Hallowed

  “This might be the perfect environment, if you were looking for Jack the Ripper,” Frey chided.

  “How do you know I’m not?” Murphy retorted.

  Frey cracked a slight smile.

  Murphy escorted the doctor into the main interrogation room, the same one that Lucy, Cecilia, and Agnes had found themselves in several months earlier.

  “Surely this is a matter we could have addressed in my office, with greater discretion.”

  “This is a police matter, and I prefer to conduct police business on these premises,” Murphy explained in no uncertain terms.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to intimidate me.”

  “I’m only trying to seek out facts, Doctor, and follow them wherever they may lead.”

  “Yes, of course, the facts. Well, given the reports of rampant corruption in the department perhaps you should start here,” Frey said. “I was talking to the chief of police and others of your superiors about that very thing the other day.”

  “My superiors? Are you sure you aren’t the one trying to intimidate me, Doctor?”

  “Never crossed my mind, Captain. Now, what can I do for you? I have patients to see.”

  “Yes, you are a busy man. Very busy. So I’ll proceed.”

  “Please do.”

  Frey sat bolt upright, hands folded on the table, almost refusing to get comfortable. The captain noted his body language as defensive posture in his notebook and began.

  “As you know, we have a number of open and ongoing investigations since the events at Precious Blood. And they all seem to have one thing in common.”

  “And what is that, Captain?”

  “You.”

  “That sounds like an accusation, Captain. Perhaps I should have brought my attorney.”

  “It’s just an observation, Doctor Frey. A fact.”

  “Well, given that Sebastian, patient zero, as I call him, is at the bottom of this, and he was my patient, that should be unsurprising. And while we are talking commonalities, Captain, he was killed by your men. That is also a fact.”

  Murphy let the dig roll off his back for the time being.

  “Yes, and both Agnes Fremont and Cecilia Trent were under your care at some point.”

  “That’s right. The Fremont girl was brought in on a gurney as I recall and has been back since. Attempted suicide. The other was remanded for observation pending trial for murder. Both released. Not the most stable bunch, but in need of care.”

  “Well, I imagine you see a lot of that, Doctor, in your line of work.”

  “Sadly, yes.”

  “It’s Cecilia Trent I’m most interested in right now, Doctor. Daniel Less and his attorneys arranged for her release, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Over my objection.”

  “Less was a friend of yours, isn’t that right? Wouldn’t he trust your professional opinion, even if he did stand to make some financial gain off the girl? He hardly needed the money.”

  “Well, I’d tell you to ask him, Captain, but that would be impossible.”

  “Yes, which brings me to my next question. Why would she want to kill him?”

  “Who knows? She was under suspicion of the murder of Finn, whoever he was to begin with. A belligerent, rebellious self-centered girl, as most artists are, with a borderline psychopathic personality, if you want my diagnosis. I warned Daniel. She should never have been released. You see the result for yourself.”

  “I’m asking because a review of phone records indicates that the last call Less made was to you. From Cecilia Trent’s concert that night. And for the record, Finn whoever was also a patient of yours, correct?”

  “Correct. Where are you going with this, Captain?”

  “Just trying to keep the facts straight, Doctor. So about that phone call?”

  “If you must know, he was concerned about her mental stability. Not to speak ill of the dead, but he should have thought of that sooner.”

  “Clearly. The weapon used to cut her throat was clean. No prints. And in the dark, no witnesses, even though she was surrounded by a crowd of people.”

  “Most unfortunate. I guess we’ll never know. If there’s nothing else?”

  “Just one more thing, Doctor. The fire at Born Again? What can you tell me about that?”

  “Nothing, although I do have my suspicions.”

  “Don’t hold back. You’re the psychiatrist.”

  “Who would have a reason to burn the place to the ground?”

  “Sure you want to go there? It’s not the most popular place in the neighborhood.”

