The Devil's Labyrinth

body.

He tried to scream, but his cracked ribs prevented him from drawing a deep breath, and all that emerged from his throat was a faint whimper.

The kicks came faster after that, and all Ryan could do was close his eyes, wrap his arms around his head, and wait for it to be over. Again and again he felt the hard toes of their shoes crash into him. But then the pain began to fade, as did their taunting voices, and when the darkness surrounded him again, Ryan didn’t fight it.

He embraced it.

And finally the kicks ended.

CHAPTER 4

WITH A FLASHLIGHT in one hand and the big key ring Sister Margaret had given him in his other, Brother Francis pushed open the stairwell door behind the dining room and searched the wall for the light switch.

Nothing.

No switch. Not even an overhead bulb with a string. Not that Sister Margaret hadn’t warned him. “The Holy Grail itself could be down there, and no one would ever find it,” she’d said when she handed him the heavy key ring and flashlight. “And if you should run across Sister Agnes Leopold, tell her she’s twenty-seven years too late for her final vows.” Rolling her eyes at the blank look on Brother Francis’s face, she told him she was only kidding, then abruptly left him to begin his search of the basement.

Now, faced with the impenetrable blackness below, Brother Francis was suddenly transported back to the day years ago when his own brother had locked him in the basement and turned out the lights. He’d been five then, and terrified. But I’m an adult now, he reminded himself, and there’s nothing to be frightened of. Swallowing hard, he turned on the flashlight and started down the darkened steps, telling himself that even if he didn’t find Kip Adamson, it was time he familiarized himself with the interconnecting labyrinth of tunnels that connected all the buildings that St. Isaac’s had spread through over the last century. The students, he was already well aware, used basements and subbasements like their own private freeway system, even starting to call it the Big Dig, after the decades long project that had finally buried Boston’s freeway system underground. Though he knew the subterranean maze let the students maneuver around campus quickly — and undetected — this was the first time he had ventured below the ground floor, and even as he came to the bottom of the stairs he was wondering if maybe he shouldn’t just turn around and go back up into the late afternoon light. Still, before he sounded the alarm about Kip Adamson’s disappearance, he needed to search the whole campus, and that certainly included the tunnels.

At the bottom of the stairs there was a large and empty chamber, with three passageways leading in as many directions. Brother Francis took the one to the left, and almost missed another short flight of stairs, stumbling before catching himself against the clammy concrete wall. He moved slowly, trying every door he came to, but all of them were locked. Then he came to another intersection, and slowly the enormity of the underground campus began to dawn on him.

There must be miles of tunnels under these buildings.

The beam of his flashlight caught a glint of brass, and a moment later he found himself looking at an ancient accordion-doored elevator, barely large enough to hold two people.

Behind another door was a storeroom where his flashlight played over two ornately carved wooden confessionals, both of them covered with cobwebs. Something glowed inside one of them, and a moment later a large rat darted out and disappeared into the shadows beyond the reach of the flashlight’s beam.

He moved on through the tunnels, feeling the musty darkness closing in around him, trying to keep track of every turn he made, but knowing deep in his heart that he had no idea where he was.

The beam of his flashlight grew weaker.

Then, from down a corridor to his right, a faint glow of light!

He shined his flashlight toward it and saw a single door, heavily carved, with a small panel of stained glass set into it.

A panel in the shape of a heart.

He moved closer to the door and flicked off his light.

The heart embedded in the door seemed to throb.

He reached out to the door, tentatively at first, and as his fingers touched the wood something inside him told him to turn away.

Instead, he pushed the door open.

Beyond the door was a tiny chapel that held a confessional, two short pews, and an altar.

A single candle stood burning on the altar.

Above the altar hung an enormous crucifix — large enough to dominate a chamber ten times this size.

A bloodied Christ hung from the cross, seeming to stare Brother Francis squarely in the eye.

His own heart throbbing now, Brother Francis backed out of the chapel, reflexively crossing himself as he pulled the door closed.

Turning away, he hurried back down the corridor.

But a dozen steps later, he was no longer certain he was going in the right direction. He shone the flashlight both ways, but its rapidly yellowing beam quickly faded into darkness.

Then the flashlight faltered and faded away.

He slapped it on his palm, and for a brief moment the light flickered back on, but then went out for good.

The throbbing of his heart grew into an audible pounding and the familiar heaviness of panic began to grip his chest.

His skin began to crawl as, unbidden, his mind began to conjure what might be lurking in the corridor, creeping toward him.

The chapel! If he could find his way back to the chapel, he could take the candle from the altar!

But as quickly as the thought came, he knew it was hopeless — he had no idea which way the chapel was, and he could wander in the dark for hours without finding it.

His heart began to race, and the panic that had begun in his chest spread through his body. Despite the stale chill of the air around him, a trickle of perspiration oozed down the side of his face.

Then, from out of the darkness, a sound.

Faint, barely audible, but a sound.

“H-Hello?” Brother Francis said, his voice echoing oddly. Steeling himself, he spoke again: “Who is it? Is someone there?”

No answer.

He took a single step farther down the tunnel, but froze when the keys in his left hand jangled loudly.

You’re not a child any longer, he told himself, but the words did nothing to assuage the fear of the surrounding darkness that his brother had inculcated in his mind so many years ago.

His rising panic suddenly threatening to overwhelm him, he instinctively reached for one of the walls to steady himself, and his fingers closed on a large padlock.

Again he froze, listening.

Silence.

His fingers explored the lock, finding an enormous keyhole that felt like it would need an old skeleton key. Releasing the lock, he fumbled with the key ring until he found the largest of the keys, then tried to fit it to the lock.

Too big.

He tried a second key, then a third.

The fourth one slid into the slot, turned, and the lock fell open. Brother Francis slipped the lock from its hasp, pushed the door open and groped the wall inside, silently uttering a prayer to whatever saint might watch out for