The Devil's Labyrinth (14 page)

C
HAPTER
21

D
ETECTIVE
P
ATRICK
N
ORTH
strode down the long, sterile hallway, looking neither to the right nor to the left. He’d spent plenty of time in both the morgue and the medical examiner’s office over the years, but he’d never quite become inured to the aura of death—unnatural death—that hung over the place.

Today, though, he had a mystery on his hands, and if he was going to solve it, he had to start here.

He stopped in front of a nondescript door with an engraved brown Formica plaque with lettering every bit as nondescript as the material upon which it was printed:

B
ENJAMIN
B
REEN
, M.D.

D
ISTRICT
M
EDICAL
E
XAMINER

The door was ajar, and North heard a low monologue from inside. He tapped lightly on the door, then pushed the door all the way open and walked in.

Ben Breen’s office barely contained the man, not to mention the stacks of paper, the overfull bookcase, the boxes filled with evidence envelopes, and all the detritus that littered the desk, and had spilled over onto the floor. Even the two plastic chairs that were ostensibly there for visitors had been pressed into service to help support the Medical Examiner’s vast collection of cases, reference material, coffee mugs, snack wrappers, and just plain junk. Breen also had a penchant for medical oddities and dark jokes: a skull served as his penholder and a dusty skeleton hung in one corner with a small teddy bear inside its chest. North had never asked the significance of the teddy bear, and never would.

Breen clicked off his recorder and frowned as he tried to place the face before him, but his mind was on the report he’d been dictating.

“Patrick North,” the detective sighed, resigning himself to having to introduce himself to Breen yet again. You’d think after ten years the man could at least remember his name. “Detective?” Breen still looked faintly puzzled, so North offered him another piece. “The Kip Adamson case?”

Breen brightened. “Ah, yes,” he said, pulling himself up to his full six-foot-five-inch height, and then beginning a search through a file box on top of the file cabinet. “Thanks for coming down.”

“No problem,” North said, wondering if the M.E. was even going to be able to find the report. “Thanks for calling.”

“Here it is,” Breen said triumphantly, looking almost as surprised as North by how quickly he’d found what he was looking for. He opened the folder and sat back down at his desk. “Just move that crap onto the floor,” he said, waving vaguely at one of the chairs. “Sit yourself down.”

North set a stack of papers by the door, making a mental note to return them to the chair when he left. Apparently Breen was one of those people who lived amid chaos but knew exactly where to look for any given thing.

Breen flipped through several pages of typewritten notes and lab reports, then found the page he wanted. “Here it is,” he said. “Tox screen was negative.” He peered up at North. “No drugs, no alcohol. Death by close-range gunshot to the head.” He handed North a sheet of paper.

“No drugs?” North pressed. It hardly seemed possible. He glanced at the copy of the official coroner’s report, but didn’t take the time to try to sort out all the technical language. “Did you test for all the new designer drugs? Is there something you could have missed?” Breen’s left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch, a sure sign that he was not pleased at having his judgment questioned. “I mean, the thing is that this kid’s behavior was just so totally out of character. He’d gotten in trouble a couple of times, but as far as I can tell he was never violent. So unless he’d started using drugs, nothing makes sense at all. Can you run those tests again?”

Breen dropped the file to the desktop, folded his hands on top of it, and looked directly at Detective North. “We’ve run the screens three times. We test for every known substance. The kid hadn’t eaten in probably twelve hours, but that’s all. Whatever was going on inside his mind, his body was squeaky clean when he attacked that woman.”

North leaned forward slightly. “Then what the hell happened?”

“Well, some people get a bit cranky when they’re hungry,” Breen observed. Then his tone changed, and he spread his hands helplessly. “Okay, I doubt it was the low blood sugar. Frankly, it looks to me like he just flipped out. It happens. Have you checked with his family doctor? Did he have a shrink?” He opened the file again to the front page. “He was at St. Isaac’s. Have you talked to his priest?”

“No prior history, no shrink, priests won’t say much,” North said.

Breen returned the file to the stack on his desk and leaned back in his chair, a sure sign that the interview was coming to an end. “Whatever happened to this boy stemmed from a disease of the mind, not the body,” Breen said. “Sorry I can’t be of more help.”

