He turned the weakening flashlight beam on the keyhole beneath the knob — the old-fashioned kind that took a skeleton key. Kneeling down, he flicked the flashlight off and peered into the keyhole. Barely the faintest glimmer of light.
Yet there was light coming through the wide crack beneath the door.
The key must be in the lock!
He thought quickly, then remembered something he’d seen in a movie a long time ago.
He took a pen from his shirt pocket, then unbuttoned his shirt, peeled it off and slid it carefully under the door, pushing enough of it through the crack so, even if it was bunched up, at least three inches of cloth would cover the floor on the other side.
Unscrewing the barrel of the pen, he took the ink cartridge out, and carefully pushed it into the keyhole.
Sure enough, something blocked it when it was no more than half an inch in.
He pushed harder.
Nothing.
In his mind’s eye, he tried to picture the key. If it wasn’t lined up quite right, he wouldn’t be able to push it out.
He probed gently with the point of the pen, poking and prodding until he felt it slip by the blade of the key. Then he levered the blade slightly, felt the vibration of the key moving and suddenly shifting.
He levered it again, but this time, though slightly loose, it wouldn’t move. He’d done it! It must be lined up with the slot on the other side. Pulling the pen out, he turned it around so its flat end was away from him, then reinserted it, poking gently until he found the end of the key’s shaft.
He pressed gently.
Nothing.
A little harder.
The key moved.
One last time and then he heard a faint sound as the key fell to the floor, and the pen cartridge slid all the way through the lock. When he pulled the pen back out, he could see light through the keyhole.
Carefully, he pulled the shirt back from under the crack beneath the door, and there lay the key.
Ryan put his shirt back on and buttoned it, reassembled his pen and put it in his pocket, and only then inserted the key in the lock and turned it.
The mechanism turned, its soft
Ryan waited a moment, listening.
Nothing.
He turned the knob and opened the door, finding himself in some kind of storeroom, illuminated by the light coming through its frosted pane. Ryan slipped inside and quietly closed the door to the stairwell behind him.
He heard the murmurings of a female voice in the next room, and shoes squeaking on tile.
He stood perfectly still, heart pounding, trying to breathe without making a sound.
A light went out, leaving just a small bluish night-light. Then he heard a door open and close somewhere in the distance.
When he heard nothing else for at least a full minute, Ryan left the storeroom and found Melody, wearing a hospital gown and lying on her back in one of the twelve beds the infirmary’s single ward held. Though there was no sign of the nun who tended the ward at night, Ryan was sure she would be back soon.
“Melody,” he whispered, gently shaking her shoulder. “Melody, wake up.”
Melody opened her eyes, looked at him almost as if she didn’t recognize him, frowned slightly, then once more closed her eyes, as if she’d seen him, but wasn’t interested enough even to stay awake.
Ryan shook her again, certain the nun would be back any second. “Melody, tell me what they did to you.”
Melody’s eyes fluttered open again, and this time they focused on Ryan.
Her eyes had changed. They looked darker than he remembered, and had taken on a stormy, angry look. Her pupils were dilated, the whites bloodshot. “Go away,” she whispered.
“No,” he insisted. “I want to help you.”
“Go away,” she said again, and closed her eyes. “I don’t need any help.”
Ryan heard a door open somewhere beyond the front of the ward.
The nun was back.
Touching Melody’s cheek, then leaning over to give her a quick kiss, he slipped back into the storage closet, then into the stairwell, barely remembering to replace the key in its slot before closing the door.
It wasn’t until he was back in the basement that he suddenly remembered how cold Melody’s cheek had felt when he kissed it.
As cold as the stones beneath his feet.
† † †
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Father Laughlin breathed almost inaudibly as he saw the blood-soaked mass that a little while ago had been Jeffrey Holmes.
“I was afraid of this,” Father Sebastian said, laying a steadying hand on the older priest’s shoulder. “I’ve seen it before.”
Laughlin crossed himself, then lifted the crucifix that hung from his belt to his lips and kissed it. “This is my fault,” he whispered. “My sin. Father Sebastian, will you hear my confession?”
“At the proper time,” Sebastian replied, playing the beam of his flashlight around the cell. “I’ll have to carry him.”
Laughlin’s eyes widened in horror. “Carry him?” he echoed. “Carry him where?”
“Someplace where he won’t be found, at least until after the Pope’s visit.” His eyes fixed on Laughlin. “Assuming His Holiness comes at all,” he added. “Which he surely won’t if this gets out.” When Laughlin still hesitated, he spoke again, this time using the headmaster’s Christian name. “Ernest, there is nothing we can do to change what has happened. But it isn’t only of poor Jeffrey that we must think right now. We also have the school to consider, and all the other children under our care. No matter how we feel, we cannot put our school and the children at risk, and if this gets out, not only will His Holiness not come, but St. Isaac’s itself will surely be closed. We must do what is required for the greatest good, and trust in God to forgive us whatever sins we may commit.”
Laughlin nodded mutely, still unable to take his eyes off the boy’s ruined face, but finally managed to find not only his voice, but his courage as well. “I know a place we can put him,” he said. “I shall come back afterward and scrub away the blood. It shall be part of my penance.” Tears flooding his eyes, he watched as Father Sebastian lifted the corpse up and put it over his shoulder.
† † †
Ryan stood at the foot of the dark stairs for a long moment before stepping back into the tunnels beneath the school. He hated the whole idea of leaving Melody lying in the infirmary, but what could he do?
Call her parents? But Ryan didn’t even have any idea where they were.
The police? And tell them what? That Melody wasn’t sick? Why would they believe him? All that would happen was that he’d get in trouble for having snuck in.
He’d better go back to his room, and maybe talk with Clay.
Praying that the flashlight would last until he reached the stairs leading to the dining hall, he stepped out of the shelter of the doorway into the infirmary basement.
Then, before he’d taken more than half a dozen steps, he heard something.
Someone was coming.
Without thinking, he turned around and darted past the doorway from which he’d just emerged, pressing himself into the same alcove in which he and Melody had hidden a few nights ago.
