The Devil's Labyrinth (25 page)

C
HAPTER
43

F
ATHER
S
EBASTIAN GAZED
speechlessly at Father Laughlin, who seemed to have aged at least ten years since the younger man had seen him only a few hours ago. Now the old headmaster sat shrunken and hunched on the couch in Sebastian’s small sitting room, his face ashen, his hands trembling as he tried to hold the small glass of whiskey the younger priest had offered him. Only after the old man had taken a sip did Father Sebastian finally find his voice. “You didn’t,” he breathed. “Please tell me you didn’t try to conduct the rite on your own.”

“I wish I could,” Laughlin said, draining the shot, then setting the glass down and leaning forward to hold his head in his hand. He took a deep breath, then another, and when he looked up, Sebastian saw the shame in his eyes, and the sorrow etched deeply in every wrinkle and crevice of his weathered face. But neither the shame nor the sorrow could change the reality of Laughlin’s attempt to exorcise the evil in Jeffrey Holmes.

“What were you thinking?” Sebastian whispered.

Laughlin seemed to become even smaller as he shook his head helplessly. “I’m so sorry.”

Sebastian took a deep breath, then laid a gentle hand on the old priest’s shoulder. “You understand that the damage you did may well be irreversible?”

Laughlin looked up uncertainly. “But he was already a lost soul, wasn’t he?”

“Souls are not ever completely lost,” Sebastian replied. “Not while there is life, faith, and hope.”

Laughlin sank his head back into his hands.

“We must see how bad he is,” Father Sebastian said.

Laughlin’s head snapped up again. “You don’t mean to go back in there?”

Sebastian spread his hands. “What choice do we have? We must do what we can for the boy.”

“I can’t. I tell you, it was the most horrible—”

“I know,” Sebastian said. “I have seen the demon before. But if there’s any chance of saving him, it’s going to take both of us.”

The flashlight Ryan had borrowed from Clay needed fresh batteries, but it cast just enough of a weak yellowish beam to illuminate the uneven stones in the floor and enough of the damp walls to keep Ryan’s panic at bay. Steeling himself against the terror that had nearly overwhelmed him when he and Melody had come down here a few nights ago, he tried to remember the exact route they had taken to get to the back door of the infirmary.

The staircase in the dining hall had been simple enough to find, and he’d clearly remembered turning right at its foot. But after that he’d been less certain, and now, as the passages seemed to go off in every direction, and he no longer had any real idea of where he might be, it was getting harder and harder to ignore the knot of fear in his belly, and the cold chill that seemed to be coming right up from the floor, through his shoes, and into his legs.

Maybe he should just give it up and try to find his way back.

But how?

He couldn’t even remember how many turns he’d made, let alone which way any of them had gone. And if he made a mistake—

The flashlight dimmed slightly, and just the thought of being plunged into darkness elicited a groan from Ryan’s throat that echoed off the walls to taunt him over and over. Then, just as he was about to turn and run the other way, he saw it. At the farthest reach of its beam, the flashlight found the edge of a doorway.

A doorway that looked familiar.

A surge of relief ran through Ryan as he stepped through the door a moment later and mounted the stairs.

He paused at the main floor, listened for any sound at all, then went on up to the second floor landing.

There it was—the door to the infirmary, just as Melody had shown him. Carefully, silently, he gripped the cold brass knob on the door and turned it.

The knob turned, but the door didn’t open.

Locked.

He turned the weakening flashlight beam on the keyhole beneath the knob—the old-fashioned kind that took a skeleton key. Kneeling down, he flicked the flashlight off and peered into the keyhole. Barely the faintest glimmer of light.

Yet there was light coming through the wide crack beneath the door.

The key must be in the lock!

He thought quickly, then remembered something he’d seen in a movie a long time ago.

He took a pen from his shirt pocket, then unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it off and slid it carefully under the door, pushing enough of it through the crack so, even if it was bunched up, at least three inches of cloth would cover the floor on the other side.

Unscrewing the barrel of the pen, he took the ink cartridge out, and carefully pushed it into the keyhole.

Sure enough, something blocked it when it was no more than half an inch in.

He pushed harder.

Nothing.

In his mind’s eye, he tried to picture the key. If it wasn’t lined up quite right, he wouldn’t be able to push it out.

He probed gently with the point of the pen, poking and prodding until he felt it slip by the blade of the key. Then he levered the blade slightly, felt the vibration of the key moving and suddenly shifting.

He levered it again, but this time, though slightly loose, it wouldn’t move. He’d done it! It must be lined up with the slot on the other side. Pulling the pen out, he turned it around so its flat end was away from him, then reinserted it, poking gently until he found the end of the key’s shaft.

He pressed gently.

Nothing.

A little harder.

The key moved.

