The Devil's Labyrinth (7 page)

C
HAPTER
11

F
ATHER
S
EBASTIAN
S
LOANE HURRIED
along the corridor toward Father Laughlin’s office, still wiping toothpaste from the corner of his mouth. Sister Margaret’s tone alone had been enough to tell him that whatever Father Laughlin wanted to see him about was very serious. Which, Father Sebastian was certain, meant two things: it had to do with Kip Adamson, and it wasn’t good.

He paused at the door to the headmaster’s office only long enough to rap softly, then turned the knob.

Father Laughlin sat behind his desk, his lined face looking even older and more worn than usual. Sister Mary David, Brother Francis, and Sister Margaret all looked up when he came in, but none of them smiled.

The two nuns and the monk were even paler than the priest. Father Sebastian quietly took the single remaining empty chair.

Father Laughlin took a deep breath, spread his hands flat on the top of his desk, and looked straight at Father Sebastian. “Kip Adamson murdered a woman last night,” he said, his voice as flat as his hands. Before Father Sebastian could even react, he spoke again. “He himself was killed by the police.”

A cold numbness spread through Father Sebastian’s body and he felt all the energy his body had generated during the night drain out of him. Questions tumbled through his mind, but before he could find the right words for even one of them, Father Laughlin spoke again.

“That’s all we know,” the old priest sighed, making the words sound like a personal defeat. “They’re investigating, of course.”

“Drugs?” Sebastian suggested, his eyes flitting over the little group.

Brother Francis spread his hands helplessly. “I suppose it’s possible, but…”

As his words trailed off into helplessness, Father Sebastian remembered Anne and Gordy Adamson. She, he was certain, would be devastated at the news. But what about Kip’s father? Would he even feign sorrow at his loss? Probably. But even more probably, he would start looking around for someone to blame, and St. Isaac’s would undoubtedly be at the top of his list. “Has anyone spoken with Kip’s parents?”

“I called their parish priest,” Brother Francis said. “Kip’s mother called him an hour ago, and he was already there.”

Sebastian frowned. “Shouldn’t Father Laughlin or I go, too?”

“That’s what I thought,” Brother Francis interjected. “But Father Laughlin feels it’s best if their own priest handles it.”

“It’s just so hard to believe,” Sister Mary David said, her lips compressing into a thin line as if the boy’s death were a personal affront to her. “It’s not as if he was doing badly here. In fact, he was doing well—his grades were up and—”

“The police will be here today,” Father Laughlin cut in, garnering a dark look from Sister Mary David, who obviously had a lot more to say. “They will want to know if anyone has noticed anything about Kip. Anything unusual.” His eyes roved tiredly from one face to another. “Has anyone?”

Father Sebastian glanced at the other three, none of whom seemed certain of even how to respond to Father Laughlin, let alone the police. “Nothing that I have noticed. I agree with Sister Mary David—Kip was doing well. The usual sins of a boy his age, of course.” He suppressed a smile as Sister Margaret blushed and Sister Mary David scowled disapprovingly. “But I heard his confession and gave him a penance. Actually, I thought we were succeeding very well with him. At least up until yesterday.”

Father Laughlin took another deep breath, and seemed to pull himself together slightly. “Very well. If any of you should remember anything odd about Kip’s behavior, please bring it here first. At this point there’s nothing that can be done either for the Adamson boy or for the poor woman he attacked.” He paused, then spoke again, his voice taking on a slight edge. “I’m sure you all understand that we don’t need any publicity that will reflect badly either on the school or on the Church. I think the Church has had as much of that as it can stand for the foreseeable future.” His eyes moved from one face to the next. “Do I make myself clear?”

“It doesn’t matter what we say,” Sister Mary David said. “Some parents are likely to remove their children, and recruitment will be difficult for a year or so.” She turned to Sister Margaret. “We ought to have a statement ready for the press.”

Father Laughlin pressed his fingertips to his temples and rubbed them in small circles as if he could massage away the trouble that he was certain was about to rain down on his head.

“We’d better cancel classes for today,” Father Sebastian said as Father Laughlin’s silence stretched on. “We’ll hold a mass for Kip, and then arrange to be in our offices and available for any of the students who want to talk about it. As for the police, the best thing we can do is answer all their questions as completely and honestly as possible.”

As the two nuns nodded their agreement, Brother Francis raised his hand, and Father Sebastian was reminded of nothing so much as a worried schoolboy who is uncertain of his lessons.

“I feel like somehow it’s my fault,” he said. “Was there something I missed? Some sign? Did I do something wrong? I feel as if I should have seen this coming—maybe spent more time with him, or paid more attention.”

Sister Margaret peered at him over the rims of the half-glasses that were perpetually perched on her nose. “There are over two hundred students here,” she declared. “We can only do what we can do, and for the most part, we do a very good job. None of us saw this coming, and there’s no reason why we should have. We can’t know everything in each student’s heart at every moment.”

“I just feel as if I—” Brother Francis began again, but this time Sister Margaret didn’t even let him finish.

“Brother Francis, our job is to look after the children, not feel sorry for ourselves.” Her eyes fixed on Brother Francis, and he instantly felt as if he was back in parochial school and about to feel the rap of a ruler across his knuckles. “Can you put your own feelings aside long enough to talk to the rest of the boys about what’s happened?”

Brother Francis’s face burned. “Of course I can. I’ll just need a few moments to collect my thoughts.”

