The Devil's Labyrinth Page 8

  In his ziplock bag, Clay had five old copies of Playboy, half a pack of cigarettes, and an unopened pack of condoms, at least one of which he was still hoping to get to use before the end of school this year. There should have been six copies of Playboy, but the one Kip had borrowed was now forever gone.

  The other bag was Kip’s.

  Clay pulled it out and dumped the contents on Kip’s bare mattress.

  Basically the same stuff, except that Kip’s cigarettes were almost gone.

  But no drugs.

  For a moment Clay considered transferring the contents of Kip’s bag to his own, but then changed his mind; even though Kip was gone, it didn’t feel right.

  It felt like stealing.

  Putting both bags back into the wall, he carefully replaced the wainscoting, then went back to his bed and flopped down.

  So he’d been right—Kip hadn’t been doing drugs. Then what had he been doing?

  What the hell had happened to him?

  Ryan McIntyre lay on his bed, propped up on pillows, watching his mother pack clothes into a duffel bag. But she wasn’t packing nearly enough—it looked like she was packing for a weekend camping trip or something. “I’m gonna need a lot more than—” he began, but Teri didn’t let him finish.

  “St. Isaac’s uses uniforms,” she said, folding another pair of jeans and doing her best to fit them into the duffel bag without wrinkling them.

  “Uniforms?” Ryan echoed. Nobody had said anything about uniforms. His jaw ached, his side hurt whenever he moved, he was getting a headache from trying to figure out what to take to St. Isaac’s, and now he had to wear a uniform? Maybe he should just go back to Dickinson. But even as the idea formed in his mind, the memory of the beating in the boys’ restroom flooded back. Whatever happened at St. Isaac’s couldn’t be as bad as that, so he watched silently as his mother continued folding clothes, wondering now when he was going to wear the stuff she was packing.

  What about the rest of the stuff he was planning to take? Would he even be allowed to put posters on the walls in his room? Probably not. Now all kinds of questions were tumbling through his mind. Was he going to have a roommate? Were the nuns as mean as Father Sebastian said? How strict was everything going to be? And was he going to have to go to Mass all the time? Even worse, what if he couldn’t even do the work? Private schools were supposed to be way harder than public ones, and St. Isaac’s—

  He cut the thought short; it was all just too much to deal with.

  His eyes fell on the photograph of his father on his desk. That should have been the first thing he packed. Pain stabbed him as he got awkwardly off the bed, but he took a deep breath and pressed his side until it passed. Then he picked up the photograph. His father seemed to be looking not exactly at him, but deep into him. Ryan instantly felt the familiar pang of loneliness that always shot through him when he thought about his father, and the way his father had always been able to provide answers for his questions. Now, as he gazed at the photograph, he could almost hear his father’s voice. Grow up, it seemed to be whispering. Act like a man, and do the right thing. He wrapped the photograph in a towel and handed it to his mom, who put it into the duffel.

  “You don’t have to take everything with you tomorrow,” she said. “I can bring over anything you need.”

  Ryan gingerly sat back down on the bed, holding his side.

  Teri looked at him anxiously. “Do you need a pain pill?”

  Ryan shook his head. “I’m okay. Just nervous about tomorrow, I guess.”

  Teri sat next to him and smoothed his hair, then touched his swollen eye and gently traced the edge of a big bruise. As Ryan was about to brush her hand away she suddenly stood up. “There’s something I want you to have,” she said. “You’re not as old as you’re supposed to be, but I think it’s time.”

  Intrigued, Ryan followed her through his bedroom door and down the hall to the little door that opened into the attic. They ducked in the doorway and stood up in a spacious area with a plywood floor below them and bare rafters above. Teri groped for the chain and a single hanging bulb lit the room, throwing harsh shadows across the storage space. Ryan followed her between containers of Christmas decorations, cartons of his baby clothes, and boxes of photographs, many of them so old no one even knew who they were anymore. A couple of old lamps with missing shades sat on a bent chaise lounge, and the ceramic chicken he’d painted red when he was in kindergarten sat, headless, next to the chaise on the little table that used to be in his room when he was small.