North rose to his feet and shook hands with Breen across the desk, then left the office. He could hear the Medical Examiner resume dictating even before he’d closed the door, and remembered too late that he’d forgotten to replace the stack of papers on the chair. He paused for a moment, then continued down the hall, unwilling to have to reintroduce himself to Breen twice within ten minutes. Let him find his own damn files.

As soon as he was back in his car, North called Kevin Peterson. “Well, so much for that,” he said when his partner came on the line. “No drugs—nothing. Which means we’re back to square one.”

North hated square one.

C
HAPTER
22

A
BDUL
K
AHADIJA CLOSED
and locked the door behind him. The simple act of escaping his daily ritual, setting aside this time for prayer, filled his heart with peace.

He pulled down the window shade against the afternoon sun, and drew the heavy curtains, shutting out much of the city noise.

Yes. Better.

Much better.

Quiet. Peaceful.

He opened the closet, retrieved a box from the top shelf and set it on his bed. Slowly, reverently, he unpacked his
kufi
and
thobe,
laying them out on the bed, then carefully put the ancient prayer rug on the floor, orienting it precisely toward Mecca.

Next, he stripped off his clothes and entered the bathroom. With no time to bathe again completely, he began the cleansing ritual he followed five times each day.

“In the name of Allah,” he said, then ran warm water over his hands.

When cleansed three times from head to foot, he slipped into the gray, floor-length
thobe
and settled the white knit
kufi
on his head.

He stood for a moment, facing Mecca, ready to offer his prayers to Allah. But he must still his mind first.

The mission—the mission of ultimate vengeance—was at last approaching fruition, and the excitement of it interfered with his concentration.

But it must not interfere with his prayers.

He must not risk angering Allah, for this week at the mosque he would ask Allah to guide him to the one who could provide the last bit of information he required.

His heart rate increased as he visualized it, standing silently, eyes closed. This quest was his: only he understood all the myriad details that made the plan possible.

He must be infinitely careful, make not even the slightest mistake. Just one inappropriate word, a single glance or gesture, and years of planning would go to waste.

That could not happen.

He would not let that happen.

Abdul’s left hand began to curl into a fist.

He relaxed his hand. The moment for retribution had yet to come.

This was the time for prayer and worship.

This was the time to escape from the pain of life and sink into the arms of Allah and the blissful anticipation of all that Allah promises to the faithful.

Taking a deep breath and putting all worldly matters aside, Abdul began. “I intend to offer two
Rikat
of
Faird, Fajr
prayer for Allah.”

He assumed the
qiyam
posture, hands to his ears, and all thought vanished except the all-encompassing, fierce love for his god.

“Allah u Akbar,”
he whispered.

Allah is the greatest.

C
HAPTER
23

T
HE FIRST THING
Darren Bender saw as he opened the door to the library was Sofia rising to her feet, her gaze fixed on him, and no hint of any kind of smile either in her eyes or on her lips. Still, there was no doubt that she’d been waiting for him, and even before the door had closed behind him, she cocked her head toward the farthest corner of the room and walked toward the stacks.

Darren put his books down on a table and followed, using a different aisle but catching up with her by the windows. Taking her arm he turned her around, and whatever faint hopes he’d been nursing for a quick kiss instantly evaporated as he saw her eyes, red and puffy from crying.

“Hey,” he whispered. “What’s wrong? Where have you been? I’ve been calling.”

Sofia ignored his questions. “What did Father Sebastian do to you?” The words came more as a challenge than anything else.

Darren recoiled a step back, almost as if he’d been struck. “Nothing! He talked to me and I have to go see him again tonight after school, but there was nothing special.”

“Nothing?” Sofia echoed, her voice starting to rise. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“Shhh!” Darren took a quick look behind him to be sure the librarian wasn’t anywhere around, then moved closer to Sofia, and lowered his voice. “What happened?”

Sofia shook her head almost as if she was trying to rid herself of the memory. “Sister Mary David locked me in a chapel and made me pray on my knees for—” Her voice suddenly faltered. How long had she been praying? She couldn’t quite remember. It had seemed like forever, but how long had it really been? And suddenly she couldn’t even remember what the chapel had looked like! It had looked strange, and scary, but…

But she couldn’t remember any of the details.

