Precious Blood

  “You need both,” Sebastian said, ending the quarrel by splitting the difference and their differences. “A message and a messenger.”

  3 The upper-right corners of the hospital files were dog-eared and yellowed from use, the faintest outline of a fingerprint—Dr. Frey’s—beginning to appear there. Pinching the edges, he had been intently alternating between one page and then the other, searching for some sort of connection, some common thread, a person, place, or thing, in their backgrounds. It was far too coincidental for this girl, he thought, to just up and disappear so soon after Sebastian.

  Sebastian. Agnes. Sebastian. Agnes. Sebastian. Agnes.

  A quick review and comparison of their report cards and teacher’s evaluations didn’t reveal anything extraordinary that might attract them; all things considered, they were total opposites. Both young, both smart. And hardheaded. He had firsthand knowledge of that. Similarities ended there, however. Where she was dedicated, hardworking, ambitious, fastidious, he was indifferent, rebellious, self-assured, and disconnected from the world around him, and becoming increasingly so. Manic behavior had become the norm, along with the delusions and ego inflation often associated with it. If anything, Agnes’s self-esteem could use some pumping up.

  As he scanned the emergency room admissions, a more important connection suggested itself. Two other teenage girls, about the same age, admitted about the same time.

  13 Cecilia Trent. Age: 18. Height: 5' 9”. Weight: 115 lbs. Hair: Br. Eyes: Gr.

  No insurance, no personal physician, no next of kin, no phone number. Williamsburg address. Arrived unconscious. Possible drowning. Resuscitated on scene and transported by EMT.

  Diagnosis: Acute Intoxication.

  He found it peculiar as he perused her blood work results, that he had so much information about this person and yet almost none at all. He had just literally seen inside her without ever laying eyes on her. “Technology.”

  Treatment: Fluids, bed rest.

  Discharged: November 1.

  “November 1.”

  Unlike the ER docs who’d treated her, he was interested in her mind as much as her body. Putting together a profile from an incomplete bunch of disparate facts was not just a skill he’d developed with years of experience, it was his job. And he was very good at his job. He googled her and quickly found Web links to online flyers for her gigs at local bars and clubs around Brooklyn, Queens, and the Lower East Side. Dives, he figured, given the lack of info on the spaces. The cell-phone video clips he streamed from her performances were choppy and dark, not just thematically, but literally dark. She was like an antenna broadcasting her rage out into the ether, a No Wave warrior—not just ready for a fight but looking for one.

  Searching for upcoming live dates posted on her fan pages, he noticed that last night’s show, which she cut short, was already a subject of controversy. He scrolled down to the comments and read through a string of vicious complaints and put-downs:

  Rat In A Cage says:

  No show ho! I’m so tired of these arrogant up-and-comers shitting all over their fans. We won’t get fooled again, Bitch! I have comps for next week. Who’s comin’ wit?

  H8ter88 says:

  I hope she dies a slow, painful death for punking out mid-show on her fans. Probably had an early date with one of those fat ass promoters she’s always sleeping with for Jack money. Just kidding. Love her soooooo much!

  FandemoniumGrrl says:

  Who wants to bet she plays the stalker-in-the-crowd card on her soon-to-be posted Web apology? Wait, it’s not me!

  MusicKilledMe666:

  Two Words People: The. Shitz.

  AdultBaby7 says:

  My sister’s boyfriend’s third cousin went to high school with her in Pittsburgh before she dropped out and she says something terrible must have happened for her to cut a show short. Pray for her everybody and check out my new vlog!

  With fans like these, he thought, who needs enemies, but maybe that was the whole point. Without a volatile mix of love and hate, there can be no passion. And if nothing else, he could see that these people cared. A lot. They were invested in her. There was no medical term for charisma, but wherever it came from, this girl had it by the truckload.

  On the last video clip posted of the previous night’s performance, he noticed something he hadn’t expected to see. Something alarming. A beaded band she wore around her bicep. He recognized it.

  7 He turned his attention to the other “red flag,” on the ER roll. Her name was vaguely familiar to him.

  Lucy Ambrose. Age: 17. Height: 5' 6”. Weight: 119 lbs. Address: 7 Bridge Street.

  “The more adventurous side of DUMBO,” he noted.

  Contact name and number: Jesse Arens and a 718 number.

  Not exactly a poor girl. New building. He imagined her looking out from the back window of her apartment toward the East River at the empty space once occupied by the World Trade Center towers. The tall buildings of Wall Street, buzz of Tribeca, SoHo, and the Lower East Side, and the bridges, like lifelines, beckoning her.

  A quick search turned up several pages of photos and gossip items from the downtown fashion and nightlife sites. One source, more than any other, seemed to be the generator of these cyber file cabinets of coverage, documenting her every move from would-be junior leaguer to A-List party girl.

  Trawling through an endless series of gallery openings, charity galas, and afterparties, he found the sheer volume of the coverage was stunning and mainly mind-numbing non sequiturs. Rumors of drinking and drug problems followed reports of endorsement deals with energy-drink manufacturers, downtown designers, and cosmetic surgery practices, until they each seemed to disappear, like puzzle pieces into a bigger picture. Lots of seductive candids and flirtatious dressing, but precious few mentions of one-night stands or real boyfriends or any real friends, for that matter, completed the profile of a girl in a love affair primarily with herself. A narcissist definitely, borderline histrionic personality disorder, probably. Not uncommon, he considered, but unusually fine-tuned for such a young person.