  Ignoring it all, his mother crouched next to an old green trunk with a combination lock on its hasp.

  A trunk Ryan couldn’t remember seeing before.

  His curiosity increasing, he knelt next to his mother and watched as she worked the combination, removed the lock and opened the lid.

  On the top lay a sheet of tissue paper, which she pulled away to reveal his father’s class-A dress uniform.

  Ryan’s breath caught. The last time he’d seen his father dressed in that uniform was when he received a Silver Star for Gallantry in Action, during his first tour in Iraq. It was the same uniform he wore in the photo Ryan kept on his desk. Could this be the gift?

  But even before he could voice the question, his mother had lifted out the tray holding the uniform, set it aside, then removed everything below it. Finally she pried open a false bottom that was so perfectly fitted that Ryan hadn’t even seen it, and took a small rosewood box from the compartment the panel had hidden. “This was with your father’s things when they came back from Iraq,” she told him. She turned the box so it faced Ryan and opened its hinged lid.

  Inside was his father’s crucifix, the one he’d worn around his neck almost as long as Ryan could remember. He picked it up gently, almost reverently. It was heavy—heavier than he’d expected. And it wasn’t flat like most crucifixes. This one was thick, the body of Christ in full relief, the cross itself covered with intricately detailed carvings, each delicate etching darkened with time and tarnish.

  “He was going to give it to you when you were grown,” Teri said as Ryan gazed at the object in his hands. “But I think maybe you need to have it right now. He said it always helped him do the right thing.”

  The silver felt warm and familiar to Ryan’s fingers. Despite the etching, the metal was smooth, as if it were very old, and had been worn by generations of fathers and sons. And he could almost hear his father’s voice again, repeating the words he’d heard inside his head a few minutes ago. The same words his mother had just spoken.

  Do the right thing.

  Accepting the cross—putting the chain around his neck and feeling its weight against his heart—would mean something.

  It would mean he had become a man, a grown-up.

  A man his father would be proud of.

  He remembered the last few days, when he’d acted like a sulking child when all his mother had wanted him to do was go out to dinner with a man she liked.

  Instead, he had thought about weasling out of it. In the end, he’d thought better of it, but it had taken him too long.

  And what about when those two guys had jumped him in the hall at school, and he hadn’t even tried to fight back.

  What kind of man would have just taken the beating he had?

  Suddenly the crucifix felt like it was burning his flesh. This was something that had to be earned, not simply received.

  He handed it back to his mother. “Not yet,” he said.

  She looked at him in surprise. “You’re sure?”

  Ryan nodded. “I think maybe Dad was right—maybe I’m not old enough yet.”

  She took the crucifix from him, kissed it so gently it almost made Ryan cry, and put it back into the box. “It’s yours,” she said, “and it’s right here, whenever you want it. The combination to the lock is your father’s birthday.”

  He nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. He would come back for it, but not until he had earned it.

  And ju
st now, he felt a tiny bit closer to realizing that goal.

  CHAPTER 13

  GORDY ADAMSON GLOWERED at the arthritic old priest sitting across from him. “Get this, Father, and get it good, okay?” he snarled, not even a hint of respect in his voice. “These are very simple questions, and there should be very simple answers. So tell me. Why was Kip off campus? How could he just walk away without you people knowing about it?”

  “Mr. Adamson—” Father Laughlin began.

  “I’ll tell you why!” Adamson cut in, leaning forward and placing both hands on the priest’s desk.

  “Honey…” Anne Adamson tried to restrain her husband with a hand on his arm, but he jerked it away from her, barely pausing in his tirade.

  “Because once you have your fancy tuition money to fill your church coffers, you’re no better than any other school,” Gordy declared, his voice starting to rise. “Any public school—any damn one of them—keeps better tabs on their students than this high-priced, ritzy-titzy place.” Now he paused for a second or two, his expression transforming from belligerence to contempt. “How the hell old are you, anyway? What makes you think you know what works with today’s kids?”

