The Devil's Labyrinth Read online

  All that was left was a feeling of power.

  That, and an eagerness to hear whatever Father Sebastian was about to tell him.

  Father Sebastian took an ancient scroll from the sleeve of his cassock, unrolled the yellowed parchment and began to read. Though he’d never heard the words before, Ryan’s lips, along with those of Melody and Sofia, were forming the phrases in unison with Father Sebastian, and soon their voices began to rise filling the chapel with a hypnotic chant. As their voices rose, the darkness began to swirl around them until the three of them formed a vortex around Father Sebastian.

  Their voices continued to rise, and now the chapel itself seemed to be spinning around them. Still their voices soared higher until the walls themselves began to tremble.

  Then, as they howled out the last syllable of the chant, a wailing scream erupted from directly above Father Sebastian, and when he looked up, Ryan once again saw the figure of Christ hanging upside down on the suspended cross. The Savior’s mouth was open, and his entire body was writhing in agony. From the wound in his side, blood was streaming, and as Ryan stared upward a few drops hit his face.

  His skin burned as if the blood were glowing embers.

  Now Ryan’s own hands were bleeding again, his blood once more mixing with Melody’s and Sofia’s.

  Father Sebastian’s voice fell silent, and he rolled up the parchment and slipped it back in the sleeve of his cassock. He approached Sofia. His hands, too, were bleeding now, and he held them out to Sofia, laying them on each of her cheeks. “It is through my blood that you live and you are bound to my bidding,” he said.

  “I will obey,” Sofia whispered.

  Father Sebastian turned to Melody and placed his hands on her face, repeating the words as blood flowed from his palms down Melody’s cheeks.

  “I will obey,” Melody said quietly.

  Now Father Sebastian was facing Ryan, gazing directly into his eyes, and when his bleeding palms came up to press against the flesh of Ryan’s face, a great exaltation flooded into Ryan, and, as he listened to the priest’s words, he knew what his answer would be.

  “It is through my blood that you exist and you are bound to my bidding,” Father Sebastian intoned, his eyes still locked on Ryan.

  Ryan stood perfectly still, and his voice rose from his throat, confident and strong: “I will obey.”

  Father Sebastian broke the circle and moved to the altar, where three packages lay neatly wrapped. “Here, then, are your vestments for tomorrow,” Father Sebastian said as Ryan and Melody and Sofia followed him from the labyrinth. “Put them on, and then I will instruct you as to exactly what you will do tomorrow.”

  Ryan opened his package and took out the crimson cassock, slipping it on over the pajamas that were all he wore. It felt heavy and bulky under the arms, but he ignored the weight and put on the surplice, whose lacy cuffs concealed those of the cassock itself.

  Not a single drop of blood from either his hands or his face stained the white surplice when he was finished.

  “May Allah be pleased with you all,” Father Sebastian said softly when all three of them were fully clad in their vestments. “Radiya ’Llahu ’anhum. Glory be to God, the one God, the true God!” He closed his eyes and swayed back and forth, then whispered, “Tomorrow it will end, and my ancestors will be avenged. Subhana wa ta’ala.”

  As Ryan and Melody and Sofia watched and listened, the priest showed them how to arm the bombs concealed within the cassocks, and where the trigger buttons were concealed in their sleeves.

  Finally, he told them the exact moment during tomorrow’s public Mass at which they would press the triggers, ending not only the life of the Pope of Rome, but of themselves as well.

  “Subhana wa ta’ala,” Father Sebastian repeated. “Allah is exalted above weakness and indignity.”

  CHAPTER 62

  ALONE FIGURE stood on the hill far off to Ryan’s right, silhouetted against the clear, scarlet light of early dawn.

  As he gazed at the figure, he wasn’t quite certain what it was.

  A man?

  A scarecrow?

  The figure came slightly more into focus, and now he could see that it was a man. A man on a cross! He was at the foot of Calvary, gazing up at the crucified Savior! He took a step closer, and then another. Yes, it was a cross, but as he drew nearer, he could see that the man wasn’t hanging on it after all.

