Hallowed

  Jesse had never seen a dead body before, not like this, but to him it looked as if she were sleeping peacefully. He hoped so, because as he gazed behind her at the statue of Sebastian he was feeling anything but peaceful.

  “You,” he whispered like a jealous suitor. “You took her from me.”

  He brought his face closer to the glass, closer to hers, grabbed hold of the translucent casket, hugging it, and spoke, chanting her name. “Lucy, Lucy, Lucy, Lucy.”

  Over and over again, until his hot breath had fogged over the cool glass lid, leaving a film of condensation and desperation upon it. He moved in closer to her still and kissed the glass directly above her mouth, imprinting an impression of his lips, hoping against hope to conjure her back to life like some medieval magician or fairy-tale prince.

  He sat down in the front pew and stared ahead at her. A cascade of feelings swept over him—feelings of resentment toward Sebastian, of vengeance toward Frey and his vandals, of fear for Cecilia, Agnes, and Jude, and guilt and loathing for himself. But as he closed his eyes, all he could see and hear was her. His ears filled with her laughter. His eyes filled with her eyes. His heart filled with peace and love.

  Jesse broke down in tears.

  3 “They’re back,” Martha said snidely as she pulled the curtain away from the parlor window.

  “Who’s they, Mother? Half of those people who pray beside you at church on Sunday?”

  “Damn mindless zombies,” Martha spat. “At least I was able to get some peace while you were . . .”

  “Away? Is that where I was? On vacation or something? Or was it a vacation for you?”

  “Stop it with your attitude, Agnes. You were there for your own good and I’m still not sure Doctor Frey did the right thing letting you go. Or the other one.”

  “Doctor Frey never does the right thing, Mother.”

  “You’ve got to stop with these fantasies of yours, Agnes. You’re scaring me. Those other girls have filled your head up with such nonsense you can’t see through it.”

  “Not girls, Mother. Not anymore. One of us is dead.”

  “And Doctor Frey killed her?”

  Agnes was silent.

  “If you really think that, why don’t you take it to Captain Murphy?”

  Agnes bit her lip. “He doesn’t believe us.”

  “Well, let’s think about that for a second. Why don’t people believe you? Could it be because the boy you claim to love was an escaped mental patient?”

  “Please don’t play psychiatrist. I’ve had enough of that shit.”

  “And your friend Lucy was a suicide, from everything I’ve heard. No wonder, with the kind of empty life she was living.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. Just another rich girl, club-hopper tragedy. Is that it?” Agnes mocked. “A teen celebrity gone bad?”

  “Every girl wants to feel special, to feel loved, to be worshipped. Believe me, I get it. But life doesn’t always work like that. It rarely does.”

  “You’re blind.”

  “I wish you were as blind as me, Agnes,” Martha said, wringing her hands just a little. “I see perfectly what you’re doing to yourself.”

  Agnes drew the curtain back, exposing the crowd. “Don’t you see what’s going on out there, see what’s happening?”

  “People with too much time on their hands looking for something in the wrong place,” Martha griped. “The only thing happening is in your head.”

  The doorbell rang, bringing the conversation to an abrupt halt.

  “What now?” Martha spat. “If it’s one of these crazies, I’m calling the police.”

  She brought her eye to the peephole, exhaled, and opened the door. “Hello dear,” she said sweetly, until she got a good look at the girl. “What in hell happened to you?”

  Martha couldn’t believe what she saw—the black eye and split lip and the purple brownish raised scabs over the girl’s brow and on her cheek.

  “Hi, Mrs. Fremont. It’s nothing. Got into a fight with a kitchen cabinet. I’m clumsy.”

  Martha was skeptical, but asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Hazel!” Agnes shouted, running into her friend’s arms.

  “I thought those creepy people were going to ask me for my autograph or something,” Hazel huffed, taking Agnes by the hand before she too could ask uncomfortable questions.

  “Thank you,” Martha grumbled, raising an eyebrow as she walked off to the kitchen. “Finally a girl with some sense, I think.”

