The Devil's Labyrinth

by John Saul

  He struck a match and held it to a candle, then stuck it in the sand. He lit another and another, until the sand receptacle was ablaze, and the glowing candlelight began to drive the terror from his soul.

  At last he saw where the priests had imprisoned him.

  A chapel.

  A small chapel dominated by a hideous crucifix, which seemed to be suspended in midair over a small altar. An old, ornately carved confessional sat to one side. The walls and floor were cold gray stone.

  Ryan picked up one of the candles and walked around behind the altar, where he found a small door, presumably leading to the vestry.

  It was as solidly locked as the chapel door.

  There was no way out, unless he took the candles and set fire to the chapel door.

  But even that probably wouldn’t work; he might die of smoke inhalation in this tiny chamber before the door would be compromised enough to attempt an escape.

  There was no escape, so he had to wait for them to come back.

  But would they come back for him? What if they just left him alone down here? How long would it take for him to die?

  And what if he ran out of candles?

  With his terror of the darkness already starting to flood back, he blew out all the candles but two—one left standing in the sand in the niche, the other one clutched tight in his own hand.

  He sat on the cold stone blocks, his back to the big wooden door.

  They’d come back.

  They had to come back.

  He sat silently, gazing up at the monstrous hollow-eyed Christ who stared unseeingly back at him.

  And then he began thinking about his father.

  His father would tell him what to do.

  Teri spread a towel across the highly polished surface of the dresser top, then turned the jewelry box upside down to pour out the contents of its lowest compartment, which she’d always used as a catchall for everything from extra earring backs—or single earrings whose mates she’d never given up hope of finding—to spare change, Bill’s collar stays, and a few tiny objects she could no longer even identify. “I’ll never be able to use this box again,” she said, her voice trembling. “And I’ve loved it since the day Bill gave it to me.” She shook her head sadly and looked up at Tom. “And now I hate it. Isn’t that sad? Someone I don’t even know—probably won’t ever meet—has ruined this for me.” Now she glanced around the room, but her eyes were seeing far beyond the four walls surrounding her.

  Walls that had betrayed her; walls that had failed to protect her.

  “Do you think I’ll ever feel safe here again?”

  “Honey.” Tom came up from behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “And I’ll have to throw away everything in that drawer, too.” She nodded her head toward the dresser drawer that was still open, her lingerie still hanging out, just as it had been when she had come home.

  Just as it had been when the police had come and taken their report and then gone away again with nothing having changed. “I’ll never wear any of it again. Ever. I don’t even want to touch it.” Now the fear that she would never be safe again began to truly singe into her bones. Suddenly, every window was a doorway and every bed a hiding place.

  Every closet could be a refuge for a thief.

  A thief, or worse.

  Her home, the home she had shared with her husband and son for so many years, the place she had always felt so safe, was no longer a comfort. Her sanctuary had been breached—her very spirit had been violated—and she knew she would never feel safe again.

  Not even in Tom’s arms.

  “I’ll always be afraid,” she whispered, turning and burying her face in Tom’s shoulder. “Always.”

  Tom hugged her close for a moment, then took a deep breath and Teri felt him stiffen as if he’d just made some kind of momentous decision. “Either you’re coming back to my place tonight,” he announced, “or I’m going home, packing a few things, and moving in here tonight. It doesn’t matter what Ryan says or what he thinks—I don’t want you to be here alone.”

  Teri pulled away slightly, remembering the terrible pain in her son’s face when she’d told him Tom was going to be moving in with her. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if I can do that to Ryan.”

  Tom tipped her chin up and looked directly into her eyes.

  “I do know.”

  “You can spend the night,” she said, drawing away slightly, her eyes pleading for his understanding, “but after the way Ryan reacted, I can’t. He’s already been hurt so much, and I just can’t hurt him any more.”

  Tom stared at her. “You’re kidding! You’d rather be alone in this house, even after it’s been broken into?”

  “I don’t want to,” Teri whispered. “But Ryan’s my son. Mine and Bill’s. He’s already lost his father and now he’s afraid he’s losing me, too. Please…can’t you understand?”

  “I’ll try,” he responded, and pulled her closer. “But I’m still not sure it was just a random break-in. They were looking for something—some thing.” His hand gently caressed her hair. “You must have something here that they wanted.”

  “There’s nothing, I told you,” she whispered against his chest. “No money, no drugs, nothing of value. You know how I live, Tom. There’s nothing here!”

  “There has to be something,” he insisted, holding her tighter. “Maybe something old—something that might not even be worth anything if it were new. You know, like the stuff people bring from their attics on Antiques Roadshow where they don’t even know what they have. Could your parents have left you something? Or Bill?”

  At the mention of her husband’s name the memory of the silver cross that Bill had brought back from Kuwait rose in her mind. “Bill brought something from—” she began, but as she felt his arms suddenly tighten and his body stiffen once again, she cut off her own words.

  “What?” Tom asked, his voice tight, almost strangled, the gentleness of a moment ago suddenly gone.

