The Blessed

The drive to the pastoral residence in Queens was fraught with flooded roads and disabled streetlights, but Frey was determined. It was near closing time as he pulled into a parking space and walked quickly through the pouring rain toward the main entrance. The elderly receptionist had already diverted all incoming calls to voice mail and was gathering her things, preparing to retire to her room to wait out the storm, as the front doorbell buzzed. It was a grating sound, in stark contrast to the beauty of the nightly vesper bells that had just begun to ring out. Her first thought was that it must be something urgent to bring a person out in this weather. A sudden sickness requiring the administration of last rites perhaps, or a doctor making a house call.

“Monsignor Piazza, please.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“An old friend. Alan Frey.”

A very odd time for a personal visit, but the look in the man’s eyes told her it was both a matter of some importance and none of her business. “I’ll let him know. Just a moment.”

Frey waited impatiently. Dripping wet from the rain, he parked himself on a rubber welcome mat next to the coatrack and an umbrella stand in the wood-paneled entryway. He wished neither to stain the antique carpet beneath his feet nor leave any trace of his visit, regardless of how transitory. After a short while, a grandfather clock against the wall of the foyer caught his attention. The sense of time passing was suddenly acutely noticeable to him. The countdown was maddening. He felt like a wrestler pinned to the canvas.

The receptionist excused herself hurriedly as the long, thin shadow of Monsignor Piazza appeared, preceding him into the room. The gaunt old priest limped slowly to the reception area as his waning eyesight confirmed the identity of the unexpected guest. A heavy wooden rosary swung from his hips, keeping time with both his twisted gait and the hallway timepiece, as he made his way across the marble lobby.

Piazza stood before the doctor silently, remembering every exchange between them, as he looked him over. The doctor stared back. The frail man before him had lost much of the regal bearing that had nearly earned him the Bishop’s seat. His thick white locks had thinned, his back was curved, his arms weak, legs unsteady, his cheeks hollowed, his eyes tired and milky. A spent force.

“Nice place, Father. I’m glad to see you are taken care of.”

“What do you want from me, Doctor?” the priest said tersely.

Frey gestured for the priest to walk with him into the soggy courtyard, protected only by a leafy pergola, as the harsh rain fell all around them. “You don’t still blame me for the church closing down, do you?”

“I blame myself. I lost my church. But I assume you haven’t come here seeking forgiveness.”

“It is an urgent matter. The Boy. Sebastian. You remember him.”

At the mention of Sebastian’s name, the Doctor noticed the Monsignor’s hands begin to shake, ever so slightly.

“He was a boy,” the priest said, the tone of regret unmistakable, “when I sent him to you.”

“Older now, Father, but sadly not any wiser.”

The priest issued a tight smile at the suggestion of rebellion, a certain pride in his onetime charge breaking through.

“Is this the urgent news you have come to bring me on such a dangerous evening?”

“He has done a bad thing. Kidnapping. Murder.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Don’t take my word for it. The police are involved and they believe it. But for this storm, they might have him in custody already.”

The priest’s demeanor remained purposely impassive. “Well, whatever it is, I am retired, as you see. What would you have me do about it?”

“Do those in our line of work ever really retire, Father? It is a part of us, from beginning to end, is it not?”

“He is your patient.” Piazza waved dismissively.

“He was my patient. Now he is a fugitive.”

The statement seemed more an accusation to the priest, as if he might be hiding the boy.

“And you think I know where he is?” Piazza asked resentfully.

“That is what I came to ask you. You knew him better than anyone.”

The priest stared daggers at the sharp-dressed man before him. He had vowed to shepherd his flock, but Frey was definitely a lost sheep. Very lost.

“I should have never sent him to you.”

“I know it’s an unpleasant topic. . . . ”

The priest chafed at the description. “Unpleasant? A child’s life destroyed? Betrayed by those he trusted. Yes, it is most unpleasant.”

“You did the right thing, Monsignor. He was unmanageable. Delusional. In desperate need of medical and psychiatric help.”

“Which you provided so successfully, I see.”

“As successfully as you, Father.”

The priest sat on the stone bench before a grotto centered around a statue of St. Dominic, founder of his Order, patron saint of the falsely accused. He placed his face in his hands and exhaled deeply. “He was telling the truth. But I didn’t believe him,” the priest lamented.

“The truth? You are as insane as he is.”