  Agnes stepped back from the embrace. “Not you too?”

  “I don’t judge. I’m just sayin’.” Hazel slipped off her jacket. “Not everyone is so supportive, you know.”

  Agnes led Hazel back to her room and closed the door loudly to be sure Martha heard it.

  “You look terrible,” Agnes said. “Worse than you described in your text. How are you?”

  “Gee, thanks. Yeah, it was a stupid accident,” Hazel replied. “More importantly, how are you?”

  Agnes shrugged, tears starting to well and slip from her eyes. “That’s a big question.”

  “Did they give you shock treatments and shit?”

  “No, why?”

  “A lot of kids at school were, you know, talking.”

  “They’re always talking, Hazel,” Agnes sniffed.

  Agnes turned her back and opened her desk drawer, eyeing her tear catcher. She picked up the flute-shaped bottle, removed the top, and held it to her cheek, capturing the few drops of glycerin pooling on her cheek.

  “No way,” Hazel said. “Drinking this early? I’ll take a double. I sure could use it.”

  Agnes waved her off.

  “It’s an antique,” Agnes explained. “It’s a tear catcher. It reminds me of what’s important to me.”

  “The things you cry over?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well then, I’d have a few flasks full myself. I call dibs on that if you ever want to part with it.”

  Agnes smiled and dried her eyes. She gathered some homeopathic supplies from her antique green vanity—oils and salves—and sat down next to Hazel on her crushed velvet antique chair.

  “Okay. So what is everyone saying?” Agnes asked, dressing Hazel’s wounds naturally and gently.

  “Well, about half the school thinks you’re nuts and the other half thinks you’re making it up, that you like the attention.”

  “So they’re either judgmental or jealous? Seriously?”

  “Who cares? They’re all haters anyway,” Hazel responded. “Ouch!”

  “Sorry, I’m almost done,” Agnes said putting on the last of the salve. After she finished, she reached for Hazel’s hand and took it in hers and led her to the corner of the bed. They sat down. Agnes stared directly into her friend’s eyes.

  “What do you think, Hazel?”

  Hazel swallowed hard, flipped her hair behind her ears a few times, reached into her bag for a lip balm, and ran it across her lips. She puckered a few times. Her batting eyes gave away her nervousness.

  “Can’t you see what I think?” Hazel said, pointing to her face. “I mean, look at me. Look what they did to me.”

  “What happened to you, Hazel? Really.”

  “A few girls in class jumped me after school in the bathroom.”

  “Because of me?”

  Hazel’s tears flowed freely now as she nodded yes. Agnes began to cry as well.

  “They were talking shit about you and I wasn’t going to let them get away with it.”

  “Didn’t you tell anyone?”

  “I’m no snitch bitch. I can deal with my own problems.”

  “I’m so sorry, Hazel. So very sorry.”

  The two of them locked in an embrace on her bed for several minutes, crying and comforting each other.

  “Kids have a lot of questions,” Hazel said talking tough through her tears, “but I can handle it. I don’t take any shit, you know that.??
?

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Agnes said, getting a smile from Hazel.

  “Whatever you do, don’t go online. There’s a lot of sick crap posted,” Hazel said, getting back to business. “Trolls everywhere.”

  “One nice thing about being away is that I really don’t miss that stuff. I’m so done with it.”

  “It’s definitely an addiction. Maybe I should try getting a 5150 hold on me or something. I’m crazy.”

  “Hazel,” Agnes said, reprimanding her in a playful way.

  “Guess I’m just hoping now that you’re home that maybe our lives will get back to normal?”

  “This is the new normal for me, for as long as I’m alive.”

  “Agnes, please don’t talk like that. It scares me.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” Agnes said, echoing Sebastian’s words.

  Hazel started shaking slightly. “That’s easy for you to say, Agnes. I’d take a bullet for you, but I have to know it at least matters to you.”

  Agnes thought of all the things she could have said but said the only thing that really mattered. “You are such a good friend, Hazel. I’m so lucky to have you.”

  “If you really mean that, just promise me you won’t do anything stupid, okay?”

