The Devil's Labyrinth (21 page)

C
HAPTER
33

F
ATHER
L
AUGHLIN LEANED
back against his desk and listened to the excited buzz from his staff as they whispered among themselves about the possibility of a visit from Pope Innocent XIV.

Sister Margaret had taken more notes than he would have thought possible during the meeting, and had enough suggestions from the staff to keep everyone busy for far more than the two weeks they had: the hallways should be painted, the roses trimmed, the landscaping in front of the main entrance needed to be completely replanted.

The stained glass in the chapel must be cleaned, and every cobweb in the rafters made to vanish.

Now, as Brother Donovan’s voice rose above the others demanding a new floor in the dining room, Father Laughlin held up his hand and cleared his throat.

Remarkably, they all fell instantly silent.

“Unfortunately, even the prospect of welcoming the Pope to our school doesn’t change our budget.”

“But it will,” Sister Cecelia said. “When we tell our parents’ group about it, surely—”

Father Laughlin silenced her with a look. Though everybody hoped that the Pope’s visit to Boston would rejuvenate the parochial schools—or at least St. Isaac’s—no magic money tap was about to be opened. “We shall do what we can,” he said. “But let us keep in mind that our priority remains with the children. Needless to say, a papal visit would be one of the most important things ever to happen in our lives, but we must not lose sight of our priorities.” He nodded toward Brother Francis. “I am asking the dormitory supervisors to keep an especially close eye on the children. We certainly do not want anything to jeopardize the arrival of—” Dare he even mention His Holiness again, or would that jinx it. Instantly chiding himself for falling into superstition, he nevertheless hewed to its strictures. “—of our
guest,
” he went on, stressing the single word just enough to let everyone know exactly what he meant. “If any of our charges show any signs of—” He paused again, then found exactly the right word. “—of
trouble,
I shall expect you to bring it to my attention immediately.”

Father Sebastian rose from his seat at the back of the crowded room. “And please, do not forget that this visit is not yet confirmed. It is imperative that we keep this news to ourselves until we know for certain.”

“Are there any questions?” Father Laughlin asked in a tone that told his staff he wasn’t about to answer any.

As he had intended, no one raised their hand.

“Then thank you,” Father Laughlin said in dismissal. “Go with God.”

The buzz began again as everyone filed out of the small office, but Sister Mary David stayed in her seat until everyone had left, only approaching Father Laughlin when they were alone. “May I have a word, Father?”

“Of course,” Laughlin said, as he sank back into his chair.

“Sofia Capelli seems to be doing very well,” the nun began. “But since the incident with Kip Adamson, I’ve heard the students talking about Jeffrey Holmes again. Is there anything I should be telling them?”

Laughlin tented his fingers in unconscious imitation of Archbishop Rand. “Tell them the truth, exactly as we’ve always told them,” he replied. “Jeffrey is no longer with us, and we don’t know exactly what happened to him.”

“But it’s such a sensitive time,” Sister Mary David fretted, “I just wish there were something more—”

“There
is
nothing more, Sister Mary David.”

Sister Mary David fingered the large silver cross that hung from her belt. “I suppose not,” she said with a sigh. “I only wish there was something we could do.”

“We are trying,” Father Laughlin said. “As you know. We are doing our best.”

Sister Mary David gave an unconvinced nod, then put on a smile. “Thank you, Father. And congratulations on the wonderful news about the Holy—” she cut her words off abruptly as the old priest held up a hand to silence her.

“Good
night,
Sister.”

“Good night, Father.”

Sister Mary David scurried out, closing the office door behind her, and Father Laughlin ran his hands over his tired face. It had been a long day, and now Jeffrey Holmes was again at the top of his priority list.

Not only was the boy a potential stain on the school’s record, but he weighed heavily on the old priest’s soul as well.

Then, as he remembered what Sister Mary David had told him about Sofia Capelli, a tiny seed of hope sprouted in his heart.

Perhaps he should try one more time.

Yes, of course!

He
should
try. He
would
try! He could do it, he knew he could.

And if he succeeded, it wouldn’t be Jeffrey Holmes’s soul he had redeemed.

It would be his own.

C
HAPTER
34

A
S THE SUMMONS
sounded, Abdul Kahadija filed into the prayer room along with the rest of the men who had finished their ablutions and were milling about in the mosque courtyard.

He knew he should center his thoughts on God and the praise he was about to bestow, but he was here, at this
salah,
for a dual purpose, and until he found the face that he sought in the crowd, he would not be able to concentrate.

