by John Saul
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.
CHAPTER 10
ANNE ADAMSON’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.
CHAPTER 11
FATHER SEBASTIAN SLOANE HURRIED along the corridor toward Father Laughlin’s office, still wiping toothpaste from the corner of his mouth. Sister Margaret’s tone alone had been enough to tell him that whatever Father Laughlin wanted to see him about was very serious. Which, Father Sebastian was certain, meant two things: it had to do with Kip Adamson, and it wasn’t good.
He paused at the door to the headmaster’s office only long enough to rap softly, then turned the knob.
Father Laughlin sat behind his desk, his lined face looking even older and more worn than usual. Sister Mary David, Brother Francis, and Sister Margaret all looked up when he came in, but none of them smiled.
The two nuns and the monk were even paler than the priest. Father Sebastian quietly took the single remaining empty chair.
Father Laughlin took a deep breath, spread his hands flat on the top of his desk, and looked straight at Father Sebastian. “Kip Adamson murdered a woman last night,” he said, his voice as flat as his hands. Before Father Sebastian could even react, he spoke again. “He himself was killed by the police.”
A cold numbness spread through Father Sebastian’s body and he felt all the energy his body had generated during the night drain out of him. Questions tumbled through his mind, but before he could find the right words for even one of them, Father Laughlin spoke again.
“That’s all we know,” the old priest sighed, making the words sound like a personal defeat. “They’re investigating, of course.”
“Drugs?” Sebastian suggested, his eyes flitting over the little group.
Brother Francis spread his hands helplessly. “I suppose it’s possible, but…”
As his words trailed off into helplessness, Father Sebastian remembered Anne and Gordy Adamson. She, he was certain, would be devastated at the news. But what about Kip’s father? Would he even feign sorrow at his loss? Probably. But even more probably, he would start looking around for someone to blame, and St. Isaac’s would undoubtedly be at the top of his list. “Has anyone spoken with Kip’s parents?”
“I called their parish priest,” Brother Francis said. “Kip’s mother called him an hour ago, and he was already there.”
Sebastian frowned. “Shouldn’t Father Laughlin or I go, too?”
“That’s what I thought,” Brother Francis interjected. “But Father Laughlin feels it’s best if their own priest handles it.”
“It’s just so hard to believe,” Sister Mary David said, her lips compressing into a thin line as if the boy’s death were a personal affront to her. “It’s not as if he was doing badly here. In fact, he was doing well—his grades were up and—”
“The police will be here today,” Father Laughlin cut in, garnering a dark look from Sister Mary David, who obviously had a lot more to say. “They will want to know if anyone has noticed anything about Kip. Anything unusual.” His eyes roved tiredly from one face to another. “Has anyone?”
Father Sebastian glanced at the other three, none of whom seemed certain of even how to respond to Father Laughlin, let alone the police. “Nothing that I have noticed. I agree with Sister Mary David—Kip was doing well. The usual sins of a boy his age, of course.” He suppressed a smile as Sister Margaret blushed and Sister Mary David scowled disapprovingly. “But I heard his confession and gave him a penance. Actually, I thought we were succeeding very well with him. At least up until yesterday.”
Father Laughlin took another deep breath, and seemed to pull himself together slightly. “Very well. If any of you should remember anything odd about Kip’s behavior, please bring it here first. At this point there’s nothing that can be done either for the Adamson boy or for the poor woman he attacked.” He paused, then spoke again, his voice taking on a slight edge. “I’m sure you all understand that we don’t need any publicity that will reflect badly either on the school or on the Church. I think the Church has had as much of that as it can stand for the foreseeable future.” His eyes moved from one face to the next. “Do I make myself clear?”
“It doesn’t matter what we say,” Sister Mary David said. “Some parents are likely to remove their children, and recruitment will be difficult for a year or so.” She turned to Sister Margaret. “We ought to have a statement ready for the press.”
Father Laughlin pressed his fingertips to his temples and rubbed them in small circles as if he could massage away the trouble that he was certain was about to rain down on his head.
“We’d better cancel classes for today,” Father Sebastian said as Father Laughlin’s silence stretched on. “We’ll hold a mass for Kip, and then arrange to be in our offices and available for any of the students who want to talk about it. As for the police, the best thing we can do is answer all their questions as completely and honestly as possible.”
As the two nuns nodded their agreement, Brother Francis raised his hand, and Father Sebastian was reminded of nothing so much as a worried schoolboy who is uncertain of his lessons.
“I feel like somehow it’s my fault,” he said. “Was there something I missed? Some sign? Did I do something wrong? I feel as if I should have seen this coming—maybe spent more time with him, or paid more attention.”
Sister Margaret peered at him over the rims of the half-glasses that were perpetually perched on her nose. “There are over two hundred students here,” she declared. “We can only do what we can do, and for the most part, we do a very good job. None of us saw this coming, and there’s no reason why we should have. We can’t know everything in each student’s heart at every moment.”
“I just feel as if I—” Brother Francis began again, but this time Sister Margaret didn’t even let him finish.
“Brother Francis, our job is to look after the children, not feel sorry for ourselves.” Her eyes fixed on Brother Francis, and he instantly felt as if he was back in parochial school and about to feel the rap of a ruler across his knuckles. “Can you put your own feelings aside long enough to talk to the rest of the boys about what�
��s happened?”
Brother Francis’s face burned. “Of course I can. I’ll just need a few moments to collect my thoughts.”
“Which is a very good idea for all of us,” Father Sebastian interjected before Sister Margaret could say anything else to Brother Francis. “And when we begin answering questions—not only from the police but from the students and their parents as well, I think we should keep in mind that this is not a time for trying to assign blame, either to Kip Adamson or to anyone else. Unfortunately, evil is insidious in the world we live in, and no one is immune. And often, it seems, the children are even less immune than anyone else.”
“Still, everyone makes their choices,” Sister Margaret sniffed, making no attempt to conceal her disdain for Father Sebastian’s words.
“Be that as it may,” Father Sebastian replied gently, “our job right now is to reassure our students and their parents that whatever caused Kip to attack that poor woman, it had nothing to do with St. Isaac’s. The boy had problems when he arrived—in fact, isn’t that exactly why he came here? It’s not that we failed him—we simply didn’t have enough time to succeed with him. Evil, unfortunately, cannot be overcome in an instant, and whatever evil inhabited Kip Adamson was obviously far stronger than any of us saw.”
Father Laughlin finally stirred in his chair, and looked up. “Father Sebastian is right,” he declared. “In the future, we shall all be far more vigilant.”
Patrick North and Kevin Peterson had been working together long enough that neither detective had to say a word before they entered Kip Adamson’s room at St. Isaac’s; North would do the searching while Peterson talked to the boy’s roommate. There was something about Peterson’s manner that made people want to talk to him, and North had given up trying to emulate it years ago, concentrating instead on honing his already sharp eyes and innate instinct for knowing where to look for what he was trying to find. Except, of course, for his keys, which somehow still managed to elude him at least twice a day. Now he handed them over to Peterson before he pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and began his search, which he would carry out as carefully as he did all his searches, even though the disinterest of Adamson’s friends had already told him the search was probably going to be futile. If there was anything to find, North figured Clay Matthews and Darren Bender would be a lot more nervous than they were.