  “I’m not talking about the stroller patrol that’s invading, Captain, or those delusional followers of the supposed saints. I’m talking about someone who had motive, who wanted revenge.”

  “You mean the Arens kid?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who could blame him after what was done to him, right Doctor?”

  “One bad apple doesn’t turn the whole barrel rotten. You can find one anywhere. At Born Again. In business. In your own department.”

  “At Perpetual Help?”

  Frey did not take kindly to the insinuation.

  “I’ll be speaking to him,” the captain said. “And for the record, he doesn’t like you either.”

  “No doubt, but I’ll put my reputation against that two-bit jailbird gossip monger any time.”

  “No love lost I take it?”

  “If you are looking for a nexus, Captain, he’s your prime suspect.”

  3 Agnes endured the uncomfortable probing and scanning by the obstetrician and waited on pins and needles for the result. What she’d heard was a routine procedure now seemed anything but, as nurse followed nurse, physician’s assistant preceded physician’s assistant into the room to examine her and to administer additional sonograms. None of them said a word as they took their measurements of the baby onscreen and registered her vital signs. She was petrified. Hazel took her hand to comfort her.

  “Something’s wrong,” Agnes moaned. “I should have come here much sooner.”

  “Stop worrying, Agnes,” Hazel whispered, her anxious expression giving away her own concerns.

  It seemed like forever to the two girls, but finally Doctor Patrick entered the exam room, her expression not quite as grim as they were expecting.

  “So the good news is that the baby is healthy. You are twenty-eight weeks pregnant.”

  Hazel tightened her grip on Agnes’s hand and both girls squealed with joy and relief. The doctor, however, did not smile.

  “And the bad news?” Agnes asked.

  “The bad news is that there are complications,” Doctor Patrick explained. “Your blood pressure is high and we notice some unusual swelling around your eyes and in your legs.”

  “She’s pregnant. It’s not that crazy to be fat, is it?” Hazel asked nervously. “I mean, if there’s ever an okay time to put on a few pounds, this is it.”

  Agnes shushed her friend.

  “Along with the bouts of vomiting and abdominal pain you’ve been experiencing, it leads us to believe that you have a condition called preeclampsia.”

  “What?” Agnes asked, barely able to even pronounce the diagnosis.

  “It happens sometimes in first-time pregnancies, especially in teenagers and younger mothers.”

  “But the baby is fine, right?” Agnes asked.

  “Yes, but I don’t want to mislead you. It can be a life-threatening condition for you.”

  “Is there anything she can do?” Hazel asked as reality smacked her square in the face.

  “We’ll keep a close eye on it from now on. Most importantly, eliminate as much stress as you possibly can.”

  “Are there any other options?”

  “Termination is always an option whenever the life of the mother is at stake,” Doctor Patrick advised. “Yours is the definition of a high-risk pregnancy, Agnes.”

  Doctor Patrick left the room, her words hanging ominously
in the air. Agnes couldn’t help but think this pregnancy was high-risk in more ways than one.

  “Agnes,” Hazel stammered. “I know how important this is to you but I’m telling you as a friend who loves you, I think you need to keep all your options open.”

  “I have no options.”

  The fiery attack on Born Again had left the house a shambles and Frey’s murderous minions temporarily scattered. It would be difficult to regroup them. Jesse had bought Agnes some time; to his credit, Frey acknowledged, he’d achieved that much. The heat was on in other ways as well. Despite his best efforts to influence the top brass and pin the arson on Jesse, the investigation was slowed down at every turn by Captain Murphy, while the investigation into Cecilia’s death only seemed to pick up speed.

  The longer and deeper it went, the more it appeared clear to him that Murphy was looking to connect him to it through Daniel Less. Discrediting Agnes might have helped him put a few points on the board in the short term, but it was the future, which she carried inside her, that troubled him most. She was protected now, and the same eyes on her were watching him as well. But neither concern with Murphy nor with Jesse was most pressing. His most urgent problem was the problem of Jude. The boy was back, of his own volition. There was a reason and Frey was determined to find out what it was.

