The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,80
room.
“I’ve done what you asked. Given my heart, my soul, my mind! For what?”
He stepped onto the altar and reached for the Legenda and snatched it from its stand.
“Pain! Rejection! Death!”
He raised the weighty tome over his head and spied the glass reliquary housing the chaplets. About to smash it to bits.
He felt hands on his shoulders. Strong hands. An invisible touch bolstering him in this moment of agony. He felt his lungs empty and chest squeeze, as if he were being crushed in a landslide. He lowered the book and returned it gently to the altar.
Out of the haze, on the altar before him, appeared the faintest outline of three figures. Men. They were workers, each holding a tool of his trade. A shovel, a pick, and an ax.
He’d seen them before. They were the ones who told him. About himself. About the chaplets. About the girls. At the time, he gathered it might have been a dream or a nightmare but not anymore. It was too late anyway.
“Forgive me for my weakness,” he begged, dropping to his knees, preparing for punishment.
They raised their tools. Not to strike him but to salute him. A gesture of encouragement and respect.
“You have done well,” one said. “You are an honor to your line.”
“Your time is at hand,” another warned.
“Peace be yours,” said the last.
The shadowy figures went as quickly as they’d come. Sebastian was heartened by their faith in him and strengthened in his faith in himself.
“I am ready.”
Frey was busy, barely noticing the young man already seated in his office and waiting for him, when he backed through the doorway still in conversation with a colleague. Jesse’s ego could tolerate rude treatment but not being ignored.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the distracted doctor said. “I’d forgotten our appointment. I’ve just got a second.”
“I’ve seen them.”
“I’m listening,” Frey answered, slowly sitting behind his desk, eyes focused intently on Jesse.
“That guy Sebastian is a lunatic,” Jesse rambled, averting his eyes from the doctor’s gaze. “Raving. Just like you said. And he’s wearing off on the others.”
“How so?” Frey inquired, both his curiosity and his analytical self now entirely engaged.
“Stockholm syndrome. Totally. Wild-eyed. I’ve never seen Lucy like that. So protective of someone else.”
“Impressive,” Frey admitted. “I’ll confirm your diagnosis for the updated story. Off the record, of course.”
“The police are anxious to know where I’ve been getting such detailed information,” Jesse said. “I’m not sure how much longer I can avoid them.”
Jesse was looking for a reaction.
“Now that you know where they are, it’s game over. The police will be satisfied to find them, and you will share the credit. A win-win.”
“You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you, Doctor?”
“It’s not brain surgery, is it?” Frey said straight-faced. A psychiatrist joke. And not a very funny one. The unspoken beneficiary here, Jesse surmised, was not the girls, or the police, or even him. It was Frey. He’d deftly kept his fingerprints off this whole thing but gotten exactly what he’d wanted. Almost.
“So. Where are they?”
“Here’s the thing,” Jesse said, a bit self-righteously. “I’m not going to tell them. Or you.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” he asked. “If you’ve seen him, you must know firsthand how dangerous he is.”
“Dangerous to who? I saw Sebastian. Talked with him. He could’ve killed me if he wanted on the spot. But he didn’t. You are the psychiatrist. Why would he do that?”
“He is brazen. Unpredictable. Just because he didn’t kill you doesn’t mean he isn’t a killer. Don’t be fooled.”
“Good advice, Doctor,” Jesse answered. “I won’t be again.”
“Are you accusing me of lying?”
“No,” Jesse answered deliberatively. “I’m accusing you of much worse than that.”
“I hand you the opportunity of a lifetime and this is what I get,” Frey said scornfully. “Perhaps that’s quite predictable from someone with your background.”
“I didn’t realize I was being profiled,” Jesse quipped. “Do tell me about myself, in your professional opinion.”
“In my professional opinion, you are snotty, deceitful, self-serving, untrustworthy, and greedy. In medical terms, a starfucker, Mr. Arens.”
“I see you’ve been talking to my friends.”
“If you’re holding out for a payday, forget it,” the doctor said. “I’m not one of your classmates you can blackmail.”
“Former classmates,” he puffed, proudly confirming his lack of higher education. “I’m an entrepreneur at heart.”
“It shows,” Frey noted, coldly critiquing Jesse’s abbreviated academic career.
“Yes, I am the curious type, among other things,” Jesse responded. “Curious as to why such a respected physician would risk his reputation and trash his oath to help someone with my, ah, profile as you