Hallowed

  “Wow,” was all she could muster.

  “It’s a lost art,” he admitted, sadness in his rough voice.

  He removed the masterpiece from the case—a gold burning sacred heart with thorns around it was the guitar body, with a pair of eyes at the neck. The milagros of Agnes and Lucy, right there, in guitar form. “My guy did good,” he said. Then he lifted a slender rod from the case and handed it to her. It was an arrow with a sharpened head, affixed to a bow, the sort a cellist might use. Sebastian’s milagro soldered into part of hers.

  “And so did you. It’s so beautiful, Jimmy,” she said, in shock at what she was seeing. “Exactly what I had in mind for the show. I don’t know what to say. Grazie.”

  “Prego,” he replied.

  She turned the arrow around in her hands, feeling its sturdiness. Its weight. It was not quite as heavy as it looked, thankfully, she thought, as she brought the tip close to her eye to examine it. It appeared razor-sharp. She pressed the tip of her finger against it to be sure and was not disappointed.

  “It’s like a Saint Hubert’s Key, but bigger,” Jimmy said.

  “What’s that?”

  “A metal bar with a head that they once used to cauterize wounds and kill infections from all sorts of things. Rat bites, dog bites, rabies, whatever.”

  “Like a brand.”

  “It can cure what troubles you.”

  Cecilia laughed. “Wish I had known about that sooner.”

  “Never too late,” he said.

  “What do I owe you?” she asked.

  The old man took the arrow from her and placed it back in the case next to the guitar and closed it, shaking his head no.

  “Jimmy, I can’t,” she said looking deep in the man’s eyes. “This is incredible, what you’ve done. It’s your work.”

  To her complete surprise, he got down slowly on his knees before her and offered the case up to her, like a supplicant. This tough old man kneeling at her feet like she was some sort of royalty. She was breathless at this gesture of kindness and faith.

  “Yes,” he said, “it’s my work. This is what I can give.”

  Cecilia got down on her knees as well and accepted it from him.

  “Thank you,” Cecilia said smiling.

  “Musica bella,” he whispered to her.

  “You’re a saint, Jimmy,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.

  “I’m just an old man,” he answered. “Make a beautiful noise with it tomorrow, and when the time comes, use it well.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  Cecilia rose and left the man still kneeling. Praying. She let her hands run along the rods of cold metal gates lining the walls like a bubble gum card in bicycle spokes. She stepped outside and found herself directly across the street from the venue. Her name in huge letters on the marquee. The first time she’d ever seen anything like that. It was an old meeting hall that had recently been refurbished. It was called The Temple now and her’s would be the first gig in the renovated space. How apropos. She always thought of herself as the leader of some kind of service for her fans, her disciples, even before Sebastian. Daniel had thought of everything.

  Her cell phone rang unexpectedly and Daniel’s name popped up on the screen.

  “Hi, Daniel. Great timing,” she said casually. “I’m just outside the venue.”

  “Nerves?” he asked curiously. “That’s not like you.”

  “No,” she said flatly, gripping the handle on her guitar case tightly. “I’m ready.”

  “Good. It’s all there for you, Cecilia. Money, fame, everything you could imagine. Right there on that stage. Everything you’ve always wanted.”

  “And the music?”

  “That too,” he said and laughed dismissively. “Do you know what you’re planning to do?”

  She felt her palms moisten at the sound of his voice, the guitar case handle slipping slightly in her grasp. Her phone sliding a bit in the other. She looked around but there was no one. Her hands and her head hurt. She looked down at the ground and saw a few droplets of blood splattering on the pavement like paint onto a spin art machine. At that very moment, it was clear. It was all an elaborate setup. A rigged game Daniel was playing for the highest stakes imaginable. Her life. He’d drawn her into his world. Encouraged her, subsidized her, promoted her, flattered her, even freed her from the clutches of Doctor Frey. To gain her trust. Her confidence. So that he could get her up on a stage unawares and slaughter her. Ruin her. Daniel had indeed thought of everything.