  The boy was waiting outside Dr. Frey’s office door, as he had for the past several weeks since returning to Perpetual Help. Their sessions were brief and, so far, uneventful, much to the doctor’s dismay. Perhaps it was the additional scrutiny he’d been under, but Frey was uncharacteristically anxious and impatient.

  “Send Jude in, nurse.”

  Jude ambled through the door in hospital scrubs he’d been given by the psych ward staff, for his own protection. There was not a sneaker lace or hard sole or belt to be found on him. He was clothed pretty much in white paper, which gave the towheaded boy the appearance of an angel. He sat down.

  The doctor studied him carefully, evaluating his mood, level of alertness, eye contact, skin pallor, steadiness all in a few casual glances, such was his expertise. Jude for his part remained impassive, indifferent to Frey’s appraisal.

  “You’re looking well, son,” Frey said offhandedly, not a shred of concern in his voice. “Being here must suit you.”

  Jude did not respond, not even a blink. The doctor circled the boy and returned to the chair behind his desk.

  “Surely you must be getting tired of these sessions, Jude. I don’t see you as a danger to yourself or others. Is there something you want to tell me?”

  The boy tensed up and began to shudder slightly, then more violently. His head flew back and his eyes rolled white. The veins in his neck were popping as his hands grasped the chair like a frightened child on a roller coaster. Frey half-stood with alarm, his instinct to help a patient in distress at war with his curiosity over what might come next. He waited and watched.

  For a moment the boy seemed to be seizing, and then was in a mild trancelike state the doctor had seen many times before in other patients, before returning to a semblance of clarity. After a few moments, the boy spoke, for the first time in his presence, as he had hoped. The words Jude had chosen, however, were not the response the doctor was expecting.

  “I’m not a danger to myself or to anyone else, except you.”

  Frey leaned in closer to the boy across his desk.

  “Is that so, Jude? How are you a danger to me?”

  “I have knowledge that you covet.”

  The use of the word “covet” in that context seemed a bit arcane to the doctor’s ear, especially for a child. Biblical, even.

  “I’m not talking to Jude, am I . . . Sebastian?”

  “You are talking to one who knows, Doctor.”

  “Oh, Sebastian, do you seek to impress me by invading the body of child? Even in death you are a fool.”

  “The seeds have been planted.”

  “Yes, the seeds of destruction. The same delusions that led to your own death have brought down Lucy and Cecilia. And Agnes, too, before long.”

  “They are alive. Always. As you know. As you fear. As you believe.”

  “They are dead! Because of you,” Frey shouted, banging his fist and then catching himself. “Why do I argue with a ghost?”

  “Because we are not ghosts, Doctor. We live in hearts and minds. Places you cannot touch.”

  Frey gathered himself.

  “You were always a stubborn boy, Sebastian. I told you none of this needed to happen. If you would have been more compliant, remained in treatment, you and your friends would be alive now. Enjoying your youth. Living.”

  “With you there is nothing but death. For the body and the soul. What I did, I was compelled to do for the good of all.”

  “Yes, you’ve set a wonderful example for others to follow. A legacy of blood, insanity, and death.”

  “Of sacrifice. Of faith.”

  Jude shuddered once again and then relaxed. The mystical moment had passed with the boy barely understanding what had happened to him.

  “A most interesting session, Jude.”

  Jude was weak, barely lucid.

  “We’ll talk again tomorrow. About Agnes.”

  Martha could not sleep.

  She twisted and turned in her bed, exhausted mentally and physically, yet unable to slip into the peaceful slumber she so desperately needed to quiet her troubled mind. She opened her eyes in hope of escaping the visions of the Lucy, Cecilia, and most of all Agnes, but they continued to haunt her like a waking dream. Her daughter’s predicament and fate weighed heavily on her. Seeking some solace. Some meaning to it all.

