John Saul - The Devil's Labyrinth

Now, as he lay in the brightening light of the dawn, Ryan knew what the dream had meant. It had been a temptation from the Infidels who would turn him away from the true faith. But he would deny temptation today. He, and Melody, and Sofia would obey.

Yet even as he made his silent vow, his gaze shifted from the window shade to the seam in the wainscoting next to his bed. The source of his temptation lay inside the secret compartment; he had placed it there himself after bringing it from the attic of his father’s house.

Tonight it had spoken to him.

It had come to him in the nightmare, and it had tempted him.

It must be destroyed.

Ryan slipped out of bed and quietly worked the piece of wood loose from the wainscoting. When it came free, he laid it on his bed and reached into the hole behind the plaster.

His fingers closed around the cold silver and instantly a tingling ran up his arm.

He brought the crucifix out and gazed at it in the dawn light.

A voice inside him whispered. “You know what you must do. You must do as you are commanded.”

The crucifix glowed as if with a light from within.

His fingers closed on it, so that his eyes would not succumb to its temptation.

He would not let this trinket stand in the way of his obeying the command of the Father.

He carefully replaced the wainscoting, then slipped back into bed. He gazed at the ceiling — ignoring the temptation of the object clutched in his fist — waiting.

Waiting until morning.

Waiting for the fulfillment of his destiny.

FROM THE MOMENT he awoke in the dark hours before dawn until the moment his limousine arrived at St. Isaac’s Preparatory Academy, Pope Innocent XIV had been feeling his excitement grow. The rediscovery of the ancient Rite of Invocation — a rite lost so long ago that its very existence was regarded by all but a handful of Vatican scholars as nothing more than a myth — would be the crowning achievement of his Pontificate. Ever since he’d viewed the first file, the ramifications of the ritual’s rediscovery had never been far from the forefront of his mind, and the longer he’d considered the matter, the more he understood that the importance of the ritual could not be overestimated.

To be able to exorcize evil so ill-concealed as to be easily banished by the simplest of parish priests was one thing; to be able to summon forth and wash away the most deeply hidden and firmly rooted evil that stains every human soul was quite another.

This was something that would forever change the current of human endeavor.

It would eradicate war.

It would be the dawn of true peace on earth, just as the Savior had promised. And today, he, Innocent XIV — a simple man who finally understood the reason why God had chosen him to wear the shoes of the Fisherman — was about to confirm that the ancient lost rite had truly reemerged.

He felt a light touch on his elbow, then heard Cardinal Morisco’s soft voice. “Holiness?”

Startled from his reverie, the Pope looked up, and then out the car window at the crowds that lined the street despite his orders that the route from the airport to St. Isaac’s not be publicized. Still, the faithful always found him; he smiled and waved.

The car pulled to a stop, and his security detail emerged from the limousine directly ahead, scanned the crowd that was being held back from the front door of St. Isaac’s by the local police, then quickly surrounded his own car. A moment later he was out of his car, up the steps, and through the front door of the school.

And there they were — he recognized them in an instant, not only because of the familiarity of their faces from the video clips he’d seen, or the fact that they were wearing the red vestments of their service at the Mass this morning, but by the very air around them.

They were smiling at him, all three of them, their faces utterly devoid of any expression except adoration, their eyes wide and clear. Yes, these were souls who were free of any impurity at all, clearly guided by a single spirit.

Father Sebastian Sloane had indeed performed the miracle.

The Pope tried to match their own serenity as each of them stepped forward in their turn.

First, the lovely dark-haired child. “Sofia Capelli, Your Holiness,” she whispered, dropping to her knees and kissing his ring. He laid a hand gently atop her head and listened to his heart.

He could sense no evil in this child at all. He took her hand and drew her to her feet; as she rose, her deep brown eyes met his, a serene smile giving her full lips a tiny curve. Here, he sensed, was a child who knew she stood in perfect grace in the eyes of God. He touched her cheek. She was as a newborn.

It was the same with the angelic fair-haired girl, Melody Hunt, whose perfect complexion, and eyes the color of flawless sapphires, gave unchallengeable testament to the glory of God.

And finally the young man, Ryan McIntyre, who introduced himself as humbly as the two girls. As the boy looked up into his eyes, the Supreme Pontiff saw the same clarity in his eyes that he had seen in theirs, sensed the utter purity of his spirit. Again, this was a child whose soul wanted nothing more than to glorify the perfection of its Maker.

It was true. It was all true, and Pope Innocent XIV’s heart and soul swelled with joy at what he beheld.

At last he turned to Father Sebastian Sloane, the young priest who had somehow wrought this miracle. He offered his hand, and the young priest instantly dropped to his knees, leaned forward, and reverently kissed the ring of his Office. “It is truly a pleasure to meet you, my son,” the Pope said so softly that only Father Sebastian could hear. “I have followed your career, and your work shall be rewarded.”

Father Sebastian looked up, and once more the Pope beheld that perfect clarity he’d seen in the three children. Here before him was a man who understood his destiny. “As you, also, shall be rewarded, Holiness,” Sloane murmured.

“I look forward to the afternoon,” the Pope said, “when we shall have time to discuss not only your work, but your future as well.”

“You are my future,” the priest replied. “Today my destiny is fulfilled.”

“Holiness, it is time,” Cardinal Morisco said, and a moment later the three students and their teacher were being escorted to the third limousine in the motorcade, while the Pope resumed his seat in the center car. As soon as they were once more underway, the crowd pressed in, and the Pope smiled and waved.

He had much to smile about. This was a glorious day. This was a day that would be remembered forever.

This would be a Mass that no one would ever forget.

TERI MCINTYRE LAY in bed staring at the ceiling, idly fingering the morphine pump that allowed her to control her own pain. Not that she was in that much physical pain anymore — she’d awakened with the residual aches and pains consistent with a fall down the stairs several days ago, but the pounding in her head had finally receded.

The emotional pain was another matter, and she’d discovered last night that the morphine did a pretty good job with that as well.

Tom Kelly.

How could she have been so trusting? And how could he have been so deceitful? She’d taken him into her life, into her bed — the bed she’d once shared with Bill.

Worst of all, she’d brought him into Ryan’s life, and stood up in Tom’s defense every time Ryan had voiced any objection at all. She’d stood up for Tom Kelly against her own son, and all the time he was some kind of a — a—

A what?

She didn’t even know. All she knew was that he’d wanted the crucifix that Bill had brought home from Kuwait after the war there. He’d never loved her at all — hadn’t even been interested in her. All he’d wanted was to use her, and the pain of that knowledge made her finger the morphine button; she could already feel the relief the drug would bring.