by John Saul
“Oh, dear,” Father Laughlin began. “Everyone at St. Isaac’s—”
“Ah, yes,” the Archbishop cut in, leaning even farther forward. “St. Isaac’s. That brings us directly to the point, doesn’t it, Ernest?” The Archbishop’s voice took on a sharp edge. “St. Isaac’s mission is to heal the children and ignite the light of the Church within them. Am I correct?”
“Of course that’s one of our goals,” Father Laughlin said a little too quickly as a trickle of perspiration made its way slowly down his cheek. “And I’m sure you understand that we do our best. No one understands what caused the Adamson boy to do this terrible thing. Father Sebastian had been working with him and—”
“Father Sebastian was brought here specifically to make certain that things like this don’t happen,” Rand cut in.
“And he’s doing a wonderful job with the students,” Father Laughlin said, unconsciously shrinking away from the Archbishop’s accusatory tone. “But these things take time. Father Sebastian has only been with us since the fall—”
“We don’t have ‘time,’ Father Laughlin,” the Archbishop shot back. “Rome sent me here to clean up the mess this Archdiocese found itself in. The Vatican has its eye on us at every moment. They are watching me, and they are watching you, and what they see does not please them.” The Archbishop fixed Father Laughlin with a cold stare. “Father Sebastian has a reputation for dealing with evil. I sent him to St. Isaac’s for that express purpose.” He punctuated the last three words by dropping his fist to the desktop with enough force to make Father Laughlin jump. “I suggest you see to it that Father Sebastian does his job, or we will be forced not only to replace him, but you as well.”
Father Laughlin’s heart began to pound and his breath caught in his chest. Was it possible that he was about to be dismissed after forty-six years of dedicated service without so much as a single blemish on his record? The room felt hotter than ever, and he ran a finger around his collar in a futile attempt to loosen it. The Archbishop continued to talk, but Father Laughlin could no longer follow his words. He felt ill—dizzy—as if he might faint and, as his heart continued to throb, waited for the heaviness in his chest that always came just before one of his angina attacks. He slid his hand into the pocket of his cassock, failed to find the medicine, and remembered he’d left it on his nightstand. Stay calm, he told himself. Just breathe. After a moment the pounding of his heart began to ease slightly, and with it the pressure in his chest. He turned his attention back to the Archbishop just as his superior was finishing.
“Do I make myself clear?” Archbishop Rand asked.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Father Laughlin said, though he had missed at least half of the tirade. “Perfectly clear.” He took one more deep breath and wiped his handkerchief across his upper lip with a trembling hand. “I shall speak with Father Sebastian in the morning as soon as I return and I assure you we shall take measures.” He looked up to gauge his effect on the other man, but the Archbishop’s expression was unreadable. “Stringent measures,” he said. “Nothing like this will ever happen again.” He took a breath.
“Good,” the Archbishop said, leaning back in his chair once more and finally smiling. “We all pray for a healing in this community. Especially at St. Isaac’s.”
Father Laughlin did his best to return the smile. “Thank you, Archbishop. You have nothing to worry about—you have my word on that.”
Archbishop Rand’s smile compressed to a thin line, and his brows arched slightly. “Brother Simon will see you out.”
As if in response to some unseen cue, the office door opened and the young seminarian stepped in, extending his hand to help Father Laughlin out of the chair, and two minutes later Father Ernest Laughlin was on his way back to St. Isaac’s, wondering whether he would soon be as summarily ejected from his school as he had been from the rectory.
No, he decided. Whatever I have to do, I will do. But I will not leave St. Isaac’s.
Sofia Capelli stared numbly at the last inch of the candle, willing it to burn more slowly. She was clutching it so hard that her fingers actually ached, but far worse than the pain in her fingers was the agony in her legs. It felt like she’d been on her knees for hours, silently repeating her prayers over and over again, certain that at any moment the door would open and Father Sebastian would come in and end her vigil in front of the altar. But the door hadn’t opened, and Father Sebastian hadn’t appeared. With every passing minute the pain in her knees grew worse until now there was nothing but a horrible cold, throbbing ache, punctuated with even the slightest movement by the sensation of a thousand needles jabbing into her legs. She wasn’t even praying anymore.
Instead, she was listening to the sound of her own heart, which seemed to be getting louder and louder as each moment passed.
She was tired—more tired than she’d ever been in her life. Her eyes felt heavy, and all she really wanted to do was stretch out on the floor, let the candle burn out, and go to sleep. But what if Sister Mary David came in? That would be even worse than if Father Sebastian caught her.
At least Father Sebastian’s eyes were always kind.
Sister Mary David’s were hard; she could make you feel like you’d been slapped just by looking at you.
How long should she stay here? Had Sister Mary David really meant for her to stay on her knees for hours? And what would happen when the candle finally burned out?
The dark.
She would be trapped in the dark with the door locked and nobody except Sister Mary David knowing where she was.
She waited, the candle growing shorter, the agony in her body building with each beat of her heart.
Then, just as the candle burned short enough that she could feel its flame starting to sear her fingers, a faint sound came to her ears.
