The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,76
her back to reality. Martha raced to the door hoping it might be her headstrong child returning home. Opening it, the grim expression on the neighbor who’d come calling made her wish she hadn’t.
“Did you see it?”
“See what?”
The neighbor was having trouble making eye contact.
“The story on the news right now. I just wondered if you might have heard anything. . . . ”
Martha grabbed the remote and entered one of the local channels. She had already stopped listening to everything as the cheery CGI bumper for the program belied the seriousness of the top story. Her heart sank. She felt as if she’d just fallen from a tall building.
“This just in,” the well-coiffed presenter read with the appropriate mix of urgency and seriousness.
Martha watched dumbfounded as video rolled. Three girls and a dangerous, charismatic madman, possibly a murderer. All missing. Unnamed except for Lucy Ambrose. Probably together. A kidnapping? Not so fast. Already it was being turned into a cult thing, stock footage of the Manson girls rolling on the screen. All the details were sketchy but reported as fact.
“I’m sure the police would have notified you if . . . ”
Martha’s eyes were blank. Fixed on the breaking news report.
“If there’s anything I can do . . . ,” the neighbor offered as she backed toward the door. Martha was in shock. She couldn’t even muster a thank-you. She reached for the phone, calmly, robotically, and dialed the police.
Sunday morning.
Day of reflection. And repair.
It was still dark inside, but first light was climbing slowly up the outer walls and through the shattered windows.
Outside the church, the buzz of chain saws and men’s voices replaced the rumble of thunder. The sirens of police cars and fire engines could be heard in the distance, making their way down flooded side streets choked with fallen trees.
The storm was finally over.
Lucy, Cecilia, and Agnes sat silently, contemplating what Sebastian had just revealed.
None of them knew what to think.
How to feel.
There was a sound of crunching glass coming from the side chapel. The windows had been blown out, making a way in for an intruder.
A small box-shaped bluish-white glow appeared, the size of a smartphone screen, throwing light, and the sound of tentative footsteps echoed through the space.
“Lucy?” a quavering voice called out nervously but loudly. “Lucy, are you here?”
The voice was familiar to her and most unwelcome. She walked quickly toward the rectangular light.
“Jesse,” she whispered harshly, grabbing him tightly by the arm.
Jesse recoiled, wide-eyed until the look of recognition settled in. The girl looked familiar, but different to him than she had just a few days earlier.
“I knew it,” he said, less surprised than pleased with himself.
“Knew what?”
“That you’d be here.”
“What? Why would you even bother to look for me?”
“Believe me, I’m not the only one looking.”
“How did you find me?”
“It was the bracelet,” Jesse said. “I knew I’d seen the two-eyed emblem on it someplace before. It was from an item I did on the press conference for the condo conversion. I remembered the sculpture on the building. Almost like it led me here.”
The sound of a match striking and sulfur fumes filled the still air, followed by a spark of light from the altar candle. Jesse saw the powerful outline of the imposing figure on the altar and shook as if he’d seen a ghost. It was the guy in the picture.
“Sebastian,” he mused, the way he had over celebrities he’d written about but never actually seen in person.
Lucy backed away from him, toward the altar, and joined Agnes and Cecilia flanking Sebastian.
“What do you want from us?” Sebastian called out to him.
“Let them go,” Jesse said.
The girls looked puzzled and Cecilia began to laugh derisively at the pale, frail teen down the aisle.
“Let who go?” Agnes asked. “We’re not hostages.”
It was the first time any of them had used such a word, though they were beginning to feel like it. Not hostages in the criminal sense, but cuffed and bound by their heartstrings.
“I know you,” Cecilia sniffed. “You’re that evil little blogger douche. Right, Lucy?”
“That’s him,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you I wanted nothing to do with you?”
“He’s your friend,” Cecilia said. “You take care of this.”
“He’s not a friend.”
“Look, I know you hate me,” Jesse began. “But I’m here to help you. All of you.”
“I . . . we don’t need your help.”
“We? Are you choosing sides now? This is not a game, Lucy. He is not who you think he is.”
“Okay, who is he, then?”