  Rather, he was standing in front of the cross, and though he was bound to it with chains wrapped tight around his body, his eyes were serene.

  Serene, and fixed steadily on Ryan.

  Now, as the sky began to brighten, Ryan could see the man’s face more clearly, and his breath caught in his throat. “Dad?” he breathed so softly that the word was instantly lost on the morning breeze.

  “Come here, Ryan,” his father called. “Come back to me.”

  But now another voice was calling to him from somewhere off to the left, and Ryan turned away from the figure bound to the base of the cross.

  “No, Ryan,” his father said. “Don’t look anywhere but here. I am your salvation.”

  Ryan hesitated, but the other voice called again, and there was a note of command he couldn’t ignore: “You will stay with me. It is by my blood that you live, and you will do as I bid.”

  Ryan moved farther away from his father.

  “No, Ryan,” his father whispered, his voice low but his words distinct. “Come to me, Ryan. Come back to me. Only I can save you.”

  As his father’s voice called out to him, Ryan tried to turn back, tried to begin the climb up the hill to where his salvation stood bound to the cross. But his body was no longer his own, and slowly he turned once more in the other direction, turned once more away from his father. And there, on another hill, a hill much lower and much closer than Calvary, he beheld another figure: Father Sebastian Sloane standing at the headwaters of a river of blood that seemed to flow out of nowhere.

  “It is through my blood that you live and you are bound to my bidding,” Father Sebastian repeated, quietly and with no emotion whatsoever.

  His words struck a chord deep within Ryan, and he started toward the dark figure that was the priest. “I come, Father. I obey. I will always obey.”

  “Ryan!” his father called, his voice already fading as Ryan drew farther and farther away from him. “Do not forget my gift. Do not forget the gift I left to you.”

  As if he hadn’t heard his father’s words at all, Ryan kept walking toward the dark priest. But as he drew near, he suddenly saw that Father Sebastian was not alone. Melody was with him and she was smiling at Ryan and beckoning to him. He quickened his step, reaching out to her as she was reaching out to him, but just before their fingers touched, Father Sebastian’s right hand rose high in the air, clutching a silver crucifix that was as long as his arm. His hand was clutched around the face of Christ, and as he raised it high, the light of the rising sun glinted off the keenly honed blade to which the feet of the Savior were bound.

  Then the crucifix flashed downward in a great arc, and in the instant his fingers touched Melody’s, the glittering blade slashed through the flesh and tendons and bones of her neck.

  As Father Sebastian let Melody Hunt’s body fall to the ground, her blood gushed from her neck to join the river that flowed from beneath the priest’s feet. Her head dropped next to Ryan’s own feet.

  She looked up at him, her agony clouding her perfect blue eyes and twisting her face into a mask of pain. Her lips worked, and he could see her trying to form a word. She struggled, her eyes tearing, and then—

  Ryan awoke, gasping and sitting straight up in bed, his heart pounding, his skin clammy, and a vision of Melody’s tortured features still hanging in the fading darkness before dawn.

  Clay Matthews slept peacefully on the other side of the room.

  Ryan lay still, waiting for the terror of the dream to pass. And soon it would pass and he would go back to sleep and when he awoke again he would be ready for the
day.

  The day that was to be the most important day of his life.

  The most important, and the last.

  The Pope was coming today, and by the end of the day, Allah would have three new martyrs, who would live in eternal glory for the deed of their martyrdom.

  Now, as he lay in the brightening light of the dawn, Ryan knew what the dream had meant. It had been a temptation from the Infidels who would turn him away from the true faith. But he would deny temptation today. He, and Melody, and Sofia would obey.

  Yet even as he made his silent vow, his gaze shifted from the window shade to the seam in the wainscoting next to his bed. The source of his temptation lay inside the secret compartment; he had placed it there himself after bringing it from the attic of his father’s house.

  Tonight it had spoken to him.

  It had come to him in the nightmare, and it had tempted him.

  It must be destroyed.

