John Saul - The Devil's Labyrinth

“Headache.”

Her mind cleared even more, and with consciousness came even more pain. She whimpered again, this time the exquisite agony in her head rendering the sound of nothing more than a faint groan.

Once again she felt the warm touch, and this time recognized it as human fingers. And the fingers were putting something in her hand. “This is the button that controls your pain medicine,” the voice said. “When it hurts too much, just press the button.” The voice spoke again as Teri’s thumb instantly reacted to the words. “Can you tell me your name?”

Why is she asking my name? Teri wondered. She just called me by my name.

“Can you tell me what year it is?”

Teri wished the woman would leave her alone so she could sink back into whatever place she’d come from, that place where there had been no pain and no pounding. But it was too late. She was awake.

She opened an eye.

The light made the pain worse, so she closed her eye again, but now her mind was clear enough so she knew where she was.

A hospital.

A hospital? How could that be? She was at home and—

“Mom?”

Ryan? Teri struggled to open her eyes again, and sit up, but even the tiny amount of movement she managed sent such a jolt of pain through her that she dropped back onto the pillow.

“Mom? Can you wake up?”

“Try to open your eyes,” the female voice urged, but it seemed softer this time, and the warm hand that rested once again on her arm felt slightly comforting. “You’re safe now. You’re in a hospital. You’ve had a head injury.”

Safe? Head injury? What was going on?

“Your son is here to see you.”

“R-Ryan?” Teri stammered. Her mouth felt sticky and her voice sounded thick, and then she felt a straw touch her lips. She grasped at it, and eagerly sucked in a little water. She opened her eyes again to see a young nurse next to the bed, with Ryan standing next to her.

“Do you want more water?” Ryan asked.

Teri nodded, the headache easing slightly as the pain medication kicked in. She took the straw between her lips and sucked in a little more of the water.

“Do you think you could talk to the police?” the nurse asked.

“Police?” Teri repeated.

“They need you to tell them what happened, Mom.”

A movement near the door caught Teri’s eye and then she saw that there was someone else in the room. A priest — Father Sebastian, from St. Isaac’s — who smiled at her as their eyes met.

And she remembered. She remembered everything. “Tom,” she breathed. “It was Tom Kelly. He pushed me down the stairs!”

“Let me get the police,” the nurse said. She stepped quickly through the door and was back a moment later with two men that Teri recognized, but couldn’t quite place.

“Remember us?” the older of them asked, stepping forward and smiling down at Teri. “Matt McCain and Steve Morgan? We were at your house the night of the break-in. We’re the ones who found you.”

“But you left,” Teri said uncertainly. “And Tom—”

“We came back,” McCain explained. “It seems I forgot to get your signature on the report. But it also seems we were a little too late getting back. Can you tell us what happened?”

As Father Sebastian joined the little group surrounding the bed, Teri began to recount what had happened after the police had left that night, how Tom had suddenly turned into a stranger — someone she’d never met before. Someone who was nothing at all like the man she’d known for half a year. Someone who wanted something from her.

“What was it he wanted?” McCain asked as Teri finished.

Teri looked from one of the faces around her to another. Both of the officers were looking at her intently, but Ryan’s face was almost impassive, as if whatever Tom had wanted meant nothing to him.

But Father Sebastian’s eyes were boring into her, as if he wanted to hear her answer even more than the two detectives.

“He kept yelling at me about some kind of crucifix,” she finally said. “Something he seemed to think my husband had. But I didn’t know what he was talking about.” She looked helplessly up at the group around the bed. “I wish I did know,” she said. “But how could I give him something I didn’t even know about?” Her eyes flicked from Matt McCain to Steve Morgan, then back to McCain. “Do you think maybe he thought I was someone else? Or my husband was someone else?” Her gaze shifted to her son. “Ryan?” she asked. “Do you know what he might have been talking about?”

Ryan shook his head, his face still utterly blank, almost as if he didn’t even remember who his father was, let alone what he might have had that Tom Kelly wanted.

But out of the corner of her eye, Teri was watching Father Sebastian Sloane, too. And she saw something else in the priest’s expression as Ryan shook his head.

Something that looked exactly like relief.

She took Ryan’s hand and squeezed it. “Don’t forget him,” she said softly. “Don’t ever forget your father — he’ll always take care of you.”

Ryan said nothing, and the look in his eyes — the strange blankness — didn’t change at all.

THE MAYOR OF Boston stood on the stage and surveyed the activity taking place on the Common. Tomorrow was forecast to be as perfect as today, and with no rain for tonight, there were already a few people preparing to spend the night in the park, eating from picnic hampers and sleeping wrapped in blankets. If any parallels could be made between rock concerts and papal appearances, enough people to fill every available seat will have gathered in the Common before sunrise. By the time of the Mass, the trees to the left would be full of hundreds of people as well, each of them risking broken arms and legs for a better vantage point. So the Pontiff would be gazing out over a sea of people with a turquoise sky above and a background of swans swimming lazily in the lake behind.

But that was tomorrow; right now the mayor needed to focus on the present. And the present seemed to be going very well, all things considered: four speaker towers were up and fully functional, the fence around the perimeter of the seating area was in place, and workmen on the stage were assembling the backdrop — a curtain of deep purple, in front of which would stand the altar at which the Pope would celebrate the Mass. As the mayor watched, half a dozen more workmen appeared from somewhere behind the stage, dressed in uniforms he’d never seen before, but a moment later the chief of police appeared at the mayor’s elbow.

“Vatican security,” he said, nodding toward the uniformed workmen and perfectly reading the mayor’s puzzled expression. “They’re in charge of the Plexiglas, and they’re the only ones allowed to set it up. Grimaldi told me they can do the whole job in half an hour if they have to.”

“Grimaldi?” the mayor repeated, cocking his head slightly as he shifted his gaze to the chief.

“Roberto Grimaldi,” the chief explained. “Head of Vatican security whenever the Pope is traveling.” He paused to survey the activity, which seemed to be increasing with every minute that passed. “We’re cutting it a little closer than I like, but we’ll make it. Grimaldi knows what he’s doing.”

“I hope so,” the mayor replied dourly. “And I trust you let him know that if anything goes wrong, it’s going to be more on them than us. I still don’t think we should have agreed to this at all. Just not enough time to get ready.”

The chief shrugged. “And if we hadn’t agreed, we’d have every Catholic in Boston on our backs, and you could forget about running next time, let alone serving another term.”