The Blessed (30 page)

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.

“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.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” he asked. “If you’ve seen him, you must know firsthand how dangerous he is.”

“Dangerous to who? I saw Sebastian. Talked with him. He could’ve killed me if he wanted on the spot. But he didn’t. You are the psychiatrist. Why would he do that?”

“He is brazen. Unpredictable. Just because he didn’t kill you doesn’t mean he isn’t a killer. Don’t be fooled.”

“Good advice, Doctor,” Jesse answered. “I won’t be again.”

“Are you accusing me of lying?”

“No,” Jesse answered deliberatively. “I’m accusing you of much worse than that.”

“I hand you the opportunity of a lifetime and this is what I get,” Frey said scornfully. “Perhaps that’s quite predictable from someone with your background.”

“I didn’t realize I was being profiled,” Jesse quipped. “Do tell me about myself, in your professional opinion.”

“In my professional opinion, you are snotty, deceitful, self-serving, untrustworthy, and greedy. In medical terms, a starfucker, Mr. Arens.”

“I see you’ve been talking to my friends.”

“If you’re holding out for a payday, forget it,” the doctor
said. “I’m not one of your classmates you can blackmail.”

“Former classmates,” he puffed, proudly confirming his lack of higher education. “I’m an entrepreneur at heart.”

“It shows,” Frey noted, coldly critiquing Jesse’s abbreviated academic career.

“Yes, I am the curious type, among other things,” Jesse responded. “Curious as to why such a respected physician would risk his reputation and trash his oath to help someone with my, ah, profile as you say.”

“I wanted Sebastian off the street before he hurt himself or the others.”

“How magnanimous.”

The doctor was clearly irritated, but quickly gathered himself. “Well, no matter. We’ll find them.”

“We?” Jesse asked.

“You know, you don’t need to trouble yourself with this any further or even worry about avoiding the police, Jesse,” Dr. Frey said offhandedly.

“Why’s that, Doctor?” Jesse said skeptically.

“Because they are waiting for you in the lobby. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Jesse’s heart began to pound. He knew instantly he’d been set up. A classic double-cross. No matter if he told Frey or not. His purpose was served. He was going down.

“I can’t wait to tell them everything,” Jesse threatened.

“Please do,” Frey said, smiling slyly as he left. “They might even believe you.”

3
“Mother!” Agnes yelled, making her way through the rubble in the hallway. “Are you here?” She worried that something had happened to her. That she was injured in the tornado, or even worse. “Mom!” she called again, desperately. Martha came running down the steps, some of which were completely shot, dodging holes and wayward wood. But that didn’t slow her down.

“Thank God,” Agnes said in relief. “You’re okay!”

Martha ran over to Agnes. She looked her up and down, and then slapped her across the face. “Where the hell have you been? I thought you were . . . do you know what you put me through?” Agnes felt the sting of her mother’s hand long after it left her face. “I can’t take any more, Agnes.”

Martha broke down in tears.

“I’m sorry,” Agnes said, cradling her as she cried. For the
first time in a long time, she let Martha hold her back. After a few moments, she let go. “I need a hot shower,” she said before heading to her room.

The phone rang. Martha answered it mid-ring.

“She’s home. Went straight to her room,” Martha said into the receiver. “No, I have no idea where she’s been. I don’t want to push it right now.”

As usual, the conversation was loud enough for Agnes to hear, but unlike usual, she didn’t complain. Compared to what she’d just lived through, a little neighborhood gossip was a welcome change. It’d been only three days, but it felt like an eternity. Besides, this was just the beginning. She knew what would be coming tomorrow, she thought as she began to slowly peel off her clothes. Curious “friends” of Martha’s would begin peering through the floor-to-ceiling parlor windows or lingering just outside the front stoop. Younger kids from school and from the neighborhood, fascinated by the whole idea of her disappearance, would make things up out of whole cloth. Like how Agnes had been
swallowed by the storm
and that
the girl that had returned home wasn’t really Agnes at all but some sort of a doppelgänger or a robot or a zombie
—gossipy ghost stories on autopilot would creep like wild ivy through the neighborhood. They had before, with much less reason. The truth was irrelevant, and who would believe it anyway?

“Yes, it’s the funniest thing,” Martha said to the caller, “but her wrist wounds are almost totally healed. Wherever she was, it must have been a safe, clean place. She was well cared for.”

As her mother spoke, Agnes examined her wrists, running
her fingers along the fading incisions. There was little to physically connect her to him now besides the scars, her only reminder of what she tried to do to hurt herself and what he did to help her help herself.

“As long as she’s back safely and not the victim of some crazy maniac,” Martha said, the relieved mother in her finally coming through. “Thank you, dear. I will absolutely let you know if we need anything.”

“No doubt you will,” Agnes said under her breath as she turned the shower on and stepped in.

Martha was basking in the attention. The danger had passed, and she was on her way to wringing every ounce of sympathy and whatever else she could think of out of her circle in exchange for satisfying their curiosity.

Maniac? What an odd thing to say about him.

Sebastian was a lot of things. But not a maniac. No matter what that blogger said. But then how could her mother or anyone else know that? All they knew about him was what the news reported, and from what she’d read on Jesse’s phone, the details weren’t as important as the headline.

It made her think about all the people she’d probably misjudged.

The phone rang again. Martha had her instructions. No friends. No teachers. No one.

“Agnes!” Martha yelled perfunctorily. “It’s Dr. Frey again.”

Agnes didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry, she must be asleep,” Martha offered apologetically. “It’s been a long weekend. I’m sure we will be in touch
to reschedule when she’s better . . . rested. Yes, I will keep you informed. Good-bye.”

Frey was the last person Agnes wanted to see or speak to or keep informed.

Martha had notified the police that Agnes had returned and they in turn had notified Frey. He tried to frighten Martha, telling her that if the reports were true, Agnes might be suffering from
folie à quatre
—a shared psychotic disorder marked by the transmission of delusional belief among people in a weakened emotional state, usually in close quarters. Martha wasn’t buying it anyway. Her cynicism came in handy for Agnes every so often.

Frey’s call only intensified her thoughts of Sebastian. The things he said. She turned off the water, jumped out of the shower, and booted up her laptop.

“S-A-I-N-T A-G-N-E-S,” she said as she typed.

Pages of entries came up, most of them parish or devotional sites. Several for the
Legenda Aurea
, translated as Golden Legend, which she scanned and recognized from the chapel. She was right, she thought. They were biographies. Lives of the Saints. Legends.