  Father Laughlin’s lips compressed to a tight line, and he looked down at his hands.

  Adamson, sensing the priest’s weakness like a predator sniffing out the weakest prey, bored deeper. “I bring my son here for safekeeping and a good education. So what happened?” Father Laughlin visibly flinched, which only made Gordy Adamson lean even closer. “What exactly happened?”

  Father Laughlin shook his head and spread his hands in defeat.

  “That’s right,” Gordy sneered. “That is exactly right! You have no idea. Well, I’m here to tell you that something happened to my boy here under this roof, and I am going to find out what it was. He was fine when he got here and two and a half years later, he’s not only dead, but apparently he killed someone else, too! Which means something happened.” He sat back in the chair, his eyes fixing on the priest. “Some goddamned thing happened.”

  Father Laughlin took a deep breath, collected his thoughts, and finally spoke. “You brought Kip to us because he was a troubled boy,” he said quietly. “He’d been expelled from public school—”

  “He wasn’t that troubled,” Adamson countered, leaning forward again. “He wasn’t a goddamned murderer. We brought him here because we thought a little religion would do him some good.” A derisive snort erupted from his throat. “Boy, were we wrong. You killed him. You killed my son!”

  “Honey,” Anne Adamson tried again. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Let’s go home.” As she stood up, Father Laughlin rose, too.

  “Brother Francis packed Kip’s things—” he said, gesturing toward Kip’s footlocker, which was on the floor near the door.

  But Gordy Adamson wasn’t through. “I’m going to sue you. I’m going to sue you for negligence, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and whatever else my attorney can come up with. You think your outfit is in financial trouble now? Ha! Just wait! There will be one hell of an investigation, too. You better believe it.” His eyes narrowed as he prepared to deliver the coup de grâce. “And you’d damn well better hope your guys are keeping their hands off the boys!” His rage suddenly spent, Gordy Adamson collapsed back into the chair, drained. “My son,” he said, more to himself than to the priest. “The only one I had.”

  Anne Adamson pulled on Gordy’s arm until he finally hoisted himself heavily to his feet. “I’m sorry,” she said to Father Laughlin as Gordy wiped moisture from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

  “I wish I knew what to say,” Father Laughlin said. “But there seems to be no possible explanation for some of the things that happen in today’s world. We can only trust in God’s will, and accept that which we can neither understand nor change.”

  Anne nodded, and guided Gordy toward the door. He stopped at the footlocker, gazed down on it for a long moment, then bent over, picked up the trunk that held his son’s effects, and moved through the door, carrying the trunk as carefully as if it were his son’s coffin.

  In the outer office, Sister Margaret offered a sympathetic smile, which Anne tried—and failed—to return as she opened the office door for Gordy. They made their way slowly down the hall toward the front door. Students, faculty, and clergy all moved aside to allow the grieving parents to pass.

  Teri McIntyre walked up the worn granite steps that led to St. Isaac’s front door, struggling with Ryan’s heavy duffel bag while Ryan himself limped next to her, taking one slow step at a time, his backpack slung over his good shoulder. They were halfway up the broad flight when the front door opened, and a middle-aged man and woman came out. The man carried a heavy trunk, and carefully watched his step until he came even with Teri and Ryan.

  He stopped, tipping his head toward Ryan. “This your kid?” he asked, his eyes narrow and his voice gruff.

  Teri nodded.

  The man’s gaze fixed on the duffel bag Teri was carrying. “You leaving him here?” Teri opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off before she could say a word. “You gotta be nuts if you leave your son here. This is not a good place for kids.” He looked down at the box he carried, and when he spoke again, his voice broke. “Trust me on that.”

  “Excuse me?” Teri said, but before the man could say anything else, the woman took his arm and drew him away.

  “Leave her alone, Gordy,” the woman whispered. “Let’s just go home.” As Teri and Ryan watched uncertainly, the man hefted the footlocker into the backseat of a car double-parked in front of the school, got into the driver’s seat, and drove away before his wife had time to fasten her seat belt.