Only how frightened she’d been, and how much her knees had hurt, and her body had ached.

She looked up at Darren, and he could see tears pooling again in her lower lids. “It must have been hours,” she went on, her voice breaking. “And then I had to go to confession, but Father Sebastian wouldn’t absolve me.”

Darren took one of her hands and held it in his own. What was she talking about? The priests always absolved you after confession. That was supposed to be the whole point, wasn’t it? “What do you mean, he wouldn’t absolve you?”

Sofia spread her hands helplessly. “Just that! He wouldn’t do it. And I have to go back there again tonight.”

An uncertain frown furrowed Darren’s brow. “But what we did wasn’t that bad,” he began.

“It’s not fair!” Sofia cut in, a tear dripping off her lower lashes and sliding down her cheek. “You don’t have to do any penance at all? I don’t believe it!”

“I don’t know yet,” Darren said. “Father Sebastian said he was going to think about it.” He gently wiped the tear from her cheek with his thumb. “I’m really sorry—”

“Everybody’s easier on boys!” Sofia broke in. “You guys get away with everything.”

Though Darren knew Sofia’s words weren’t quite true, he also knew better than to argue, at least right now. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Father Sebastian’s cool.”

Sofia bit her lip as she struggled to stop crying. “I thought so, too,” she sniffled. “But I don’t want to have to go back to that place Sister Mary David took—”

As the words died on Sofia’s lips, Darren could suddenly feel someone right behind him. He dropped Sofia’s hand as he felt a tap on his shoulder and whirled around to find Sister Cecelia standing behind him. The librarian held her finger to her lips and glowered at him. “Quiet,” she said, the single word stinging like the lash of a whip even though she’d barely whispered it. “This is a study period.”

Darren nodded, his gaze going to the floor.

“And you,” the nun pressed, shifting her gaze to Sofia. “You need to be studying, not flirting.”

“But I wasn’t—”

The nun’s nostrils flared. “Three rosaries for talking back,” she pronounced. “And I suggest you go back to your seats.” When neither Darren nor Sofia moved, she spoke one more word: “Now.”

“No,” Sofia said, her voice suddenly rising. Darren put his hand on her arm, but it was too late. “I get three rosaries for talking back? All I was doing—”

The nun turned and fixed her with a steady gaze. “All you were doing was flirting,” she said.

“But it wasn’t just me!”

“Sofia,” Darren whispered, trying to warn her off as he saw the nun’s countenance freeze into a mask of anger.

Too late.

“All I’m saying is that I shouldn’t be the only one who’s punished for something both of us were doing.”

“Insolence earns you two more rosaries,” the nun decreed, her gaze unwavering. “Now are you going back to your seat, or shall we go see Father Sebastian?”

“We’re going back to our seats,” Darren said before Sofia could make things any worse. “And we apologize. We’re really sorry—”

Sister Cecelia silenced him with a glance, turned around, and stalked back between the rows of bookshelves to her station. Darren put a hand on the small of Sofia’s back and guided her to follow the nun back to the study area.

“
I
don’t apologize,” he heard her whisper fiercely over her shoulder.

Darren’s eyes flashed toward the librarian, certain they were about to get in trouble all over again, but Sister Cecelia was already talking to someone else, and from the look on the girl’s face, Darren was pretty sure she was getting a few Hail Marys, too.

Then he remembered what Sofia had said about Father Sebastian not giving her absolution. What was that about? Was he, too, going to be locked into a chapel and forced to pray on his knees for hours and then go to confession?

And what about Sofia? Why would she have to go to confession again? Wasn’t once enough?

Then, out of nowhere, the words he’d spoken to the detective about Kip Adamson rose unbidden from his memory:

…he started going to confession practically every day…

Darren’s stomach suddenly felt hollow.

Father Sebastian opened the closet in the small vestry and took the white linen surplice—the only garment still inside—from its hanger. He slipped it on over his cassock, and adjusted it so that it fell smoothly to midthigh, and the open sleeves hung exactly as they should.