Inside the cavernous prayer room, all the men lined up in rows in front of the imam, and as Abdul looked to his left, he spotted the man he came to find.

Peace flooded through him. Allah knew his mission, and as always, would show him the way.

Abdul stood straight and strong, the validity of his mission confirmed by the very presence of the worshipper to his left. He closed his eyes and let his adoration of Allah consume him.

When the morning prayers had finished, Abdul maneuvered through the crowd until he neared the man with whom he intended to speak after they had all filed silently out of the prayer room.

His heart hammered and his palms grew greasy with sweat as he rehearsed yet again what he would say. If he came across too strong or if his demeanor or appearance was anything other than that which Allah demanded of him, he would be refused.

The stakes were enormously high.

Abdul followed the man into the crowded courtyard, where the silence of the prayer room gave way to the boisterous noise of friends greeting friends.

The man left the mosque, Abdul close behind. In the parking lot, Abdul, keeping a respectful distance, finally spoke. “Excuse me, my brother,” he said.

The man stopped, and Abdul found himself facing a stocky man in his early sixties, with graying hair and a square jaw.

Abdul’s breath left him, his mouth became dry and he found it difficult to talk. He cleared his throat and began. “I am Abdul Kahadija, and I am new to the Boston area.” He paused, then asked the question he had mulled for weeks. “I wonder if you can tell me where I could buy some weed killer for my garden?”

The man’s face remained expressionless, but his brown eyes bored deep into Abdul’s, who tried not to flinch under the probing gaze. “Weed killer,” the man spoke slowly. “Or is it a pesticide that you need?”

Abdul inwardly rejoiced. The man had understood his question! “Perhaps a pesticide would better solve my gardening problems.”

“Where is this garden?” the man asked quietly.

“I toil in the garden of Allah,” Abdul responded.

“Then you must see Nameer,” the man said. “He cultivates a similar garden path.”

“Thank you, friend,” Abdul said. “Where might I find Nameer?”

“He owns a nursery on the south side. If your quest is pure, you shall find him.”

“May the blessings of Allah be on you and on your family,” Abdul said.

“And on yours,” the older man said as he pulled the white crocheted
kufi
off his head and beeped his car unlocked. “Tell me what you grow in this garden of yours.”

Abdul’s face flushed hot. This was a question he had not anticipated, but an answer came to him in a flash. “Easter lilies,” he declared.

The man considered this, then smiled broadly, showing straight white teeth in a pleasant face.

Abdul’s nervousness dissolved, and he felt his own smile take its place. “Great big Roman Easter lilies,” he said again, and they both laughed.

“Insha-allah,”
the man said.

“Insha-allah,”
Abdul replied.

C
HAPTER
35

R
YAN EMERGED FROM
the boys’ dormitory, into a warm spring afternoon without a cloud in the sky, made even more perfect by the fact that it was Saturday.

He’d survived his first week of classes at St. Isaac’s.

And even better, Melody Hunt was waiting for him, just as he’d hoped she would. He set his overnight bag down and dropped onto the bench next to her. All around them were people Ryan was starting to recognize, but this morning they all looked different, clad in their regular clothes rather than the blue-and-white uniforms he’d already grown used to seeing, and when one of his classmates suddenly appeared in exactly the kind of low-slung baggy pants and oversize shirt that Frankie Alito always wore, he felt a twinge of panic and had to remind himself that he was still at St. Isaac’s, and not back at Dickinson.

“Aren’t you going to take all your laundry for your mom to do?” Melody asked, eyeing the overnight bag that was far too small to contain anything more than a change of clothes.

“Nah. I’ll do it Sunday night,” Ryan replied, then cocked his head and eyed her with a look he hoped was seductive. “And while they’re drying, you can teach me more Catholic History.”

“You didn’t get an ‘A’ from Father Sebastian just because of me,” Melody said, blushing slightly, but not moving away at all. “You’re the one who did the studying.”

“And you’re the one who told me what to study.”

Melody scuffed her tennis shoe against the cement pathway as if not quite sure how to respond, then settled for just changing the subject. “So what do you think of St. Isaac’s, now that you’ve been here almost a week?”

“Not too bad,” Ryan said, giving up the attempt at a seductive look in favor of a wry grin. “At least I haven’t been beaten up yet.”

“And your face looks a lot better than it did on Monday.” She hesitated, then: “Not that it looked that bad even then.”

Ryan tried to fight the blush he felt rising in his cheeks. Maybe the seductive look had worked after all. “And my ribs are healing, too.”