  Teri froze in his arms, her mind racing. What was going on? What had changed? All she’d tried to do was think of something that might be of value. And now it felt as if he was angry at her. “What’s wrong?” she asked, then tried to step back a little, but his hold on her only tightened. “Let go of me!”

  “Tell me where it is,” Tom demanded, his voice no longer just tight, but ice cold. “It’s a cross isn’t it? A silver cross that your husband brought home from Kuwait.”

  Teri forced her hands against him and shoved him as hard as she could, breaking loose from his grip and backing away.

  “It doesn’t belong to you,” Tom said, his eyes suddenly glittering with fury. “It belongs to us. It’s ours.” Teri stared at him mutely, the color drained from her face. “You need to get that cross and give it to me, Teri. You need to get it right now.”

  Teri stared at him, frozen where she stood. Who was this man? Who was this person she’d allowed into her life, who she’d trusted so much she had invited him to move into her home? This man who only a few moments ago had been so loving, so protective?

  Now he was a complete stranger—there was not even a trace left of the man she’d fallen in love with. “You did this,” she breathed, the truth slashing into her soul like the blade of a knife. “You told them—” Her voice broke, and she began backing away toward the door. What was so important about the cross? Why did this man need it? And how did he know that whoever had broken into the house hadn’t found its hiding place in the attic trunk? Suddenly—even though she didn’t know why—she knew that whatever happened, she wouldn’t help him, wouldn’t tell him anything. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “All Bill brought was—”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Tom Kelly said, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. “I know what he brought home, and I know it’s still here. The fireplace poker hadn’t been moved. That was our sign—if he’d found it, he’d have left the poker lying in the middle of the living ro
om floor.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Teri insisted, edging closer to the door.

  “You do,” Kelly whispered, his eyes dark and menacing. “You know, and you’re going to tell me. We’ve got all night. Trust me on this, Teri. You’ll be telling me anything I want to know long before the sun comes up.”

  Teri turned and fled.

  Tom lunged after her, grabbing the back of her dress. She pulled away, feeling the fabric rip, and raced toward the top of the stairs.

  He reached for her again, but she twisted away from his grip. He came after her again, but suddenly skidded as a throw rug slipped out from under him on the hardwood floor. He staggered, fell to his knees, but managed to grab one of her ankles.

  Now Teri, too, fell, but lashed out with her free leg, kicking at his face, at his chest, at his arms—kicking him anywhere she could, panic giving her a strength she didn’t know she had.

  “Tell me, damn you!” he roared, finding a grip on her flailing leg.

  She grabbed the spindles of the baluster with both hands and wrenched her ankles out of his grasp, then got her feet beneath her and ran down the stairs.

  He leaped from the top stair and landed on her, and together they tumbled down the last steps.

  Teri’s head smashed hard on the bottom step, but somehow she mustered one last burst of energy and started lurching through the living room toward the front door.

  Tom Kelly’s arm snaked around her neck in a vise grip she couldn’t escape. “We don’t have to do this,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “Just tell me where the cross is.”

  Suddenly she twisted hard, turning just enough to jerk her knee hard up into his groin. His grip weakened slightly, and for a brief moment she thought she might escape. But then his eyes filled with rage, and a furious howl erupted from his throat. His huge hands closed on her shoulders and he hurled her to the floor.

  She reached out, trying to break her fall, but it was too late.

  Teri’s head crashed on the marble hearth of the fireplace.

  She saw a starburst of color.

  And then nothing.

  Tom stood still for a long moment, recovering his breath and waiting for the agony in his groin to ease. He glowered furiously at Teri’s still form, offering a quick prayer to Allah that she would live long enough to tell him what he had to know. And she would tell him; by the time she awakened, she would be completely restrained, and, if he had to, he would spend the rest of the night getting the information from her.

  As the nausea from the agony in his groin passed, he went to her, knelt, and made certain she was still breathing.

  She was.

  Everything was going to be all right.

  But as he rose to his feet to find something with which to bind her, the flare of headlights washed across the living room.

  A car pulled up in front.

  He stepped to the window and pulled the curtain just far enough aside to peer out.

  A police car.

  So he wasn’t going to have the rest of the night after all.

  He ducked into the kitchen, then slipped quietly out the back door.

  The one with the broken pane.

  CHAPTER 47

  RYAN’S HEAD SNAPPED UP.

  A sound!

  Faint, but definitely there, coming from somewhere in the blackness beyond the chapel’s altar.

  Both the candle he held as he sat in the confessional and the one in the sand had burned halfway down, yet it didn’t feel like nearly enough time could have passed for that much wax to have burned.

  Another sound.

  This time it was the unmistakable sound of an ancient lock in a heavy door.

  Then the squeal of rusty hinges, echoing off the stone walls of the chapel followed by a scraping sound.

  Though he could see nothing beyond the faint pools of light cast by the two candles, he was certain the last sound had to be the vestry door sagging on its hinges and dragging on the stone floor as it swung open.

  A moment later, the lights came on.

  Ryan shielded his eyes against the sudden glare.

  “In the confessional, Ryan?” he heard Father Sebastian ask, his voice echoing oddly. “Surely you know your sins have to be confessed to a priest, not merely to an empty booth.”

