspaper, TV. Looking for you. And him.”

  “Thanks to you, no doubt,” Cecilia said.

  “I don’t believe it,” Agnes whispered as she and Cecilia finished reading. “Sebastian, is this true?”

  “No, but does that matter?” he said. “People will believe it because they want to believe it.”

  “Who would you believe?” Jesse pushed back. “Some brooding squatter in an abandoned church or the chief of psychiatry at Perpetual Help Hospital?”

  “Dr. Frey?” Agnes said.

  “Yeah,” Jesse said.

  “That’s my doctor.”

  “What a coincidence,” Jesse said, sarcastically eyeing her wrapped wrists. “His too.”

  Jesse had put Sebastian on trial and he railed like a prosecutor seeking to undermine the defendant’s credibility. Assembling a case, piece by indisputable piece, until the big picture was undeniable. He was in the right place for a sermon. He moved back toward the doors as he made his charges, just in case.

  Sebastian remained silent.

  “You were all in the emergency room the night he escaped from the psych ward, and now you’re all here. Another coincidence?”

  Little by little, Jesse was getting through to them.

  “And those bracelets he gave to you? The ones on your wrists. He stole them. From the chapel. They’re ancient. Priceless. Relics of some kind. Do you think he could afford them?”

  “Shut up, Jesse!” Lucy shouted.

  “He’s not denying it, so why should you defend him?”

  Agnes was nearly in tears. “Sebastian, is this true?”

  “You never did tell me what you were doing at the hospital that night,” Cecilia said, looking to him for an explanation.

  “Why were you there?” Lucy joined. “Tell us.”

  Sebastian did not speak.

  Jesse was emboldened and he felt their resolve weaken.

  “I’ll tell you,” Jesse continued. “He was in lockdown. Committed. Refused treatment.”

  “Treatment for what?” Agnes asked.

  “I’m not a doctor, but I think the medical term is ‘lunatic.’ He thinks—”

  “He thinks what?” Cecilia interrupted.

  “Hasn’t he told you?” Jesse said, unsuccessfully attempting to stifle a cackle that rose up and bounced around the walls of the church. “He thinks he is a saint.”

  Lucy rushed Jesse and knocked him against the back wall; his back smashed against the empty holy water font. All the pent-up rage and frustration at him and herself spewed from her. She grabbed him by the balls and squeezed. Hard.

  “You jealous lying little bitch,” Lucy said, as Jesse moaned in pain. “Always sticking your nose in other people’s business, ruining lives.”

  “It’s all true, Lucy. You’re brainwashed. Or drugged.”

  “Does anyone else know where we are?” she said through her clenched teeth.

  “No, no,” Jesse said, breathless and beginning to heave.

  “Good. And you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “I swear. I won’t.”

  “You swear? I’m not impressed,” she said, twisting just a little harder.

  “Let him go,” Sebastian said.

  Lucy stepped back and Jesse fell to his knees at Sebastian’s feet, gagging and coughing.

  “You’re going to let me leave?” Jesse asked incredulously. “How do you know I won’t call the police as soon as I split?”

  “I don’t,” Sebastian said, handing Jesse his cell phone, turning his back on him.

  Lucy stood alone, eye-to-eye with Jesse, who wiped the spittle and humiliation from his chin. “He hasn’t done anything. I have decided to open my own eyes.”

  Jesse had seen this look of purpose and determination many times before. But never with this intensity. She was different.

  “Come with me,” Jesse said, making one last pitch. “We can turn this cult-bride thing around. You are trending bigger than ever.”

  “It’s only curiosity,” Lucy said. “Just get out of here. The sight of you makes me hate myself.”

  “You need me,” he said unconvincingly, like a needy ex-boyfriend kicked to the curb.

  “I used to think so.”

  Her rejection turned his insecurity into stone-cold spite.

  “You know what? Stay here and play haunted homeless with that murderer. Next thing I write about you will be your obituary.”

  “Make sure you use a good picture,” Lucy sniped.

  She walked closer to him. Put her face in his. “I saved your life just now, Jesse. I won’t do it again. If you tell anyone where we are,” she said, grabbing him by the balls one last time for good measure and forcing him up on his tiptoes, “I will
kill you.”

  He’d longed for her to look deep into his eyes. But not like this.

  Lucy turned away from him and walked toward the others as he made his way through the wreckage of the storm, to the exit. She didn’t need to see Jesse go. She knew he wouldn’t stick around after that.

