The Devil's Labyrinth (13 page)

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.

C
HAPTER
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.

C
HAPTER
20

R
YAN 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.

Father Sebastian clicked the remote control and the woodblock was replaced by a vividly painted image of a man tied to a post in a harbor, gray seas behind him, howling in terror as the tide came in to drown him.

Ryan’s gaze shifted to the empty notebook on his desk. He’d heard at breakfast that since Father Sebastian had started teaching it, Catholic History was one of the most popular courses at the school, and now he knew why. The images of the Inquisition that he’d just seen had seared Father Sebastian’s accompanying words in his memory with no need for any notes at all.

“Historians have said that the Inquisition was about persecuting Jews and Muslims,” Father Sebastian said. “But that is not the case at all. The Jews and Muslims had already been exiled by the secular Spanish government. What made the Inquisition necessary was that not all of them left. Some stayed, pretending to have converted to Christianity.” The image on the screen changed again. Now Ryan was looking at a highly realistic picture of a man in a tall red hat decorated with an ornately embroidered cross, who was sitting on some kind of throne while an executioner ran a sword through a peasant’s throat.

Ryan felt his throat constrict as he gazed at the dying man.

“The purpose of the Inquisition was not to persecute Jews and Muslims, but rather to root out and expel those who found it suddenly convenient to become Catholic. The subjects of the Inquisition were the hypocrites who professed our faith only to protect their worldly assets.” He paused, his eyes sweeping the small classroom as the screen went blank. “Questions?”

Almost to his own surprise, Ryan found his hand going up.

“Ryan?”

“I—I was just wondering—” he stammered.

Father Sebastian cut off his words with an uplifted arm. “This is St. Isaac’s,” he said, smiling almost ruefully. “I’m afraid we’re not like public school. Here we stand when we speak.”

Ryan felt his face burn. He wasn’t even quite sure how to ask his question, but he got to his feet and cleared his throat. “I guess I was just wondering how they thought they could tell if a person was lying about converting? I mean, won’t people say anything at all if you torture them enough?”

“Of course they will,” Father Sebastian said, as Ryan sank back to his seat. “As many of the inquisitors quickly came to understand. But we’re not talking about the efficacy of the methods here; merely the purity of the motivation.”

Another hand went up. Father Sebastian nodded at a stocky red-haired boy. “Sam?”

The boy stood as Ryan sank back into his chair. “But it doesn’t matter what the motivations were, does it? In the end, didn’t the Inquisition make the Muslims and Jews think that the Christians were out to exterminate them? Isn’t that one of the reasons they still think that?”

Father Sebastian nodded. “Absolutely right. It’s unfortunate that the Church is still feeling the fallout of the Inquisition, especially considering how long ago it ended. Even worse, its true purpose has been all but lost to secular historians, who always seem to unfairly ascribe the darkest motives to any actions motivated by religion.” As the bell signaled the end of class, Father Sebastian stepped back behind his desk. “Read pages 147 to 176 and remember the test on Friday.”

Ryan stared at the priest. A test on Friday? Even if he could read the whole textbook by then—which he was pretty sure he couldn’t—he still wouldn’t be ready for a test on Friday. It wouldn’t be fair—he’d only started the class this very day. Then he remembered Father Sebastian’s words about historian’s “unfairly” ascribing the worst motives to the Inquisition. The hollowness in his belly was suddenly replaced by hope. He closed his notebook, waited for most of the class to file out, then approached the priest as he was starting to put the projector away.

“Father Sebastian?”

The priest looked up, and Ryan instantly remembered the night Father Sebastian had come to see him in the hospital. There was a kindness in the priest’s eyes that Ryan had experienced from only one other person.

His father.

“Hey, Ryan,” Father Sebastian said. “What can I do for you?”

“I—well, I was wondering if I have to take the test on Friday? I mean, I haven’t even opened the textbook yet.”

The priest seemed to think for a moment, but then shook his head. “Everyone takes the test, Ryan. If you study, you’ll do fine. It’s not going to be that hard.” Father Sebastian scanned the emptying room, and he suddenly smiled. “How about if I give you a little extra edge?” Before Ryan could say anything, the priest raised his voice slightly. “Melody?”

A pretty blond girl looked up from the book bag she was packing, and Father Sebastian crooked his finger at her. She glanced quickly behind her as if to make sure it was really she the priest wanted, then picked up her books and purse, and walked up to the front.

