The Devil's Labyrinth

CHAPTER 65

RYAN MCINTYRE STEPPED through the curtain onto the stage. Sofia Capelli was two steps ahead of him, Melody Hunt two behind. Once all three of them were in place, the Pope himself would step through the curtain, but even before the appearance of the Supreme Pontiff of the Roman Catholic Church, the roar of the crowd was already setting not only the Plexiglas shields to vibrating, but the stage as well. The trembling of the floor beneath his feet, combined with the steadily building wave of noise rising over him, made Ryan step reflexively back; he might have fallen off the stage had Melody not instantly offered her support, steadying him so smoothly that he regained his balance before he’d completely lost it.

He looked out over the sea of people — more people than he’d thought the Common could even hold — all of them on their feet, cheering and clapping and waving signs offering the Pope a welcome in half a dozen languages. Some were even standing on their chairs, while the limbs of every tree sagged under the weight of even more people.

Yet even as Ryan gazed out at them, the roar began to fade from his consciousness, and a quiet serenity fell over him. Soon all of this would end, and the man in the cassock and miter — the man who led these misguided followers — would die for the glory of Allah. So, too, would Ryan and he would secure an eternity filled with Allah’s rewards for his martyrdom.

The roar of the crowd swelled as Ryan sensed that the Pope had joined them on the stage, and the man whose ring he had kissed only a little while ago stepped between himself and Melody to the front of the stage to acknowledge the welcome he was being given.

Now Ryan stood behind the Pope, Sofia to his right, Melody to his left.

The Pope raised his arms in benediction to the assembled, and the roar grew even greater. Then the Pope spoke his first words into the tiny microphone clipped to his vestments, and as his voice boomed out through the massive speaker system the crowd instantly quieted.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,” he intoned, his voice carrying easily to every corner of the Common.

In unison, every person Ryan could see crossed themselves exactly the way Ryan and Melody and Sofia were crossing themselves. But the throng beyond the shield was following the lead of their Pope, while the three young people behind it were obeying the instructions of Father Sebastian Sloane.

“You must be perfect in every detail,” he’d whispered to the dark force he had harnessed within each of them. “Until the moment comes, perform the infidel rite, but think only of Allah. Allah, and me.”

“Amen,” the combined voice of the multitude intoned.

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all,” the Pope proclaimed.

“And also with you,” the crowd responded.

Obeying the instructions of the dark force within him, Ryan turned to light the candles on the altar, Melody and Sofia flanking him, the Pope still facing the crowd. As they stepped toward the altar, they turned to smile at each other in anticipation of the moment so soon to come. Then, in unison, they lit the candles. Ryan felt the same serenity in the two girls that imbued his own soul. They — as he himself — were ready.

“Let us pray to the Lord.”

As one, the multitude bowed their heads and stood so silently that when a flock of pigeons suddenly rose into the air, Ryan could hear the flutter of their wings. As the birds vanished beyond the treetops, the Pope began to pray, his voice full and rich.

Before bowing his own head, Ryan looked out to the front row of seats, where Father Sebastian would be sitting with the rest of the school. But the chair the priest had been assigned was empty. Father Laughlin was there, and Sister Mary David, and Brother Francis, and all the other priests and nuns Ryan had come to know over the last two weeks, but Father Sebastian seemed to have vanished.

He couldn’t have, of course — he had to be there somewhere.

Ryan scanned the side sections, searching for the priest, and at the far end of the second row he saw a single man whose head wasn’t bowed. It was him! It was Father—

But it wasn’t! It wasn’t Father Sebastian at all.

Instead, Ryan found himself staring into the face of his own father. His father, in his uniform, his hat on his head!

No! It was impossible — it had to be a trick of the light!

Ryan looked away, but almost instantly his eye was caught by the glint of sunlight reflecting off some kind of polished metal, and when he looked to see what it was, he saw another unbowed head, this one halfway back in the seats, on the opposite side.

And again, Ryan would have sworn he was looking at his father.

The man, the sun still glinting off the medals on his chest, smiled at Ryan, and nodded slightly.

What was wrong? What was happening? He shouldn’t be seeing his father at all. He should be seeing Father Sebastian!

A burning sensation grew in his chest.

The Pope finished his prayer, then turned toward the enormous Bible on the altar as the Boston Children’s Choir, dressed in blue robes with gold trim, began to sing Ave Maria.

The moment was approaching.

Ryan’s heart quickened as Father Sebastian’s voice whispered in his memory, repeating the instructions over and over.

The timing had to be perfect. One slip, and it could all go wrong. He eased slightly toward Melody, drawn to her now as he had been since the moment he’d first seen her.

The moment was very close now; the “amen” from the crowd that would mark the end of the next prayer would also mark the moment when he and Melody and Sofia would press the buttons that had been sewn into the sleeves of their cassocks.

The moment when they would greet Allah and receive his gifts.

The choir finished, and the crowd stood silent, muted by the beauty not only of the song, but of the voices that had sung it.

The Pope turned to the altar, and the waiting Eucharist. “Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, Creator of the fruit of the Earth. The Earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof,” he said. He picked up the small silver pitcher and poured a drop of water into the chalice of wine.

“Lord wash away my iniquity, cleanse me from my sins.” The Pope washed his hands in the basin set upon the altar for that purpose, then dried them on a linen towel.

“Let us pray.”

Ryan looked beyond the edge of the stage.

Once more his father was smiling at him, and once more he felt the burning in his chest. It wasn’t possible — it couldn’t be his father—and yet it was, and he was looking directly into Ryan’s eyes, and he was raising his hand to his chest as if he were feeling the same burning that was now searing Ryan’s heart.

Without thinking, Ryan raised his right hand, and slipped it beneath the surplice and between the buttons on the cassock.

His fingers closed on the silver crucifix.

The crucifix his father had promised would protect him.

The crucifix he had intended to leave hidden in the wall.

Now, with his father’s eyes fixed on him, with his father smiling at him, and with his father’s gift clutched in his hand, a new energy flooded through him, bursting from his heart and his soul to flow through his body.

And he realized what he and Melody and Sofia were about to do.

Ryan stared at his father, who was now standing at the very edge of the stage. He was reaching out to Ryan, as if to put his hand right through the Plexiglas, to touch him.

Ryan’s gaze shifted to Sofia. Her fingers were twitching, and he saw them disappear into the sleeves of her