“From the moment I foolishly entrusted him to your care, Precious Blood began to die. Without the chaplets, without Sebastian, the purpose of the church faded and was lost. I was lost. That is when I knew the legends were true. That he was right.”

“Not all was lost though, Father. My real estate partners and I were able to secure the structure and will soon put it to a much more practical use.”

“That structure, as you call it, was built on the graves of holy men with a holy purpose.”

“Yes, well, their mission was derailed, so to speak,” Frey shot back sarcastically.

“Yes, until Sebastian. He understood and tried to make others understand. A herald. But instead of being believed, he was betrayed.”

“These are ravings of that old lady who raised him.”

“She was a holy woman.”

“She was a witch. You said so yourself.”

Monsignor Piazza stood defiantly in her defense and Sebastian’s.

“Not a witch. She practiced Benedicaria. The Way of Blessing. She passed this knowledge on to him.”

“Knowledge? This is medieval voodoo for the ignorant masses. She filled his impressionable mind with this nonsense. A lonely, orphaned boy wanting to feel special. The shame of it!”

Piazza looked at the physician with contempt.

“She filled him with faith and fire. He could recognize malevolence in others that even I could not. I see that now, and I pray that God forgives me for my blindness.”

“I’m not here to revisit the past with you, Monsignor. I don’t have time.”

“Then why are you here really, Doctor? You don’t think I’m hiding him in here, do you?”

“Before he escaped, he said there were others. Did he ever discuss such a thing with you? Did he have friends or acquaintances he confided in?”

“Others,” the priest repeated, as if he had just received word of a miracle he’d waited for his whole life. “As a priest, I couldn’t tell you if he had. The Seal of Confession.”

“This is not the time for antiquated vows, Father,” Frey lectured. “You care about the boy, don’t you? About his well-being. He may not survive this if the police find him first. There may be hostages.”

The priest was rapidly tiring of the doctor’s altruistic facade. He had been fooled once before.

“What will be left of him if you find him first?”

“Life is better than death, Monsignor.”

“Not at the cost of your soul, Doctor.”

“I can save him. Save him from himself.”

“Your compassion is most touching. After all, we wouldn’t want to make a martyr of him, so to speak?” The priest’s voice dripped with the wry and combative condescension he had been known for in his younger days. Piazza had gotten under the doctor’s skin. The veneer of civility torn asunder, Frey’s frustration now drove him past the point of politeness.

“He is mad,” the doctor opined. “Illnesses like these are contagious among the weak-willed, the vulnerable, the depressed, Father. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous to whom? You speak of the spread of faith like a disease.”

“All this talk about faith and souls. It is from a different time. Haven’t we finally grown past this, Father?”

“I don’t know. Have we? You seem quite troubled by something you don’t believe.”

“Fairy stories! Lies! Meant to control the mind and behavior of people for what? For money? Power?”

“Like the drugs you prescribe, Doctor, to alter minds and control behavior. What do you fear from Sebastian that brings you here? Maybe the psychiatrist should ask himself that question.”

The doctor struggled to keep his composure. “Show me a soul,” he railed. “What does it look like? Feel like? Taste like? What does it weigh? Show me a soul and I’ll believe you. And Sebastian.”

“Blessed are they who have not seen, and yet have believed.”

“Blessed,” Frey mumbled. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“For you, Doctor. For me, a solution.”

“That old church was an eyesore, running on fumes for years, Monsignor. No one came and no one will miss it, thanks in large measure to your incompetence. It serves no purpose any longer except as a future apartment block for stockbrokers and their families. On which I expect to earn a substantial return.”

Monsignor Piazza took his argument under advisement and arrived at a different conclusion. He knew now that Precious Blood had retained its purpose, even if it had a congregation of only one. Or four.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps not.”

“Look around you,” Frey suggested, pointing out the antique furnishings of the residence. “Your time has passed.”

“I’ll reserve my right to a second opinion, Doctor,” the Monsignor replied defiantly, a sly smile crossing his lips. “I think we are done. I know you. I know your kind. You will not get what you seek from me. Not this time.”

“The decision to turn the boy over was yours; don’t blame me,” Frey said. “It is too late for regret now.”

“It’s never too late.”

The vesper bells ceased. Piazza blessed himself and his unwelcome guest as he departed.

“Don’t waste your time,” Frey scoffed.





