The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,54
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.”
“Yes, well, their mission was derailed, so to speak,” Frey shot back sarcastically.
“Yes, until Sebastian. He understood and tried to make others understand. A herald. But instead of being believed, he was betrayed.”
“These are ravings of that old lady who raised him.”
“She was a holy woman.”
“She was a witch. You said so yourself.”
Monsignor Piazza stood defiantly in her defense and Sebastian’s.
“Not a witch. She practiced Benedicaria. The Way of Blessing. She passed this knowledge on to him.”
“Knowledge? This is medieval voodoo for the ignorant masses. She filled his impressionable mind with this nonsense. A lonely, orphaned boy wanting to feel special. The shame of it!”
Piazza looked at the physician with contempt.
“She filled him with faith and fire. He could recognize malevolence in others that even I could not. I see that now, and I pray that God forgives me for my blindness.”
“I’m not here to revisit the past with you, Monsignor. I don’t have time.”
“Then why are you here really, Doctor? You don’t think I’m hiding him in here, do you?”
“Before he escaped, he said there were others. Did he ever discuss such a thing with you? Did he have friends or acquaintances he confided in?”
“Others,” the priest repeated, as if he had just received word of a miracle he’d waited for his whole life. “As a priest, I couldn’t tell you if he had. The Seal of Confession.”
“This is not the time for antiquated vows, Father,” Frey lectured. “You care about the boy, don’t you? About his well-being. He may not survive this if the police find him first. There may be hostages.”
The priest was rapidly tiring of the doctor’s altruistic facade. He had been fooled once before.
“What will be left of him if you find him first?”
“Life is better than death, Monsignor.”
“Not at the cost of your soul, Doctor.”
“I can save him. Save him from himself.”
“Your compassion is most touching. After all, we wouldn’t want to make a martyr of him, so to speak?” The priest’s voice dripped with the wry and combative condescension he had been known for in his younger days. Piazza had gotten under the doctor’s skin. The veneer of civility torn asunder, Frey’s frustration now drove him past the point of politeness.
“He is mad,” the doctor opined. “Illnesses like these are contagious among the weak-willed, the vulnerable, the depressed, Father. Dangerous.”
“Dangerous to whom? You speak of the spread of faith like a disease.”
“All this talk about faith and souls. It is from a different time. Haven’t we finally grown past this, Father?”
“I don’t know. Have we? You seem quite troubled by something you don’t believe.”
“Fairy stories! Lies! Meant to control the mind and behavior of people for what? For money? Power?”
“Like the drugs you prescribe, Doctor, to alter minds and control behavior. What do you fear from Sebastian that brings you here? Maybe the psychiatrist should ask himself that question.”
The doctor struggled to keep his composure. “Show me a soul,” he railed. “What does it look like? Feel like? Taste like? What does it weigh? Show me a soul and I’ll believe you. And Sebastian.”
“Blessed are they who have not seen, and yet have believed.”
“Blessed,” Frey mumbled. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
“For you, Doctor. For me, a solution.”
“That old church was an eyesore, running on fumes for years, Monsignor. No one came and no one will miss it, thanks in large measure to your incompetence. It serves no purpose any longer except as a future apartment block for stockbrokers and their families. On which I expect to earn a substantial return.”
Monsignor Piazza took his argument under advisement and arrived at a different conclusion. He knew now that Precious Blood had retained its purpose, even if it had a congregation of only one. Or four.
“Perhaps