The Devil's Labyrinth

fall—”

“We don’t have ‘time,’ Father Laughlin,” the Archbishop shot back. “Rome sent me here to clean up the mess this Archdiocese found itself in. The Vatican has its eye on us at every moment. They are watching me, and they are watching you, and what they see does not please them.” The Archbishop fixed Father Laughlin with a cold stare. “Father Sebastian has a reputation for dealing with evil. I sent him to St. Isaac’s for that express purpose.” He punctuated the last three words by dropping his fist to the desktop with enough force to make Father Laughlin jump. “I suggest you see to it that Father Sebastian does his job, or we will be forced not only to replace him, but you as well.”

Father Laughlin’s heart began to pound and his breath caught in his chest. Was it possible that he was about to be dismissed after forty-six years of dedicated service without so much as a single blemish on his record? The room felt hotter than ever, and he ran a finger around his collar in a futile attempt to loosen it. The Archbishop continued to talk, but Father Laughlin could no longer follow his words. He felt ill — dizzy — as if he might faint and, as his heart continued to throb, waited for the heaviness in his chest that always came just before one of his angina attacks. He slid his hand into the pocket of his cassock, failed to find the medicine, and remembered he’d left it on his nightstand. Stay calm, he told himself. Just breathe. After a moment the pounding of his heart began to ease slightly, and with it the pressure in his chest. He turned his attention back to the Archbishop just as his superior was finishing.

“Do I make myself clear?” Archbishop Rand asked.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Father Laughlin said, though he had missed at least half of the tirade. “Perfectly clear.” He took one more deep breath and wiped his handkerchief across his upper lip with a trembling hand. “I shall speak with Father Sebastian in the morning as soon as I return and I assure you we shall take measures.” He looked up to gauge his effect on the other man, but the Archbishop’s expression was unreadable. “Stringent measures,” he said. “Nothing like this will ever happen again.” He took a breath.

“Good,” the Archbishop said, leaning back in his chair once more and finally smiling. “We all pray for a healing in this community. Especially at St. Isaac’s.”

Father Laughlin did his best to return the smile. “Thank you, Archbishop. You have nothing to worry about — you have my word on that.”

Archbishop Rand’s smile compressed to a thin line, and his brows arched slightly. “Brother Simon will see you out.”

As if in response to some unseen cue, the office door opened and the young seminarian stepped in, extending his hand to help Father Laughlin out of the chair, and two minutes later Father Ernest Laughlin was on his way back to St. Isaac’s, wondering whether he would soon be as summarily ejected from his school as he had been from the rectory.

No, he decided. Whatever I have to do, I will do. But I will not leave St. Isaac’s.

† † †

Sofia Capelli stared numbly at the last inch of the candle, willing it to burn more slowly. She was clutching it so hard that her fingers actually ached, but far worse than the pain in her fingers was the agony in her legs. It felt like she’d been on her knees for hours, silently repeating her prayers over and over again, certain that at any moment the door would open and Father Sebastian would come in and end her vigil in front of the altar. But the door hadn’t opened, and Father Sebastian hadn’t appeared. With every passing minute the pain in her knees grew worse until now there was nothing but a horrible cold, throbbing ache, punctuated with even the slightest movement by the sensation of a thousand needles jabbing into her legs. She wasn’t even praying anymore.

Instead, she was listening to the sound of her own heart, which seemed to be getting louder and louder as each moment passed.

She was tired — more tired than she’d ever been in her life. Her eyes felt heavy, and all she really wanted to do was stretch out on the floor, let the candle burn out, and go to sleep. But what if Sister Mary David came in? That would be even worse than if Father Sebastian caught her.

At least Father Sebastian’s eyes were always kind.

Sister Mary David’s were hard; she could make you feel like you’d been slapped just by looking at you.

How long should she stay here? Had Sister Mary David really meant for her to stay on her knees for hours? And what would happen when the candle finally burned out?

The dark.

She would be trapped in the dark with the door locked and nobody except Sister Mary David knowing where she was.

She waited, the candle growing shorter, the agony in her body building with each beat of her heart.

Then, just as the candle burned short enough that she could feel its flame starting to sear her fingers, a faint sound came to her ears.

Hope surged in her heart, and now she prayed — truly prayed — that at last someone had come to release her from this prison.

The sound of the lock clicking open answered her prayers, and tears of gratitude sprang to Sofia’s eyes.

The door opened, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father Sebastian slip in and go into a tiny carved confessional she hadn’t even noticed in the heavy gloom of the chapel. The priest disappeared, and a moment later a yellowish light behind the little booth began to brighten, casting golden highlights onto the tortured face of Christ.

The Savior’s enormous hollowed eyes seemed to be boring into her from a hideously jaundiced face.

Sofia flinched away from that condemning visage, blew the candle out as the heat of its flame threatened to char the flesh of her fingers and struggled to her feet to go into the confessional. Her legs screamed in protest as she forced first one foot, then the other. A wave of dizziness broke over her.

As her knees started to give way she suddenly realized that there was someone else in the chapel — a black-clad figure silhouetted in the doorway.

Sister Mary David, savoring every moment of Sofia’s agony.

No, she commanded herself. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

She hobbled over to the confessional, pulled the musty curtain closed, and eased herself down onto the hard bench, sighing as a little of the pain in her legs began to ease.

The small partition between the booth’s two compartments opened and Sofia saw the screen, which normally hid her from the priest, was missing.

She was staring directly into the deep warm eyes of Father Sebastian.

His eyes held hers, and for the first time in her life, she found herself confessing directly to the priest, unafraid, and truly contrite. “Bless me, Father,” she whispered, “for I have sinned. It has been six days since my last confession.”

“Yes, my child?”

Father Sebastian’s voice was as soothing as the warm milk her mother had given her when she had awakened from nightmares when she was a little girl, and she knew that no matter what she told him, Father Sebastian would understand. “I have had impure thoughts, Father. I have had lustful thoughts about my boyfriend, and resentful thoughts against Sister Mary David, who caught us kissing.”

“And?” the priest gently prompted, his eyes still holding her gaze.

“In my room.”

“Go on.”

The words poured easily from Sofia’s lips. “And I let him touch my breasts.”

The priest nodded slightly. “Is that all?”

“That is all,” Sofia replied, feeling the burden of guilt lift slightly from her spirit.

“These are grave offenses, Sofia,” the priest said softly. “I shall have to give your penance some thought.”

Sofia’s eyes widened slightly. Had she heard right? He wasn’t going to assign her punishment right now? She