The Devil's Labyrinth (33 page)

C
HAPTER
59

P
OUNDING.

Someone was pounding on the door.

Or the wall.

It had been going on a long time, growing louder with every beat, and now every time the sledgehammer struck, Teri McIntyre could feel it.

But it wasn’t coming from the door or the wall. It was coming from inside herself; she could feel it in her chest. Her heart? Was that it? Was it her own heart pounding?

But it was in her head, too, pounding away at her like the worst throbbing migraine she’d ever experienced. “Stop…” she whimpered, barely aware of her own voice. “Make it stop…”

Something touched her arm…her wrist. Something warm.

Teri’s lips moved, but no more sound came out.

“Teri?” a female voice asked, seeming to thunder in her ear. “Can you hear me?”

“Don’t…” Teri pleaded, but even as she whispered the word, the pounding eased slightly, and her mind cleared just enough to let her realize that it was, indeed, her own heartbeat, and that it was timed perfectly to the throbbing pain in her head. Without opening her eyes, she whispered yet another word.

“Headache.”

Her mind cleared even more, and with consciousness came even more pain. She whimpered again, this time the exquisite agony in her head rendering the sound of nothing more than a faint groan.

Once again she felt the warm touch, and this time recognized it as human fingers. And the fingers were putting something in her hand. “This is the button that controls your pain medicine,” the voice said. “When it hurts too much, just press the button.” The voice spoke again as Teri’s thumb instantly reacted to the words. “Can you tell me your name?”

Why is she asking my name?
Teri wondered.
She just called me by my name.

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

Teri wished the woman would leave her alone so she could sink back into whatever place she’d come from, that place where there had been no pain and no pounding. But it was too late. She was awake.

She opened an eye.

The light made the pain worse, so she closed her eye again, but now her mind was clear enough so she knew where she was.

A hospital.

A hospital? How could that be? She was at home and—

“Mom?”

Ryan?
Teri struggled to open her eyes again, and sit up, but even the tiny amount of movement she managed sent such a jolt of pain through her that she dropped back onto the pillow.

“Mom? Can you wake up?”

“Try to open your eyes,” the female voice urged, but it seemed softer this time, and the warm hand that rested once again on her arm felt slightly comforting. “You’re safe now. You’re in a hospital. You’ve had a head injury.”

Safe? Head injury? What was going on?

“Your son is here to see you.”

“R-Ryan?” Teri stammered. Her mouth felt sticky and her voice sounded thick, and then she felt a straw touch her lips. She grasped at it, and eagerly sucked in a little water. She opened her eyes again to see a young nurse next to the bed, with Ryan standing next to her.

“Do you want more water?” Ryan asked.

Teri nodded, the headache easing slightly as the pain medication kicked in. She took the straw between her lips and sucked in a little more of the water.

“Do you think you could talk to the police?” the nurse asked.

“Police?” Teri repeated.

“They need you to tell them what happened, Mom.”

A movement near the door caught Teri’s eye and then she saw that there was someone else in the room. A priest—Father Sebastian, from St. Isaac’s—who smiled at her as their eyes met.

And she remembered. She remembered everything. “Tom,” she breathed. “It was Tom Kelly. He pushed me down the stairs!”

“Let me get the police,” the nurse said. She stepped quickly through the door and was back a moment later with two men that Teri recognized, but couldn’t quite place.

“Remember us?” the older of them asked, stepping forward and smiling down at Teri. “Matt McCain and Steve Morgan? We were at your house the night of the break-in. We’re the ones who found you.”

“But you left,” Teri said uncertainly. “And Tom—”

“We came back,” McCain explained. “It seems I forgot to get your signature on the report. But it also seems we were a little too late getting back. Can you tell us what happened?”

As Father Sebastian joined the little group surrounding the bed, Teri began to recount what had happened after the police had left that night, how Tom had suddenly turned into a stranger—someone she’d never met before. Someone who was nothing at all like the man she’d known for half a year. Someone who wanted something from her.

“What was it he wanted?” McCain asked as Teri finished.

Teri looked from one of the faces around her to another. Both of the officers were looking at her intently, but Ryan’s face was almost impassive, as if whatever Tom had wanted meant nothing to him.

But Father Sebastian’s eyes were boring into her, as if he wanted to hear her answer even more than the two detectives.