  Fame in the ADD Age, he thought. As fine an example of time-lapse digital careerism and social climbing as could be imagined or even wished for. A girl immortalized in pixels for no other purpose than her own glorification. Fame as endgame. The sheer intangibility of it all was breathtaking. But of all the images that assaulted his senses, it was the most recent posting that caught his attention. The image of Lucy picking herself off of the nightlife canvas. But it was not her bravery he admired, but rather the accessory he noticed around her wrist. Nearly identical to the beaded bauble also adorning the musician’s arm.

  He hadn’t actually seen Agnes with one, but she did seem fidgety during her appointment, as if she was hiding something. His scientist’s mind led him to only one conclusion.

  “It’s happening.”

  7 “Hey, altar boy?” Lucy whispered, waking Sebastian up from a dead sleep. “I’m ready.”

  “Ready?”

  “To change.”

  They both got up and headed to the back of the church, away from the other two. Neither spoke, but both knew where they were going, guided only by the candle each was carrying. Words were unnecessary.

  They stopped in front of the confessional.

  “The scene of the crime,” Lucy joked about the spot of their first meeting.

  “Not guilty,” he said, raising his arms in surrender.

  She reached for the penitent’s door and opened it. He reached for the clergy’s. They were both careful to close them slowly and quietly. Lucy and Sebastian got comfortable in their respective compartments, unable to see each other until Sebastian slid the wooden door open. Even then, all they could see were silhouettes through the dark metal screen that separated them. It was like a Hitchcockian peep show of the soul. She knelt and moved her face closer to the grille.

  “This is kind of hot,” she let slip.

  “I’m not sure that is the way this is supposed to start.?
??

  “Why not? It’s honest.”

  “True. But . . . ”

  “Okay. Confession do-over?” Lucy took a deep breath. And the mood within the cabinet changed. He leaned in closer to the screen and pressed his ear against it. “I don’t want this to come out the wrong way, but is there something wrong with me?”

  “I’m not getting you.”

  Sebastian barely got his thought out before she steamrolled over it, her frustration, barely kept in check until now, boiling over.

  “You’re always siding with them. I don’t know if it’s some kind of passive-aggressive thing to punish me for being ambitious or if you just hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you, Lucy.”

  “People have all these false preconceptions about me. I’m not what they think.”

  She was overwhelmed. The bruises, the storm. The tears, like her feelings, began to flow, slowly at first and then in torrents as she hunched over, heaved, and covered her mouth to keep the others from hearing.

  “You don’t have to change a thing for me or anyone.”

  “I mean, we have much more in common. Don’t tell them I said that, but it’s so obvious, don’t you think? I feel like we connected immediately. That never happens to me.”

  Sebastian couldn’t get a word out but thought it wouldn’t matter even if he had. This was a one-way conversation for the moment.

  “Besides,” she sobbed. “I was here first!”

  It was a childish rant but winning and heartfelt in its petulance.

  “I’m not choosing anyone over you.”

  She cleared her throat, a wild mood swing suddenly overtook her. She straightened her back. “Good, because I still have my pride. I’m not here to play sister wives.”

  The ultimatum hit Sebastian hard and hit him the wrong way.

  “And this is not the Chicken Ranch,” he said adamantly. “Look into my eyes.”

  She lifted her bloodshot orbs and matted lashes and connected with his through the small opening, like two lonely prisoners in adjoining cells.

  “You are here for a reason.”

  “I know I am. I’m here for you.”

  He didn’t answer.

  It was not the validating response she was hoping for. She felt herself in competition now, in this place of all places, just like she was out there, in her everyday life. Lucy had hoped to hide out from the drama, to leave the game for a while, but it seemed to have followed her inside. As in her everyday life, she was determined not to lose.

  “I’m putting myself out there for you. I need to know where I stand.”

  “I couldn’t choose among you. I won’t.”

  Rejection was foreign to Lucy. She hadn’t been with many guys, but it was pretty much assumed that she could have her pick. And not just by her. Jesse would kill to see me like this, she thought, but it was a state that no man besides her dad had ever been able to put her in. Sebastian was making her work. Making her think. Making her feel.

  “What are you doing to me? I’m not like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Needy,” she leaned in and whispered.

  “I need you, too.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Never.”

  “I’m confused. I want to trust you.”

  “Then trust me.”

  She picked up her votive, puckered her lips, and softly blew it out. And relaxed.

  “When I was small, my grandmother would light a candle by my bed at night. After she was done tucking me in, she would let me blow it out. If the stream of smoke went down, it meant I was going to hell. If it went up, it meant that I was going to heaven. She made sure that it always went up by secretly blowing, steering it with her breath. I went to bed every night with a smile on my face. I believed her. Just like I believe you.”

  Lucy looked down at the extinguished wick and noticed the smoke from it was rising. She could feel his breath blowing it. She moved in and brought her mouth to the screen. Loose and relaxed. She opened it slightly, seductively, pressing her lips against the grid.

  He leaned forward.

  Lucy shut her eyes.

  He took his fingers and traced her lips through the screen.

  Her tears fell onto the screen, forming tiny square prisms in their path.

  “I’m just so tired of putting on a show.”

  “Never apologize for who you are.”

  “I hate hiding who I really am,” she said. “I feel like you know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  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.”