Hope surged in her heart, and now she prayed—truly prayed—that at last someone had come to release her from this prison.
The sound of the lock clicking open answered her prayers, and tears of gratitude sprang to Sofia’s eyes.
The door opened, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father Sebastian slip in and go into a tiny carved confessional she hadn’t even noticed in the heavy gloom of the chapel. The priest disappeared, and a moment later a yellowish light behind the little booth began to brighten, casting golden highlights onto the tortured face of Christ.
The Savior’s enormous hollowed eyes seemed to be boring into her from a hideously jaundiced face.
Sofia flinched away from that condemning visage, blew the candle out as the heat of its flame threatened to char the flesh of her fingers and struggled to her feet to go into the confessional. Her legs screamed in protest as she forced first one foot, then the other. A wave of dizziness broke over her.
As her knees started to give way she suddenly realized that there was someone else in the chapel—a black-clad figure silhouetted in the doorway.
Sister Mary David, savoring every moment of Sofia’s agony.
No, she commanded herself. Don’t give her the satisfaction.
She hobbled over to the confessional, pulled the musty curtain closed, and eased herself down onto the hard bench, sighing as a little of the pain in her legs began to ease.
The small partition between the booth’s two compartments opened and Sofia saw the screen, which normally hid her from the priest, was missing.
She was staring directly into the deep warm eyes of Father Sebastian.
His eyes held hers, and for the first time in her life, she found herself confessing directly to the priest, unafraid, and truly contrite. “Bless me, Father,” she whispered, “for I have sinned. It has been six days since my last confession.”
“Yes, my child?”
Father Sebastian’s voice was as soothing as the warm milk her mother had given her when she had awakened from nightmares when she was a little girl, and she knew that no matter what she told him, Father Sebastian would understand. “I have had impure thoughts, Father. I have had lustfu
l thoughts about my boyfriend, and resentful thoughts against Sister Mary David, who caught us kissing.”
“And?” the priest gently prompted, his eyes still holding her gaze.
“In my room.”
“Go on.”
The words poured easily from Sofia’s lips. “And I let him touch my breasts.”
The priest nodded slightly. “Is that all?”
“That is all,” Sofia replied, feeling the burden of guilt lift slightly from her spirit.
“These are grave offenses, Sofia,” the priest said softly. “I shall have to give your penance some thought.”
Sofia’s eyes widened slightly. Had she heard right? He wasn’t going to assign her punishment right now? She looked into his eyes. What did it mean? What might he do? “I’m sorry, Father,” she whispered. “It won’t happen again.”
“I’m sure it won’t, Sofia,” Father Sebastian replied. “For now, I want you to say six Hail Marys before bed tonight, and six more before breakfast tomorrow. Then I want you to meet me back here tomorrow before dinner.”
“Back here?” Sofia echoed, her skin crawling at the thought of returning to this strange chapel. “No, Father, please—”
Father Sebastian raised a single finger, silencing her. “You may go.”
Sofia’s head whirled. This wasn’t right—this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. After she confessed she was supposed to get absolution and penance, and then it was supposed to be over! “Aren’t—aren’t you going to absolve me?” she stammered.
“Tomorrow,” the priest replied, smiling gently. “But don’t worry, Sofia. It’s going to be all right.”
The little partition slid closed, and Sofia was suddenly alone.
She sat silently in the gloom of the booth for a moment, feeling none of the sense of relief that making her confession had always brought. Why had Father Sebastian withheld absolution? But even as she silently asked the question, she knew the answer: he wanted her to think about what she’d done. If he’d simply given her the usual Hail Marys and Our Fathers, she would have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning.
Father Sebastian was simply making her live with her sin until tomorrow, so she’d think harder next time.
He was simply doing his job, tending to her soul.
After a moment, Sofia crossed herself one last time and pulled back the dusty curtain.
There stood Sister Mary David. Startled, Sofia gasped and almost slipped on the worn wooden step.
The nun, her lips pressed together and her eyes nothing more than accusing slits, held her ground, and Sofia had to grasp at the confessional door to recover her balance.
Silently, Sister Mary David walked to the chapel door, turned, and beckoned Sofia to follow her.
As she left the chapel, Sofia wasn’t sure which was worse—Sister Mary David’s cold silence, or the feeling that from the crucifix behind her, Christ Himself was glaring down upon her, condemning her for her unforgiven sins.
CHAPTER 19
I’M SLEEPING IN a dead guy’s bed!
Ryan knew the sheets were fresh, because he’d put them on himself, and his sore jaw was cradled in the pillow he’d brought from home, but no matter which way he turned, or what else he tried to think about, he couldn’t get past the idea that he was sleeping—or at least trying to sleep—in Kip Adamson’s bed.
Kip Adamson.
The guy who’d gone crazy, slit a woman’s throat, and been shot by cops.
Ryan stared unseeingly at the pattern of shadows cast on the ceiling from the streetlight outside. The day he had thought would never end finally had, and as he tried to go to sleep his mind ached with almost as much exhaustion as his body. His injured jaw still throbbed, and every time he tried to change position in his new bed, his ribs felt like they were puncturing right through his lungs.
He tried to lie still.
