The Blessed (22 page)

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, asshole, 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 fuckin’ 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 assholes 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?”