  Ryan slipped out of bed and quietly worked the piece of wood loose from the wainscoting. When it came free, he laid it on his bed and reached into the hole behind the plaster.

  His fingers closed around the cold silver and instantly a tingling ran up his arm.

  He brought the crucifix out and gazed at it in the dawn light.

  A voice inside him whispered. “You know what you must do. You must do as you are commanded.”

  The crucifix glowed as if with a light from within.

  His fingers closed on it, so that his eyes would not succumb to its temptation.

  He would not let this trinket stand in the way of his obeying the command of the Father.

  He carefully replaced the wainscoting, then slipped back into bed. He gazed at the ceiling—ignoring the temptation of the object clutched in his fist—waiting.

  Waiting until morning.

  Waiting for the fulfillment of his destiny.

  CHAPTER 63

  FROM THE MOMENT he awoke in the dark hours before dawn until the moment his limousine arrived at St. Isaac’s Preparatory Academy, Pope Innocent XIV had been feeling his excitement grow. The rediscovery of the ancient Rite of Invocation—a rite lost so long ago that its very existence was regarded by all but a handful of Vatican scholars as nothing more than a myth—would be the crowning achievement of his Pontificate. Ever since he’d viewed the first file, the ramifications of the ritual’s rediscovery had never been far from the forefront of his mind, and the longer he’d considered the matter, the more he understood that the importance of the ritual could not be overestimated.

  To be able to exorcize evil so ill-concealed as to be easily banished by the simplest of parish priests was one thing; to be able to summon forth and wash away the most deeply hidden and firmly rooted evil that stains every human soul was quite another.

  This was something that would forever change the current of human endeavor.

  It would eradicate war.

  It would be the dawn of true peace on earth, just as the Savior had promised. And today, he, Innocent XIV—a simple man who finally understood the reason why God had chosen him to wear the shoes of the Fisherman—was about to confirm that the ancient lost rite had truly reemerged.

  He felt a light touch on his elbow, then heard Cardinal Morisco’s soft voice. “Holiness?”

  Startled from his reverie, the Pope looked up, and then out the car window at the crowds that lined the street despite his orders that the route from the airport to St. Isaac’s not be publicized. Still, the faithful always found him; he smiled and waved.

  The car pulled to a stop, and his security detail emerged from the limousine directly ahead, scanned the crowd that was being held back from the front door of St. Isaac’s by the local police, then quickly surrounded his own car. A moment later he was out of his car, up the steps, and through the front door of the school.

  And there they were—he recognized them in an instant, not only because of the familiarity of their faces from the video clips he’d seen, or the fact that they were wearing the red vestments of their service at the Mass this morning, but by the very air around them.

  They were smiling at him, all three of them, their faces utterly devoid of any expression except adoration, their eyes wide and clear. Yes, these were souls who were free of any impurity at all, clearly guided by a single spirit.

  Father Sebastian Sloane had indeed performed the miracle.

  The Pope tried to match their own serenity as each of them stepped forward in their turn.

  First, the lovely dark-haired child. “Sofia Capelli, Your Holiness,” she whispered, dropping to her knees and kissing his ring. He laid a hand gently atop her head and listened to his heart.

  He could sense no evil in this child at all. He took her hand and drew her to her feet; as she rose, her deep brown eyes met his, a serene smile giving her full lips a tiny curve. Here, he sensed, was a child who knew she stood in perfect grace in the eyes of God. He touched her cheek. She was as a newborn.

  It was the same with the angelic fair-haired girl, Melody Hunt, whose perfect complexion, and eyes the color of flawless sapphires, gave unchallengeable testament to the glory of God.

  And finally the young man, Ryan McIntyre, who introduced himself as humbly as the two girls. As the boy looked up into his eyes, the Supreme Pontiff saw the same clarity in his eyes that he had seen in theirs, sensed the utter purity of his spirit. Again, this was a child whose soul wanted nothing more than to glorify the perfection of its Maker.

