The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,95

insisted. “We’ve been thinking that he meant to bring the three of us here to him. I think what he really meant was to bring the three of us together.”

“We do know something else,” CeCe said. “We know someone is trying to stop it.”

“But why?” Agnes asked.

“He can tell us.” Lucy yelled out for Sebastian without reply.

“Do you think he’s still here?” Cecilia asked.

“He must be,” Lucy fretted. “Maybe he’s angry at us?”

“He’s here,” Agnes said with certainty. “In the ossuary.”

They stepped over the trail of warped plywood sheets, splintered beams, shattered glass, and the damp crumbled plaster that led down the side aisle, surveying the old church like a beloved landmark that was about to be imploded to make way for new construction. Through the sacristy door and into the vestry, which was still showing the effects of the rummaging they’d given it just a few days earlier. It didn’t look like a single soul had been in there since.

The door to the stairwell was in their sight now, and Lucy held up.

“All our problems, all our questions started when we walked into this building.”

“They started way before that,” Cecilia said, shaking Lucy’s grasp and reaching for the doorknob.

13 “Hey, Bill. How’s it hanging, old man?”

The junkie squinted through his hungover eyes at the thin young man with the messy shag cut, strategically torn tee, thick-linked wallet chain, and skinny jeans. Everything about him screamed asshole. In fact, Bill would have sworn it was a girl or a tranny at least, if not for the lowish voice.

“It’s Ricky. Ricky Pyro,” he said, fidgeting. “You’ve seen me play. I sampled your typewriter for one of my songs that time.”

Bill went blank, searching whatever brain cells might have dried out between then and his last drink. He still couldn’t make the kid.

“C’mon. You know. Ricky Rehab. From Dr. Frey’s program at the hospital,” the rocker said a little more quietly, leaning into Bill’s ear.

“Oh, yeah, now I remember. Ricky.”

“That’s right, Bill. Mind if I pull up some sidewalk?”

Ricky slid down on his bony butt, resting his forearms across his knees. The old man couldn’t help but notice the paper bag the kid was holding. Ricky couldn’t help noticing Bill notice it.

As expected, the bag was an icebreaker. Bill suddenly turned sociable.

“You’re a friend of CeCe’s, right?”

“Some nights,” Ricky said with a laugh, elbowing the old man like a frat buddy. “Seen her around?”

“Not a lot lately, but she did come around last night,” Bill said, elbowing Ricky back less convincingly. “She brings me my breakfast every so often.”

“She say where she’d been?”

“Oh, yeah. Even told me to write it all down.”

Bill pulled a few barely legible handwritten pages from his coat pocket and flashed them tantalizingly at Ricky.

“Sounds like a good story. Tell me about it.”

Bill was wary. He was an addict, not a sucker.

“Couldn’t do that. She swore me to secrecy. A promise is a promise.”

Ricky tilted the bag back and forth. The familiar sound of a liquid rolling around inside a bottle was more than obvious to the old man.

“Yeah, but CeCe knows all about junkies and promises.”

Bill dropped his head slightly.

“All right then, Bill. I gotta go. Great seeing you again,” Ricky said.

Ricky started to get up from the ground when Bill grabbed his arm, the one with the bottle.

“What’cha got there, son?”

“Firewater,” the rocker said with a smile.

“Holy water, you mean,” the old man retorted with a small cackle.

“All depends on your point of view, I guess,” Ricky observed.

Bill’s eyes glazed over and focused tightly on the bag, like a hungry cat in a restaurant back alley. The gentle sound of the whiskey sloshing to and fro as seductive to him as the lapping surf on a seaside resort. Ricky’s tone turned exponentially more serious and demanding.

“Tell me about CeCe,” he said.

“I don’t know,” Bill said nervously. “It’s real personal. I promised to keep it just between the two of us.”

“She’ll never know, Bill.”

Ricky pulled the top of the bottle up through the bag and opened it, the aroma of alcohol wafting under Bill’s nose like anesthesia. He could not resist any longer.

“Okay, but don’t be sore at me if it hurts your feelings. I’m just the messenger.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

“She met some guy during the storm. I guess they hooked up and spent a few nights in that big old church they’re converting. You know the one.”

“Yeah,” he said, his expression tightening, eyes narrowing. “I know the one.”

Bill might have been old and gin-soaked, but the