“He kept yelling at me about some kind of crucifix,” she finally said. “Something he seemed to think my husband had. But I didn’t know what he was talking about.” She looked helplessly up at the group around the bed. “I wish I did know,” she said. “But how could I give him something I didn’t even know about?” Her eyes flicked from Matt McCain to Steve Morgan, then back to McCain. “Do you think maybe he thought I was someone else? Or my husband was someone else?” Her gaze shifted to her son. “Ryan?” she asked. “Do you know what he might have been talking about?”

Ryan shook his head, his face still utterly blank, almost as if he didn’t even remember who his father was, let alone what he might have had that Tom Kelly wanted.

But out of the corner of her eye, Teri was watching Father Sebastian Sloane, too. And she saw something else in the priest’s expression as Ryan shook his head.

Something that looked exactly like relief.

She took Ryan’s hand and squeezed it. “Don’t forget him,” she said softly. “Don’t ever forget your father—he’ll always take care of you.”

Ryan said nothing, and the look in his eyes—the strange blankness—didn’t change at all.

C
HAPTER
60

T
HE MAYOR OF
Boston stood on the stage and surveyed the activity taking place on the Common. Tomorrow was forecast to be as perfect as today, and with no rain for tonight, there were already a few people preparing to spend the night in the park, eating from picnic hampers and sleeping wrapped in blankets. If any parallels could be made between rock concerts and papal appearances, enough people to fill every available seat will have gathered in the Common before sunrise. By the time of the Mass, the trees to the left would be full of hundreds of people as well, each of them risking broken arms and legs for a better vantage point. So the Pontiff would be gazing out over a sea of people with a turquoise sky above and a background of swans swimming lazily in the lake behind.

But that was tomorrow; right now the mayor needed to focus on the present. And the present seemed to be going very well, all things considered: four speaker towers were up and fully functional, the fence around the perimeter of the seating area was in place, and workmen on the stage were assembling the backdrop—a curtain of deep purple, in front of which would stand the altar at which the Pope would celebrate the Mass. As the mayor watched, half a dozen more workmen appeared from somewhere behind the stage, dressed in uniforms he’d never seen before, but a moment later the chief of police appeared at the mayor’s elbow.

“Vatican security,” he said, nodding toward the uniformed workmen and perfectly reading the mayor’s puzzled expression. “They’re in charge of the Plexiglas, and they’re the only ones allowed to set it up. Grimaldi told me they can do the whole job in half an hour if they have to.”

“Grimaldi?” the mayor repeated, cocking his head slightly as he shifted his gaze to the chief.

“Roberto Grimaldi,” the chief explained. “Head of Vatican security whenever the Pope is traveling.” He paused to survey the activity, which seemed to be increasing with every minute that passed. “We’re cutting it a little closer than I like, but we’ll make it. Grimaldi knows what he’s doing.”

“I hope so,” the mayor replied dourly. “And I trust you let him know that if anything goes wrong, it’s going to be more on them than us. I still don’t think we should have agreed to this at all. Just not enough time to get ready.”

The chief shrugged. “And if we hadn’t agreed, we’d have every Catholic in Boston on our backs, and you could forget about running next time, let alone serving another term.”

“I know,” the mayor sighed. “But I still don’t have to like it.” Just then a young man with an athletic build, intense dark eyes and an official looking clipboard in his hand stepped through the curtain, spotted the chief and came over.

“Well, speak of the Devil,” the chief said, then introduced Roberto Grimaldi to the mayor.

“My apologies for the short notice, Your Honor,” Grimaldi said. “I must tell you, I think I was probably as upset over the lack of planning as you, but as it happens you have an excellent venue here, and your people have made it very easy for us.”

“I wish that made me feel better.” Flowers sighed. “But I’m afraid I’m not going to get much sleep until this is all over.”