  “Wow,” Ryan breathed as the car disappeared around the corner. “What was that about?”

  Teri shrugged. “I have no idea, honey,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned, even though she suddenly wanted to turn right around and take her son home and keep him safe in his room.

  Forever.

  Which was, of course, ridiculous.

  Steeling herself against the irrational thought, she led Ryan on up the steps to the impressive carved oak front doors of St. Isaac’s School.

  By the time Brother Francis opened the door to the boys’ dormitory, Ryan McIntyre’s brain felt almost as exhausted as his aching body. The mass of forms he’d had to fill out this morning had been only the beginning. Then Brother Francis had given him a tour of the school, but after the first ten minutes of making their way through the maze of hallways and staircases, Ryan had been sure he’d never be able to find his way around without a map. Then he’d had to try on one set of the school uniforms after another—which for some reason didn’t seem to be marked with sizes that conformed to the ones on his regular clothes—until he found an assortment of blue blazers, sweaters, trousers, and shirts that fit, along with a tie that wasn’t completely threadbare. Then there had been the schedule for his classes, along with a list of rules he was apparently supposed to memorize by tomorrow, and abide by starting today.

  Everything looked old and worn, but not grubby and covered with graffiti like Dickinson High. The woodwork was all dark mahogany and walnut, every light fixture looked at least a hundred years old, and there seemed to be stained glass everywhere. But no graffiti. And no dust—not so much as a speck—which had told him even before Brother Francis enunciated the policy, that any infraction of the rules would undoubtedly lead to hours of cleaning the school.

  “You’re in room 231, with Clay Matthews,” the monk said as they came through what Ryan hoped would be the last pair of huge oak doors he’d have to open for a while. They climbed to the second floor and walked halfway down a long corridor, where Brother Francis knocked softly on a door then turned the knob without waiting for a reply from within.

  The room was empty, half of it barren.

  His half.

  The monk set his duffel on the floor next to the bed. “My office door is always open,” he said. “I’ll l
eave you to settle in.” Then, as he headed back out the door, he turned and smiled. “Welcome to St. Isaac’s.”

  “Thanks,” Ryan said, trying to keep a sigh of resignation out of his voice. As the door closed behind Brother Francis, he set his bundle of uniforms on the empty desk and surveyed his half of the room.

  At least his bed was closest to the big windows that looked out over the courtyard. He stretched out onto the bed for a minute, hoping some of the aching in his body would ease before he had to start unpacking.

  A few minutes later he was just struggling to sit up again when the door opened and a boy about his own age came in, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “Hey,” the boy said. “I’m Clay—” The words died on his lips as he got a good look at Ryan’s face. “Wow, man, what happened to you?”

  Ryan shrugged, trying to act as if he hurt a lot less than he did, but decided there wasn’t any point in telling his new roommate anything but the truth. His totally faked shrug faded away as he managed a faint grin. “I sorta got the crap kicked out of me,” he admitted. “I’m Ryan McIntyre.”

  Clay hesitated a second, then smiled. “Clay Matthews.” His eyes moved to the duffel bag that still lay where Brother Francis had left it. “You need some help putting your stuff away?”

  Ryan struggled to a sitting position, then managed to stand up without wincing too much. “I can—” he began, but Clay had already swung the bag off the floor onto the bed.

  Suddenly another boy appeared at the door. “Hey, Clay—” he began, then fell silent as he saw Ryan. “The new guy’s already here?” he asked, coming through the door with yet another boy right behind him. “What happened to your face?”

  “Nothing, compared to what he did to the other guys,” Clay said before Ryan could answer the question himself. “His name’s Ryan Mc-Something.” He winked at Ryan. “These are Darren Bender and Tim Kennedy. They’re both assholes, but at least most of the time they don’t smell too bad. And don’t believe Tim when he tells you Ted Kennedy’s his uncle—he lies about everything.”