Passionaries Page 8

  “I’m ready,” Bill whispered to her with his last breath, holding on to the forgiveness she just granted him.

  She held him, rocking him back and forth. “I’m sorry, Bill. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” he said, “for loving such an unlovable man. . . .”

  His voice trailed off and his eyes became fixed on hers and then on the sky.

  “No!” Cecilia screamed over his lifeless body.

  A few heads popped warily out of loft windows to check out the commotion, and in seconds the air was filled with the sound of sirens. She lingered over the old man, kneeling beside him, crying, her blood-soaked palms turned upward, resting on her thighs.

  “What happened?” a passerby said, waving at the squad cars fast approaching.

  “He’s gone.” Cecilia wailed. Still holding him tight. The blood from her hands mixing with the blood draining from his neck.

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “I do,” Cecilia whispered.

  3 Agnes entered the front door and retreated quietly to her bedroom, still reeling from her night.

  “Agnes?” Martha shouted sharply.

  “Night, Mother,” she called back, confirming that it wasn’t some random intruder traipsing across the living room.

  “Morning, you mean,” came the grumpy and disapproving reply.

  She closed her bedroom door without further explanation. She expected a follow-up knock, but it never came. The fact that she was home seemed sufficient for Martha on this night. Agnes didn’t want to talk, anyway. After all, what could she say about where she’d been and what she’d been doing?

  Oh, Mom, I was just out helping a terminally ill woman die tonight, and then I went to Cecilia’s show and she almost got killed . . . oh and then I ran into my dead boyfriend. Good night. Love you.

  Agnes stripped off her clothes and put on a cream robe with a delicate gray feather print. She grabbed the tablet computer from her desk and sat down on the floor in a corner of the room, her back to the wall. This way she could be sure no one could see her through the curtained windows, a sign of both increasing paranoia and heightened caution. However, the sensation she was feeling most acutely now was curiosity. Curiosity about the boy, Jude.

  Agnes’s fingertips swiped and tapped at the glass screen as she filled the search box with the words “Saint Jude.” Results for hospitals, charitable organizations, and churches filled the page, but it was the biography that she was most interested in.

  “One of the twelve apostles . . . farmer by trade . . . preached the gospel throughout the Middle East . . . martyred in 65 AD.”

  “‘Patron saint of lost causes and desperate cases,’” she read aloud, just as Sebastian had said.

  Lost causes. Desperate cases.

  Which was she? Were they? Was the situation? The heart? A desperate case? A lost cause? Maybe both and all of the above. She wondered how Lucy and Cecilia were coping with what went down. Her frustration grew deeper the more she thought about it. Maybe the Precious Blood thing was some kind of cruel joke Sebastian had played on them. Inviting them to attend his suicide party. Had he cast her as the virgin sister-wife? Was there a message in there for them? For her?

  She continued to read aloud. “ ‘Jude Thaddeus is The Miraculous Saint.’ ” That was it, she thought. Jude gave her the chaplet, which led her to Sebastian, to love, and tonight, to the dying woman. To her purpose. He had interceded in her life in a miraculous way. Maybe he was the one that could lead her to Sebastian’s heart again. “And a little child shall lead them,” Agnes murmured softly.

  You can come in.”

  Lucy entered. The room was white, misted over, and smelled of ether. She was enveloped, her vision obscured, eyes burning. She tried to follow the voice calling out to her. “Where?”

  “This way.”

  “I’m coming.”

  She could barely see.

  Lucy moved forward tentatively at first, her hand thrust out defensively in front of her, trying to sweep away the dense vapor. Each time she took a step she found her way blocked, stopped in her tracks, dead-ended. Exasperated, she turned around and ran, smashing her head into yet another wall.

  She rubbed at her forehead and wiped at her eyes, tearing from fog and frustration, trying to clear them. Looking down, she noticed that her chaplet was missing.

  “Don’t touch your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “This room is sterile. Pure.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” Lucy said. “I’m having trouble seeing where I’m supposed to be going.”

