The Devil's Labyrinth Page 15

  At the foot of the stairs a tunnel led off in either direction. A dim light glowed off to the left, but Melody turned to the right, where it seemed to Ryan that there was nothing but blackness.

  She took his hand and led him forward. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I know exactly where we are, and I know exactly how far we have to go.”

  Ryan’s heart started beating a little faster as she led him away from the light, but he told himself it was the excitement of holding her hand that was making his pulse speed up, not any kind of discomfort with the darkness.

  They moved straight down the narrow corridor for several yards, then came to a second corridor, and Melody turned left. A few moments later she turned right again, and then, as the darkness started to make Ryan feel almost dizzy, he lost track of the next turns and didn’t even try to keep track of how many steps he’d taken. If he lost his hold on Melody’s hand, or if it turned out she didn’t really know where they were going—

  He put the thought out of his mind, not even wanting to think about the possibility of being lost down here in the tangle of dark corridors that seemed to lead nowhere. His heart was pounding now, and it seemed like it was getting harder and harder to breathe.

  Then, as tendrils of panic were starting to twist around Ryan, Melody suddenly spoke.

  “We’re almost there.”

  “So far, so good,” Ryan muttered, hoping his near-panic wouldn’t show in his voice. “Is it really stuffy down here or—” he began, but Melody stopped so quickly he ran right into her.

  “Shh!” she hissed, her fingers tightening on his hand.

  Ryan leaned close so he was whispering into her ear. “What is it?”

  “I heard—” Melody began, but then fell instantly silent.

  This time, Ryan heard it, too.

  A faint scraping sound, as if a door were brushing against the stone floor.

  But was it opening, or closing?

  And where was it?

  Ryan strained his ears, but couldn’t tell if it came from in front of or behind them.

  “What should we do?” Ryan whispered.

  “Shh,” Melody repeated. “Listen.”

  Ryan stood absolutely still, trying not to breathe at all, ears straining, but heard nothing. Now, though, it wasn’t just the darkness that felt like it was closing in on him, but the walls themselves.

  He shivered involuntarily as his whole body suddenly broke out in a cold sweat.

  All he wanted to do was run.

  Run, and find the closest stairs that would lead him up and out of this labyrinth, into the clear, cool night air.

  Melody was moving again, and Ryan forced his panic down once more, following her down what now felt like an endless corridor.

  Endless, and closing further in on him with every second that passed.

  It went on for what seemed like hours, the darkness so absolute that Ryan began to see things he knew couldn’t be there at all.

  Tiny lights winked at him, always vanishing as he turned to look at them.

  He felt things close to him in the darkness, things he didn’t want to imagine, let alone see.

  His panic was once more building toward the breaking point when Melody suddenly stopped again.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “We’re here. There are some stairs just to the left, and the infirmary is at the top of them.”

  Ryan wanted to push his way past her and run up the stairs, but held his growing terror of the darkness in check, letting her lead him to the foot of the stairs.

  Then, just as he raised his foot to take that first step up, they heard another sound.

  A footstep!

  Then another!

  Then more. And not just one person, either, but at least two.

  And they were coming toward them, every step echoing louder.

  Melody froze for an instant, then moved closer to Ryan until her lips were at his ear. “Follow me, and press against the wall.” She said it so softly he barely heard her. A second later he felt her pulling him past the stairs, deeper into the darkness. His heart thundering, he held his breath as if any movement, even of his lungs, might betray them. He pressed himself against the wall, Melody beside him, her hand clinging to his.

  They waited.

  The footsteps drew nearer until Ryan was certain that whoever was there was not only coming directly toward them, but was about to run right into them.

  The steps grew louder, and now Ryan could almost feel the presence of whoever was hidden in the blackness.

  He steeled himself, waiting.

  And then, at the last possible instant, the steps paused.

  Ryan held perfectly still. Had they been heard? Had some tiny noise betrayed them? He waited, certain that at any second a flashlight would come on, blinding him as certainly as the darkness blinded him, but exposing him as well.

  Exposing him, and Melody, too.

  They would be caught.

  And there was nothing he could do.

  Silently, Ryan began to pray.

  And the steps began again.

  But no longer coming toward them. No! Now the steps were going up, climbing the stairs they had been about to climb themselves!

  His heart still pounding, Ryan slowly exhaled. A moment later a glow of light emerged from the stairwell. Like a June bug drawn to light, Ryan moved toward the base of the stairs. Melody, still gripping his hand in her own, stayed so close behind him that he could feel the warmth of her breath on the back of his neck.

  Stopping just short of the doorway to the staircase, Ryan listened. The footsteps were still audible, but sounded muffled, and when he finally risked a quick look up the stairs, he understood why. The stairs were built around a well, and whoever was climbing them had already made at least one turn.

  Ryan’s mind raced. Either they could go back the way they’d come, groping through the suffocating darkness, or they could sneak up the stairs, where there would be a way out that didn’t involve having to pick their way through the maze of subterranean tunnels.

  And there was the chance of finding out who else had been down here tonight.