As the gray light of late afternoon squeezed past the edges of the warping window boards, the Church of the Precious Blood was revealed in all of its decrepit glory. Sebastian was sitting silently in front of the church. Agnes and Cecilia walked the perimeter of the nave and were soon joined by Lucy, who appeared to have an honesty hangover. They stopped to notice odd markings on the wall, fourteen in all, evenly spaced and about head-high, shapes more than anything else but not instantly recognizable until Agnes put it together. These were shadows burned into the plaster walls, bordered now by peeling paint and sawdust, following decades of exposure to the rising and setting sun.

“The Stations,” Agnes said.

“The Stations of the Cross,” Lucy added.

“Stations of the Lost, more like,” Cecilia nodded, noting the missing icons.

“I don’t get it,” Lucy said out loud, shaking her head. “Never did.”

Something they could all agree on.

“A man is humiliated, tortured, and killed for what?” Lucy pondered. “So a pretend rabbit can crap a basket of chocolate-covered crème eggs and jelly beans.”

“You could say there is beauty in suffering,” Agnes said almost wistfully, calling attention, however unwittingly, to her self-inflicted wounds. “And sacrifice.”

“You’re not comparing yourself, are you? We’re not talking curfew fights with your mom or issues with your boyfriend here,” Lucy said, pointing up to the VI standing out from the faded paint around it. “This is anguish on a whole different level.”

“Talk about carrying the weight of the world,” Cecilia said, scrutinizing each image as they continued walking. “Puts your own problems in perspective.”

“You think . . . ?” Lucy said.

They began their walk, as Sebastian watched from the head altar, finishing up a makeshift meal for them.

I, II . . .

Cecilia stopped at number two. She stood there in front of an image of this holy, loving man carrying a cross through a crowd of people. A heavy burden that he so willingly took on. Being lashed and spit on.

III, IV, V, VI . . .

Agnes stopped at number six. She sat down in the pew in front of it. She stared at an image of a beautiful woman, on her knees, in front of Jesus, who was suffering, carrying his cross. She was holding up a gauzy white veil, about to wipe his beautiful face.

“That’s all she had. All she could do. And that gave him strength,” she said in amazement.

VII, VIII, IX, X . . .

Lucy was stricken by number ten. Jesus was stripped of his garments. How humiliating it must have been for him, being stripped almost naked, flesh on his cloak because he was so mangled from his journey, stripped of his dignity. As they prepared his cross in front of him. He would die with no worldly possessions.

After a meditative moment of silence, they gathered together again and continued their walk.

XI, XII . . .

“This,” Lucy realized suddenly, at number twelve, “is what I was talking about. This is big.”

Jesus Dies on the Cross.

“Jesus Christ, superstar?” Agnes chided. “Is that your point?”

“I did that in middle school. I was Mary Magdalene,” Cecilia said with a shrug.

“Shocker,” Lucy said, then suddenly reached again for her brow and fell backward onto the wall behind her.

“This symbol of the cross is recognizable to everyone for all time. You see it and you instantly know the story. You feel something. You understand,” Agnes said.

“The difference between a flash in the pan and eternal fame,” Lucy said. “Talk about branding.”

“There’s meaning,” Cecilia said. “Everyone can relate to suffering and sacrifice to some degree.”

Lucy felt a sharp shooting pain behind her eye pulse and then spend itself, leaving a path of floaties in its wake, like the last gasp of a July Fourth sparkler. Cecilia reached to hold her up, but Lucy waved her away.

“That’s a nasty-looking bruise,” Cecilia observed. “I wish we had some ice.”

“I’m okay.” Lucy staggered into a seat in a pew and stared up at the wall she’d just been leaning against. It had to be a mixture of last night and the Stations. She remembered being frightened by them as a child. It was like some sort of horrific flipbook, watching a man unjustly accused, convicted, humiliated, tortured, and nailed to a cross. It all seemed so inevitable, a condition she’d been fighting her entire life. In fact, nothing scared her more. “He was the Son of God. How could he let himself get sucker punched like that?” Lucy murmured. “I mean, Jesus Christ already.”

“The fix was in,” Cecilia said. “He played the hand he was dealt.”

“And he knew it,” Sebastian added, coming up behind them. His face hardened as he stared at theirs. The look of distress was plain. He joined them for the last two Stations.

XIII . . .

Jesus Is Taken Down from the Cross. They beheld a gorgeous painting in front of them, of Jesus, now with a gold halo, being caressed by his loved ones. Prayed over. Adored.

“I do love how they take the agony and suffering of the reality and mythologize it in such a beautiful, glorified way,” Cecilia said. “It’s just a story anyway.”

