The Devil's Labyrinth (18 page)

Why was she just lying there?

Maybe she should call Sofia’s father. But what good would that do? According to Sofia, all her father ever did was drink, at least since her mother had taken off three years ago.

No, better to just wait until lunch, when she’d be able to talk with Sofia. She and Ryan would tell her what they’d seen last night and Melody would watch Sofia’s reaction to the story.

She would watch it very carefully.

C
HAPTER
27

C
ARDINAL
G
UILLERMO
M
ORISCO’S
stomach grumbled loudly as he made the final entry in his personal log for the day, closed the leather-bound volume, and slipped it into its slot next to the marble bookend. The thin slats of daylight that crossed his desk toward the end of day had vanished hours ago, leaving only the glow of the evening lights of Rome beyond the window. The Vatican had emptied of visitors and most of its employees; all that remained were those who worked too late too often—among whom Cardinal Morisco had been preeminent for decades—and the custodial staff, whose hours might be late but weren’t nearly as long as the Cardinal’s. Still, Morisco enjoyed being in the office after hours, when the quiet allowed him to accomplish far more than did the hum of the day.

But enough was enough, as his stomach had been reminding him for the last hour. Indeed, he could almost taste his favorite wine, Sangrantino di Montefalco, from near his boyhood home in Umbria. This evening he would order a light caprese salad and a grilled bruschetta with a spicy olive tapenade, and go to bed early. It had been a long day.

He was just locking the desk drawer when the fax machine in his assistant’s office whirred to life.

If he ignored it, he could be at Gianni’s within moments.

If he responded to it, he may well be here for another hour.

He heard four pages drop before the machine paused and told himself to leave it until morning even as he found himself drawn to the pages like a moth to a flame.

After all, one quick glance couldn’t hurt, could it? If it were urgent, his phone would have rung. He tried to ignore the image that popped into his mind of a moth burning in the flame that had drawn it, but it was too late.

Then, as he picked the four sheets of paper from the fax machine, the computer on his desk pinged, announcing the arrival of an e-mail.

Certain the messages the two machines had brought were related, Morisco sighed heavily and tried to forget about the Sangrantino. This was how he ended up at the office so late, night after night, and as he carried the pages back to his office he vowed—again—to learn to leave at a reasonable time.

Tomorrow.

The cover page of the fax indicated it was from Archbishop Rand in Boston.

Cardinal Morisco sank onto his chair and began to read a report from someone named Father Ernest Laughlin, apparently having something to do with a successful exorcism at a private school. This Father Laughlin certainly had a turgid way with his prose, he thought as he ploughed his way through the report.

“Never before have I seen the face of evil incarnate,” the priest wrote. “Not only did I see its beastly, demonic face emerge from the features of this girl, who is little more than a child, but I witnessed Father Sebastian Sloane bring it to submission and banish it from the girl’s body, leaving her soul in peace.”

Cardinal Morisco pensively tapped his fingers on the desk as he quickly reread the report. It wasn’t much different from all of the similar ones he’d seen over the years, each sent by some minor priest hoping to further his career. Only as he read the last sentence did he realize that this report had two differences.

The first, of course, was that Sebastian Sloane was a party to it, and Sloane was a man the Vatican had been watching for several years already, each year bringing the young priest respect from ever-higher levels.

The second was the witness’s assurance that he had seen the actual face of the demon.

That was important.

Cardinal Morisco laid the pages on his desk and leaned back in his chair. It would mean a great deal if Sloane had achieved such an accomplishment, especially in Boston, from whence good news had been a scarce commodity for years.

He would advise His Holiness of this event in the morning.

For now, though, a glass of wine awaited him at Gianni’s.

Except that now the e-mail in-box on his computer had turned into the hypnotic flame, and he was no more able to resist its lure than he had the fax machine’s a few minutes earlier.

He clicked open the file. Nothing in the subject line; nothing in the from box.

Just a video file.

Cardinal Morisco clicked on the icon, the media player opened, and the video began.

Morisco watched in fascinated silence as the ritual that had taken place in the chamber beneath St. Isaac’s School played out before his eyes. Struggling to understand the words Father Sebastian Sloane was speaking over the girl bound to the stone slab, the Cardinal fiddled with the volume control, but it didn’t really help.

Then the girl suddenly sat straight up, breaking the bonds that held her. One of the priests and the nun shrank back in fear, but Sloane faced the fury of the girl straight on.

Then the girl turned and looked directly into the camera.

Directly into Cardinal Morisco’s eyes.

