The Devil's Labyrinth

The cover page of the fax indicated it was from Archbishop Rand in Boston.

Cardinal Morisco sank onto his chair and began to read a report from someone named Father Ernest Laughlin, apparently having something to do with a successful exorcism at a private school. This Father Laughlin certainly had a turgid way with his prose, he thought as he ploughed his way through the report.

“Never before have I seen the face of evil incarnate,” the priest wrote. “Not only did I see its beastly, demonic face emerge from the features of this girl, who is little more than a child, but I witnessed Father Sebastian Sloane bring it to submission and banish it from the girl’s body, leaving her soul in peace.”

Cardinal Morisco pensively tapped his fingers on the desk as he quickly reread the report. It wasn’t much different from all of the similar ones he’d seen over the years, each sent by some minor priest hoping to further his career. Only as he read the last sentence did he realize that this report had two differences.

The first, of course, was that Sebastian Sloane was a party to it, and Sloane was a man the Vatican had been watching for several years already, each year bringing the young priest respect from ever-higher levels.

The second was the witness’s assurance that he had seen the actual face of the demon.

That was important.

Cardinal Morisco laid the pages on his desk and leaned back in his chair. It would mean a great deal if Sloane had achieved such an accomplishment, especially in Boston, from whence good news had been a scarce commodity for years.

He would advise His Holiness of this event in the morning.

For now, though, a glass of wine awaited him at Gianni’s.

Except that now the e-mail in-box on his computer had turned into the hypnotic flame, and he was no more able to resist its lure than he had the fax machine’s a few minutes earlier.

He clicked open the file. Nothing in the subject line; nothing in the from box.

Just a video file.

Cardinal Morisco clicked on the icon, the media player opened, and the video began.

Morisco watched in fascinated silence as the ritual that had taken place in the chamber beneath St. Isaac’s School played out before his eyes. Struggling to understand the words Father Sebastian Sloane was speaking over the girl bound to the stone slab, the Cardinal fiddled with the volume control, but it didn’t really help.

Then the girl suddenly sat straight up, breaking the bonds that held her. One of the priests and the nun shrank back in fear, but Sloane faced the fury of the girl straight on.

Then the girl turned and looked directly into the camera.

Directly into Cardinal Morisco’s eyes.

It was as if evil itself were hurtling out of the screen at him. Cold terror flooded through the Cardinal’s body, and he shrank away from his computer exactly as the priest and nun had turned away from the girl herself.

Morisco gripped the arms of his chair, telling himself that nothing was happening.

Nothing at all.

It was only a video clip.

As the Cardinal watched, Sloane took the girl’s face in his hands, shouted unintelligibly, and a moment later the girl sank into what appeared to be unconsciousness.

The file ended.

His heart racing, the Cardinal reached for the mouse to replay the video clip, but as the arrow hovered over the icon, he hesitated, part of him wanting to watch the video again, to try to understand what he’d seen. The other part — the stronger part — was still held in the grip of the terror that had reached right out of the computer screen to seize him.

He couldn’t watch it again, at least not right now.

And not alone.

But neither could he simply turn off the computer, close his office, and go to Gianni’s to enjoy a glass of wine and a light supper.

Cardinal Morisco looked up at the clock on the wall.

His Holiness would still be awake — he had always kept even longer hours than himself.

Making up his mind before he could change it, the Cardinal gathered the fax into a file folder, picked up his laptop, and headed for the Papal apartment, all thoughts of dinner extinguished.

He hoped — he prayed — that His Holiness would be able to tell him that what he had seen was merely an illusion.

But even as he silently formed the words of his prayers, he was all but certain that they would go unanswered.

Like Father Laughlin, Cardinal Morisco was certain that he had just looked into the face of evil, that it would haunt him every day of his life.

CHAPTER 28

SOFIA CAPELLI STOOD FROZEN at the dining room door, the din of two hundred teenagers talking and eating crashed over her like the surf pounding at a jetty. The racket sounded louder than usual, pummeling her with enough force that she felt oddly disoriented, as if she’d never been here before.

She peered around, and slowly things came into focus: the steam tables were off to the left, the trays and silverware were on a rack at the near end of the counter. As she started toward the rack, a girl across the room stood up and waved at her, then pointed to an empty seat. Though the girl looked familiar, Sofia couldn’t quite remember her name.

And the people she was sitting with looked familiar, too.

But who were they? What was happening to her? Why couldn’t she re—

Before she’d even finished the thought, Sofia’s mind suddenly cleared, as if some kind of wall had simply dissolved.

Melody! That was it — the girl’s name was Melody. They were roommates, and she’d come to visit her in the infirmary this morning.

Was it just this morning? But it seemed so long ago!

She picked up a tray and began filling it, first with silverware, then with food, even though she wasn’t very hungry.

In fact, she wasn’t hungry at all. Still, she took a few vegetables and a wilted-looking salad, drizzling a little dressing over the latter.

What was she even doing here? Why not go to her room and lie down and go to sleep?

Do what you’re supposed to do.

The voice was so clear it made Sofia jump slightly, and she barely managed not to drop her tray. Regaining her balance, she glanced around, but there was no one —nobody at all—close enough to her to have spoken the words.

She reached for a glass of iced tea, saw her hand trembling, consciously steadied it, and added the tea to her tray.

As she picked up the tray, the strange words echoed in her mind: Do what you’re supposed to do. But what was she supposed to do?

Eat lunch.

She looked around, saw an empty table in the far corner, and started toward it, ignoring Melody, who was once more waving at her.

She drank the iced tea straight down, wishing she’d taken two glasses.

She gazed at the food, which still held no interest for her at all.

“Hey!”

The voice behind her made Sofia jump, and she looked around to see a boy standing behind her. A boy whose face seemed familiar —a boy she knew she knew! But what was his name?

“Okay if I sit down?”