“Nor will I,” Grimaldi agreed. “But for us this is actually a very small event, comparatively speaking. If you block vehicular access to the Common tomorrow morning in time to have the streets cleared by ten-thirty, that should do it. Since we began using the plexi shield, we no longer have to worry about snipers or people in the audience, and if the streets are blocked, it eliminates the possibility of a car bomb. His Holiness will arrive in his armored car, and our security along with your own will be in place when he moves from the car to the stage.” Grimaldi offered the mayor and the police chief a thin smile. “I should think that between us we can keep him safe while he walks ten feet, don’t you?” Grimaldi flipped a couple of sheets over on his clipboard. “The three students from St. Isaac’s Preparatory Academy who will be servers for the Mass will follow His Holiness in a second limousine, escorted by Father Sebastian Sloane.” Seeing the mayor and police chief exchange a nervous glance, Grimaldi smiled. “Believe me, the Vatican has been watching Father Sebastian for years, and both he and the three children are here at the direct request of His Holiness.” He pointed toward the foot of Spruce Street. “They’ll enter from that street, and the cars will pull up directly behind the stage. His Holiness will not be visible to anyone in the Common until he appears on the stage, and then he will be protected by the plexi shield. Keep the streets clear until thirty minutes after he’s gone, and that will be it.”

The mayor fumbled in his pocket for his antacids, and glanced questioningly at the police chief.

“We’ll have security at the school and all along the three blocks of the route to the Common.” When the mayor looked no happier, he spread his hands helplessly. “It’s the Vatican’s show, and they want to do it their way. And I’ve got to say that from what I’ve seen and heard, they run a very tight ship. Frankly, short of spending three days trying to put everyone who comes in through a metal detector, I can’t think of anything else we’d do.”

“Okay,” the mayor sighed. “So there’s nothing else to do but sit back and enjoy the show?”

“Exactly,” Grimaldi said, finally smiling. “And you’ll enjoy it—there’s something quite magical about His Holiness. Everywhere he goes, it’s the same—everyone who sees him adores him.” He glanced at his watch. “And since His Holiness lands in about ten minutes, I need to go.”

The mayor shook Grimaldi’s hand, as did the chief, then Grimaldi flipped open his phone, punched a couple of buttons, and headed off in the direction of the back gate, where a chauffeured black sedan waited.

“Tums?” The mayor held the open package out to Chief Warner.

“Don’t mind if I do,” the chief replied, and helped himself to two.

C
HAPTER
61

I
T WAS THE
dank cold that woke Ryan.

He’d gone to bed early, leaving Clay Matthews in the common room with José Alvaréz and Darren Bender. He’d opened the window to let the cool spring air into the dorm room, but it hadn’t been cold enough to add an extra blanket to the bed. But now the cold had permeated his whole body, and he felt like he’d never be warm again.

He groped for the covers, but all he touched was something cold and hard and damp, and as the last vestiges of sleep fell away he realized he wasn’t in bed at all.

He wasn’t even in his dorm room.

He was somewhere deep in the tunnels beneath the school, and he was by himself, and he had no memory of how he’d gotten here. But even as he tried to figure out what might have happened, he realized he was moving. As if of their own volition, his legs were carrying him through the tunnel, moving slowly, but deliberately. And when he tried to stop, to pause for a moment to figure out where he was, nothing happened.

He simply kept walking, moving through the dark passage like a zombie, unable to stop, unable even to choose which direction to take when he reached a spot where two passages intersected. But finally, after the third turn, he knew.

Ahead was a door, standing open, yellow light spilling through. A moment later he was gazing into the small chapel hidden deep in the bowels of St. Isaac’s.

And on the floor was the strange labyrinth that had been inscribed around Jeffery Holmes’s coffin.

“Come in, Ryan,” Father Sebastian said, his voice soft.

Ryan didn’t want to go in. All he wanted to do was turn away and run back through the tunnels until he found his way out, found his way back to his room. But even as he struggled to make himself turn away from the open doorway, the two candles flickering on the altar drew him in.

Father Sebastian was standing in the center of the labyrinth, and directly above him hung the enormous crucifix, suspended upside down, the face of Christ seeming to leer at Ryan. Half a dozen candles set around the periphery of the chapel made shadows dance everywhere, and it was a moment or two before Ryan realized the shadows were cast by Sofia Capelli and Melody Hunt, who were standing at two of the entrances to the labyrinth.

Melody turned and smiled at him and held out her hand.

And though he still wanted to turn away—wanted it more than anything else in the world—his legs refused to obey his mind. He took three steps into the room, and found himself at the third entrance to the labyrinth.

A strange tune began, a slow pavane that seemed to come from inside his own head. The beat grew more insistent, throbbing through his body, and Ryan found himself beginning the dance that would end only when he, along with Melody and Sofia, were at the center of the maze.