  “I do. In fact, I think it’s all just become very clear to me,” she said calmly. “The album will be released before I hit the stage, right?”

  “Yes, as promised.”

  “Good.”

  “Any surprises in store?”

  “I’m full of surprises, Daniel.”

  “That’s why I signed you,” he said. “Like what? I promise not tell a soul.”

  “Ah,” she fumbled, “I’m thinking I might close the show with a body surf across the crowd, if security can take it.”

  Blood rushed on the sides of her hands and ran down along them, hanging, suspended from her fingertips as if on the edge of a cliff, until each one dropped to the cracked concrete under her feet.

  “Now that will be a moment to remember,” Less enthused. “The crowd will love being so close to you. Getting to hold you. To touch you . . .”

  “If security cooperates.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve arranged for all that. You’ll be perfectly safe. I guarantee it. Throw caution to the wind, Cecilia. Like it’s the last thing you will ever do.”

  Maybe it was the tone of his voice, or Agnes’s news, or Jimmy, or her dreams of Sebastian, but suddenly the air around her and her mood seemed to change. She felt anxious. Uneasy. The fog in her mind began to lift. She stammered a bit, trying to regain her composure.

  “Yes, I’ll save that for the encore.”

  “This is it, Cecilia. Your future is at stake tomorrow night. Life or death. For your career I mean.”

  “Worried about your investment, Daniel?”

  “Just a little encouragement,” Less explained with some irritation.

  “Thanks for the pep talk but I don’t need it. I’ve seen the future, Daniel,” Cecilia answered firmly, thoughts of Agnes filling her with emotion. “The crowd will carry me all the way to the back, right to you.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “I know you will.”

  The last piece of the puzzle assembling in Cecilia’s mind suddenly fell into place.

  “Just one more thing, Daniel,” Cecilia said. “The name of the label. Tritone. Music theorists call a triton diabolus in musica. The dangerous interval in music, to be avoided at all costs. The devil’s note.”

  “Some do,” Daniel acknowledged impassively. “We have plenty of time to discuss it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I’ll see you at the end,” Cecilia paused. “Of my show.”

  “I want you to go out there and kill, Cecilia.”

  “That’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  Jesse arrived back at his apartment, arms loaded with groceries. He was hungry, for the first time in a while. He was feeling stronger, and even the weight of the bags as he climbed the stairs to his floor didn’t bother him. Maybe it was the relief of finally posting the video. That was the real weight he’d been feeling since coming home. And how it’d been lifted. As he ascended to the landing just below his apartment, the text notification on his phone rang. He balanced the bags against the banister and read it.

  Playing tonight at The Temple. I need you to come. Please. xCeCe

  Jesse didn’t like the sound of it, but what else could he do but go.

  Okay, he typed.

  Great job with the video. Lucy would be proud of you. I’m going to use it in my show. You’re not gonna charge me a licensing fee are you?

  Jesse smiled and picked up the bags, headed up the final flight of stairs and into his hallway. The smile qu
ickly left his face as he looked ahead at his apartment door. It was ajar. Definitely not the way he’d left it. He put the supermarket bags down and yanked out a wooden railing from the old banister, raised it like a club, and approached the apartment slowly. Quietly.

  His first instinct was to call the cops. Call Captain Murphy. But he didn’t. Nothing good had come of it so far and he had no reason to think this would be any different. His second instinct was to leave. Call his parents and ask to stay for a while. But he didn’t do that either. Too many questions he didn’t want to answer, he thought. Instead, he walked closer, listening carefully for any sound coming from behind the door. He opened the camera app on his phone, switched it to video, and began to record. It was instinct that guided him now. The reporter’s instinct.

  He pressed his outstretched fingers against the door and pushed it. There was no resistance. He reached for the light switch just inside the doorjamb and flicked it. To his surprise, the ceiling light came on. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. The room was a shambles. Drawers emptied, furniture overturned, computers smashed to bits.