And failed.
Clay Matthews snored in the bed on the other side of the small room, but with every breath, the snoring seemed to grow louder. Was this what having a roommate was going to be like? How was he ever supposed to get to sleep? Still, everybody here had a roommate, and Clay couldn’t possibly be the only one who snored, so he’d just have to get used to it.
Like he’d have to get used to everything else.
He turned over again, ignoring the pain from his cracked ribs, and tried to convince himself that being here was the right thing. As the day had gone on, and he’d found out more and more about how St. Isaac’s worked, he’d also felt more and more that he would never fit in, never get used to all the rules and rituals, never get used to wearing the same clothes day after day. And it wasn’t just the rules and the clothes, either. The whole place was old —ancient—and smelled musty and it seemed like there were priests and nuns and monks everywhere.
And the food was even worse than the stuff they’d served at Dickinson, which he hadn’t actually thought was possible.
How was he going to make it through the rest of the week, let alone the rest of the year, and next year, too? But it was too late to change his mind now. He’d agreed to come here, and his mother had jumped through a lot of hoops to get him in, so no matter how he felt right now, he had to at least try.
Nor was he about to let Tom Kelly accuse him of being some kind of whining quitter who couldn’t stand being away from home, even if it might be true.
Wincing at the pain in his ribs, Ryan eased back onto his good side and stared at the ugly white net curtains that seemed almost to glow in the faint light from outside.
A breeze suddenly caught them, and they billowed toward him.
Like shrouds searching for a body to wrap.
Ryan closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be better—he’d start classes, and he already knew a few kids, so he’d have some people to sit with at meal times.
He’d be okay.
But he still couldn’t get Kip Adamson out of his mind.
He punched up his pillow and twisted his head to take the pressure off his sore jaw. A moment later he shifted position yet again, but no matter what he did, the bed just wasn’t right.
And the last person who had slept in it had gone out and killed somebody and then gotten killed himself.
A shiver passed through him, and he pulled the blanket closer around him, closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on thinking about something else.
Anything else.
His father.
He would think about his father.
Except that the only thought that came to his mind was the memory of the night he and his mother heard about what had happened to his father. Unable even to turn off the light in his own room, Ryan had gone into his parents’ room, and lay down next to his sobbing mother. He had put his arms around her, and she had put hers around him, and they had both cried themselves to sleep.
So this really wasn’t the first time he’d slept in a dead guy’s bed.
He tried to force the thought out of his mind, and concentrated instead on the image of his father’s face that was as fresh in his mind as if he’d seen him only yesterday. “Good night, Dad,” he whispered softly into his pillow. From deep in his memory, he could almost hear his father’s voice saying good night back to him.
And then, just as he was finally easing into the beginnings of sleep, he heard something.
A high-pitched keening sound.
At first it seemed to come from somewhere outside the building—maybe the street—but when he got out of bed and moved silently to the window, he knew he was wrong.
It was coming from somewhere inside the building.
Somewhere below him.
The sound came again, strengthening until it was a full-throated scream.
Ryan’s heart began to pound, and the pain in his chest almost made him utter a scream of his own as he shook Clay Matthews awake. “Clay! Wake up! Did you hear that?”
Clay instinctively recoiled from Ryan’s touch, then rolled over and opened his eyes slightly, squinted at
Ryan. “Hear what?” he asked, his voice thick with sleep.
“That scream. Just now.”
Clay looked at him blankly. “I didn’t hear anything.” Ryan’s eyes narrowed. How was it possible? Clay must have heard it. Then Clay propped himself up on one elbow. “It was probably a ghost,” he said, his voice sounding perfectly serious despite the words he was speaking. As if he read Ryan’s mind, Clay shrugged. “Hey, we have ghosts—what can I tell you? Just don’t pay any attention to them.”
Ryan’s eyes rolled. “Ghosts. Yeah, right. How could I have been so stupid?”
Clay dropped back down onto his pillow. “Hey, I don’t care if you believe me or not.” He turned his head and looked at the digital clock on his desk. “Oh man,” he said, “it’s late and there’s a history test in the morning. Good night.”
Ryan eyed Clay suspiciously, trying to decide whether his roommate actually believed the words he’d just spoken, or was just pulling his leg. But Clay had already gone back to sleep, a light snore drifting from his lips. Ryan went back to his own bed, slid stiffly under the covers, and lay perfectly still.
Silence had fallen over the room. But it wasn’t just the room.
There was silence everywhere now. No sounds of traffic from the street outside, no scratching of mice from within the walls themselves.
Nothing.
Ryan pulled the covers up to his chin and tried to relax, but even as his body begged for rest he knew he would get no sleep tonight.
Not in a dead guy’s bed.
CHAPTER 20
RYAN SAT IN the darkened classroom the next morning, gazing mutely at the image on the screen. It was a woman, bound to a thick stake with thick ropes, her breasts bare, flames licking at her feet. The image was of an ancient woodcut, and its stark black and white seemed only to accentuate the expression of terror and agony that twisted the woman’s face. In his mind, Ryan heard an echo of the scream from last night, but now it was coming from the mouth of the woman at the stake.