“Yeah, but a good one,” Sebastian said.

“Greatest Story Ever Told,” Agnes added.

“So they say.” Lucy nodded.

“One that people were once willing to die for,” Sebastian said.

“And kill for,” CeCe added, noting the other side of the coin.

“Religions are just people. Some good, some not,” Sebastian said. “Like everything else. Can’t blame Jesus for all of it.”

“There are a*sholes everywhere,” CeCe said.

“A sermon we can all get behind,” he concurred.

“You know the old priest in The Exorcist played Jesus in that movie The Greatest Story Ever Told. I met him at a premiere,” Lucy added.

“Only you would name-drop Jesus,” Cecilia said.

XIV . . .

Jesus Was Laid in His Tomb.

As they reached the last station, Lucy was feeling detached, not from the others but from her body. She wasn’t totally sure if she was there, or anywhere at all. She felt like she was floating, watching the whole scene play out from about ten feet above the ground. It happened to her sometimes at crowded clubs, but never in a quiet, laid-back situation like this. It wasn’t just Lucy. They were all starting to feel strange. The wind pounded, the thunder rolled and lightning flashed, but it was a less violent sound, coming from the church entrance, that really got their attention. Especially Sebastian’s.

“Who’s that?” Agnes said, on high alert.

The church door slid open just a crack but it was loud enough for the occupants to hear. The girls instinctively crouched down behind the pews; they did not want to be found. Sebastian remained standing, like a shaft rising from the floor.

“Are you expecting someone else?” Lucy whispered over to him.

“No.”

A lone figure hobbled through the vestibule and into the church, pushed forward by the wind, undeterred by the darkness. Even in the dark, Sebastian could tell the man was slight, frail, probably old, far too old to brave these elements at this twilight hour.

Sebastian kept watch.

The girls could hear the anonymous footsteps approaching.

“Who is it?” Lucy whispered nervously.

The man moved slowly, but confidently, forward. He clearly knew his way around. Sebastian recognized his walk, his outline, even in the candlelight.

“Father Piazza.”

He stopped and turned his head from side to side, up and down, peering out into the darkness. Looking like someone who’d returned to his hometown after many years, only to find it changed, altered, but not completely beyond recognition. Just enough of it remaining to reminisce over or mourn for. He hadn’t been back since the church had been deconsecrated and his parishioners scattered to other churches, not even to see it from the outside. But now he had to come, even in such a horrific storm. Risking his own life if it were the last thing he ever did. Piazza recalled his tepid effort to save the church and the congregation from the developers and his relief that he had failed. He was preparing for retirement after all, and even the diocese was in no mood to increasingly subsidize yet another money-losing facility. Sebastian had been the last piece of unresolved business for him. He loved the boy and tried hard, along with the city caseworker, to find a good home for him in the community. Time after time, he tried. Time after time, he failed. Sebastian was becoming increasingly unstable. Acting out. Talking crazy. Blasphemy. Making himself unwelcome to even the most sympathetic foster family. Because of depression over his grandmother’s death, teenage hormones, or something far more serious, the priest could not be sure. What else could he have done, he thought, but do as he did? Piazza accessed the network of upper-crust physicians he’d befriended over the years on the boy’s behalf. Frey’s reputation was impeccable. If anyone could turn the boy around, bring him some peace, it was he.

The monsignor sighed resignedly. His shoulders slumped as he exhaled, continuing down the aisle. The place was a shambles. The hand-cut and tumbled marble and terrazzo floors were covered in dirt, ornately carved and finished wooden pews torn from their anchors and piled up against the side entrances, scaffolds rose to heights only the voices of the faithful had once reached, skids were piled with gypsum board and plumbing in front of empty pedestals where brightly painted statues of holy men and women were once worshipped. Who could he blame for this? For Sebastian?

Only himself.

The old priest approached the altar, step by step, until he reached the center of the church, where he genuflected, crossed himself, bowed his head, fell to his knees, and clasped his hands in fervent, whispered prayer.

“quia peccavi nimis

cogitatione, verbo

opere et omissione”

“What is he saying?” Lucy asked.

“He’s confessing,” Sebastian explained, eyes fixed on the penitent priest.

Piazza halted and beat his chest with his fist one time, the deafening thud of his arthritic hand against his breastbone like a body falling from a building.

“Mea culpa.”

And again:

“Mea culpa.”

And for a final time, nearly in tears.

“MEA MAXIMA CULPA.”