  “You are getting closer.”

  The fog thinned slightly. She spied a sign on a door that read MORBID ANATOMY. Lucy followed the voice through the haze and through the door to a table with a water basin, a towel, and a pair of latex gloves.

  She washed each of her hands and dried them quickly.

  “Put them on.”

  Lucy complied, slipping her hands inside one and then the other, stretching each over her fingers and rolling it down to her wrists.

  Jars, boxes, and labeled display cases lined the walls.

  ST. PHILOMENA, VIRGIN AND MARTYR—EX OSSIBUS (BONE)

  ST. BARBARA OF NICOMEDIA, VIRGIN AND MARTYR—EX ULNA BRACHI DEPTRI (MUSCLE)

  ST. CLARE OF MONTEFALCO—EX VELO (VEIL)

  ST. TERESA OF AVILA—EX VESTE (VESTMENT)

  And on and on. Relics. Pieces of wood, cloth, garments, nails, dust, dried flesh, body parts, and other oddities presented as if in some maudlin museum. Lucy moved past each, eyeing them as best she could with her clouded vision until she came upon the last four displays and stopped. Four empty antique cylinders crafted from bent glass labeled: CECILIA. AGNES. LUCY. SEBASTIAN.

  “Follow me,” she was ordered.

  She continued forward, tentatively, arriving at a set of double doors. Lucy pushed one side and entered. The mist receded as she entered, revealing the sterile environs of an operating theater. A privacy curtain stood in the center of the room. The overhead light was blinding. She could barely make out the faces of the photographers positioned behind the glass in the observation gallery above her.

  Lucy shielded her eyes and dropped her head downward, reflexively checking her outfit. She was dressed in hospital scrubs. Cameras flashed as she approached the curtain.

  “Lucy! Here!” they shouted, their muted voices barely reaching her through the glass.

  “Is there something wrong with me?” Lucy asked, raising her head. “Am I sick?”

  She saw a motionless, toe-tagged body lying prostrate on an operating table. The privacy curtain partially blocked her view. She strained to see the face, but couldn’t.

  “Is he . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Dead?” the paparazzi yelled down to her in the operating theater.

  Lucy approached her patient.

  The closer she got, the better she could see.

  A set of crude and primitive surgical instruments was set out on a steel table. Saws, knives of varying blade lengths, clamps, scoops, an ice pick, and spreaders dripped fresh blood. If it wasn’t for the medical setting, she might have mistaken them for weapons, or instruments of torture. Behind them was her chaplet and an elaborate headpiece, made of dripping pearls all set in a spider web pattern surrounding bird skulls. It was gorgeous, fit for a queen. Or a saint.

  “Put them on, Lucy!” the photographers shouted. “Pose for us!”

  Reluctantly, she reached for the crown and placed it gently on her head. Pearls draped around the sides of her face and under her chin like chainmail, framing it, and the razor sharp beak of the bird skull in the center sat perfectly over the bridge of her nose. She did likewise with the chaplet, sliding it over her hand and onto her wrist, the gold double-eye milagro dangling toward the floor.

  Lucy raised her eyes to the gallery and the photographers went wild, screaming her name, cameras buzzing. Flashes sprayed the room like bullets from a firing squad. She stood immobile, braving the pic
torial invasion, until their manic thirst was sated and the room fell silent.

  A shrill beeping followed, filling the air. Lucy looked at a heart monitor with leads running toward the body behind the privacy screen. It showed a flat line. A chill ran through her, freezing her momentarily in place.

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  The voice, now clearly emanating from behind the curtain, responded. “Seek and you shall find.”

  She reached for the curtain and pulled it away, revealing the body of the patient. Lucy recoiled, speechless, at the sight of the man, a man she knew, his chest cracked completely open, split at the breastbone, an empty cavity. His body defiled. Heart missing.

  “No, it—it can’t be,” she stammered.

  He reached for her arm, but only managed to grab her milagro, pulling it from the chaplet.