“Melody Hunt, meet Ryan McIntyre. He’s a transfer student, and this is his first day of classes here. How about if you tutor him for this Friday’s test, and then maybe for another week or two, at least until he gets up to speed. Okay?” He turned back to Ryan. “Melody’s a fanatic note-taker. I have a feeling she knows more about this stuff than the guy who wrote the textbook.”

Melody blushed slightly, then smiled uncertainly at Ryan. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all any of us can do,” Father Sebastian said as he went back to the projector.

As soon as they were out of the classroom, Melody’s smile faded, and she shuddered. “Those pictures were just horrible,” she said. “Why did he even show them to us?”

Ryan barely heard her words. Instead he was focusing on the tiny pearl earrings and faint lip gloss that were just enough to make Melody look completely different from any of the other girls he’d seen so far. It was hard to look different from everybody else when everyone wore a uniform, but Melody had pulled it off. Suddenly he realized he was staring at her, and she knew he was staring at her, and he mentally scrambled to remember what she’d just said. “They were gross,” he agreed, feeling a flush rising in his cheeks. “They’d never show us anything like that in public school.”

“Lucky you,” Melody sighed. “I’ve been stuck here since ninth grade. And my parents aren’t even very religious. They just think this is safer than public school. Want to go get lunch?”

As Melody started down the corridor in exactly the opposite direction Ryan would have gone, he fell in beside her. “What about that guy Kip? Kip Adamson?”

Melody stopped short and looked at Ryan. “What do you know about him?”

“Not much,” Ryan replied. “Even though everyone in my dorm is talking about him, nobody knows what happened. And I’m in his room.”

Melody’s face paled. “I don’t think I could do that,” she breathed. “I mean, how could you even sleep?”

“I almost didn’t,” Ryan admitted. “So, did you know him?”

Melody started down the hallway again. “Not really,” she began. “I mean, I sort of thought I knew him until he started getting weird. It was like he turned into some kind of lost soul. You know what I mean?”

Ryan nodded, even though he wasn’t sure he did know what she meant, and once more fell in beside her. “So what happened to him?”

“I don’t know, and I think I must have asked everybody in school,” Melody replied, her voice hollow. “In fact, my roommate’s getting really tired of me talking about him all the time.”

Ryan offered her a lopsided grin. “So talk to me about him. I promise I won’t get tired of hearing you.”

Melody flushed slightly, but didn’t turn away. “At first I thought he’d just left school, like Jeffrey Holmes.”

Now it was Ryan who stopped short. “Jeffrey Holmes?” he repeated. “Who’s he?”

“A guy who left in November. But he wasn’t like Kip. He hated it here, and after Thanksgiving he never came back.” Her eyes clouded, and Ryan wondered exactly what it was she was remembering, but the moment passed before he could ask. “Anyway, we all thought that was what happened to Kip, too. We all figured he’d just taken off. Even Clay thought so.”

They walked along in silence for a moment, and suddenly Ryan found himself asking Melody the same question he’d asked Clay late last night. “Did you hear anything last night? Like around midnight?”

Melody glanced at him. “Hear what?”

Ryan hesitated, but then blurted it out. “A scream.” He waited for her to laugh, but she didn’t.

Instead, she rolled her eyes. “That’s just a stupid stunt,” she said. “Someone does it to every new student. They sneak far enough away from the dorm so they can barely be heard, then scream. The new person wants to know what it is, and is told that we have ghosts. Dumb, hunh?” Ryan nodded, glad he’d asked Melody instead of giving Clay and his friends an opportunity to elaborate on the joke at lunchtime. But then Melody’s expression turned serious. “But the weird thing is,” she went on, “every now and then you hear something like that and there aren’t any new students. And some of these buildings are hundreds of years old, and there are all kinds of stories about what they used to be used for.”

The images from the Inquisition lecture immediately rose out of Ryan’s memory.

Melody laughed. “There’s also supposed to be the ghost of some old nun that wanders around the school at night.”

“Have you ever seen it?”

Melody shook her head. “Of course not! Nobody I know has actually seen it themselves—everyone just knows someone who knows someone who saw it. Personally, I don’t think it’s a ghost at all. I think it’s Sister Mary David—God knows she’s old enough that she
should
be a ghost by now.” She giggled for a second, but then her expression clouded over again. “But who knows? Who really knows anything? I mean, we don’t even really know what happened to Jeffrey Holmes, do we?”

“Or Kip,” Ryan added softly.

Melody looked up at him, and he had the uncanny feeling he could fall right into the depths of her blue eyes. She nodded slowly. “Or Kip,” she agreed. “Who really knows what happened to either one of them?”