  “Son of a bitch!” Jesse stepped in slowly and shook his head. He shuffled through mounds of broken glass, papers, files, folders, and photos. His refrigerator had been emptied and its contents dumped all over the floor, carpeting, and couch. He peeked into his bedroom, where the mattress had been overturned, the white sheets stamped with boot prints. On the wall above his bed were mangled eight-by-ten pictures of Lucy with her eyes cut out, Cecilia ripped in half beneath her neck, and Agnes with a hole in her chest. He’d seen this before. At the old lady’s house after the murder. The work of vandals with a capital V. At whose bidding he had absolutely no doubt. His film, he thought, must be making an impact. He stood for a while, taking the carnage in. Let himself feel the anger inside of him building to a volcanic pitch. He scrolled his contact list and dialed for help.

  “Tony?”

  “Yo.”

  “You were right.”

  “About what?”

  “Somebody didn’t like my video.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, but my place, not so much. It’s bent.”

  “It’s a warning.”

  “I know,” Jesse agreed. “That’s why I’m calling.”

  “What d’you need?”

  “I’m gonna need you and a few of your friends to be at The Temple tonight.”

  3 Martha was beside herself. She paced her parlor floor living room, debating whether or not to make the call. She peered anxiously out the front window from behind the curtains at the small gathering and began wringing her hands, suddenly on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. She picked up the phone.

  “This is Martha Fremont. I need to speak with Doctor Frey.”

  “I’m sorry but Doctor Frey is unavailable. Can I have him return your call?”

  “No!” Martha shouted. “He needs to make himself available. Tell him it’s urgent.”

  “If it’s an emergency you should call nine-one-one, Mrs. Fremont.”

  “Don’t patronize me! This is all his goddamned fault. Get him on the phone. Now!”

  “Hold on,” the nurse said politely.

  “Dr. Frey?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fremont?”

  “Thank God you took my call.”

  “Well, I’ve instructed the staff not to put through any outside calls. Many of them are from gossip columnists looking for information about your daughter and Cecilia. The screening process is for your privacy and protection, you understand.”

  Martha was barely listening. “I’m worried sick about Agnes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but as you know she’s been discharged and no longer in my care.”

  “That’s right, and I still can’t figure out why. She’s delusional!”

  “Slow down, Mrs. Fremont. What exactly is the matter?”

  Martha paused, unsure of exactly how to phrase it. But if there was anyone who would understand, she thought, it was Frey. “Agnes hasn’t been feeling well lately. At first I thought it was just an excuse to get out of school. That she was being harassed or something.”

  “That wouldn’t be unusual,” Frey replied, his voice taking on a casual, analytical tone.

  “Then I overheard something, when that Cecilia came over to visit, that I could not believe.”

  The doctor sat up in his office chair, suddenly quite a bit more interested in what the woman had to say. “What did you hear, Mrs. Fremont?”

  “It’s so ridiculous I don’t think I could tell anyone but you without being dragged off to the mental ward myself.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “She said she was . . . pregnant.”

  Frey was silent for a long while. “How do you know she isn’t?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She’s a virgin for God’s sake. There hasn’t been a boy around here since Finn.”

  “Why are you calling me? You should make an appointment for her with an obstetrician.”

  “You don’t understand. She thinks it’s . . . Sebastian’s!”

  Martha broke down in tears.

  “And you believe this?” Frey asked.

  “No, but she has been showing all the signs. Nausea, weight gain around the middle. I just don’t know what to think.”

  Frey remained calm in his demeanor, but inside he was anything but.

  “If what you say is true, it seems to be a classic case of pseudocyesis.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “False pregnancy. Agnes is prone to delusion and fantasy, we know that,” Frey continued. “Her obsession not just with the boy but with the idea of idealized love, which brought her here in the first place, makes her a perfect candidate I’d say.”

