John Saul - The Devil's Labyrinth

Do the right thing.

Accepting the cross — putting the chain around his neck and feeling its weight against his heart — would mean something.

It would mean he had become a man, a grown-up.

A man his father would be proud of.

He remembered the last few days, when he’d acted like a sulking child when all his mother had wanted him to do was go out to dinner with a man she liked.

Instead, he had thought about weasling out of it. In the end, he’d thought better of it, but it had taken him too long.

And what about when those two guys had jumped him in the hall at school, and he hadn’t even tried to fight back.

What kind of man would have just taken the beating he had?

Suddenly the crucifix felt like it was burning his flesh. This was something that had to be earned, not simply received.

He handed it back to his mother. “Not yet,” he said.

She looked at him in surprise. “You’re sure?”

Ryan nodded. “I think maybe Dad was right — maybe I’m not old enough yet.”

She took the crucifix from him, kissed it so gently it almost made Ryan cry, and put it back into the box. “It’s yours,” she said, “and it’s right here, whenever you want it. The combination to the lock is your father’s birthday.”

He nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. He would come back for it, but not until he had earned it.

And just now, he felt a tiny bit closer to realizing that goal.

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.