The Devil's Labyrinth

by John Saul

  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.

  CHAPTER 30

  THE LAST PLACE Sofia Capelli wanted to be was exactly where she was. But she had no choice; Sister Mary David had made that very clear when Sofia had made the mistake of telling the nun that she wasn’t going to Kip Adamson’s funeral. So now she stood in the foyer as the entire student body and faculty of St. Isaac’s filed into the chapel, and despite what Sister Mary David had told her, Sofia still did not want to go, and was planning to slip out the door unnoticed as soon as everyone was in the sanctuary.

  The moment came, and Sofia turned to make her escape. But even before she could take the first step, Sister Mary David emerged from the dark shadows of the corner to the left of the door, her eyes boring into Sofia. Sofia felt a flash of cold fury and for just an instant imagined blood gushing from the nun’s neck as if Kip Adamson had slashed her rather than the woman he’d actually killed. But the vision faded as quickly as it had come, and, accepting defeat at least for now, Sofia turned to follow the crowd into the chapel, the nun close behind her.

  Then, just as she crossed the threshold, it hit her. A wave of nausea that twisted her gut and threatened to overwhelm her before she could even fight it. She sank onto the end of the back pew, barely inside the door, then closed her eyes and tried to quell a growing sickness, but it only increased as the doors were closed and the mass began.

  She was trapped.

  She felt an overwhelming ur
ge to bolt from the pew and burst through the door to suck in the fresh air outside, but Sister Mary David was standing sentry, her only apparent purpose being to make certain Sofia stayed for the funeral.

  As Father Laughlin stood in the pulpit above Kip’s flowered casket and began to pray, Sofia bowed her head like everyone else, but instead of praying for Kip’s soul, she prayed that she’d be able to endure the service to the end without either becoming ill or fainting.

  Or both.

  Melody Hunt sat in the fourth pew with Clay Matthews on one side of her and Ryan McIntyre on the other. Darren Bender was at the end nearest the aisle, and still trying to save enough space so that Sofia could sit next to him if she showed up. As the organ played softly, Melody leaned across Ryan and touched Darren’s shirtsleeve. “Why isn’t Sofia with us? Did something happen at lunch that you didn’t tell us about?”

  Darren shook his head and shrugged helplessly. “You saw what happened, for God’s sake,” he whispered a little too loudly, earning a dark glare from someone in the pew behind him. “She just freaked out. I don’t know what’s going on—I couldn’t talk to her!”

  Melody sat still in her seat trying not to look like she was searching the rows of students and faculty for Sofia. Kip’s parents were sitting with Father Sebastian in the front row, along with some people she thought must be his grandparents, and she recognized practically everyone else she knew scattered all over the packed chapel. But there was no sign of Sofia at all.

  Finally she twisted around and scanned the crowd behind her, and there was Sofia, her face ashen, sitting in the very last pew with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “There she is,” she whispered as loudly as she dared.

  The three boys all turned to look. “Where?”

  “Back row by the door.” She nudged Ryan. “Let me out. I’m going to go talk to her.”

  Ryan put his hand on her arm. “You can’t go talk to her now—the mass is starting!”

  Melody reluctantly turned back to face the front and slipped her hand into Ryan’s.

  Ryan squeezed it quickly, then spoke, his eyes on the casket, his voice barely audible. “The last funeral I went to was my dad’s.”

  Melody searched her mind for something to say, then settled on just holding his hand even tighter. As if understanding what she meant, his grip tightened, too.

  “It’s okay,” Ryan said, his voice sounding nowhere near as certain as his words. “It was two years ago.”

  As Melody once more searched for the right words, Father Laughlin signaled the beginning of a hymn, and the entire crowd rose to their feet.

  The entire crowd, save one.

  Sofia Capelli still sat huddled in her place in the last pew, struggling against the terrible urge to vomit.

  As the service wore on, Sofia felt her nausea fade slowly away, to be replaced with a strange vibration. It seemed to emanate from the floor beneath her feet, coming right up through her shoes and into her bones.

  What was happening? She looked around, but nobody else seemed to have noticed.

  She leaned forward and grasped the back of the pew in front of her.

  It, too, vibrated.

  Could it be an earthquake?

  But it didn’t feel like an earthquake. It felt more like some kind of energy, flowing into her through her feet—and now her fingers—making her whole body hum. But what could it be? And why wasn’t it happening to anybody else? But as she looked around again she realized that everyone else in the chapel looked so intent on listening to every word Father Laughlin was saying that Sofia thought a bomb could go off and they wouldn’t notice.

  Suddenly the people in the front pew stood up and Sofia felt a brief wave of relief—they must be feeling it, too! But no—they were just going toward the altar to file past Kip’s open casket to say a last good-bye before walking slowly up the aisle and out of the chapel.

  There was no way Sofia was going to do that—the last thing she felt like doing was looking at a body.

  The humming inside her flared, and for a second her vision faded and the whole chapel seemed to be illuminated by red light.

  Blood-red light.