Father Piazza rose and stared straight ahead at the altar and the silhouette of Sebastian before him.

“Sebastian!” he called out with all his strength.

Agnes panicked. “How does he know you’re here?”

“Quiet,” Cecilia said, bringing her hand to Agnes’s mouth.

“Yes, Father.”

“Your path is a lonely one made lonelier by my acts.”

“I’m not alone,” Sebastian said. “I never was.”

Lucy, Cecilia, and Agnes rose from behind the pew. Confused by the exchange, but no longer feeling the need to hide. The priest could not see their faces, but the chaplets gleamed around their wrists in the dim light.

Father Piazza was overwhelmed. “They will be coming for you.”

“I know.”

“I am sorry,” Piazza said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Sebastian let the words echo around the cavernous space until they faded to nothing.

The monsignor raised his shaking hand in blessing, as he had countless times before within the hallowed walls of Precious Blood, and made the sign of the cross.

“Peace be with you,” Sebastian said.

“And with your spirit.” The priest bowed his head to Sebastian, then to the girls, and turned and walked away. A procession of one. Back from whence he came.

“Father,” Sebastian called out. “Did you forget something?”

“Yes.” The priest stopped, looked at all of them standing there. He would take them and any information about them to his grave. “Everything.”





“That was . . . strange,” Lucy rasped.

“A man praying?” Sebastian shot back tersely.

“You know what I mean,” Lucy pushed back. “For an old man to come out in a storm like this, it must have been important.”

“Yeah, a matter of life and death,” Cecilia said. “He really risked it out there.”

“Who is he?” Agnes asked, her curiosity piqued.

“His name is Piazza. He was the pastor here for many years. He just made the most important trip he’ll ever make.”

“Did you know him well?” Agnes asked gently.

“I thought so,” Sebastian responded, the hurt and betrayal in his voice unmistakable.

“Are you in some kind of trouble?” Cecilia asked him protectively. “You can tell us.”

She recalled how wary he’d looked at the hospital when they first met.

“He said people are coming for you?” Agnes pressed. “Is it the police?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“We,” Agnes stressed. “Whatever or whoever it is, we can handle it.”

“Together,” Cecilia said.

Even Lucy joined in. “I know people who can probably help. Whatever it is.”

“That means everything to me,” Sebastian said at their willingness to be there for him, and more importantly, their camaraderie.

A melancholy expression of happiness and regret shone from him. Sebastian rubbed at his temples and stood up, putting a full stop on the question-and-answer session. As if he’d received a cue he’d been waiting for.

“Where are you going?” Agnes asked.

Sebastian didn’t answer, continuing on his way. They watched him disappear into the darkness enshrouding the back of the church and up the staircase, his boot heels scraping as he went along.

“Do you think all this is about the bracelets?” Lucy asked.

“I think we’re about to find out,” Cecilia said.

“I don’t want to leave here,” Agnes said. “Until I know.”

The answer was in Agnes’s eyes. It was in all of their eyes. They were committed to staying.

“I think there’s one day of darkness left to find out,” Lucy said, recalling the weather report from her cab ride. “Something’s definitely wrong.”

“He looks worried,” Agnes added.

“For himself?” Cecilia asked. “Or us?”



7 “Stalk to me.” The familiar greeting was shorter and the synthetic voice mail beep that followed longer than either needed to be, and more abrasive, Jesse thought. He wasn’t used to leaving messages for Lucy that went unanswered. Despite their personal loathing for each other, or at least hers for him, they had an understanding. But it had been two days now without a reply and with this torrential storm causing so much damage already and now the tornado definitely coming, he was thinking the worst.

“This mailbox is full and can no longer receive new messages,” came the disembodied robo-rap.

Jesse checked the number to see that he’d dialed correctly, which was moot since she was on his speed dial. Stubbornly as ever, he dialed again. Finally, the phone actually rang instead of going straight to voice mail.

“Yo?” came the greeting in a gravelly Brooklyn accent, a man’s voice.

The connection was weak and filled with static and delay, making it hard to talk or hear.

“Where’s Lucy?” Jesse sat up in his chair and leaned forward.

“Who’s Lucy?”

“Who the hell are you?” Jesse asked. “Where is she?”

“She’s right here, jerk-off,” the man said. “I’ll flip her around so she can talk to you.”

A wave of intense jealousy, more than anxiety, swept over Jesse as he pictured his protégé getting off with some Gravesend guido.