It was as if evil itself were hurtling out of the screen at him. Cold terror flooded through the Cardinal’s body, and he shrank away from his computer exactly as the priest and nun had turned away from the girl herself.

Morisco gripped the arms of his chair, telling himself that nothing was happening.

Nothing at all.

It was only a video clip.

As the Cardinal watched, Sloane took the girl’s face in his hands, shouted unintelligibly, and a moment later the girl sank into what appeared to be unconsciousness.

The file ended.

His heart racing, the Cardinal reached for the mouse to replay the video clip, but as the arrow hovered over the icon, he hesitated, part of him wanting to watch the video again, to try to understand what he’d seen. The other part—the stronger part—was still held in the grip of the terror that had reached right out of the computer screen to seize him.

He couldn’t watch it again, at least not right now.

And not alone.

But neither could he simply turn off the computer, close his office, and go to Gianni’s to enjoy a glass of wine and a light supper.

Cardinal Morisco looked up at the clock on the wall.

His Holiness would still be awake—he had always kept even longer hours than himself.

Making up his mind before he could change it, the Cardinal gathered the fax into a file folder, picked up his laptop, and headed for the Papal apartment, all thoughts of dinner extinguished.

He hoped—he prayed—that His Holiness would be able to tell him that what he had seen was merely an illusion.

But even as he silently formed the words of his prayers, he was all but certain that they would go unanswered.

Like Father Laughlin, Cardinal Morisco was certain that he had just looked into the face of evil, that it would haunt him every day of his life.

C
HAPTER
28

S
OFIA
C
APELLI STOOD FROZEN
at the dining room door, the din of two hundred teenagers talking and eating crashed over her like the surf pounding at a jetty. The racket sounded louder than usual, pummeling her with enough force that she felt oddly disoriented, as if she’d never been here before.

She peered around, and slowly things came into focus: the steam tables were off to the left, the trays and silverware were on a rack at the near end of the counter. As she started toward the rack, a girl across the room stood up and waved at her, then pointed to an empty seat. Though the girl looked familiar, Sofia couldn’t quite remember her name.

And the people she was sitting with looked familiar, too.

But who were they? What was happening to her? Why couldn’t she re—

Before she’d even finished the thought, Sofia’s mind suddenly cleared, as if some kind of wall had simply dissolved.

Melody! That was it—the girl’s name was Melody. They were roommates, and she’d come to visit her in the infirmary this morning.

Was it just this morning? But it seemed so long ago!

She picked up a tray and began filling it, first with silverware, then with food, even though she wasn’t very hungry.

In fact, she wasn’t hungry at all. Still, she took a few vegetables and a wilted-looking salad, drizzling a little dressing over the latter.

What was she even doing here? Why not go to her room and lie down and go to sleep?

Do what you’re supposed to do.

The voice was so clear it made Sofia jump slightly, and she barely managed not to drop her tray. Regaining her balance, she glanced around, but there was no one
—nobody at all—
close enough to her to have spoken the words.

She reached for a glass of iced tea, saw her hand trembling, consciously steadied it, and added the tea to her tray.

As she picked up the tray, the strange words echoed in her mind:
Do what you’re supposed to do.
But what was she supposed to do?

Eat lunch.

She looked around, saw an empty table in the far corner, and started toward it, ignoring Melody, who was once more waving at her.

She drank the iced tea straight down, wishing she’d taken two glasses.

She gazed at the food, which still held no interest for her at all.

“Hey!”

The voice behind her made Sofia jump, and she looked around to see a boy standing behind her. A boy whose face seemed familiar
—a boy she knew she knew
! But what was his name?

“Okay if I sit down?”

Darren! His name was Darren Bender, and he was—

Without waiting for her to reply, Darren put his tray on the table and dropped onto the chair across from her. “How come you didn’t sit with us? Melody saved you a seat.”

Sofia gazed uncertainly across the table. “Was I supposed to?”

Darren’s head cocked slightly as he gazed quizzically at her. “You always do.”

Sofia looked down at her salad and began to pick at it. If she always sat with Melody, why hadn’t she done it today?
Because she hadn’t remembered.

“Are you okay?” Darren asked.

No, she wasn’t okay. She wasn’t okay at all. It was as if there were some kind of weird fog in her head that was hiding things from her.

“Sofia?”

She looked up at Darren, trying to figure out how to tell him what was happening, but no words came, and she felt tears of frustration begin to fill her eyes.