  But Agnes couldn’t promise no matter how much she wanted to and Hazel knew it. “Whatever I do, it’s what I need to do. You understand?”

  Hazel stood and turned to look out Agnes’s bedroom window at the crowd. “Honestly, I don’t. You have a chance at a new start. All those people out on the street, they don’t know you.”

  “Did my mother ask you to come here?”

  “No. I’m just freaked out for you. I’m petrified.”

  The concern showed on Agnes’s face. Frey, she thought, would have let her go for only one reason, and that was to kill her.

  “It’s okay. I’ll be fine. No matter what happens. Peace in the eye of disaster. That’s what I know now.”

  “Oh, Agnes,” Hazel said. “I do believe you. Believe in you.”

  “I know,” Agnes said. “I mean, look at you.”

  The two laughed a little and hugged more.

  “Have you heard from Cecilia or that guy Jesse?”

  “Not since I left. I think we all need a little time away.”

  “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

  13 Cecilia noticed that everything in the room had an otherworldly glow—the walls, her vinyl records, even her skin. She looked at her arms and then her hands. She was so pale in the morning sunrise, almost dead looking. She’d been working all night and lost total track of time.

  Exhausted, emotional, and exhilarated, she closed her eyes and listened back to the demos she’d recorded the night before. She could barely hear her cell phone ringing through the blare from her speakers, the melodic ringtone sounding like another part of her composition. It fit with her beat, at least for a few seconds.

  She walked into her bedroom, removed the phone from the charger, and held it up. The name on her touchscreen left no doubt who was calling her. It didn’t say Daniel. It didn’t say Mr. Less. It said Daniel Less. His full name, as if she would forget. She swiped the call answer bar and spoke.

  “Hello,” she said softly.

  “Is this a good time?” Less asked politely.

  “Perfect,” she said, a small smile involuntarily crossing her lips. “I’ve been working.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have expected it so quickly.”

  “You’re in early,” she jibed.

  “You’re up late,” he retorted.

  “I don’t fuck around.”

  “Apparently not,” he said.

  “I want to play something for you. Not sure if you’ll get it through the phone but . . .”

  “I’ve been doing this a while, Cecilia, and my ears still work,” he said dryly.

  “Sorry,” she said, momentarily forgetting who she was dealing with. “They’re really rough so if you don’t like them I can keep working.”

  “Just press play.”

  Cecilia did as he asked, bringing up the track in the music program she’d been working with. A squall of processed guitar feedback that sounded more like meat frying than music burst through the speakers, anchored by a synthetic, metallic snap of a virtual snare drum. The track was harsh. Edgy. Unique.

  Cecilia fiddled with her chaplet nervously. For the first time in a long time, she felt uncomfortable. Needy even. Wanting desperately for him to like what she’d done. She imagined him leaning back in his leather highback office chair, eyes closed, drinking it in. Drinking her in. This was her shot at last. An opportunity to not just record her most heartfelt songs or even perform them on stage, but to release them to a wide audience. It was what she’d been hoping for ever since Sebastian revealed her truth. But somehow, along with her anxiety, she was feeling hollowness inside. The events of Precious Blood, now six months behind her, suddenly seemed a long time ago.

  She watched her laptop screen intently as each second of the track clicked by, her mind racing wildly over what he might say and how she might respond. The sonic storm faded gently away and she waited for his critique, but all he said was . . .

  “Next.”

  She played the next demo for him, this one softer and spacier, and the next, a straightforward power rocker. There was heart and blood and soul in all of it, from beginning to end.

  “I’m impressed. It’s a brilliant start,“ Less said with characteristic directness. “You are a true artist, Cecilia.”

  She could barely keep herself from pogoing around the apartment, fists raised upward in victory, smiling from ear to ear.

  “Thanks,” she said flatly, not wanting to give herself away. “I’m happy with them so far.”

  “As am I,” he continued. “That’s not just music; that is communication.”

  He gets me, she thought. Cecilia was barely able to contain herself but somehow managed.

