The Devil's Labyrinth (6 page)

C
HAPTER
9

H
E WAS BACK
on the floor of the boys’ restroom at Dickinson, curled up in a fetal position, bracing himself for the next kick. Only it wasn’t just Stan Wojniak and Bennie Locke this time. Frankie Alito was there, too, along with three other guys, and all of them were kicking him, their shoes thudding into his sides and smashing his face. Even the walls seemed to be closing in on him, and there was no place to hide, and more guys were around him, and then he saw the knives.

First in Alito’s hand, and then in Locke’s, and then they all had knives, and they were closing in on him, and his heart was pounding so hard he could hear it, and he opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out and—

—and Ryan jerked awake in the darkened hospital room. Its silence broken only by the pounding of his own heart, and the groan that escaped his lips as the pain of his convulsive awakening broke through the narcotics and threatened to tear his chest apart.

He lay perfectly still, willing the spasm of pain to break. The beating was over—he was safe. Safe in the hospital, and tomorrow he would go home.

Tomorrow or Sunday.

The wave of pain finally began to recede, and he turned over onto his good side, wincing at the new pang of protest from his cracked ribs. He held still again and closed his eyes, but after the nightmare he didn’t really want to go back to sleep again, at least not until the last remnants of the dream were completely gone.

Besides, he wasn’t sleepy, and what he really wanted was someone to talk to. But not his mother, who would only start crying, and certainly not Tom Kelly. And he didn’t want to call any of the nurses, either. They’d just give him some more pills.

The person he really wanted to talk to was his father.

His father would know what to do, would tell him how to handle Frankie Alito and all his friends when he went back to school on Monday. But his father couldn’t help him, because his father was dead, and wasn’t coming back, and Ryan was just going to have to figure out what to do by himself.

A single tear rolled out the corner of his eye and he quickly wiped it away. Then there was a soft knock on the door. As Ryan fumbled with the controller and found the light switch, the door opened and a dark-haired man stepped inside.

A dark-haired man who was neither a nurse nor an orderly.

Ryan gazed at him uncertainly.

“Ryan?” the man asked. “Ryan McIntyre?”

Ryan nodded.

The man stepped fully into the room and let the door close quietly behind him, and without the brighter lights of the hallway behind him, Ryan could finally see the clerical collar the man wore.

A priest.

“I’m Father Sebastian Sloane,” the priest said, lowering himself onto the chair closest to the bed.

Ryan frowned. What was a priest doing here? Had his mother sent him? But maybe he was just the chaplain at the hospital or something. Before he could ask, though, the priest spoke again. “I think you know a friend of mine. Tom Kelly?”

Ryan’s expression darkened. “Why’d he send you here?” he asked, making no attempt to keep the hostility out of his voice. “Is he hoping I’m going to die and wanted you to give me last rites?”

The priest didn’t even flinch at the harsh words; instead he chuckled. “Not too fond of him, hunh?”

Ryan shook his head. “Why should I be?”

Father Sebastian spread his hands dismissively. “No reason that I can think of. Knowing Tom, he’s probably trying to act like your father. Anyway, he sure sounded like it when he called me an hour ago.” He leaned forward slightly and dropped his voice. “So how bad is he?”

Ryan shrugged. “He just keeps acting like he knows what’s best for my mother and me. Like we can’t take care of ourselves.”

“Sounds like Tom, all right,” Father Sebastian sighed. “He tries to run everyone’s life. In fact, that’s why I came over here tonight—it was easier to just do what he wanted me to do than try to argue with him. Although I’ve got to say, sometimes I’d rather just—” He cut off his words and jabbed the middle finger of his right hand high in the air. “You know what I mean?”

“Jesus,” Ryan blurted out without thinking. “What kind of priest are you?”

“Actually, I’m a counselor at St. Isaac’s,” Father Sebastian said. He grinned, and when he spoke again his voice was tinged with sarcasm. “Is it all getting clearer now?”

Ryan groaned. “Oh, great—so he sent you here to wake me up in the middle of the night just so you could talk me into going to St. Isaac’s? What’d he think—I’d be so drugged up I wouldn’t know what was going on?”