Satisfied with the surplice, he picked up the purple stole—perfect for the sacrament he was about to perform, kissed it reverently, and slipped it around his neck.

As he moved to close the closet door, he saw a flicker of a reflection in the small mirror hanging on the inside of the door.

His father!

But of course it wasn’t his father—it couldn’t have been. It was only himself, catching his own reflection in half-profile, the silver of his temples becoming more prominent every day, just as had that of his father’s so many years ago.

Father Sebastian turned and looked directly into the mirror, gazing deeply into his own eyes, then abruptly closed the door.

Vanity had no place in his life—not now, not ever.

As the bells in the main chapel began to chime faintly, he quickly placed around his neck the chain holding the silver cross his mother had given him on the day he was ordained, poured wine into the chalice, and picked up the small leather box that held the host.

He stepped through the vestry door into the tiny chapel in which he’d heard Sofia Capelli’s confession less than twenty-four hours earlier.

It was still empty.

He lit two candles, one on either side of the altar, then turned the lights down until only the glow of the candles was left, casting flickering shadows around the chamber. As he laid the chalice and the host on the altar, he heard the chapel door open behind him.

Even as she pushed open the door in front of her, Sofia Capelli had no clear memory of what lay beyond it. It seemed as if it had taken hours to drag herself here, moving through the maze of corridors as if guided by an unseen hand, never certain where she was, nor whether she was going in the right direction. Yet here she was, standing in the near darkness, the oaken door swinging slowly open to reveal a chapel lit only by two flames. As she stepped inside, it all came back to her.

Father Sebastian stood at the altar, praying. The confessional stood dark and empty at one end of the room, the giant tortured Christ loomed over everything else.

She tried not to look at the twisted face of the crucified Savior, but the gaze of the Christ seemed to command her own, and for a long moment she stood transfixed at the door, her hand clutching her sweater tight around her neck as if its thin material could protect her from the chill that was spreading through her body.

Father Sebastian turned. “Hello, Sofia. Please come in.”

His voice was soft and welcoming, and without even thinking about it, Sofia took a tentative step forward.

“Don’t be afraid, my child. There is nothing to fear here in God’s house.” As his warm voice dispelled some of the cold that had seized her body, he offered her a gentle smile. “Come. Let us complete your penance and absolution. Together we shall banish even the impulse to sin.”

His voice washed over her like a cleansing bath and as he held out his hand to her she approached the altar.

Her fingers touched his.

“We shall pray together, Sofia,” the priest said, his kind brown eyes gentle in the candlelight. “Then I will ask you to prostrate yourself on the floor in front of Christ while I give you absolution. We shall finish with the sacrament of the Eucharist.”

Sofia said nothing, knowing no response was expected.

“Tonight we are dealing with the evil that dwells within you,” Father Sebastian said.

Evil? What was he talking about?
All she and Darren had done was make out a little bit. But, so what? It wasn’t like they’d actually been having sex, or had done something really wrong. What kind of evil was he talking about? Even if what she and Darren had done was some kind of sin—which she supposed it probably was—that still didn’t make her evil, did it? On the other hand, Sofia had learned long ago not to argue with priests, so when Father Sebastian indicated that it was time for her to lie on the stone floor, she did as she was told.

The floor instantly brought back the chill that had come over her the moment she opened the door to the chapel, its cold reaching right into her bones.

Father Sebastian paced slowly in front of the altar, murmuring softly, but Sofia was barely listening, concentrating instead on holding the ache in her bones, the cold in her body, and the fear in her soul at bay. Soon it would be over. Soon it would
have
to be over.

Soon she would hear the words of absolution.

Father Sebastian’s voice droned on, and Sofia’s mind began to drift until all of it—the pain in her body, the flickering light of the candles, even the priest’s whispering voice and time itself—began to blend into a single strange sensation. It was as if she was floating, borne aloft on unseen wings…

“Rise to your knees,” Father Sebastian commanded.

All the cold and aching and fear from which Sofia thought she had been released came flooding back, and as she struggled to get up she thought she might pass out. Finally, though, she was on her knees and crossing herself, bowing her head low.