  “Heartless,” he whispered ominously, pointing at the gaping hole in his chest, and dropping her charm into the gaping wound.

  “Dr. Frey!”

  Lucy screamed as the eviscerated doctor howled with laughter, and cameras flashed from above, waking her.

  Her eyes snapped open. She was hyperventilating. She pressed the shift button on her phone, checking the time, still groggy, her consciousness trapped halfway between the operating room and her bedroom. She breathed in and out, hoping to get control of her anxiety and shake off the effects of the awful dream like a bad hangover.

  “Lucy,” a familiar voice calmly called out.

  It was not Dr. Frey’s.

  She saw a figure, illuminated by the cool blue glow of her touchscreen, dressed in shadows, at the foot of her bed. Familiar, yet not. Lucy kicked off her sheets and propelled herself back against the headboard, shouting.

  “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

  She fumbled for her phone on the nightstand and raised it, ready to wing it at the intruder.

  He spoke again, his voice coming at her in surround sound, from everywhere, resonating deep within her. “Lucy.”

  “Sebastian?”

  She slowly moved the phone toward him, screen side out, shedding more light on him.

  He nodded.

  “Am I still dreaming?”

  “Are you?”

  Sebastian walked around to the side of her bed and opened his shirt.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she demanded. “How do I know it’s really you?”

  He stopped. “Do I need to prove it to you?”

  “But you’re dead. Ashes!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, pointing at the small silver urn that sat on her nightstand.

  “Death is not the end.”

  Lucy could barely bring herself to look. He held out his hand, reaching out to her. Lucy took it. He pulled her closer.

  “No,” she moaned, pulling back. “This is not real.”

  She reached for the light switch on her lamp and flicked it on. He was still there. Big as life.

  “It’s no trick, Lucy,” he said.

  “You’re a zombie or a ghost or something. You must be.”

  “No,” he said, reaching out to her again.

  Sebastian took Lucy’s hand. It was steady, firm. He brought both their hands to his chest.

  “What are you doing?” Lucy shuddered.

  “So that you will know.”

  One by one, he brought her fingers to the wounds in his chest and stomach. She felt the jagged edge around the fleshy rim of each gunshot. He pushed her finger in deeper. Inside of each bullet hole. The crack of gunfire echoed in her mind, and the screams of Cecilia and Agnes as he fell to the marble floor. She smelled smoke and incense, saw the subtle smile of victory cross Frey’s face. The reality of Sebastian and the reality of his sacrifice gradually taking hold of her.

  “I’m so sorry, Sebastian. So sorry for doubting you.”

  “Seeing,” he said, a note of sadness in his voice, “is believing.”

  Lucy wept bitterly. As if she’d been caught cheating. She threw aside the trappings of comfort dressing her bed, the alpaca throw and Egyptian cotton sheets, and curled up in pain and shame.

  “I don’t deserve the gift you’ve given me.”

  “You are the gift, Lucy.”

  He got into bed with her and held her close, his eyes and his mouth inches from hers. She rested in the comfort only his arms could provide.

  “Wasn’t there another way?”

  “You think there are other ways, but there aren’t. What happened had to happen.”

  Lucy nodded and wiped at her eyes. She cleared her throat, putting on a braver front for him.

  “People say they see you.”

  “They see what they want to see,” Sebastian said.

  “But I haven’t. Why haven’t you come to me?”

  Sebastian smiled. “Sometimes the hardest things to see are the ones right in front of us.”

  “Please forgive me.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  She brought her head against his chest, pressing her ear against his skin. It was warm but there was no beating heart. Her eyes filled again with tears.

  “They stole your heart.”

  “No, Lucy. No one can take what has already been given away,” he said. “My heart belongs to the three of you, only and always.”

  “What happens next?” she asked.

  “You will do what you need to do,” Sebastian said. “For the good of all.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “Who to trust.”

  “Trust yourself,” he stressed. “The answers are within you.”