  Ryan stood and stepped out of the confessional. “I—I just didn’t want to sit on the floor,” he stammered, finally dropping his hand from his eyes to look directly into Father Sebastian’s face. But the priest’s expression was as bland as his voice had been, utterly unreadable.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Ryan,” Father Sebastian said now. “In fact, though you may not have been praying yourself, I think of you as an answer to my own prayers.”

  A chill ran through Ryan that had nothing to do with the cold stone of the chapel, and his mind began racing. He’d heard the vestry door unlock, but had he heard the priest lock it again? Or even close it?

  No! It was still open. If he could shove the priest aside—just knock him off his feet for a moment—

  But then what? Where did that door lead to?

  More tunnels? How would he ever find his way out? “An answer to your prayers?” Ryan echoed, stalling for time. “What does that mean?”

  Father Sebastian’s lips formed a smile, but there was a coldness in his eyes that Ryan had never seen before. “I needed help, and God has sent me you. The one person I would have chosen myself. Isn’t it wonderful to have been chosen by God?”

  Ryan’s eyes flicked all over the chapel, searching for a way out, but except for the vestry door behind the altar, there was none. And Father Sebastian’s tall figure stood directly between Ryan and that door.

  “I—I don’t think God chose me for anything,” Ryan said.

  “Ah, but He did,” the priest said, moving closer.

  Ryan edged back until he could go no farther, his back pressed against the locked main door.

  “The Pope is coming to visit us,” Sebastian said, moving closer. “He expects to see a miracle, and you and I, together, are going to show him one.”

  Once again Ryan’s eyes darted around the chamber, coming to rest on the contorted face of Christ that was suspended high above the altar. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, doing his best to keep his voice from trembling. “I don’t know anything about miracles or—”

  “You don’t need to know anything,” Father Sebastian said softly. “I know enough for both of us. I know all about the evil that resides inside you, Ryan. I know all about it, and I know how to draw it forth.”

  “I’m not ev—” Ryan began, but once again the priest cut him off.

  “There is evil inside of every Catholic, Ryan. But I know how to control it. And I know how to exorcise it as well. His Holiness will watch it, Ryan. He’ll watch me drive the evil from your soul.”

  The priest moved closer, and Ryan smelled something acrid emanating from him. Instinctively, he pressed back harder against the chapel door, but when it didn’t budge he suddenly ducked his head, twisted to the right, and bolted for the vestry door behind the altar, certain that wherever it led had to be safer than the chapel itself.

  But the priest anticipated his move, and grabbed Ryan’s arm with far more strength than the boy expected, pulling him off balance. A second later Father Sebastian’s free hand was clamping some kind of wet rag over his mouth and nose. Ryan fought to hold his breath against the acrid fumes emanating from the rag, but it was no use.

  His own strength seemed to ebb away as the priest’s grew. Within a few seconds, Ryan’s heart was pounding in his chest, and, despite his own will, his instinct for air overcame his reason and his lungs expanded, sucking in great gulps of the terrible fumes.

  It was as if a plug had been pulled inside him, and what little strength was left in his body seemed to leak out of his limbs.

  He felt himself slump against the priest, and then drop to his knees on the cold stone.

&nb
sp; “It’s all right, Ryan,” he heard Father Sebastian say. “When you wake up, you’ll be a new person.”

  Ryan gazed up at the priest’s smiling, gentle face—marred only by two cold, empty eyes—and then the blackness poured in from all around him.

  With no way to escape, Ryan gave himself up to blackness.

  CHAPTER 48

  STEVE MORGAN PARKED the patrol car and switched off the headlights. “Let’s make this quick, okay? See if you can resist the urge to start thinking up new questions.”

  “Just a signature,” Matt McCain agreed, opening the door to step out into the drizzling rain.

  Morgan adjusted his hat, and together the two officers walked up the driveway to the front door. The house was still ablaze with lights; nothing seemed to have changed since they’d left less than an hour ago. Yet even as they mounted the steps to the front porch, McCain’s gut began to burn, always a sure sign that, despite appearances, something had, indeed, changed.

  Morgan pressed the doorbell and they listened to it ring hollowly inside the house.

  They waited, but there were no footsteps, no “I’m coming!” call from inside.

  Just silence.

  A silence as hollow as the chimes a moment ago.

  Morgan pressed the doorbell again. “Maybe she went to her boyfriend’s for the night.”

  Morgan shook his head. “The boyfriend’s car’s still in the driveway.” He opened the screen door and knocked loudly on the wooden door. “Mrs. McIntyre?” he called.

  Matt McCain stepped off the front porch into the flower bed and peered through the picture window. Though the curtains were drawn, they were sheers, and he could clearly see into the living room. Probably one of the reasons the house had been hit—anyone watching it for more than a few minutes would have been able to see that no one was home. “Sure doesn’t seem like anyone’s in there,” he said, though the burning in his gut was getting worse, belying his own words. Someone was in there, all right. They just weren’t answering the door.

  “Crap,” Morgan muttered. “Now we’ll have to come back in the morning and get this thing signed before we can turn it in.” He knocked again, harder.