“Listen, a*shole, I don’t know who you are or where Lucy is, but I promise you the cops will be there before you get your wife-beater and pinkie ring on.”

“Take it easy, man, I’m just f*ckin’ wit you. I found dis phone in da street outside Sacrifice. Grabbed it just before da storm started. I work der.”

“Then I should have your ass fired.”

The air of superiority finally echoed clearly enough through the phone to cause the guy to worry.

“Shit, is dis Jesse? It’s Tony. Y’know, Anthony Esposito. Security.”

“You mean the bouncer.” Jesse sniffed condescendingly.

“Yea, it’s me,” Tony confirmed resentfully.

Jesse left out “tipster.” Most of his best stories came from Tony’s texts, if not from Lucy.

“That’s Lucy’s phone you’re on.”

“Wow. Lucky Lucy’s phone. It was all blinged out, but I had no idea whose it was. The keypad was locked. It looked like a chick’s phone, so I figured I’d hang on to it and hold it for piece-of-ass ransom.”

“What did you do with her?” Jesse asked, getting increasingly angry. “Where is she?”

“How da hell should I know?” Tony said. “What? You think she’s dead or somethin’?”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Same as you probably. Few nights ago. The night I found da phone, matter a fact. She ran outta da club and got’n a cab, I think. I don’t know for sure. Tell ya da truth, I haven’t seen or heard from any regulars since da storm. We ain’t friggin’ been open. Just waitin’ for the finale. Tornado dey say. Can you believe dat shit?”

Jesse fixated gleefully on the mental image of all the a*sholes he wrote about being carried away by a stiff wind, washing up bloated and blue on some rocky coastline far away. All except Lucy, of course.

“Ya dere?” Tony asked.

“Yeah, maybe she’s stuck somewhere,” Jesse said pensively, trying to convince himself more than anything.

“Ya know what dey say. No news is good news, I guess.”

“Not for me,” Jesse retorted. “Or you, for that matter.”

Leave it to this little prick, Tony thought, to screw with his livelihood, his “rat” money, as he called it. He was already out two days’ pay from the storm.

“Not for nothin’, I was just tryin’ ta do da right t’ing. I’ll leave da phone at da coat check Lost and Found for ya as soon as dis joint reopens. Between us, capiche? I’m just not sure when. It’s a mess down here. Water damage, broken glass. All kinds a shit.”

“If you hear anything, let me know,” Jesse said, suddenly distracted by his call waiting.

“I always do,” Tony said, gritting his teeth.



Sebastian climbed the spiral staircase up to the old bell tower, two at a time, almost sucked upward by the vacuum building in the stairwell. He was reluctant to leave them, even for a few moments, but he could feel the time running out. Making his way through the scattered boards, beams, and rusting remnants of bronze window grilles that blocked his path, he reached the top and took a deep breath of the murky air hanging about him.

From the belfry, he surveyed the brownstones below through an angry sky as the dark and threatening clouds skimmed the Borough of Churches. The stained glass had been shattered and unreplaced from the tracery, the steel lattice swayed uncertainly around him, several windows already uncovered by the gale force winds that continued to batter them. Colorful shards from the broken panes littered the floor of the tower and main roof beneath him. The splinters glittered and blinked like Christmas lights. Those lights, he thought, usually herald a joyous occasion, but not these.

The tower had been unused for years, long before the building had been closed by the diocese and targeted by the local developers. It didn’t even have a bell. Why bother, he considered, calling people to prayer who weren’t coming anyway?

He stood waiting, like a sentry, like some twenty-first-century Quasimodo, keeping watch over his decrepit domain and his three Esmeraldas. They were together now. He felt their presence not just around him but inside of him as surely as he had at the hospital that night. The night he got away from Frey. Got to them. He could have never imagined that would be the easy part. He wanted to tell them everything but knew he could not. But the time was drawing near. Would they even believe him?

Sebastian strained to eye the harbor in the distance and Manhattan beyond, enshrouded in a light fog that was rolling toward him, across the East River to the piers that stretched along the coastline from Red Hook to Vinegar Hill. From this stone-and-mortar perch above, he imagined himself the captain of a besieged vessel, charged with transporting precious cargo to a far distant shore through stormy seas and jagged reefs. Surrounded by enemy ships, unseen but ever present.

