The Devil's Labyrinth

CHAPTER 13

GORDY ADAMSON GLOWERED at the arthritic old priest sitting across from him. “Get this, Father, and get it good, okay?” he snarled, not even a hint of respect in his voice. “These are very simple questions, and there should be very simple answers. So tell me. Why was Kip off campus? How could he just walk away without you people knowing about it?”

“Mr. Adamson—” Father Laughlin began.

“I’ll tell you why!” Adamson cut in, leaning forward and placing both hands on the priest’s desk.

“Honey…” Anne Adamson tried to restrain her husband with a hand on his arm, but he jerked it away from her, barely pausing in his tirade.

“Because once you have your fancy tuition money to fill your church coffers, you’re no better than any other school,” Gordy declared, his voice starting to rise. “Any public school — any damn one of them — keeps better tabs on their students than this high-priced, ritzy-titzy place.” Now he paused for a second or two, his expression transforming from belligerence to contempt. “How the hell old are you, anyway? What makes you think you know what works with today’s kids?”

Father Laughlin’s lips compressed to a tight line, and he looked down at his hands.

Adamson, sensing the priest’s weakness like a predator sniffing out the weakest prey, bored deeper. “I bring my son here for safekeeping and a good education. So what happened?” Father Laughlin visibly flinched, which only made Gordy Adamson lean even closer. “What exactly happened?”

Father Laughlin shook his head and spread his hands in defeat.

“That’s right,” Gordy sneered. “That is exactly right! You have no idea. Well, I’m here to tell you that something happened to my boy here under this roof, and I am going to find out what it was. He was fine when he got here and two and a half years later, he’s not only dead, but apparently he killed someone else, too! Which means something happened.” He sat back in the chair, his eyes fixing on the priest. “Some goddamned thing happened.”

Father Laughlin took a deep breath, collected his thoughts, and finally spoke. “You brought Kip to us because he was a troubled boy,” he said quietly. “He’d been expelled from public school—”

“He wasn’t that troubled,” Adamson countered, leaning forward again. “He wasn’t a goddamned murderer. We brought him here because we thought a little religion would do him some good.” A derisive snort erupted from his throat. “Boy, were we wrong. You killed him. You killed my son!”

“Honey,” Anne Adamson tried again. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Let’s go home.” As she stood up, Father Laughlin rose, too.

“Brother Francis packed Kip’s things—” he said, gesturing toward Kip’s footlocker, which was on the floor near the door.

But Gordy Adamson wasn’t through. “I’m going to sue you. I’m going to sue you for negligence, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, and whatever else my attorney can come up with. You think your outfit is in financial trouble now? Ha! Just wait! There will be one hell of an investigation, too. You better believe it.” His eyes narrowed as he prepared to deliver the coup de grâce. “And you’d damn well better hope your guys are keeping their hands off the boys!” His rage suddenly spent, Gordy Adamson collapsed back into the chair, drained. “My son,” he said, more to himself than to the priest. “The only one I had.”

Anne Adamson pulled on Gordy’s arm until he finally hoisted himself heavily to his feet. “I’m sorry,” she said to Father Laughlin as Gordy wiped moisture from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

“I wish I knew what to say,” Father Laughlin said. “But there seems to be no possible explanation for some of the things that happen in today’s world. We can only trust in God’s will, and accept that which we can neither understand nor change.”

Anne nodded, and guided Gordy toward the door. He stopped at the footlocker, gazed down on it for a long moment, then bent over, picked up the trunk that held his son’s effects, and moved through the door, carrying the trunk as carefully as if it were his son’s coffin.

In the outer office, Sister Margaret offered a sympathetic smile, which Anne tried — and failed — to return as she opened the office door for Gordy. They made their way slowly down the hall toward the front door. Students, faculty, and clergy all moved aside to allow the grieving parents to pass.

† † †

Teri McIntyre walked up the worn granite steps that led to St. Isaac’s front door, struggling with Ryan’s heavy duffel bag while Ryan himself limped next to her, taking one slow step at a time, his backpack slung over his good shoulder. They were halfway up the broad flight when the front door opened, and a middle-aged man and woman came out. The man carried a heavy trunk, and carefully watched his step until he came even with Teri and Ryan.

He stopped, tipping his head toward Ryan. “This your kid?” he asked, his eyes narrow and his voice gruff.

Teri nodded.

The man’s gaze fixed on the duffel bag Teri was carrying. “You leaving him here?” Teri opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off before she could say a word. “You gotta be nuts if you leave your son here. This is not a good place for kids.” He looked down at the box he carried, and when he spoke again, his voice broke. “Trust me on that.”

“Excuse me?” Teri said, but before the man could say anything else, the woman took his arm and drew him away.

“Leave her alone, Gordy,” the woman whispered. “Let’s just go home.” As Teri and Ryan watched uncertainly, the man hefted the footlocker into the backseat of a car double-parked in front of the school, got into the driver’s seat, and drove away before his wife had time to fasten her seat belt.

“Wow,” Ryan breathed as the car disappeared around the corner. “What was that about?”

Teri shrugged. “I have no idea, honey,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned, even though she suddenly wanted to turn right around and take her son home and keep him safe in his room.

Forever.

Which was, of course, ridiculous.

Steeling herself against the irrational thought, she led Ryan on up the steps to the impressive carved oak front doors of St. Isaac’s School.

