John Saul - The Devil's Labyrinth

But it still bothered him. Silently he offered up a prayer to Saint Aloysius Gonzaga, on the chance the patron saint of teenagers might have a spare moment for Kip Adamson, wherever he was. The prayer sent heavenward, Brother Francis started back through the narrow, winding hallways. His heavy crucifix swung from the belt on his cassock, and despite the constant chill that the cold stone walls seemed to cast over the school, perspiration began to bead on his forehead.

Wherever he was, Brother Francis’s intuition was telling him, Kip Adamson wasn’t anywhere within the complex of buildings that made up the school.

But worse, Brother Francis’s intuition was also telling him that there was going to be an ugly outcome to this whole situation.

A very ugly outcome.

RYAN MCINTYRE CHECKED OVER his test one last time, put his pen away, and glanced up at the clock above Mr. Thomas’s desk: two minutes to four. He’d finished the test with time to spare, and he was all but certain he’d aced it. Slinging his backpack over his shoulders, he picked up the finished test and laid it in front of the teacher. “Thanks for letting me do this,” he said. “I know I should have been able to—”

“Forget it,” Mr. Thomas cut in, picking up a red pencil as he began scanning Ryan’s test. “Nobody needs a knife poking them in the back while they’re taking a test.” He glanced up from the pages in front of him. “How’re you getting home?”

“Same way as always,” Ryan sighed. “The bus.” He saw a flicker of uncertainty in the teacher’s eyes, and knew exactly what he was thinking about. The same thing Ryan had been thinking about all day, or at least since lunch time.

Frankie Alito coming after him as soon as he left school.

It had started at noon, when a hush had fallen over the cafeteria the moment he’d walked in. It had taken him a minute or so to realize that nearly every eye in the room was on him, but he’d done his best to ignore it while he filled his tray with food and found a seat next to Josh Singer. “What’s going on?” he asked. “How come everyone’s staring at me?”

“Frankie Alito got expelled, just like Mr. Thomas said he would,” Josh told him. “And everybody thinks you’re either a hero or the dumbest guy on the planet.”

Ryan had kept his eyes focused on his food, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to eat.

“I’ll be okay,” he now said to Mr. Thomas. “See you Monday.” Turning away, he left the room before the teacher could say anything else.

The halls were quiet and empty of students and the only sound other than his own footsteps echoing down the long corridor was the shouting coming from the gym, where the cheerleading team was practicing.

Maybe he should just stay here, where at least he was safe. After all, they’d probably grab him when he got off the bus near his house.

But then, as he realized it was an hour later than the usual time he left school, he had an idea. Maybe there was a way not to get beaten up, at least not today.

Ryan stopped at his locker on the second floor long enough to leave his history book and pick up his jacket, then pulled out his cell phone as he started once more down the corridor. He pressed the speed dial key to ask his mother to pick him up.

But all he got was her voice mail.

“Hi, Mom,” he said to the machine. “I stayed after school to make up a test. I was hoping you could pick me up, but I guess you’re doing something. See you when I get there.”

He snapped the phone shut and was about to drop it back in his pack when the boys’ restroom door suddenly slammed open and two of Frankie Alito’s best buddies — Bennie Locke and Stan Wojniak — burst out and grabbed him, jerking him off balance and shoving him through the restroom door before he even had time to react. His cell phone flew out of his hand and shattered on the hard tile floor, then the door slammed shut and Ryan himself followed the ruined cell phone, his elbow smashing on the filthy floor beneath the sinks.

As pain from his elbow shot through Ryan’s body, Bennie Locke grabbed him by the leg and jerked him out from under the sinks. Ryan grabbed onto one of the drainpipes and lashed out at him with his left foot, but the kick went wild as Wojniak’s own shoe crashed into Ryan’s jaw.

Ryan felt his hands go slack and blackness swirled around him.

“Maybe this’ll teach you to do what you’re told,” Wojniak snarled, drawing his boot back to kick Ryan in the side.

Ryan felt his ribs crack — thought he could hear them pop. White-hot pain erupted on his left side, and for a second he thought he might pass out. “Don’t,” he whispered, instinctively curling up to protect himself from whatever might come next.

“Listen to him,” Bennie mocked. “Beggin’ like a little girl.” His lips twisted into a vicious sneer. “Freakin’ loser!”

Another kick landed squarely, this time on Ryan’s hamstring, and another kind of agony shot through his body.

He tried to scream, but his cracked ribs prevented him from drawing a deep breath, and all that emerged from his throat was a faint whimper.

The kicks came faster after that, and all Ryan could do was close his eyes, wrap his arms around his head, and wait for it to be over. Again and again he felt the hard toes of their shoes crash into him. But then the pain began to fade, as did their taunting voices, and when the darkness surrounded him again, Ryan didn’t fight it.

He embraced it.

And finally the kicks ended.

WITH A FLASHLIGHT in one hand and the big key ring Sister Margaret had given him in his other, Brother Francis pushed open the stairwell door behind the dining room and searched the wall for the light switch.

Nothing.

No switch. Not even an overhead bulb with a string. Not that Sister Margaret hadn’t warned him. “The Holy Grail itself could be down there, and no one would ever find it,” she’d said when she handed him the heavy key ring and flashlight. “And if you should run across Sister Agnes Leopold, tell her she’s twenty-seven years too late for her final vows.” Rolling her eyes at the blank look on Brother Francis’s face, she told him she was only kidding, then abruptly left him to begin his search of the basement.

Now, faced with the impenetrable blackness below, Brother Francis was suddenly transported back to the day years ago when his own brother had locked him in the basement and turned out the lights. He’d been five then, and terrified. But I’m an adult now, he reminded himself, and there’s nothing to be frightened of. Swallowing hard, he turned on the flashlight and started down the darkened steps, telling himself that even if he didn’t find Kip Adamson, it was time he familiarized himself with the interconnecting labyrinth of tunnels that connected all the buildings that St. Isaac’s had spread through over the last century. The students, he was already well aware, used basements and subbasements like their own private freeway system, even starting to call it the Big Dig, after the decades long project that had finally buried Boston’s freeway system underground. Though he knew the subterranean maze let the students maneuver around campus quickly — and undetected — this was the first time he had ventured below the ground floor, and even as he came to the bottom of the stairs he was wondering if maybe he shouldn’t just turn around and go back up into the late afternoon light. Still, before he sounded the alarm about Kip Adamson’s disappearance, he needed to search the whole campus, and that certainly included the tunnels.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a large and empty chamber, with three passageways leading in as many directions. Brother Francis took the one to the left, and almost missed another short flight of stairs, stumbling before catching himself against the clammy concrete wall. He moved slowly, trying every door he came to, but all of them were locked. Then he came to another intersection, and slowly the enormity of the underground campus began to dawn on him.