John Saul - The Devil's Labyrinth

“Has Kip ever taken off like this before?” Detective Peterson asked. Clay shook his head. “Okay, so let’s get to the big question,” Peterson went on. “What about drugs? Adamson ever use them?”

North looked up from the footlocker to watch the boys’ reactions.

Both boys shook their heads.

“Come on,” Peterson prompted them. “Not even a little pot once in a while?”

Matthews shook his head again, this time more emphatically. “I’d know. He used to do drugs before he came here, but he didn’t anymore. He said he’d decided he’d gotten in enough trouble, and he was done with it.”

“He thought people who did drugs were stupid,” Darren Bender offered.

Peterson’s gaze shifted to Bender. “And yet he grabbed a woman from behind and slit her throat,” he said softly. “How do you suppose that fits with his decision to stay out of trouble?”

“How should we know?” Bender countered. “I don’t even get that he could do it.”

“But he did,” Peterson said, sounding every bit as puzzled as Darren Bender. “So if it wasn’t drugs, what could it have been? Can either of you think of anything that might have made Kip do such a thing?”

Darren and Clay looked at each other, and North saw nothing in either of their expressions that looked like they might be trying to hide something.

“Anything at all,” Peterson urged. “We need some help here. Can’t either of you think of anything that was different about Kip lately?”

Clay Matthews hesitated uncertainly, then: “Well…”

Both detectives’ attention instantly focused on the Matthews boy.

“Now that I think about it, Kip has been acting a little weird,” Clay said.

North’s eyes narrowed. “Weird like how?” he said sharply enough that the boy actually jumped.

“I don’t know, really,” Clay said, his voice taking on a defensive note.

“It’s okay,” Peterson soothed and North, finished with his search of the footlocker, moved on to the closet. “Just tell us whatever you can. Anything at all could help.”

Clay relaxed a little. “He was always kind of a loner, you know? Ever since he first came here. But lately he started to act kind of strange.”

“Strange how?” Peterson asked.

Matthews shrugged. “I dunno. He sort of stopped wanting to hang out with any of us — even me. And the other day, he couldn’t find a pen and he threw a regular shi—” He cut his words short, glanced guiltily toward Brother Francis, and reddened slightly. “I mean he got really mad — like throwing things! Over a lousy pen! I mean, it wasn’t even like it was some kind of good pen. Just one of those cheap ones.”

“How bad was it?” Peterson pressed. “The scene?”

“Really bad. His face was all red and he accused me of stealing his stuff. And he seemed like he just wanted to break things.” He walked over and pointed at a black mark on the wall. “See this? He threw his shoe at me. Hard, too. Over that crummy pen, which he found five minutes later on the floor next to his bed.”

“And that was unusual behavior for him?” Peterson asked.

“Definitely,” Clay replied. “Kip was a loner — he was always quiet.”

“How come you didn’t tell me that?” Darren Bender asked. “He got that way on the basketball court, too. He missed a shot, and all of a sudden he’s kicking the wall in the gym. Just because he missed a basket! I mean, it’s not like he made that many in the first place — he really sucked at basketball. I thought he was going to break his foot or something.”

North emerged from the closet. “And neither of you think he was doing drugs?” he asked as he started going through Kip’s desk. “Like steroids, maybe?”

Clay spread his hands helplessly. “I wouldn’t even know what steroids look like. And he wasn’t a jock, so why would he be doing something like that anyway?”

“Okay,” Detective North said as he finished with the desk and turned to Brother Francis. “There’s nothing here we need. You’re free to release all his belongings to his family.” He turned to the boys, and decided to try prodding their memories one last time. “So that’s it? There’s nothing else? Nothing at all you want to tell us?”

Clay and Darren looked at each other and Clay started to shake his head. But then Darren Bender spoke. “There was one other thing. He started going to confession practically every day.”

“Confession?” North echoed. “Every single day? Why?”

Now both boys spread their hands helplessly. “How would we know?” Darren asked. His eyes darted toward Brother Francis. “It’s not like we get that much chance to do anything worth confessing around here.”

Brother Francis’s eyes rolled. “If it were up to me, you’d all be confessing three times a day, and there still wouldn’t be time to get you all absolved.” He turned to the detective. “Do you think it’s important? About Kip’s confessions, I mean?”

“Very,” North replied. “So who do we talk to about what he might have been confessing?”

“You don’t,” Brother Francis replied. “The Church has changed a lot in the last few decades, but the sanctity of the confessional hasn’t changed. It is absolute.”

“Even when the person who made the confession is dead?” Kevin Peterson asked.

Brother Francis’s expression hardened. “Even then,” he assured them. “It is absolute, under any circumstances at all.”

As they got back in their car ten minutes later, Patrick North stared up at the thick slabs of oak that were the school’s front door. “What do you think?” he mused as Kevin Peterson handed him his keys. “Any way of finding out what that kid was confessing?”

Peterson shook his head. “Not a chance.”

“So that’s that? We’re just supposed to give up?”

Peterson’s expression hardened, losing all trace of the friendliness Clay and Darren had seen only a few minutes ago. “Not me,” he said with a quietness that belied the steel in his words. “Something made that boy kill that woman, and I intend to find out exactly what it was.”

TERI MCINTYRE PARKED HER car on the narrow lane that wound through the cemetery, decided that it didn’t really matter that she’d forgotten to bring flowers for the first time in the two years she’d been coming here to visit her husband, and picked her way carefully across the grass. Coming to the headstone that marked Bill’s grave, she placed her hand on the cold granite.

“Hi, honey,” she said softly enough that no one would have heard her even if she hadn’t been alone in the cemetery. “Well, it finally happened — I forgot to bring you flowers. Forgive me?” She decided that the unbroken silence that fell over the cemetery as she paused for a moment, implied his assent, then she slowly lowered herself down until she was sitting cross-legged on the grave. “I hope you feel like listening,” she sighed, “because I sure feel like talking.” She unfolded her legs and stretched them out, unconsciously falling into the same position she used to use back in the days when they would sometimes sprawl on the bed for hours at a stretch, neither sleeping nor making love, but just talking. The grass felt cool beneath her, and she ran her hand across the dark green surface, finally picking a blade as if it were a piece of lint clinging to the coverlet of their bed.

“Ryan got hurt at school on Friday — hurt pretty badly. He was beaten up by some kids, and I have to tell you, it scared me to death.” She waited for a second, not really as if she were expecting Bill to say something, but just to collect her thoughts. “I’ve about decided to take him out of Dickinson and send him to St. Isaac’s. I — well, I guess I just feel like he’ll be safer, at least until he graduates.” Tears blurred her eyes but she brushed them away, almost impatiently. “Don’t worry,” she said, determined not to give in to the grief that was threatening to overwhelm her. “I’m not going to start crying. And I know this isn’t what we’d do if you were here.” Now her voice started to tremble in spite of herself. “But you’re not here, and I need to make the decision myself. She hesitated, then got to the true reason she’d come here today. “Except that I’m not making it all by myself. I—” She fell silent for a moment, then pressed on. “I’ve met someone, Bill. His name is Tom — Tom Kelly — and—”