Darren leaned across the table, his voice dropping. “What did Father Sebastian do to you? All I got were four Hail Marys and four Our Fathers, and that was it. The whole thing took maybe five minutes.”

Sofia gazed blankly at him. What was he talking about? And then, very slowly, it started to come back to her. Darren wasn’t just someone she knew—he was her boyfriend.

But now, as she gazed across the table at him, she had a sudden urge to do something to him.

To hurt him.

He was looking at her again, his eyes fixed on her as if he knew what she was thinking. “What’s going on?” he asked. “What did Father Sebastian do to you last night?”

Father Sebastian.
A face floated up from Sofia’s memory—a kindly face of a man with a soothing voice.

Father Sebastian?

“Nothing.”

“Well, something sure happened to put you in the infirmary,” Darren said.

“I don’t know,” Sofia said, struggling against the threat of her unshed tears. “I can’t remember.”

“You want me to take you back?” Darren asked. “If something’s wrong—”

“No!” Sofia cut in. “I just need—” She frantically looked around the dining room as if searching for something—anything—that would help her, but there was nothing.

Then she saw the crucifix over the door, and a sharp pain stabbed through her abdomen. Her fingers automatically closed around the cross that hung from the string of rosary beads she always wore around her neck.

Impossibly, it seemed to writhe in her hand, squirming at her touch.

Her hand jerked away as if she had touched a hot iron, but her forefinger caught on the string of beads. Instantly broken, it tumbled onto the table.

Sofia stared at it in mute horror. What had she done? The beads had been given to her by her grandmother, who had had them all her life!

“What’s wrong?” Darren asked as he quickly began gathering the beads together before they could roll off onto the floor. “What’s going on with you?”

Sofia said nothing, but held out her hand for the beads.

Hesitating only a moment, Darren dropped them into her open palm.

She felt the rosary begin to move the instant it touched her skin and stared at it in horror as it began to writhe like a handful of snakes.

Red hot snakes.

She rose to her feet as her nostrils filled with the sickly odor of burning flesh, and a single word erupted from her throat. “Noooo!” she howled, hurling the beads and crucifix against the wall, where the decades of the rosary exploded and scattered across the floor.

Without so much as a glance toward Darren Bender or anyone else, Sofia Capelli fled.

C
HAPTER
29

S
IX MONTHS INTO
his Papacy, His Holiness Innocent XIV was no more used to the splendor of his changed surroundings than he was to his changed name. When he had first come to the Vatican forty years ago and met John XXIII in these same rooms, it had never occurred to him that he himself might one day occupy them. Indeed, the thought hadn’t truly crossed his mind until the sixth vote of the last conclave, when he’d thought it must be a mistake when his name was read out as having received a single vote. On the seventh ballot, he’d received more than fifty votes, and had been elected on the tenth, an event that had stunned him even more than the world beyond the confines of the Sistine Chapel.

In his own mind he was still Pietro Vitali, from the Tuscan hills north of Rome.

And he still enjoyed eating a small and simple supper alone at his desk while he tried to complete the day’s work, even though that desk was now in the Papal apartment. The moment he put his fork down on the empty plate, both plate and fork were whisked away by an attendant who seemed to appear out of nowhere by the kind of magic of which the Church thoroughly disapproved. As the servant disappeared as silently as he’d appeared, the Pope sipped his tea and spent a quiet moment enjoying the exquisite art that decorated the walls.

As he was reflecting on the poverty of the priesthood, a soft rap at the door announced the arrival of his final appointment of the day.

“Cardinal Morisco to see you, Your Holiness,” the young Swiss priest, who served as his secretary, said as he opened the door.

With a sigh, the Pope rose from his desk chair. He didn’t especially want to see Morisco this evening; he was tired and had an enormous amount of reading still to do before retiring, but the Cardinal had been insistent and tomorrow’s schedule held no opportunities. He nodded his readiness to the secretary, and was already moving toward the door when Morisco appeared. The Cardinal kneeled to kiss the gold Fisherman’s ring on his hand, but the Pope waved him back to his feet as the secretary vanished as silently as had the servant before him. “No need for that this late in the day, Guillermo. What is so important that you gave up your supper at Gianni’s just to see the likes of me?” The Pope settled into a chair that had been especially built for his diminutive stature, and indicated that Morisco sit across from him.

“Seeing you is always a pleasure, Holiness,” Morisco began, but once again the Pope brushed the formality aside.

“Why don’t we just get to the point, so you can get to Gianni’s and I—since I can no longer go to Gianni’s with you—can get to my reading?”

