The Devil's Labyrinth

FATHER LAUGHLIN LEANED back against his desk and listened to the excited buzz from his staff as they whispered among themselves about the possibility of a visit from Pope Innocent XIV.

Sister Margaret had taken more notes than he would have thought possible during the meeting, and had enough suggestions from the staff to keep everyone busy for far more than the two weeks they had: the hallways should be painted, the roses trimmed, the landscaping in front of the main entrance needed to be completely replanted.

The stained glass in the chapel must be cleaned, and every cobweb in the rafters made to vanish.

Now, as Brother Donovan’s voice rose above the others demanding a new floor in the dining room, Father Laughlin held up his hand and cleared his throat.

Remarkably, they all fell instantly silent.

“Unfortunately, even the prospect of welcoming the Pope to our school doesn’t change our budget.”

“But it will,” Sister Cecelia said. “When we tell our parents’ group about it, surely—”

Father Laughlin silenced her with a look. Though everybody hoped that the Pope’s visit to Boston would rejuvenate the parochial schools — or at least St. Isaac’s — no magic money tap was about to be opened. “We shall do what we can,” he said. “But let us keep in mind that our priority remains with the children. Needless to say, a papal visit would be one of the most important things ever to happen in our lives, but we must not lose sight of our priorities.” He nodded toward Brother Francis. “I am asking the dormitory supervisors to keep an especially close eye on the children. We certainly do not want anything to jeopardize the arrival of—” Dare he even mention His Holiness again, or would that jinx it. Instantly chiding himself for falling into superstition, he nevertheless hewed to its strictures. “—of our guest,” he went on, stressing the single word just enough to let everyone know exactly what he meant. “If any of our charges show any signs of—” He paused again, then found exactly the right word. “—of trouble, I shall expect you to bring it to my attention immediately.”

Father Sebastian rose from his seat at the back of the crowded room. “And please, do not forget that this visit is not yet confirmed. It is imperative that we keep this news to ourselves until we know for certain.”

“Are there any questions?” Father Laughlin asked in a tone that told his staff he wasn’t about to answer any.

As he had intended, no one raised their hand.

“Then thank you,” Father Laughlin said in dismissal. “Go with God.”

The buzz began again as everyone filed out of the small office, but Sister Mary David stayed in her seat until everyone had left, only approaching Father Laughlin when they were alone. “May I have a word, Father?”

“Of course,” Laughlin said, as he sank back into his chair.

“Sofia Capelli seems to be doing very well,” the nun began. “But since the incident with Kip Adamson, I’ve heard the students talking about Jeffrey Holmes again. Is there anything I should be telling them?”

Laughlin tented his fingers in unconscious imitation of Archbishop Rand. “Tell them the truth, exactly as we’ve always told them,” he replied. “Jeffrey is no longer with us, and we don’t know exactly what happened to him.”

“But it’s such a sensitive time,” Sister Mary David fretted, “I just wish there were something more—”

“There is nothing more, Sister Mary David.”

Sister Mary David fingered the large silver cross that hung from her belt. “I suppose not,” she said with a sigh. “I only wish there was something we could do.”

“We are trying,” Father Laughlin said. “As you know. We are doing our best.”

Sister Mary David gave an unconvinced nod, then put on a smile. “Thank you, Father. And congratulations on the wonderful news about the Holy—” she cut her words off abruptly as the old priest held up a hand to silence her.

“Good night, Sister.”

“Good night, Father.”

Sister Mary David scurried out, closing the office door behind her, and Father Laughlin ran his hands over his tired face. It had been a long day, and now Jeffrey Holmes was again at the top of his priority list.

Not only was the boy a potential stain on the school’s record, but he weighed heavily on the old priest’s soul as well.

Then, as he remembered what Sister Mary David had told him about Sofia Capelli, a tiny seed of hope sprouted in his heart.

Perhaps he should try one more time.

Yes, of course!

He should try. He would try! He could do it, he knew he could.

And if he succeeded, it wouldn’t be Jeffrey Holmes’s soul he had redeemed.

It would be his own.

CHAPTER 34

AS THE SUMMONS sounded, Abdul Kahadija filed into the prayer room along with the rest of the men who had finished their ablutions and were milling about in the mosque courtyard.

He knew he should center his thoughts on God and the praise he was about to bestow, but he was here, at this salah, for a dual purpose, and until he found the face that he sought in the crowd, he would not be able to concentrate.

Inside the cavernous prayer room, all the men lined up in rows in front of the imam, and as Abdul looked to his left, he spotted the man he came to find.

Peace flooded through him. Allah knew his mission, and as always, would show him the way.

Abdul stood straight and strong, the validity of his mission confirmed by the very presence of the worshipper to his left. He closed his eyes and let his adoration of Allah consume him.

When the morning prayers had finished, Abdul maneuvered through the crowd until he neared the man with whom he intended to speak after they had all filed silently out of the prayer room.

His heart hammered and his palms grew greasy with sweat as he rehearsed yet again what he would say. If he came across too strong or if his demeanor or appearance was anything other than that which Allah demanded of him, he would be refused.

The stakes were enormously high.

Abdul followed the man into the crowded courtyard, where the silence of the prayer room gave way to the boisterous noise of friends greeting friends.

The man left the mosque, Abdul close behind. In the parking lot, Abdul, keeping a respectful distance, finally spoke. “Excuse me, my brother,” he said.

The man stopped, and Abdul found himself facing a stocky man in his early sixties, with graying hair and a square jaw.

Abdul’s breath left him, his mouth became dry and he found it difficult to talk. He cleared his throat and began. “I am Abdul Kahadija, and I am new to the Boston area.” He paused, then asked the question he had mulled for weeks. “I wonder if you can tell me where I could buy some weed killer for my garden?”

The man’s face remained expressionless, but his brown eyes bored deep into Abdul’s, who tried not to flinch under the probing gaze. “Weed killer,” the man spoke slowly. “Or is it a pesticide that you need?”

Abdul inwardly rejoiced. The man had understood his question! “Perhaps a pesticide would better solve my gardening problems.”

“Where is this garden?” the man asked quietly.

“I toil in the garden of Allah,” Abdul responded.

“Then you must see Nameer,” the man said. “He cultivates a similar garden path.”

“Thank you, friend,” Abdul said. “Where might I find Nameer?”

“He owns a nursery on the south side. If your quest is pure, you shall find him.”