  The thought of the darkness—and the terrible claustrophobia that had gripped him—was enough to make up his mind for him. As the footsteps above grew fainter, Ryan started up the stairs, with Melody silently following.

  After two turns they came to the first floor landing. A door—unlocked—led into a broad hallway at the end of which was a pair of old-fashioned double doors with panic bars—the kind that could only be locked from outside. And even from where they were, Ryan could see the school’s huge interior courtyard through the glass of the double doors.

  They were safe.

  But above them, the footsteps had stopped, and now Ryan could hear muffled voices. The words themselves were inaudible, but one of the voices sounded worried, another impatient.

  And Melody, her back to the wall so she was almost perfectly invisible from the well above, unless someone leaned over and looked straight down, had moved past him, and was sidling rapidly up toward the next turn. Ryan caught up with her just as she came to the intermediate landing, where she stopped. Pointing upward, she silently mouthed a single word: “Infirmary!”

  Ryan peered upward to see the shape of a man, his shoulders draped in the cassock and stole of a priest, standing with his back to the railing around the stairwell.

  Then, as they watched, the area above brightened as a light—apparently inside the infirmary—went on. The man turned, and for a terrible moment Ryan was sure he was going to look down. But instead, another shape appeared.

  Another head, this one belonging to someone the man was carrying in his arms—someone who was unconscious. And though they got no more than a glimpse of the person the man was carrying, both Ryan and Melody knew instantly who it was.

  Sofia.

  Melody had been right.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  And there was nobody they could talk to about
it.

  CHAPTER 26

  ARCHBISHOP JONATHAN RAND closed his office door behind the last member of the diocesan committee for the protection of children, returned to his desk, and slumped back into his chair. He had known that putting the Boston Archdiocese back together was going to be a long-term task, but he hadn’t anticipated just how difficult and uncooperative his committee members were going to be. It seemed as if all they wanted to do was fight him on every point with endless, circuitous debate that ultimately resolved nothing. Indeed, every item on today’s agenda had been tabled until next month amid claims that all of it needed additional research and further extrapolations. It was as if they hoped that simply by stalling, they could make the whole mess go away.

  Rand was sick of it. He just wanted to make some headway, somewhere, in some area that mattered.

  There was a soft knock on his office door, and the Archbishop glanced at the clock. Not even nine in the morning, and he felt as if he’d already put in an entire day’s worth of very hard work. He sighed heavily, needing no one to tell him that ignoring whatever his assistant was bringing him wasn’t going to go away.

  The door opened and the seminarian appeared. “Father Laughlin from St. Isaac’s, to see you.”

  The Archbishop nodded. “Give me five minutes, please, and then send him in, along with a cup of tea.”

  The seminarian nodded and backed out, silently closing the door behind him.

  The Archbishop closed his eyes and systematically relaxed his body, beginning with his feet. He visualized soothing blue light going up his legs, infusing his hips, then moving up his spine to that place at the base of his skull where all the tension in both his mind and body seemed to come together, creating a painful knot. Using a technique he had learned from a Cardinal from India, he focused the visualized light on the knot, then concentrated on letting the knot itself dissolve and flow down his arms and drain out his fingers. Though he didn’t profess to understand how the exercise worked, Rand had found that it never failed to revitalize him.

  Faith, he knew, worked in a lot of ways.

  When the seminarian again knocked, then opened the door bearing a steaming cup of tea and leading Father Laughlin in, the Archbishop was ready to meet the next challenge, his strength fully renewed.

  “We have finally had a success,” Father Laughlin announced as soon as they were alone.

  The Archbishop lifted a skeptical brow. “Really?”

  Father Laughlin’s head bobbed, and when he picked up his cup of tea his hand trembled, though Rand wasn’t sure it was from excitement or merely age. “I witnessed it myself,” the priest said, leaning forward in his chair to lay a manila envelope on the Archbishop’s desk. “Here is my report, though I’m afraid I am utterly unable to convey the magnitude of what happened last night. It was amazing to witness—absolutely astonishing. Truly, Father Sebastian has a gift!”

  The Archbishop eyed the envelope warily. He knew about the work that had been going on at St. Isaac’s, of course. Indeed, he’d been instrumental in bringing Father Sebastian to Boston after all his work at Notre Dame. Nor was he completely skeptical of the value of the work, for the rite of exorcism, he knew, could be a valuable tool. Though he himself had never been convinced that “demons” were the cause of psychological disturbances in people, he was also aware that if someone believed something was going to make them better, it often did.

  It was simply another demonstration of the power of faith.

  But still, he couldn’t help but be somewhat skeptical of this remarkable statement from a man who had been a priest too long. On the other hand, it had been a long time since he’d had any good news at all to report to the Vatican, and something—anything—was better than nothing. “You saw this?” he asked cautiously. “You actually witnessed it yourself?”

  Father Laughlin nodded and began to recount exactly what had happened last night in the tiny chapel beneath the school.

  “What is the girl’s condition this morning?” the Archbishop asked when Father Laughlin was finished. “Is she aware? Does she know what happened to her?”