“Probably,” Father Sebastian agreed. “But in all fairness, you weren’t asleep, and if you had been I’d have gone away quietly. Granted, getting up this late and coming over here wasn’t exactly what I wanted to do tonight, but as I said, it beats arguing with Tom Kelly. So what do you think? Want to hear the pitch, or should I just go home and tell Tom you were asleep?”

“You’d really do that?” Ryan asked.

“Try me!” Father Sebastian rose to his feet. “It’s almost one in the morning and this past evening wasn’t really great. So just say the word, and I’m out of here and back in bed in half an hour.”

“What if I want to hear the pitch?” Ryan countered.

Father Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Then I give you the short version, hope you don’t have any questions, and I’m home and in bed in maybe forty minutes.”

Ryan started to laugh, felt a twinge of pain in his ribs, and cut the laugh short. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll listen.”

The priest smiled. “Beats lying here in the dark thinking about next week, doesn’t it?” he asked, voicing Ryan’s thoughts almost perfectly. He lowered himself back into the chair. “The main thing I’ve got to tell you is that things like what happened to you don’t happen at St. Isaac’s. We don’t let them happen. If anybody there is going to give you a hard time it’s going to be the nuns, not the other students. And while some of the sisters are tough as nails, I don’t think they’d actually kick you.” He winked at Ryan. “But don’t hold me to that. I’ve only been there since the fall, so what do I know?”

“Tom Kelly doesn’t really care that I got my butt kicked yesterday,” Ryan replied. “He just wants me out of the house so he can put the make on my mother.”

“From what I know of Tom, which I’ll grant you isn’t all that much, he’s probably going to do that whether you’re there or not,” Father Sebastian said. “But you know, it’s not such a terrible thing that he has feelings for your mother.”

“It still doesn’t make him my dad,” Ryan insisted, and hoped his words didn’t sound quite as sullen to the priest as they did to him.

“No one can replace your father,” Father Sebastian. “Tom and your mom are just trying to do what’s best for you. Like your dad would, if he were here. And right now, they think that the best thing is for you to get out of Dickinson High.”

Ryan stared at the ceiling.

Father Sebastian put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “It’s up to you, of course. We don’t tolerate the kind of stuff you’re going through at Dickinson, and I can tell you that a diploma from St. Isaac’s on your college applications doesn’t hurt.”

Ryan’s attention instantly shifted back to the priest. For as long as he could remember, he’d been determined to follow his father to Princeton, but Princeton could take their pick from literally thousands of kids with 4.0-plus GPAs and perfect SATs, and after what had happened yesterday he couldn’t risk blowing any more tests, let alone waste all his time watching his back.

“Any of your kids go to Princeton?” he asked, trying to sound a lot less interested than he suddenly was.

“A couple,” Father Sebastian replied. “And Harvard. And M.I.T. The best of our bunch go pretty much wherever they want to go.” Ryan made no reply, but Father Sebastian felt fairly sure that the message Tom wanted delivered had finally been received. “Just think about it, okay?” he said, standing up. “Now go back to sleep and get some rest.”

Ryan nodded. Then, just as Father Sebastian opened the door, he spoke. “Hey.”

Father Sebastian turned.

“Thanks for coming.”

The priest smiled, his eyes roving quickly over the hospital room. “You seem like a pretty good kid,” he said. “You deserve better than this. Think about it.”

The door swung shut, and Ryan switched off the light, gazing sightlessly up at the dark ceiling. But the last remnants of the nightmare were gone, and Ryan was sure they weren’t going to come back.

C
HAPTER
10

A
NNE
A
DAMSON’S EYES
snapped open in the darkness of the bedroom. The first light of dawn silhouetted the big maple tree outside the window, and at first she thought the wind must have rattled its branches against the house. But there was no wind; indeed, the silence in the house seemed almost unnatural.

So what had wakened her?

She lay quietly, listening for the sound to repeat itself.

Maybe Kip was home! Maybe he’d come back!

Hope surged through her, yet still she waited.

Then she heard it again.

The doorbell!

“Gordy!” she said, shaking her husband’s shoulder. “Gordy, there’s someone at the door.”

“Huh?” Gordy muttered, heaving himself up.

“The
door
bell, Gordy. Someone’s at the door!”

“Kip,” Gordy groaned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Musta lost his damn key.”