  Sofia sat frozen in her place as the strength and power of the hum kept building. She closed her eyes to shut out the red glow, but without the light to distract her, the humming seemed even louder.

  Louder, and somehow soothing.

  It filled her chest, almost as if it could supplant her heartbeat. And not just her heartbeat, but her breathing as well.

  It was as if the humming would supply all the energy she could ever need. She kept her eyes closed as a strength she’d never felt before flooded into her.

  When she opened her eyes, she was alone in the chapel.

  Had she fallen asleep? How could everyone else have left without her even noticing? But it didn’t matter. She was alone, and free to go. Except that when she stood up, the vibration only grew stronger, the humming intensifying.

  Instead of moving through the doors, Sofia felt herself being drawn toward the front of the chapel.

  Drawn toward the altar.

  Without thinking, she moved silently down the aisle, never hesitating, never faltering, until she stood in front of Kip Adamson’s casket.

  The vibration—the humming, the pure energy—was swirling all around her now, and as she gazed down into the open casket, she knew.

  This was the source.

  Kip Adamson’s body.

  Sofia looked down upon his face, made up so skillfully that he looked as if he was only sleeping, and any touch might awaken him.

  Any touch…

  The vibration grew and swelled until every nerve in her body was tingling. Now she could almost pick out separate tones within the humming. Suddenly it sounded as if there were a voice deep within the sound.

  A human voice.

  Kip Adamson’s voice?

  “What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “What is it?”

  Her hand, as if of its own volition, moved down and touched Kip’s right hand, avoiding the rosary that was wound between his fingers.

  A surge of something—something dark, something dangerous—flowed through her fingers, up her arm and settled in her chest.

  Something from Kip.

  Something that had resided deep inside of him.

  Something that now resided just as deep inside of her.

  With the strange new energy flowing through her, Sofia turned to leave the chapel.

  Standing at the doorway, watching her, were Melody Hunt, Darren Bender and Ryan McIntyre.

  Sofia found the muscles of her face, willed them to smile, and walked up the aisle toward them.

  The afternoon sun almost blinded Ryan as he emerged from the chapel into the late afternoon sun, but even in the glare he recognized his mother.

  And not just his mother, either. Tom Kelly was there, too, talking to Father Sebastian.

  Why were they here? Had they actually come to the funeral mass?

  And why was his mother’s hand tucked through Tom Kelly’s arm exactly the way she used to tuck it through his father’s? Then he saw her spot him and pull her hand away from Tom Kelly to wave to him. But she pulled it away too quickly, which was as good as telling Ryan she was feeling guilty about something. But what? Bringing Tom Kelly here? Or holding his arm the way she used to hold his father’s. Wishing he could just turn around and head for the dorm, but knowing he couldn’t, he started toward her. “There’s my mom,” he told Melody. “And the guy she’s dating, who’s buddies with Father Sebastian.”

  “You’re kidding,” Melody whispered, keeping in step with Ryan. “You’ll never be able to get away with anything!”

  “Tell me,” Ryan muttered as he managed a smile for his mother.

  “Hi, honey,” she said, opening her arms to give him a hug—which he barely managed to sidestep—and a kiss on the cheek, which he had no chance of avoiding at all.

  “What are you doing here?” he ask
ed. “You didn’t even know Kip Adamson, did you?”

  His mother reddened slightly. “Actually, it was more an excuse to see you,” she said, and now Ryan felt himself flushing.

  “Hi,” Melody said, smiling at his mother while trying not to stare at Tom Kelly.

  “This is Melody Hunt,” Ryan said. “She’s tutoring me in Catholic History.”

  “My pal’s specialty,” Tom Kelly said, clapping Father Sebastian on the shoulder and grinning at him. “How’s our boy doing?”

  Our boy? Ryan thought. I’m not your boy, and I never will be.

  “You look good,” Tom said, appraising Ryan in his school uniform. “How’s life at St. Isaac’s?”

  “Fine,” Ryan said, keeping his smile carefully in place and reminding himself that his mother had a right to see whoever she wanted, and there was no point in being a brat about it. He didn’t have to like Tom Kelly, but he didn’t have to try to make his mother miserable, no matter how much he might feel like it.

  “Of course it’s only his first week,” Melody said. “So he doesn’t really know what it’s like yet.”

  “I gather you’ve been here a while?” Teri asked.

  “Since ninth grade,” Melody replied.

  “And if we’re late for class, they’ll put us both back in ninth grade,” Ryan said. “And didn’t you say you needed to get your geometry book?” he added, silently praying she’d get the message that even though they still had fifteen minutes, he wanted to get out of here now.

  She did. Managing to affect a look of utterly genuine horror, she offered her hand to Teri McIntyre. “We’ve got to run. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, Melody,” Teri said, taking the girl’s hand warmly.

  “I’ll catch up in a minute,” Ryan told her as she headed toward the dorms. “I gotta say good-bye to my mom.” Then, as Melody disappeared and Ryan looked at the ground, an awkward silence hung in the air.

  “Cute girl,” Tom said.