Much easier to spy from this vantage point was the design of the church directly beneath him. From the inside, the church simply appeared huge and cavernous. So familiar and like all other churches in that little thought was ever given to its blueprint. But up here, the purpose was more evident. Transepts stretched outward, like open arms, on either side from the nave, or center portion of the building. It was in the shape of a cross. The obvious reason, he figured, was so that God could see it from heaven, but he had another sort of surveillance in mind just then. They were coming for him, and soon. That, he was sure of.

It would be so much easier to just end it right here. To take a dive. To just spread my arms wide, close my eyes, and tip over gracefully, he thought, like one of those novelty-shop birds that endlessly nosedives for a drink of water. The bird, however, continued dipping. He wouldn’t be so fortunate. Not that he hadn’t considered it often throughout the endless days he’d spent locked up in Dr. Frey’s asylum, demoralized, disbelieved, watching from the “penthouse” windows as the scaffolding went up around Precious Blood. But even then, he knew he didn’t have the luxury of suicide, and with so much at stake, his own suffering hardly mattered. He’d accepted that when he’d accepted himself. He still had much to do. Much to tell them about who he is, who they are, and why they were there. And nothing and nobody was going to stop him. He felt he had little choice in the things that had happened, but he had at least that much. He had his spirit.

Sebastian watched for a long time, hoping for his mind to empty along with the streets. Freeze-framed memories as jagged as the glass at his feet replayed and sliced at his conscience, haunting him, driving him to his knees. He was so overcome, he could barely feel the fragments cutting holes in his jeans and grinding into his skin. Time had become so fluid. It might have been weeks ago or hours. He saw himself dragged into the psych ward, restrained, sedated, evaluated. Involuntarily. Like a frog specimen in biology class, poked, prodded, and about to be shocked in and out of consciousness. Erased.

He relived it every time he closed his eyes. An endless loop of misery. The cuffs, the interrogations masquerading as therapy, the stark white room, the ECT machine, Dr. Frey’s poker face, the orderly’s powerful grip.

“Am I keeping you from something?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why you are here?”

“You’re the doctor. You tell me.”

“Mania, delusion, depression, paranoia.”

“All lies.”

“Denial.”

“I don’t belong here.”

“Where do you belong?”

“With them.”

“With who? The priests? Father Piazza?”

“No, he didn’t believe me either. You know that. He sent me here, didn’t he?”

“He just wanted what’s best for you. As we all do.”

“You mean what’s best for you.”

He remembered how Dr. Frey’s face tightened. He wasn’t used to being challenged, let alone doubted. His irritation was palpable, unlike the calm and cool demeanor he regularly wore as he strolled through the hospital corridors and awards dinners. He was used to being treated with respect, with deference. He’d earned it. Degrees in medicine, psychology, sociology; he was a scientist, as credentialed as they come. And a humanitarian. He barely had enough shelf space in the lobby for the honors he’d been granted. Sebastian was paraded by them with the other patients every day. Taking Frey’s victory lap for him. The first stop on the psych ward tour.

He had not been in much of a mood to take any lip from this punk kid with a messianic complex. He had tried to maintain the analytical cool for which he was renowned, but Sebastian was getting to him.

“You arrived with only these three sets of beads when you were placed here. Removed from the old chapel beneath Precious Blood.”

“Souvenirs. The place was shutting down. What’s the problem?”

“Stolen property. Isn’t that a sin?”

“I didn’t steal. I took only what I needed.”

“Needed?”

“They took them away from me. Afraid I’d hang myself, or stuff them all in my mouth and suffocate.”

“You don’t present as the suicidal type, Sebastian.”

“Then give them back.”

“Why do you want them so badly?”

“Why do you care?”

“Perhaps it will help me to understand you better.”

“Haven’t they told you, Doctor? I’m the spiritual type.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Is that an illness now?”

“All depends, Sebastian.”

“If you want to help me, let me have them. Might just chill me out. Isn’t that what you want?”

“We could change that if you wouldn’t continue to refuse medication.”

“I’m fine with who I am.”

“And who are you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

The orderly was taking notes for some reason but not for Sebastian’s official medical file. Frey was keeping two sets of records on him.

“Not enough in there to condemn me yet? To lock me away for good?”

“I’m not here to judge you. The courts made their decision.”

“On your authority, your testimony, Doctor.”

“And Father Piazza’s. He referred you here to begin with.”

“Had me arrested and committed, you mean. At your recommendation.”

“For your own good.”

“You’ve got people everywhere, don’t you? Even the clergy.”

“He knew you as a boy. Saw you steal the relics from the chapel, Sebastian. Need I go on?”