  It was true. It was all true, and Pope Innocent XIV’s heart and soul swelled with joy at what he beheld.

  At last he turned to Father Sebastian Sloane, the young priest who had somehow wrought this miracle. He offered his hand, and the young priest instantly dropped to his knees, leaned forward, and reverently kissed the ring of his Office. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you, my son,” the Pope said so softly that only Father Sebastian could hear. “I have followed your career, and your work shall be rewarded.”

  Father Sebastian looked up, and once more the Pope beheld that perfect clarity he’d seen in the three children. Here before him was a man who understood his destiny. “As you, also, shall be rewarded, Holiness,” Sloane murmured.

  “I look forward to the afternoon,” the Pope said, “when we shall have time to discuss not only your work, but your future as well.”

  “You are my future,” the priest replied. “Today my destiny is fulfilled.”

  “Holiness, it is time,” Cardinal Morisco said, and a moment later the three students and their teacher were being escorted to the third limousine in the motorcade, while the Pope resumed his seat in the center car. As soon as they were once more underway, the crowd pressed in, and the Pope smiled and waved.

  He had much to smile about. This was a glorious day. This was a day that would be remembered forever.

  This would be a Mass that no one would ever forget.

  CHAPTER 64

  TERI MCINTYRE LAY in bed staring at the ceiling, idly fingering the morphine pump that allowed her to control her own pain. Not that she was in that much physical pain anymore—she’d awakened with the residual aches and pains consistent with a fall down the stairs several days ago, but the pounding in her head had finally receded.

  The emotional pain was another matter, and she’d discovered last night that the morphine did a pretty good job with that as well.

  Tom Kelly.

  How could she have been so trusting? And how could he have been so deceitful? She’d taken him into her life, into her bed—the bed she’d once shared with Bill.

  Worst of all, she’d brought him into Ryan’s life, and stood up in Tom’s defense every time Ryan had voiced any objection at all. She’d stood up for Tom Kelly against her own son, and all the time he was some kind of a—a—

  A what?

  She didn’t even know. All she knew was that he’d wanted the crucifix that Bill had brought home from Kuwait after the war there. He’d never loved her at all—hadn’t even been interested in her. All he’d wa
nted was to use her, and the pain of that knowledge made her finger the morphine button; she could already feel the relief the drug would bring.

  No! she told herself. Don’t drug it away. That was last night. Today, you have to face it. You did the wrong thing, and drugging yourself against the pain is not going to make things right.

  She reached over and dropped the button on her tray table. She had to figure it out—it wasn’t just Tom Kelly. There was something else—something that had happened yesterday, when the room had suddenly been filled with people, and the police were asking her questions, and Father Sebastian—

  Father Sebastian!

  Tom Kelly had known Father Sebastian—it was Father Sebastian who had helped them get Ryan into St. Isaac’s so quickly. And then yesterday, even in the haze of pain and drugs that had fogged her mind, she’d seen something.

  Something in the priest’s eyes.

  Something that had made her very careful when she’d told the police about the crucifix, made her deny that she knew anything about it at all.

  Something was going on—something to do with that crucifix. Was that why Tom Kelly had wanted to get Ryan into St. Isaac’s?

  Her mind swam.

  As soon as she got out of the hospital—which would be either today or tomorrow—she would go directly to St. Isaac’s, get Ryan and go away.

  Go away where?

  Somewhere—anywhere—just so Tom Kelly, or whoever he was, would never find them again.

  Teri let out a long sigh and sank back into her pillows.

  On the television pinned to the wall high up in the corner of her room, one of the news shows was playing a tape from yesterday, when the Pope’s plane had landed at Logan Airport and immediately taxied to a far corner of the field where it was cordoned off.

  Now they cut to this morning at dawn, when the Pope had finally appeared at the top of the stairs leading to the tarmac and a waiting motorcade, stepping through the plane’s door at the exact moment the first rays of the rising sun bathed the plane—and the Pope—in a golden aura.

  The image changed again, and a “Live From The Boston Common” message began scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Teri reached for the volume control.