  “There were so many things I wanted to say to you and now . . .” Lucy’s voice trailed off.

  “There will be a time for that, Lucy.”

  She closed her eyes tightly, tucked her head under his chin and opened them, noticing his chest was repaired. Unscarred. Whole. He rose.

  “Please don’t go, Sebastian. Not again.”

  “I’m never far away.”

  He touched both of her eyes, and she closed them reflexively. When she opened them she was alone in bed, only the scent of him remained. She was rested for the first time in a long time, the doubt that had burdened her replaced with resolve. The alarm sounded and she reached for her smartphone, swiping at the alarm app to turn it off. The shrill beep reminded her that a day of interviews lay ahead.

  13 Cecilia burst through the emergency room doors of Perpetual Help hospital under her own power, not on a gurney like she had the last time she was here. She wore streaks of Bill’s blood on her face, in her matted hair, on her stained clothing. War paint. Even the cops who questioned her at the station couldn’t get her to clean it off.

  The busy waiting area, full of broken arms, cut fingers, minor burns, and anxiety attacks masquerading as heart attacks, went silent as the girl with the blood-soaked tee approached the desk clerk stationed in front of the elevators. He eyed her cautiously, suspiciously. He’d seen her type before, wild-eyed, aggressive, unreasonable, looking for a ride up to the penthouse. Needing one.

  “Visitor or patient?” the attendant asked politely, not wanting to rile her.

  “Neither,” she replied.

  “Is there someone you are here to see?”

  “Alan Frey,” CeCe said tersely.

  She couldn’t bring herself to use his title, to say “Doctor.”

  “Your name?”

  “Cecilia Trent.”

  The clerk pored over the list.

  “He’s not expecting anyone. There’s not a soul on the list.”

  “There wouldn’t be a soul on his list, would there?” she said through gritted teeth. “Call him.”

  The attendant reached for the phone somewhat reluctantly and dialed the doctor’s extension. It rang and rang. He placed the receiver back in the cradle and shook his head.

  “No answer,” he said. “I’m not sure he’s up there. You’re welcome to wait in reception if you like.”

  “He’s up there,” she snarled, walk
ing by his desk.

  The clerk reached for her. “Don’t make this difficult.”

  “Don’t touch me,” she ordered.

  The clerk hit the alarm at his desk, and three burly security guards promptly arrived armed with Tasers and billy clubs. A crowd was slowly gathering, whispering, oohing and aahing in recognition, filling in the hallway between the entrance and the reception desk. She felt like a runaway tiger from the circus. She was cornered, her back to the elevator. Ordinarily, she would take comfort at being in a public place, where there were witnesses, but not anymore. Now, anything was possible. Anywhere at anytime by anyone. The show was proof of that. Bill was too. Her hands were throbbing, trickling blood again. She wiped them on her jeans.

  “Step away from the elevators,” one of the security guards demanded, placing a hand on the Taser at his hip.

  “Make me,” she said, mocking him like a child.

  They took one step forward. She took one back, her spine coming up against the “up” and “down” plate on the wall. The guards were closing in, when a ringing at the desk broke the anxious silence.

  “She says her name’s Cecilia something. Looks like she’s been making out with a lawn mower.” The clerk waited for a response, seeming surprised by the one he received. “Are you sure? Okay, then.”

  He waved off the guards and returned the receiver to the cradle. “Send her up.”

  “You serious?” one asked. “This girl is dripping blood.”

  “Then she’ll be right at home up there. Let her go.”

  The elevator car came, but not necessarily to her rescue.

  “Up?” the operator asked perfunctorily.

  Cecilia backed into the car slowly, her eyes fixed on the guards and the crowd that continued to linger, waiting for something to happen.

  “Floor?”

  “Top.”

  She remained with her back to the wall, eyeing the jittery operator warily. He did likewise, more than suspicious of the sweaty, bloodstained girl behind him, pushing the limits of his peripheral vision until he almost literally had eyes in the back of his head.