“I wanted to be heard.”

“He heard you. Your ravings. Your delusions. There was no choice but to put you here. I didn’t seek you out.”

“No fingerprints, isn’t that right, Doctor? You didn’t convict me and you aren’t here to judge me.”

“More delusions. You are sick, Sebastian.”

“That’s how it works, isn’t it? No secret handshake, no clubhouse, no uniforms. Just a confederacy of the like-minded in positions of power and those they can use for their evil purpose.”

“Seems you have it all worked out.”

“I know all about you. It was revealed to me. Everything.”

“You’ve been here three years, Sebastian. Don’t you think it’s time you shared that revelation with me? Or are you afraid?”

“I’m not the one who’s afraid.”

“Unburden yourself and we can stop this. Why don’t you tell me?”

“Because you know. Don’t try to make a fool out of me.”

“I’m not here to mock you.”

“No, you’re here to eliminate me.”

“No, to help you.”

“It doesn’t matter. There will be others.”

“Others? Who? Where?”

“Closer than you think, but why would I tell you?”

“You can talk to me. Anything you say will be kept in confidence.”

“Forgive me for not believing a damn thing you say.”

“The doctor-patient relationship is sacred, Sebastian.”

“Sacred? That’s funny. Father Piazza said the same thing.” Sebastian’s face twisted up in loathing at the very thought.

“You’ll feel much better when this is over.”

“Do you always do these procedures so late at night, Doctor? On a weekend, when no one is around? With a patient in street clothes?”

“Take hold of him.”

“Why are you so threatened by me? Is it because you believe me? Is that it?”

The doctor nodded at the attendant to begin.

“Is this your idea of treatment?”

“We’ve tried everything else.”

“Trying to get me closer to God, Doctor?”

“No, to sanity, Sebastian.”

Sebastian could still feel the struggle. His muscles flexed, cramped, as he remembered being dragged, inch by inch, toward the table. The restraints hung loosely, waiting for arms and legs. The IVs were bloated with anesthesia and hungry for his veins. The rubber bite plate sitting on the metal tray next to the gurney sat idle in anticipation of his clenched teeth.

“You’ll need more than one guy to help you.”

The arrogant smirk on the orderly’s face suggested otherwise.

“Sicarius is nearby if I need him.”

“On a leash?”

“Sedate him.”

“Relax. Just a little pinprick and you won’t remember a thing.” The orderly approached Sebastian, who evaded his grasp. Sebastian spun him around facing the doctor and put him in a vise grip headlock. The orderly struggled and gagged, flailing his arms, his face turning red, then purple, and then a ghostly white as Sebastian continued to apply pressure with all his strength. Sebastian stared directly at the doctor, who did nothing, as the lackey was on the verge of unconsciousness. A final silent squeeze of Sebastian’s arm, and the orderly slipped helplessly to the floor.

“Well done,” the doctor said. “Now you are not just psychotic; you are a murderer.”

“He’s not dead.”

Sebastian rushed at Frey and slammed him against the wall, pinning him there with his forearm pressed hard against the doctor’s throat. He didn’t resist.

“Is it my turn now?” Frey taunted.

“The chaplets,” Sebastian demanded.

Frey handed them over.

Sebastian reached into the doctor’s pocket and took his keys and removed the battery from his cell phone. He stepped out quietly and locked Frey in the treatment room.

“Go ahead and scream for Sicarius now,” Sebastian shouted. “Him, I will gladly kill.”

“Does killing evil make you yourself evil?”

“That’s just what I’d do. I’m not the judge.”

“I’ll see you again, Sebastian,” he said through the thick glass window of the metal door.

“God help you if you do, Doctor.”

He could see Jude’s sweet face poke out of his room, startled by the unusual late-night commotion. The boy was clearly frightened for him. They’d gotten close in the time they’d both spent on the ward, despite the age difference. Sebastian had become like a big brother. He pointed in the direction of Sicarius’s room, a silent warning, but Sebastian waved him off. If Frey had intended to bring out the big gun, it would have been done already.

Sebastian kissed one of the chaplets and tossed it to Jude.

“Give it to her for me,” Sebastian said. “And be careful.”

The boy nodded, not needing any further instruction.

“You. Be. Careful,” Jude said haltingly, his eyes squinting and lips trembling.

“I won’t forget this,” Sebastian said, rushing for the stairwell. “Remember everything I told you.”

Jude smiled and pulled his head back inside his room.