Melody looked around the rapidly emptying courtyard, with more kids leaving every second. “It’s going to be boring around here all weekend with you gone,” she said with a wistful tone that made Ryan’s heart beat a little faster.

“Why don’t you go home, too?” Ryan asked.

“My family lives too far west.” Melody shrugged, but Ryan could see she wasn’t as nonchalant as she was trying to sound. “But at least they’d like me to come home. Sofia’s mom lives right here in Boston, like a mile away or something. But she married some rich guy who doesn’t want Sofia around, so she can’t go home, either.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, she only goes home on Christmas Day. Seems like the only ones who have to stay here are either troublemakers or inconveniences.”

Ryan told himself he didn’t fit into either category, but even as he tried to convince himself of the truth of his thought, it didn’t quite ring true. But why not? The fight—if you could even call getting beaten up a “fight”—hadn’t been his fault, and if his mother didn’t want him at home for the weekend, why was she coming to pick him up? But, of course, he knew why he was wondering if maybe he at least fit into the “inconvenient” category.

Tom Kelly.

Who Ryan hoped wouldn’t be with his mother when she came to pick him up in—he glanced at his watch—two minutes. “Uh-oh,” he said, suddenly wishing he had another hour or two with Melody. “Gotta go or I’m going to be late to meet my mom.”

“Okay,” Melody said, and once more Ryan heard that wistful note. “Call me when you get back, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, tapping her back. “See you tomorrow.”

An elderly, bent woman with a wrapped birthday present in the basket of her walker was fumbling with the door to Father Laughlin’s outer office when Ryan got there, and he held it open for her as she slowly made her way through.

His mother was already inside, talking to Father Laughlin, and she smiled happily when she saw him.

“Hi, honey,” she said, putting her arm around him. “Father Laughlin was just telling me how well you’re doing, and I was just telling him that we’re going out to dinner to celebrate your first week here.”

“Have a good time, Ryan,” Father Laughlin said. “Just don’t forget to come back tomorrow.”

Before Ryan could say anything at all, the old woman with the walker suddenly spoke. “Where’s Jeffrey?”

“Mrs. Holmes?” Father Laughlin began. “How nice to—”

“I want to see my grandson,” the old woman broke in. “It’s his birthday!”

Father Laughlin glanced at Teri, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly as he took one of the old woman’s hands in his. “Why don’t you come into my office?” he suggested, gently trying to guide the old woman through the inner door.

Mrs. Holmes jerked her hand away from the priest and peered up at him suspiciously. “Do I know you? I just want to see my grandson.”

Father Laughlin tilted his head closer to hers and laid a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Do you remember coming to talk with us about Jeffrey after Thanksgiving?” he asked, his voice soft.

The old woman pulled away once more, backing up slightly, then glared up at Father Laughlin. “I want to see my grandson!” she demanded.

With a deep breath and another helpless glance toward Teri McIntyre, Father Laughlin gently but firmly took the old woman’s elbow and ushered her into his office. “Let’s talk in here, Mrs. Holmes, all right?”

It was as if she hadn’t even heard him. “Why isn’t he here?” she shrilled. “Where is he?
What have you done with him?
”

Father Laughlin’s response was lost as he smiled sadly at Teri and Ryan, spread his hands in supplication of their understanding of the situation, and quietly closed his office door.

Teri stood transfixed, staring at Father Laughlin’s closed door.

“C’mon, Mom,” Ryan coaxed, but even as he spoke, he knew she wasn’t listening to him. Indeed, he could almost hear her thinking about Monday morning, when they’d met Kip Adamson’s parents on the front steps of St. Isaac’s.

Finally, though, she turned, her brow furrowed deeply, and followed him outside.

The car was parked in the loading zone at the bottom of the steps.

And Tom Kelly was in the driver’s seat.

Suddenly, the rest of the afternoon was going to be a chore, and now, instead of having dinner in St. Isaac’s dining hall with Melody Hunt, he was going to have to sit in some restaurant with Tom Kelly.

Still, it was just dinner, and then he and his mother would go home and he’d have the rest of the evening and most of tomorrow with his mother.

He could tolerate an afternoon and one dinner with Tom.

He opened the front passenger door for his mother, but before getting in, she took a last look at the old gothic building behind them, and drew her sweater closer around her neck even though the afternoon was warm. She laid a light hand on Ryan’s arm. “What happened to that woman’s grandson?” she asked, her eyes searching his own.

Ryan glanced up at the front door, and for just a moment he remembered the screams he’d thought he heard on Monday night. Then he shrugged off both the memory and his mother’s hand.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Nobody knows.”