  “That’s what I’m about, Mr. Less.”

  “Call me Daniel,” he said flirtatiously.

  “Okay . . . Daniel.”

  “Your fans will be happy and I’m a lock for a return on my investment.”

  “Investment?” she whispered. “Is that all I am?”

  “No, Cecilia. You are more than that. Much more.”

  There was an awkward silence between them. There was something incredibly intimate about what had just happened. She’d exposed her most vulnerable side to an almost total stranger, but one who now occupied an unexpectedly major part in her life.

  “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, I just thought you were about to ask me what I was wearing.”

  “That’s funny,” he said, “I thought you were just about to tell me.”

  Jesse reached into his duffle bag and pulled out the large rectangle plastic cartridge that Agnes had slipped him. He turned it around in his hand like an archeologist examining an artifact from a time long ago.

  “Tape? Really?” he whispered to himself.

  He opened his bedroom closet door and dug out an old player, dusted it off, and plugged it in. It took him a second to find the connections in the back of his flat-panel LED screen. It had been that long.

  As the player warmed up he took the opportunity to go through the e-mails he’d missed in the Byte contacts box. Message after message popped up, most wishing him ill. No surprise, he thought. Some clever, some not so much.

  Heard you were still alive. Proves the theory that it’s impossible to kill cockroaches.

  Riddle me this, asshole—what’s the difference between you and Lucy Ambrose? Lucy is dead. EMT response time is just a little too good. Who can I talk to about that?

  Can you spell KARMA? J-E-S-S-E.

  Jesse hardly reacted. He scrolled down and scanned the subject of each e-mail before opening it. They went from bad to worse. But there were a few good ones, supportive ones. Sympathetic ones sprinkled in. Mostly expressing condolences about Lucy, prayers for them
both, wishing him a speedy recovery and the strength to forgive his enemies. Forgiveness, however, was the last thing on his mind.

  The more digital correspondence he read, the more lost he became in it. The hate, the anger, the vitriol, the bitterness, the disgust that dripped from every comment. He could not stop thinking that he probably deserved it. And that he was still much too young to have pissed off so many people. But he had, after all, put a target on their backs. Ruined lives for spite and profit. For his own gain. And for Lucy. His eyes turned from the computer screen to the tape player.

  Jesse pressed play and hoped for the best. He got his worst nightmare. There was Lucy, sitting, helpless, being interrogated by that man who called himself a priest. It could easily have been mistaken for a hostage video, but it was even worse than that because Jesse knew without watching that there would be no way Lucy would ever denounce herself, no matter how wrongheaded he thought she was being. She was too proud, for a start. And too stubborn.

  What did they need this for, Jesse kept asking himself. To embarrass her? Humiliate her? That was an area he was far too familiar with. He couldn’t count the number of friends, and even former enemies who’d landed in his digital crosshairs. Their digital crosshairs to be exact. Lucy was no shrinking violet when it came to the game. She played it expertly, right up to the end. She didn’t give an inch. Not even to save her own life.

  No, he figured. The reason for this recording was to invalidate her. That was Frey’s big thing. To share with the world, like one of those secret sex tapes he’d been offered by jealous ex-boyfriends. Most confessions are voluntary, heard by priests for the purpose of forgiveness, but this was anything but. He found himself wanting to reach through the screen to save her or just to hold her hand, to comfort her in her moment of agony.

  Guilt overwhelmed him once again. For being so stupid. For going to Born Again. A place he had no business being. For trying to be a hero. Her hero. Now she was dead. As the tape continued to roll, he watched the questioning become more and more intense. There was a burst of white light, which blinded him even through the TV screen, and then the mood in the room seemed to change. A look of peace came across Lucy’s face. He’d seen that self-satisfied smile of hers many times before, though under different circumstances. A frenemy taken down a peg, a nemesis’ darkest secret exposed, an A-list party crashed and documented for the haters to see. As he pushed pause and studied the look on her face, he saw that there was a lot of the old Lucy in the new one. This smile he knew, though, was not for him, but for Sebastian. He kept on watching.