One last time and then he heard a faint sound as the key fell to the floor, and the pen cartridge slid all the way through the lock. When he pulled the pen back out, he could see light through the keyhole.

Carefully, he pulled the shirt back from under the crack beneath the door, and there lay the key.

Ryan put his shirt back on and buttoned it, reassembled his pen and put it in his pocket, and only then inserted the key in the lock and turned it.

The mechanism turned, its soft
thunk
sounding like a sledgehammer in the silence.

Ryan waited a moment, listening.

Nothing.

He turned the knob and opened the door, finding himself in some kind of storeroom, illuminated by the light coming through its frosted pane. Ryan slipped inside and quietly closed the door to the stairwell behind him.

He heard the murmurings of a female voice in the next room, and shoes squeaking on tile.

He stood perfectly still, heart pounding, trying to breathe without making a sound.

A light went out, leaving just a small bluish night-light. Then he heard a door open and close somewhere in the distance.

When he heard nothing else for at least a full minute, Ryan left the storeroom and found Melody, wearing a hospital gown and lying on her back in one of the twelve beds the infirmary’s single ward held. Though there was no sign of the nun who tended the ward at night, Ryan was sure she would be back soon.

“Melody,” he whispered, gently shaking her shoulder. “Melody, wake up.”

Melody opened her eyes, looked at him almost as if she didn’t recognize him, frowned slightly, then once more closed her eyes, as if she’d seen him, but wasn’t interested enough even to stay awake.

Ryan shook her again, certain the nun would be back any second. “Melody, tell me what they did to you.”

Melody’s eyes fluttered open again, and this time they focused on Ryan.

Her eyes had changed. They looked darker than he remembered, and had taken on a stormy, angry look. Her pupils were dilated, the whites bloodshot. “Go away,” she whispered.

“No,” he insisted. “I want to help you.”

“Go away,” she said again, and closed her eyes. “I don’t need any help.”

Ryan heard a door open somewhere beyond the front of the ward.

The nun was back.

Touching Melody’s cheek, then leaning over to give her a quick kiss, he slipped back into the storage closet, then into the stairwell, barely remembering to replace the key in its slot before closing the door.

It wasn’t until he was back in the basement that he suddenly remembered how cold Melody’s cheek had felt when he kissed it.

As cold as the stones beneath his feet.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Father Laughlin breathed almost inaudibly as he saw the blood-soaked mass that a little while ago had been Jeffrey Holmes.

“I was afraid of this,” Father Sebastian said, laying a steadying hand on the older priest’s shoulder. “I’ve seen it before.”

Laughlin crossed himself, then lifted the crucifix that hung from his belt to his lips and kissed it. “This is my fault,” he whispered. “My sin. Father Sebastian, will you hear my confession?”

“At the proper time,” Sebastian replied, playing the beam of his flashlight around the cell. “I’ll have to carry him.”

Laughlin’s eyes widened in horror. “Carry him?” he echoed. “Carry him where?”

“Someplace where he won’t be found, at least until after the Pope’s visit.” His eyes fixed on Laughlin. “Assuming His Holiness comes at all,” he added. “Which he surely won’t if this gets out.” When Laughlin still hesitated, he spoke again, this time using the headmaster’s Christian name. “Ernest, there is nothing we can do to change what has happened. But it isn’t only of poor Jeffrey that we must think right now. We also have the school to consider, and all the other children under our care. No matter how we feel, we cannot put our school and the children at risk, and if this gets out, not only will His Holiness not come, but St. Isaac’s itself will surely be closed. We must do what is required for the greatest good, and trust in God to forgive us whatever sins we may commit.”

Laughlin nodded mutely, still unable to take his eyes off the boy’s ruined face, but finally managed to find not only his voice, but his courage as well. “I know a place we can put him,” he said. “I shall come back afterward and scrub away the blood. It shall be part of my penance.” Tears flooding his eyes, he watched as Father Sebastian lifted the corpse up and put it over his shoulder.

Ryan stood at the foot of the dark stairs for a long moment before stepping back into the tunnels beneath the school. He hated the whole idea of leaving Melody lying in the infirmary, but what could he do?

Call her parents? But Ryan didn’t even have any idea where they were.

The police? And tell them what? That Melody wasn’t sick? Why would they believe him? All that would happen was that he’d get in trouble for having snuck in.

Broken in.

He’d better go back to his room, and maybe talk with Clay.

Praying that the flashlight would last until he reached the stairs leading to the dining hall, he stepped out of the shelter of the doorway into the infirmary basement.

Then, before he’d taken more than half a dozen steps, he heard something.

Someone was coming.

Without thinking, he turned around and darted past the doorway from which he’d just emerged, pressing himself into the same alcove in which he and Melody had hidden a few nights ago.

As the footsteps drew closer, he recognized one voice—Father Sebastian—and thought he heard someone else breathing hard.