  Martha closed her eyes again and unexpectedly found herself drifting off. Not into dreamland exactly, but somewhere she’d never been, witness to something she’d never seen. An ancient scene. Two men in a jail. One dressed regally. The other modestly. One an emperor. The other a priest. One an accuser. The other a prisoner. She was frozen. Unable to move or do anything but watch and listen to the events unfold as guards stood by, swords at the ready. The noxious smell of burning coals, human waste, stagnant water, and decaying flesh filled her nostrils.

  “What is your name?” the ruler demanded in a most authoritative tone.

  “I am called Valentinus. Some call me Valentine.”

  “I am Claudius Gothicus,” the tall man said, stretching his arm out from his white linen robe to reveal his emperor’s ring.

  “I know who you are. The whole world knows.”

  The emperor eyed Valentine suspiciously, as he had the enemies he had engaged and vanquished in mortal combat throughout the Roman world.

  “You are accused of many things, Valentinus, not the least of which is marrying off men who would otherwise be sent to fight. Yet you have no authority recognized by the state to do so.”

  “I have all the authority I need from a power much greater than yours,” Valentinus replied.

  “You speak treason. What power greater than mine is there in the world?”

  “The authority I claim is not of this world, Gothicus.”

  The emperor let out a loud, impatient sigh.

  “You realize that I have forbidden the worship of any other gods but the gods of Rome? On pain of death.”

  “I do.”

  “Yet you persist in this rebelliousness! The roads in and out of the city are lined with the severed heads and crucified corpses of those like you,” Gothicus spat angrily, pointing a long accusatory finger in Valentius’s face. “Don’t test me. It will cost you your life. I swear it.”

  “If that was your message, could not an underling have brought it to me?” Valentinus asked calmly. “Yet the mighty Claudius Gothicus has come to this jail, full of death and disease and despair, himself to interrogate me. Why?”

  Gothicus glared menacingly at the insolent prisoner and then threw his head back and laughed.

  “You are fool, but a brave fool, Valentinus. I like you,” Gothicus said. “You are an idealist. A ro
mantic. Dispense with these silly notions of yours, swear loyalty to me, and I will spare you.”

  “Never.”

  The emperor was clearly displeased and began to pace before the jail cell, stroking his chin, deep in thought.

  “It is said that you are a healer.”

  “Not any longer, Caesar. Your soldiers destroyed my salves and medicines when they arrested me and brought me here.”

  “On whose authority do you claim to do such magic?”

  “It is not magic.”

  “Then what?”

  “Faith,” Valentinus declared.

  “Liar! These are deceptions. Tricks!”

  “If they are just harmless tricks, why am I here, Gothicus, other than in your employ entertaining your guests?” Valentinus queried. “What do you fear from me?”

  The red-faced ruler regained his composure and removed a handwritten note from beneath his vestment and handed it to Valentinus through the prison bars. The accused took the tattered piece of rag paper and examined it in the dusty torchlight of his confines. It read simply “From Your Valentine.”

  “Is this your signature?”

  “It is.”

  “Are you in the habit of sending love notes to young women?”

  “No, I am in the habit of showing appreciation to those who are kind to me, those whom I cherish and love.”

  “Even your jailer’s daughter? The blind girl?”

  “She was brought to me by her own father,” Valentinus acknowledged. “Unable to see from birth. I treated her. I taught her. I prayed with her.”

  “You healed her. Is that your claim?”

  “Her faith has healed her.”

  “And your faith condemns you,” Gothicus proclaimed. “This note shall be your last.”

  “It will be the first of many, Gothicus.”

  The emperor was handed a piece of parchment and he laid it on a small wooden table before him.

  “This, my dear Valentine, is my signature.”

  Gothicus dipped his ring in a small vat of hot wax and drove his seal onto the bottom of the writ of execution.

  “I order on this fourteenth day of the second month that you be beaten with clubs until you are dead.”