  “Then I do need a psychiatrist,” Martha insisted.

  “Perhaps, but not me.”

  “Why not? You know her case. Her history. I’ll be laughed out of another doctor’s office.”

  “We’ve been down this road, Mrs. Fremont. She doesn’t trust me. She’s refused treatment. Worse than that, she believes I intend to harm her and her friends. There is no way I could help her under those circumstances.”

  “Doctor Frey, you don’t understand. It’s not just Agnes’s mental state that concerns me. If word gets out that she might be pregnant, those lunatics outside my door, the ones that follow her around, worshipping their virgin saint, will turn on her in a heartbeat. God knows what they’ll do to her.”

  “Yes, only God knows. Perhaps you should call the police?”

  “You must be joking. I can’t even get them to send a squad car down here to clear the street anymore. You think they’re going to provide a police escort because a girl is having a hysterical pregnancy?”

  “I see your point.”

  “I’m begging you,” Martha pleaded through tears. “Please help me. Help Agnes.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Fremont, but there is nothing more I can do. You’ll have to find someone else. Good-bye.”

  The doctor leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes. Martha’s news had hit him hard. It was news he’d feared right from the start. A pregnancy. A continuation of their line writ in DNA. How much greater would be their fame, how much greater the sympathy, the adoration, with the birth of a child? The media would eat it up.

  “Nurse, can you please get that reporter from Page Six on the phone?”

  13 The Temple was gleaming, its marquee lighting up the entire block of the industrial neighborhood. Cecilia arrived early, in the limo courtesy of Daniel Less. There was a gold Celtic cross and turquoise mala beads dangling from the driver’s rearview mirror and Cecilia watched them swing like a pendulum as the car approached its destination.

  “Backstage entrance?” the driver asked.

  “Yeah, but can you circle around the front first?”

  “Yes, miss,” he answered.

  They pulled around the front of the venue and Cecilia asked him to stop for a sec
ond. She stared at her name in big bold letters and bright lights. Fans were already lining up, tickets in hand.

  “You must be very proud,” he opined in a lilting Irish accent.

  “Just what I always wanted.”

  “You’re lucky,” he said. “Not everyone gets to see their name in lights.”

  “Yeah,” she said quietly. “Lucky.”

  He pulled around the back of The Temple and she sat there for a minute.

  “This is your stop,” he called back to her. “Put on a good show.”

  “I will if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  She thanked him and handed him a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Drinks on me,” she said.

  “Oh, I can’t, I’m driving you home.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” she said. “Have one for me.”

  “I’ll toast your future, lassie.”

  “May you get to heaven half an hour before the devil knows you’re dead,” she laughed, mimicking an Irish brogue.

  “I was thinking something more like, May your neighbors respect you, trouble neglect you, the angels protect you, and heaven accept you.”

  “I like yours better.”’

  “You Irish?” he asked.

  “No, Italian and Slovak. Trento. My grandfather had to shorten it to get work when he came here.”

  “Well, that’s okay. I’ll give you a pass.”

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  The driver flashed a warm smile and winked at her. Cecilia teared up. The man reminded her of one of the two men she cared about most in the world. Of Bill. As if his soul was reaching out to her through him. Comforting her.

  “Oh, don’t be crying. This ain’t a night for tears.”

  “You just remind me of someone I’ve been missing, that’s all,” she said. “Happy tears.”

  “Well, I hope you are reunited soon.”

  “Me too,” Cecilia said.

  She grabbed her guitar and iron cello bow and exited. A loud cheer went up from a few longtime apostles who’d been waiting for her to arrive. Security made way for her. She looked around at the smiling faces. The anticipation of something special about to go down. Thought about the driver and Jimmy the ironworker. There were still some good people in the world, she mused. Worth saving. Worth the sacrifice. Something worth remembering. It wasn’t all Ciphers and vandals. Not yet. Not if she could do something about it.