At last they stood in a triangle around Father Sebastian, and Ryan felt his right arm rise, reaching out until the tips of his fingers touched Melody Hunt’s. A current almost like electricity flowed through him at Melody’s touch, and he felt a dark energy begin gathering around him, flowing into the room as if emanating from the walls themselves.

It was if the very stones in the building had begun to vibrate.

Father Sebastian gazed up at the twisted face of the Christ suspended above him, his eyes glowing as if from some inner flame. “Tonight we combine this trinity into a single being,” he intoned. “A being whose power is far greater than yours—a being who answers only to me.”

His voice dropped, and he whispered a few more words. Sofia Capelli reached out to Ryan, and once again he found himself powerless to resist the impulse to reach back to her. As their fingers touched, the energy in the room redoubled and Ryan’s skin began to tingle, he felt unsteady, and then a wave of nausea washed over him.

As quickly as it came, it was gone, and when it had passed, so too had the unsteadiness and the tingling on his skin.

All that was left was a feeling of power.

That, and an eagerness to hear whatever Father Sebastian was about to tell him.

Father Sebastian took an ancient scroll from the sleeve of his cassock, unrolled the yellowed parchment and began to read. Though he’d never heard the words before, Ryan’s lips, along with those of Melody and Sofia, were forming the phrases in unison with Father Sebastian, and soon their voices began to rise filling the chapel with a hypnotic chant. As their voices rose, the darkness began to swirl around them until the three of them formed a vortex around Father Sebastian.

Their voices continued to rise, and now the chapel itself seemed to be spinning around them. Still their voices soared higher until the walls themselves began to tremble.

Then, as they howled out the last syllable of the chant, a wailing scream erupted from directly above Father Sebastian, and when he looked up, Ryan once again saw the figure of Christ hanging upside down on the suspended cross. The Savior’s mouth was open, and his entire body was writhing in agony. From the wound in his side, blood was streaming, and as Ryan stared upward a few drops hit his face.

His skin burned as if the blood were glowing embers.

Now Ryan’s own hands were bleeding again, his blood once more mixing with Melody’s and Sofia’s.

Father Sebastian’s voice fell silent, and he rolled up the parchment and slipped it back in the sleeve of his cassock. He approached Sofia. His hands, too, were bleeding now, and he held them out to Sofia, laying them on each of her cheeks. “It is through my blood that you live and you are bound to my bidding,” he said.

“I will obey,” Sofia whispered.

Father Sebastian turned to Melody and placed his hands on her face, repeating the words as blood flowed from his palms down Melody’s cheeks.

“I will obey,” Melody said quietly.

Now Father Sebastian was facing Ryan, gazing directly into his eyes, and when his bleeding palms came up to press against the flesh of Ryan’s face, a great exaltation flooded into Ryan, and, as he listened to the priest’s words, he knew what his answer would be.

“It is through my blood that you exist and you are bound to my bidding,” Father Sebastian intoned, his eyes still locked on Ryan.

Ryan stood perfectly still, and his voice rose from his throat, confident and strong: “I will obey.”

Father Sebastian broke the circle and moved to the altar, where three packages lay neatly wrapped. “Here, then, are your vestments for tomorrow,” Father Sebastian said as Ryan and Melody and Sofia followed him from the labyrinth. “Put them on, and then I will instruct you as to exactly what you will do tomorrow.”

Ryan opened his package and took out the crimson cassock, slipping it on over the pajamas that were all he wore. It felt heavy and bulky under the arms, but he ignored the weight and put on the surplice, whose lacy cuffs concealed those of the cassock itself.

Not a single drop of blood from either his hands or his face stained the white surplice when he was finished.

“May Allah be pleased with you all,” Father Sebastian said softly when all three of them were fully clad in their vestments. “
Radiya ’Llahu ’anhum.
Glory be to God, the one God, the true God!” He closed his eyes and swayed back and forth, then whispered, “Tomorrow it will end, and my ancestors will be avenged.
Subhana wa ta’ala.
”

As Ryan and Melody and Sofia watched and listened, the priest showed them how to arm the bombs concealed within the cassocks, and where the trigger buttons were concealed in their sleeves.

Finally, he told them the exact moment during tomorrow’s public Mass at which they would press the triggers, ending not only the life of the Pope of Rome, but of themselves as well.

“
Subhana wa ta’ala,
” Father Sebastian repeated. “Allah is exalted above weakness and indignity.”