John Saul - The Devil's Labyrinth

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.

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.

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…”