  “She’s understandably tired this morning,” the elderly priest replied. “She’s calm and cooperative, and resting comfortably. She doesn’t seem to have much memory of the event, but I shall never forget it. It was unquestionably one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen.”

  The Archbishop picked up the report and placed it on the stack of papers in his “In” box.

  “And there is other good news,” Father Laughlin said quickly, sensing that he was about to be dismissed.

  Rand looked at him inquiringly. “Go on.”

  Father Laughlin was now fairly beaming. “I’m happy to say that absolutely no drugs were found in the Adamson boy’s system.”

  The Archbishop lowered his head and gazed at the old man. “And how is that good news for us? If drugs were not the impetus for his irrational behavior, Ernest, then what was it?”

  Father Laughlin cleared his throat. “Father Sebastian believes it was a manifestation of the evil that dwelt within the boy. An evil which he was unfortunately not successful in driving out.”

  Archbishop Rand’s brief hope of being able to send good news to the Vatican evaporated; there was just no credibility here. “Is this in your report?”

  Father Laughlin nodded. “Father Sebastian and I agreed we couldn’t—and shouldn’t—hide our failures. Certainly not from the Vatican. But both of us feel that the success last night far outweighs the earlier failure. It is of great significance. Possibly even global significance.”

  The Archbishop paused, but finally nodded, and then stood, signaling the end of the meeting. Father Laughlin struggled to his feet, and shook the Archbishop’s outstretched hand.

  “I shall forward your report to Cardinal Morisco,” Rand said, “and I shall, of course, advise you of whatever response the Vatican may have.”

  Only when the elderly priest was gone did the Archbishop finally open the envelope and glance through the headmaster’s report.

  A successful exorcism, he decided, was possible.

  But highly unlikely.

  Still, he rang for the seminarian, and when he arrived, handed him the envelope. “Scan this into the St. Isaac school file, please, and fax a copy to Cardinal Morisco at the Vatican.”

  The young man took the envelope and left the office.

  Archbishop Rand glanced through his daily calendar. More meetings. More wheel-spinning. More make-work without concrete results.

  Is this what God had in mind when He had issued the call for young Jonathan Rand?

  Apparently so.

  The Archbishop allowed himself a moment of self-indulgent frustration, then sipped his tea and began to prepare for his next meeting, as, in the next room, the fax machine began transmitting Father Laughlin’s report to Rome.

  Melody Hunt stood just outside the main door to the infirmary, struggling to control her racing heart, to banish the tight knot of fear that had grown larger in her belly with every step she’d taken as she climbed the stairs. She composed her face into what she hoped was a concerned, but—most important—innocent, expression. The problem was that Melody’s mother always knew when she was hiding something, and Melody was absolutely certain that the nun in the infirmary would be at least as able as her mother to read the guilt on her face the moment she walked through the door.

  But despite her best efforts, her face had an awful wooden feel, exactly as it always did when she was trying to hide something.

  Maybe she should just turn away from the infirmary and go back to her room. But she needed to see Sofia, no matter what the nuns might read on her face, and besides, wouldn’t walking away seem even more suspicious than anything that might show in her expression?

  Taking one final deep breath, Melody pushed her way through the door and saw two students, their faces pale and their eyes bloodshot, sitting unhappily in the anteroom, waiting to see the nurse.

  Igno
ring the sign-in sheet, Melody stood at the front desk, nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she waited for one of the nurses to appear.

  A moment later, the curtain separating the waiting area from the rest of the infirmary swished open, and Sister Ignatius, dressed in the white habit of a nurse, appeared, deftly closing the privacy curtain behind her. “Melody!” she said, automatically assessing the girl’s condition with her practiced eye. “What are you doing here? I do hope there isn’t a bug going around.”

  Melody relaxed slightly—at least she didn’t appear nearly as nervous as she felt. “I just wanted to find out about my roommate. Sofia Capelli?”

  The nurse visibly brightened. “Aren’t you nice! But you could have just called us.” She cast a sidelong glance toward the two students in the waiting area. “This isn’t always the healthiest place to be,” she went on. “Anyway, we would have told you that Sofia was doing fine. She just fainted. Low blood sugar, I imagine. Sometimes you girls simply don’t eat right—there’s nothing wrong with a little meat on your bones, you know.”

  As if the food would let anyone at St. Isaac’s lose weight, Melody thought darkly, hoping Sister Ignatius wasn’t about to go off on one of her famous rants about “maintaining a healthy weight,” which, Melody thought, was at least forty pounds more than she herself ever intended to weigh. But to her immense relief, for once in her life, Sister Ignatius decided not to push her point. “Would you like to see her?”

  “May I?” Melody replied, suddenly feeling a little better. If they were going to actually let her see Sofia, whatever was wrong couldn’t be too bad, could it?

  Sister Ignatius drew the curtain far enough aside for Melody to enter the examination room, and led her through to the small ward, where Sofia lay sleeping in one of the dozen beds that made up the infirmary. She wore a green hospital gown, her clothes neatly folded on the chair next to the bed.