† † †

By the time Brother Francis opened the door to the boys’ dormitory, Ryan McIntyre’s brain felt almost as exhausted as his aching body. The mass of forms he’d had to fill out this morning had been only the beginning. Then Brother Francis had given him a tour of the school, but after the first ten minutes of making their way through the maze of hallways and staircases, Ryan had been sure he’d never be able to find his way around without a map. Then he’d had to try on one set of the school uniforms after another — which for some reason didn’t seem to be marked with sizes that conformed to the ones on his regular clothes — until he found an assortment of blue blazers, sweaters, trousers, and shirts that fit, along with a tie that wasn’t completely threadbare. Then there had been the schedule for his classes, along with a list of rules he was apparently supposed to memorize by tomorrow, and abide by starting today.

Everything looked old and worn, but not grubby and covered with graffiti like Dickinson High. The woodwork was all dark mahogany and walnut, every light fixture looked at least a hundred years old, and there seemed to be stained glass everywhere. But no graffiti. And no dust — not so much as a speck — which had told him even before Brother Francis enunciated the policy, that any infraction of the rules would undoubtedly lead to hours of cleaning the school.

“You’re in room 231, with Clay Matthews,” the monk said as they came through what Ryan hoped would be the last pair of huge oak doors he’d have to open for a while. They climbed to the second floor and walked halfway down a long corridor, where Brother Francis knocked softly on a door then turned the knob without waiting for a reply from within.

The room was empty, half of it barren.

His half.

The monk set his duffel on the floor next to the bed. “My office door is always open,” he said. “I’ll leave you to settle in.” Then, as he headed back out the door, he turned and smiled. “Welcome to St. Isaac’s.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said, trying to keep a sigh of resignation out of his voice. As the door closed behind Brother Francis, he set his bundle of uniforms on the empty desk and surveyed his half of the room.

At least his bed was closest to the big windows that looked out over the courtyard. He stretched out onto the bed for a minute, hoping some of the aching in his body would ease before he had to start unpacking.

A few minutes later he was just struggling to sit up again when the door opened and a boy about his own age came in, a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Hey,” the boy said. “I’m Clay—” The words died on his lips as he got a good look at Ryan’s face. “Wow, man, what happened to you?”

Ryan shrugged, trying to act as if he hurt a lot less than he did, but decided there wasn’t any point in telling his new roommate anything but the truth. His totally faked shrug faded away as he managed a faint grin. “I sorta got the crap kicked out of me,” he admitted. “I’m Ryan McIntyre.”

Clay hesitated a second, then smiled. “Clay Matthews.” His eyes moved to the duffel bag that still lay where Brother Francis had left it. “You need some help putting your stuff away?”

Ryan struggled to a sitting position, then managed to stand up without wincing too much. “I can—” he began, but Clay had already swung the bag off the floor onto the bed.

Suddenly another boy appeared at the door. “Hey, Clay—” he began, then fell silent as he saw Ryan. “The new guy’s already here?” he asked, coming through the door with yet another boy right behind him. “What happened to your face?”

“Nothing, compared to what he did to the other guys,” Clay said before Ryan could answer the question himself. “His name’s Ryan Mc-Something.” He winked at Ryan. “These are Darren Bender and Tim Kennedy. They’re both assholes, but at least most of the time they don’t smell too bad. And don’t believe Tim when he tells you Ted Kennedy’s his uncle — he lies about everything.”

“That is such a crock!” Tim Kennedy countered. “And it was only one time I said that. One time!” He turned to Ryan. “We were out in Hyannis last summer, and if Matthews had kept his mouth shut, we coulda gone swimming right in front of—”

“You don’t even know if it was the right place,” Clay cut in. “And—”

“And nobody gives a rat’s ass,” Darren Bender pronounced, flopping down on Clay’s bed. “Father Laughlin sure doesn’t waste any time, does he?” he said, deciding he didn’t want to hear any more of the argument that had been going on between Clay and Tim since last summer. “Kip was here on Friday morning, and you’re here on Monday morning.”

“Kip?” Ryan repeated. “Is that who lived here?”

Suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed. “Yeah,” Tim Kennedy said, his voice oddly hollow.

Ryan frowned slightly. “What happened to him?”

The three boys glanced uneasily at each other, each of them waiting for someone else to speak first.

“I heard it might have been drugs,” Darren Bender finally said.

“It wasn’t drugs!” Clay Matthews instantly countered. “Kip didn’t do drugs, and you guys know it.”

“Then what do you think happened?” Tim demanded.

Clay’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. Nobody knows.”

“Nobody knows what?” Ryan asked. “What happened to him?”

Once again the other three boys glanced at each other, but this time it was Clay Matthews who broke the silence. “Kip died,” he said, his voice so quiet that Ryan thought he hadn’t heard the words right. But the expressions on Tim’s and Darren’s faces told him he had.

“What do you mean, ‘died’?” he asked, his eyes flicking from Clay to Darren and Tim, then back to Clay. “You mean, like, he got sick or something?”

“He killed someone,” Clay said, his voice still barely above a whisper. “Some woman. And the police shot him. But it doesn’t make any sense — Kip wouldn’t do anything like that.”

“How does anyone know what anyone’s gonna do?” Tim asked. “It’s like…”

But Ryan was no longer listening. What kind of school was St. Isaac’s? Even the worst of the kids at Dickinson had never gone out and just killed someone, at least not that he’d ever heard of. Then he remembered the people he and his mother had seen on the front steps this morning. They had to have been Kip’s parents. And suddenly he remembered the last words the man had spoken:

…gotta be nuts if you leave your son here…not a good place for kids…trust me on that.

Trust me on that.

Welcome to St. Isaac’s, Ryan thought. He hurt, he felt tired, and now it turned out he was taking the place of someone who was dead. And not just dead, but shot after he’d killed someone else.

Suddenly Ryan McIntyre just wanted to go home. There might not be the kind of threat from the Frankie Alitos of the world here, but after hearing what had happened to Kip Adamson, he wasn’t sure he would be any safer here than he’d been at Dickinson High after all.