  “Jesse might be a lot of things,” Lucy argued. “But brave is not one of them. It took a lot for him to come here and say what he did. Now it’s your turn to confess.”

  His truth spilled out. A truth that was beyond belief.

  “You are blessed. Chosen. Each of you,” he said over folded hands. “It’s what led you here.”

  “Blessed by who? Dead railroad workers?” Lucy asked. “Is that what you expect us to believe?”

  “Look, I’m not here to judge you,” Cecilia continued. “But mental hospitals and murder don’t exactly speak to credibility.”

  “Just tell us the truth,” Agnes pleaded, taking his hand.

  “The truth is inside you now as it is in me. There is nothing else I can say.”

  There was really nothing left for any of them to say.

  “No more riddles. No more wasted time. The truth is you’re crazy and you’ve made us crazy too,” Lucy said.

  “There has always been something inside. Something that has made you feel different. I felt that too. There is more to this life for you, and deep down you’ve always sensed that. You don’t have to struggle or feel frustrated anymore. That is what brought you here. And that is why you stayed.”

  The room fell dead silent.

  “No, that is why I’m leaving,” Lucy said.

  Cecilia agreed reluctantly. “The storm is over. It’s time to go.”

  “My mom must be worried sick,” Agnes said sheepishly, letting her hand slip from his. “Don’t worry. We won’t tell a soul.”

  The three removed their chaplets, collected their things, and headed up the aisle like runaway brides. They squeezed through the doorway and disappeared into the glowing light of dawn.

  Jesse stared at the blinking cursor for so long he felt nearly hypnotized by it. Paralyzed was probably more like it. His voice mail, which he was playing over and over, was filling up with messages from the cops asking for a meeting. The tone was getting decidedly less cordial.

  The story was fresh in his mind. He knew exactly what he wanted to say but not if he really wanted to say it. It wasn’t the threats from Lucy, although he’d never seen her quite so adamant before. It was just an uneasy feeling he had ever since he’d left the church, a feeling of disquiet and uncertainty. Sebastian was clearly deranged, but deadly?

  He definitely got Sebastian’s appeal to the girls. Sexy, smart, sinister, misunderstood, Byronic good looks, and a whiff of tragedy around him, he was the entire package. He wouldn’t need to drug or brainwash them to keep them around. Jesse had written too many stories about far lesser local ladykillers and their “way out of his league” conquests to buy that. Especially now that he’d met him, or at least confronted him.

  There was always the possibility, he thought, that he had not met the “real” Sebastian. Criminals and lunatics were consummate cons after all, and according to Dr. Frey, Sebastian was both. Bloggers weren’t far behind, so he could sympathize. It was perhaps the only way in which he could relate to Sebastian. He didn’t have the rugged looks or the seductive personality, but he had the desire, the need to get his point across. And of the many tales he’d told about Lucy—true and not—none was more important than this one. The ones before were to give her a life. This one was to save it. So why couldn’t he bring himself to write it?

  The only thing he could figure was that maybe Lucy was right. Maybe she was contagious. Maybe he was growing a conscience too. Jesse searched his contact list and hit send on his cell.

  “Dr. Frey, please.”

  Sebastian sat up from the hard wooden pew he’d been lying on and stretched his arms outward. He breathed in and exhaled deeply and more easily than before. The dampness had subsided along with the bad weather, and the mildewy mist that hung throughout the church like moldy drapes had dissipated. The place was empty again, as it had been when he arrived. His closest companions were once again the hammers, saws, rats, and roaches that littered the once gleaming and holy space.

  He missed Lucy.

  He missed Cecilia.

  He missed Agnes.

  But the time for wallowing was long gone. He grabbed the chaplets they’d left behind and headed for the sacristy.

  Sebastian noted the vestments scattered about. It looked more like the changing room at a trendy Smith Street shop than a priest’s preparation room. Indeed, he thought, the girls left their mark on this place as much as was left on them. Pulling open the doorway to the ossuary stairs, he paused and thought of Agnes and her struggle to turn the heavy knob and of the many struggles that lay ahead.

  He took the stairs down to the ossuary slowly, experiencing the descent, feeling each step beneath his feet before dropping to the next. He stepped through the chapel door and walked directly under the enormous bone chandelier and to the center kneeler. It is as sturdy and solid as the day it was made. From red dogwood, like the ones that lined the gardens of the church outside, now sick, diseased, and dying. A perfect wood for making weapons or wagons or crosses.