Anne got out of bed and reached into the closet for their bathrobes while Gordy went to the window and peered out at the street below.

An almost unintelligible curse rumbled from his throat. “Cop car out front,” he said in response to Anne’s inquiring look.

Anne’s heart sank.

Gordy sighed. “What do you s’pose he’s done now?” He took the robe Anne was holding and shrugged into it as the doorbell rang yet another time, then led his wife down the stairs, flipped on the porch light, and opened the front door.

Two police officers stood on the front porch, their faces looking sickly in the yellowish light. “Mr. Adamson?” the older of the two asked.

“Yeah,” Gordy said, his eyes balefully fixing on the visitors. “Christ Almighty, if it ain’t priests, it’s cops.” He shoved the screen door open. “Might as well come in and tell us what he’s done.”

The officers glanced uneasily at each other, but let themselves be ushered into the living room. “I’m Sergeant Chapman,” the older police officer said. “This is Officer Haskins.”

Something in his voice sent a chill through Anne’s body. “What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened to Kip?”

Chapman shifted uneasily. “Perhaps you should have a seat, ma’am.”

Gordy Adamson reached out and took his wife’s hand. “He’s dead then, isn’t he?”

“Gordy!” Anne gasped, jerking her hand away. “How can you even say such a thing?” But even as she uttered the words the expression on Sergeant Chapman’s face revealed the truth of her husband’s words.

“I’m so sorry to have to tell you this,” the sergeant said softly as Anne sank onto the edge of the sofa. “Kip was involved in a—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “There was an altercation last night.”

“What kind of ‘altercation?’” Gordy challenged, his voice hard.

“The investigation isn’t quite finished,” Chapman went on, “but it appears your son was fatally shot by officers while in the act of—” Again he fell silent, and Gordy Adamson’s eyes bored into him.

“In the act of
what
?” Adamson demanded. “Tell me what my son was doing that was so bad you had to kill him!”

Chapman took a deep breath. “I’m afraid he was in the middle of killing someone,” he said. “A fifty-year-old woman who was out walking her dog.”

“Killing someone?” Anne breathed. “Kip? No—you must have the wrong boy. Kip would never—”

“I’m afraid it’s not a mistake, ma’am,” Chapman said gently. “Your son wasn’t carrying any identification, but his fingerprints are in the system and there really isn’t any question about the match. But we do need one of you to come down to the morgue and make a positive identification.”

Now Anne reached for Gordy’s hand, but his arms were tight across his chest, his face a mask of fury. “I’m gonna sue that damn school,” he said, his voice trembling with fury.

The two officers glanced uncertainly at each other. “School?” Officer Haskins asked. “What school?”

“St. Isaac’s,” Gordy spat. “They were supposed to keep Kip under control. What was he doing prowling the streets at night instead of sleeping in his dorm room? I ask you.”

“It’s got to be a mistake, honey,” Anne said, not wanting—not
able—to
accept the truth of what had happened. “It wasn’t Kip. It couldn’t have been Kip. Kip stole a few things, that’s all. But he’d never—” She clutched her bathrobe tight around her throat. “It wasn’t him,” she whispered.

“It was him, all right,” Gordy said, his voice sounding oddly flat. “I can feel it.” He shook his head tiredly. “Let me get my clothes on, and I’ll go with you.”

As her husband disappeared up the stairs Anne sat quietly with the two policemen, too stunned by what she’d been told to say anything more at all.

“I’m so sorry,” Officer Haskins said, but Ann shook her head distractedly, as if by rejecting his sympathy she could deny the reason for it.

A few silent moments later, Gordy came back down, carrying his shoes. He dropped into a chair and put them on. “I swear, I really am suing that damned school,” he muttered as he tied his laces. “You give a kid to a bunch of priests and nuns and he’s supposed to be safe. But no.” His voice began to crack. He tied the last knot, stood up, and took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

A moment later, alone in the silent house, Anne stared for a long time at the framed photograph on the mantel of Kip in his Little League uniform.

Hanging over the corner of the frame was his first rosary.

As the truth of what had happened slowly began to sink in, she rose from the chair and moved to the fireplace.

She picked up the rosary and held it to her cheek.

Silently, her eyes streaming with tears, she began to pray.