“After you see what I’ve just seen,” Morisco replied, dropping back into the easy familiarity he and Pietro Vitali had enjoyed for the last twenty years, “you might just want to go to Gianni’s with me, or at least have a bottle of his best Sangrantino sent up here.” As the Pope raised a skeptical brow, Morisco handed him the fax of Father Laughlin’s report to Cardinal Rand in Boston.

The Pontiff scanned the document for no more than a few seconds. “Another exorcism?” he asked, groaning silently. When he had been established for a year or two, he would be able to brush off some of these things. But for now he’d do better to give up twenty minutes listening to Morisco than to spend those same twenty minutes arguing that he knew far too much about all the ancient rites to be impressed by yet another in what seemed to be a growing flood of reports on exorcisms that invariably proved to be nothing more than the fancies of some priest’s overactive imagination.

Morisco shook his head. “I think this is something different.” The Cardinal queued up the video clip and set the computer on the table next to the Pope’s chair, then returned to his own seat.

A moment later, an image appeared, and the Pontiff watched as the ritual unfolded, turning up the sound.

“I’m afraid it’s rather badly garb—” Morisco began, but the Pope held up a silencing hand, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.

As the rite proceeded, the Pope instantly recognized some of its elements, even though he’d never actually witnessed them before. As soon as the clip was over, he played it again, this time concentrating on the priest who was performing the rite.

The man worked with confidence.

He knew what he was doing.

He’d done it before.

When the video ended, the Pope tented his fingers, resting his chin on them, then straightened in his chair. “This is very interesting, Guillermo. You were right to bring it to me.” The Cardinal visibly relaxed. “Tell me, who is behind this?”

“His name is Father Sebastian Sloane,” Morisco replied, and the Pope felt his pulse quicken. “Until recently, he was a professor at Notre Dame.”

“I know of him,” the Pope said. “His doctoral dissertation was a study of our rites in the Dark Ages.”

“Which, of course, you’ve read,” Morisco dryly observed. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“After the results of the last conclave, I should think nothing would ever surprise you again, Guillermo,” the Pope replied, a small grin playing around the corners of his mouth. “And don’t pretend you didn’t assume I’d read Sloane’s dissertation—I believe I remember talking to you about it a year ago.” He smiled wistfully. “At Gianni’s, as I recall.” His smile faded. “Where is Sloane now?”

“A small school in Boston.”

“Boston?” the Pope echoed. “This took place in Boston?”

Morisco nodded, but said nothing.

“I want you to reply to Boston, Guillermo. Tell them that if Father Sloane can duplicate what I’ve seen here tonight, I will rearrange my post-Easter trip to include a visit to Boston.”

“A visit?” Cardinal Morisco repeated, visibly shaken by the specter of rearranging at this late date what was already a complex schedule. “Your Holiness,” he said, unconsciously retreating from the easy familiarity he’d shared with his old friend for so many years. “The agenda is set. We leave in a couple of weeks! To add another stop at this late—”

“Come now, Guillermo,” the Pope said, holding up his hand so that the ring of St. Peter glittered in the light of the chandelier. “No plan of man’s is ever set in stone. We must keep in mind that Boston is a failing Archdiocese, and that a visit from us might resuscitate its spirit.” His deliberate use of the Papal “we,” combined with his equally deliberate display of the golden symbol of his authority had exactly the effect the Pontiff had intended, and he could see Morisco beginning to calculate the logistics of effecting a change in the schedule. “If Father Sloane can re-create this, have him send us the proof. What we have seen could be illusory—a mere fluke. But if he can do it twice, then we will go to Boston and witness this ourselves.”

“As you wish,” Morisco said, though his expression clearly belied the calmness of his words.

“I am certain he will be able to do what we ask,” the Pope said, rising to his feet. “So please plan accordingly.”

Morisco rose as well. “I am your humble servant.”

“We are all God’s humble servants,” the Pope observed. As they moved toward the door, he laid a hand on Morisco’s shoulder. “Some of us, of course, are more humble than others.” As they approached the door, it once again opened as if by magic, and his secretary appeared, ready to escort the Cardinal out of the apartment. As he watched Morisco go, Pope Innocent XIV found himself reflecting on the power of his new position, which allowed him to change even such a vast undertaking as a Papal tour simply by uttering a few words.

He must be very careful with such power; he must pray tonight for divine guidance so that he could use that power more wisely than certain of his predecessors.

And if Father Sloane had truly done what the Pope thought he had done, then far more power was about to come into his hands than any pope had even dreamed of for at least five hundred years.