John Saul - The Devil's Labyrinth

There must be miles of tunnels under these buildings.

The beam of his flashlight caught a glint of brass, and a moment later he found himself looking at an ancient accordion-doored elevator, barely large enough to hold two people.

Behind another door was a storeroom where his flashlight played over two ornately carved wooden confessionals, both of them covered with cobwebs. Something glowed inside one of them, and a moment later a large rat darted out and disappeared into the shadows beyond the reach of the flashlight’s beam.

He moved on through the tunnels, feeling the musty darkness closing in around him, trying to keep track of every turn he made, but knowing deep in his heart that he had no idea where he was.

The beam of his flashlight grew weaker.

Then, from down a corridor to his right, a faint glow of light!

He shined his flashlight toward it and saw a single door, heavily carved, with a small panel of stained glass set into it.

A panel in the shape of a heart.

He moved closer to the door and flicked off his light.

The heart embedded in the door seemed to throb.

He reached out to the door, tentatively at first, and as his fingers touched the wood something inside him told him to turn away.

Instead, he pushed the door open.

Beyond the door was a tiny chapel that held a confessional, two short pews, and an altar.

A single candle stood burning on the altar.

Above the altar hung an enormous crucifix — large enough to dominate a chamber ten times this size.

A bloodied Christ hung from the cross, seeming to stare Brother Francis squarely in the eye.

His own heart throbbing now, Brother Francis backed out of the chapel, reflexively crossing himself as he pulled the door closed.

Turning away, he hurried back down the corridor.

But a dozen steps later, he was no longer certain he was going in the right direction. He shone the flashlight both ways, but its rapidly yellowing beam quickly faded into darkness.

Then the flashlight faltered and faded away.

He slapped it on his palm, and for a brief moment the light flickered back on, but then went out for good.

The throbbing of his heart grew into an audible pounding and the familiar heaviness of panic began to grip his chest.

His skin began to crawl as, unbidden, his mind began to conjure what might be lurking in the corridor, creeping toward him.

The chapel! If he could find his way back to the chapel, he could take the candle from the altar!

But as quickly as the thought came, he knew it was hopeless — he had no idea which way the chapel was, and he could wander in the dark for hours without finding it.

His heart began to race, and the panic that had begun in his chest spread through his body. Despite the stale chill of the air around him, a trickle of perspiration oozed down the side of his face.

Then, from out of the darkness, a sound.

Faint, barely audible, but a sound.

“H-Hello?” Brother Francis said, his voice echoing oddly. Steeling himself, he spoke again: “Who is it? Is someone there?”

No answer.

He took a single step farther down the tunnel, but froze when the keys in his left hand jangled loudly.

You’re not a child any longer, he told himself, but the words did nothing to assuage the fear of the surrounding darkness that his brother had inculcated in his mind so many years ago.

His rising panic suddenly threatening to overwhelm him, he instinctively reached for one of the walls to steady himself, and his fingers closed on a large padlock.

Again he froze, listening.

Silence.

His fingers explored the lock, finding an enormous keyhole that felt like it would need an old skeleton key. Releasing the lock, he fumbled with the key ring until he found the largest of the keys, then tried to fit it to the lock.

Too big.

He tried a second key, then a third.

The fourth one slid into the slot, turned, and the lock fell open. Brother Francis slipped the lock from its hasp, pushed the door open and groped the wall inside, silently uttering a prayer to whatever saint might watch out for things like light switches.

A moment later his prayer was answered: he found a switch, flipped it, and a dim yellow bulb illuminated a small storeroom filled with slumping cardboard boxes.

But no sign of Kip Adamson.

He stood in the doorway to the storeroom, looking both ways into the endless darkness of the tunnel. Though his heart was no longer pounding as it had been a moment ago, Brother Francis was still loath to turn off the light. He had no real idea of where he was, and just the thought of trying to find his way out in pitch darkness made him shudder.

Yet what choice was there? If he left the single dim bulb in the storeroom burning, its light would carry no farther than the end of the corridor in which he stood, and that was no more than twenty feet — thirty at the most.

Then, from somewhere off to the right, he heard a sound.

Voices.

Distinct voices.

The tendrils of panic falling away from him like leaves from a tree in the last days of fall, he reminded himself to tell Sister Margaret to have every burned-out bulb in the basements replaced, then called out into the darkness. “Hello? Who is that?”

“Brother Francis?” a familiar voice replied. “What are you doing down here?”

A moment later Clay Matthews and Darren Bender emerged out of the darkness into the faint glow spilling from the open storeroom door.

“I might ask you the same question,” Brother Francis replied, hoping they couldn’t read the relief in his voice.

“We’re looking for Kip,” Clay said.

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” Brother Francis countered, glancing at his watch. “It’s still an hour until dinner.”

“We couldn’t study,” Clay told him. “We kept thinking about Kip, and I remembered him saying he’d come down here to make his confession in some kind of chapel I’d never heard of before and…”

As his voice trailed off, Darren Bender shook his head. “I keep telling Clay he’s gone, but he wants to keep looking.”

“How many of the basements have you searched?”

Darren shrugged. “Most of them. We started under the library, and went around the long way under the gym and the rectory. We figured we’d go under the auditorium on our way back to the dorm and check the rest on the way to dinner.”

“He’s not under the dining room,” Brother Francis sighed. “I already looked there. We might as well head back to the dorm.”

Fifteen minutes later, Brother Francis brushed dust and cobwebs from the shoulders of his cassock, then rapped quietly on Father Laughlin’s door.

The old priest looked up from the book he was reading, and when he saw Brother Francis, a smile spread across his soft, wrinkled face. “Come in, Francis,” he said. “Sit down.”

Brother Francis entered the office and closed the door behind him. “Bad news, I’m afraid,” he said, then perched nervously on the edge of one of a pair of carved wooden chairs with a worn velvet seat.

The old headmaster’s brows rose. “Oh?”

“One of our boys — Kip Adamson — is missing. He doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the school at all, and I’m afraid—” He hesitated, then decided there was no easy way of putting it. “I’m afraid he’s run away.”

“Kip Adamson,” Father Laughlin repeated.

Brother Francis nodded. “He’s one of our at-risk students. Nothing too bad — a little shoplifting — that sort of thing. But the odd thing is that he’s been here two and a half years, and according to the records he’s been one of our best successes. No disciplinary problems, and better than average grades. Far better, actually.”