  Red dogwoods, weeping dogwoods, pink dogwoods, all planted to honor the long-forgotten men who died there and the saints they died for. These were special. They bloomed in the fall, near the start of November. The air was heavy with the scent of incense still smoldering in the metal urn and the dogwood flowers that he’d managed to gather from trees that had fallen through the windows.

  Looking up, he gazed upon the name of his enemy. Their enemy. The name he’d scrawled across the chapel walls.

  CIPHER.

  Frey was winning. There was no doubt about it. All without lifting a finger. Sebastian was on the run. Abandoned. Renounced. Lucy, Cecilia, and Agnes were gone. Lonely as it was without them, he couldn’t also help but feel relieved. If they were away from him, they might still be kept safe. It was cold comfort, but it was all he had after what he’d done to them, the danger he’d put them in. He’d done his best. He’d delivered his message as he was charged. Whether they would accept his word he didn’t know. His fate was sealed. Theirs was still in their own hands.

  Sebastian returned the chaplets to the glass reliquary box that he’d taken them from, bowed his head, and reflected, preparing himself. Instead of finding peace, all he could conjure inside of himself was despair. And anger.

  “I failed.”

  He kicked over the kneelers, screaming at the top of his voice.

  “What more do you want from me?” Sebastian raged, toppling the iron maiden and flinging the other instruments of mortification around the room.

  “I’ve done what you asked. Given my heart, my soul, my mind! For what?”

  He stepped onto the altar and reached for the Legenda and snatched it from its stand.

  “Pain! Rejection! Death!”

  He raised the weighty tome over his head and spied the glass reliquary housing the chaplets. About to smash it to bits.

  He felt hands on his shoulders. Strong hands. An invisible touch bolstering him in this moment of agony. He felt his lungs empty and chest squeeze, as if he were being crushed in a landslide. He lowered the book and returned it gently to the altar.

  Out of the haze, on the altar before him, appeared the faintest outline of three figures. Men. They were workers, each holding a tool of his trade. A shovel, a pick, and an ax.

  He’d seen them before. They were the ones who told him. About himself. About the chaplets. About the girls. At the time, he gathered it might have been a dream or a nightmare but not anymore. It was too late anyway.

  “Forgive me for my weakness,” he begged, dropping to his knees, preparing for punishment.

  They raised their tools. Not to strike him but to salute him. A gesture of encouragement and respect.

&n
bsp; “You have done well,” one said. “You are an honor to your line.”

  “Your time is at hand,” another warned.

  “Peace be yours,” said the last.

  The shadowy figures went as quickly as they’d come. Sebastian was heartened by their faith in him and strengthened in his faith in himself.

  “I am ready.”

  Frey was busy, barely noticing the young man already seated in his office and waiting for him, when he backed through the doorway still in conversation with a colleague. Jesse’s ego could tolerate rude treatment but not being ignored.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the distracted doctor said. “I’d forgotten our appointment. I’ve just got a second.”

  “I’ve seen them.”

  “I’m listening,” Frey answered, slowly sitting behind his desk, eyes focused intently on Jesse.

  “That guy Sebastian is a lunatic,” Jesse rambled, averting his eyes from the doctor’s gaze. “Raving. Just like you said. And he’s wearing off on the others.”

  “How so?” Frey inquired, both his curiosity and his analytical self now entirely engaged.

  “Stockholm syndrome. Totally. Wild-eyed. I’ve never seen Lucy like that. So protective of someone else.”

  “Impressive,” Frey admitted. “I’ll confirm your diagnosis for the updated story. Off the record, of course.”

  “The police are anxious to know where I’ve been getting such detailed information,” Jesse said. “I’m not sure how much longer I can avoid them.”

  Jesse was looking for a reaction.

  “Now that you know where they are, it’s game over. The police will be satisfied to find them, and you will share the credit. A win-win.”

  “You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you, Doctor?”

  “It’s not brain surgery, is it?” Frey said straight-faced. A psychiatrist joke. And not a very funny one. The unspoken beneficiary here, Jesse surmised, was not the girls, or the police, or even him. It was Frey. He’d deftly kept his fingerprints off this whole thing but gotten exactly what he’d wanted. Almost.

  “So. Where are they?”

  “Here’s the thing,” Jesse said, a bit self-righteously. “I’m not going to tell them. Or you.”