“Which is a very good idea for all of us,” Father Sebastian interjected before Sister Margaret could say anything else to Brother Francis. “And when we begin answering questions—not only from the police but from the students and their parents as well, I think we should keep in mind that this is not a time for trying to assign blame, either to Kip Adamson or to anyone else. Unfortunately, evil is insidious in the world we live in, and no one is immune. And often, it seems, the children are even less immune than anyone else.”

“Still, everyone makes their choices,” Sister Margaret sniffed, making no attempt to conceal her disdain for Father Sebastian’s words.

“Be that as it may,” Father Sebastian replied gently, “our job right now is to reassure our students and their parents that whatever caused Kip to attack that poor woman, it had nothing to do with St. Isaac’s. The boy had problems when he arrived—in fact, isn’t that exactly why he came here? It’s not that we failed him—we simply didn’t have enough time to succeed with him. Evil, unfortunately, cannot be overcome in an instant, and whatever evil inhabited Kip Adamson was obviously far stronger than any of us saw.”

Father Laughlin finally stirred in his chair, and looked up. “Father Sebastian is right,” he declared. “In the future, we shall all be far more vigilant.”

Patrick North and Kevin Peterson had been working together long enough that neither detective had to say a word before they entered Kip Adamson’s room at St. Isaac’s; North would do the searching while Peterson talked to the boy’s roommate. There was something about Peterson’s manner that made people want to talk to him, and North had given up trying to emulate it years ago, concentrating instead on honing his already sharp eyes and innate instinct for knowing where to look for what he was trying to find. Except, of course, for his keys, which somehow still managed to elude him at least twice a day. Now he handed them over to Peterson before he pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and began his search, which he would carry out as carefully as he did all his searches, even though the disinterest of Adamson’s friends had already told him the search was probably going to be futile. If there was anything to find, North figured Clay Matthews and Darren Bender would be a lot more nervous than they were.

“So you and Kip were roommates last year, too?” North heard Peterson ask Clay Matthews, scanning his notes as if he didn’t already have every word of them memorized.

“Yeah,” Clay said. “They stuck him with me when he first came here.”

“And you requested each other as roommates again this year?”

Clay nodded. “We got along great.”

Detective North pulled the sheets off Kip’s bed, shook them out, and then lifted up the mattress.

A copy of
Playboy
was stashed between the mattress and the springs, which North picked up, fanned through, then tossed onto Matthews’s bed.

“I’ll take that,” Brother Francis said, stepping forward quickly to seize the offending literature.

As Peterson shrugged sympathetically at Matthews, North turned his attention to Kip’s footlocker. It was unlocked and he flipped the top open. Inside were books and photographs, a pair of sandals, and a hockey jersey autographed on the shoulder by someone from the Chicago Blackhawks.

“Has Kip ever taken off like this before?” Detective Peterson asked. Clay shook his head. “Okay, so let’s get to the big question,” Peterson went on. “What about drugs? Adamson ever use them?”

North looked up from the footlocker to watch the boys’ reactions.

Both boys shook their heads.

“Come on,” Peterson prompted them. “Not even a little pot once in a while?”

Matthews shook his head again, this time more emphatically. “I’d know. He used to do drugs before he came here, but he didn’t anymore. He said he’d decided he’d gotten in enough trouble, and he was done with it.”

“He thought people who did drugs were stupid,” Darren Bender offered.

Peterson’s gaze shifted to Bender. “And yet he grabbed a woman from behind and slit her throat,” he said softly. “How do you suppose that fits with his decision to stay out of trouble?”

“How should we know?” Bender countered. “I don’t even get that he could do it.”

“But he did,” Peterson said, sounding every bit as puzzled as Darren Bender. “So if it wasn’t drugs, what could it have been? Can either of you think of anything that might have made Kip do such a thing?”

Darren and Clay looked at each other, and North saw nothing in either of their expressions that looked like they might be trying to hide something.

“Anything at all,” Peterson urged. “We need some help here. Can’t either of you think of anything that was different about Kip lately?”

Clay Matthews hesitated uncertainly, then: “Well…”

Both detectives’ attention instantly focused on the Matthews boy.

“Now that I think about it, Kip has been acting a little weird,” Clay said.

North’s eyes narrowed. “Weird like how?” he said sharply enough that the boy actually jumped.

“I don’t know, really,” Clay said, his voice taking on a defensive note.

“It’s okay,” Peterson soothed and North, finished with his search of the footlocker, moved on to the closet. “Just tell us whatever you can. Anything at all could help.”

Clay relaxed a little. “He was always kind of a loner, you know? Ever since he first came here. But lately he started to act kind of strange.”

“Strange how?” Peterson asked.

Matthews shrugged. “I dunno. He sort of stopped wanting to hang out with any of us—even me. And the other day, he couldn’t find a pen and he threw a regular shi—” He cut his words short, glanced guiltily toward Brother Francis, and reddened slightly. “I mean he got really mad—like throwing things! Over a lousy pen! I mean, it wasn’t even like it was some kind of good pen. Just one of those cheap ones.”

“How bad was it?” Peterson pressed. “The scene?”

“Really bad. His face was all red and he accused me of stealing his stuff. And he seemed like he just wanted to break things.” He walked over and pointed at a black mark on the wall. “See this? He threw his shoe at me. Hard, too. Over that crummy pen, which he found five minutes later on the floor next to his bed.”

“And that was unusual behavior for him?” Peterson asked.

“Definitely,” Clay replied. “Kip was a loner—he was always quiet.”

“How come you didn’t tell me that?” Darren Bender asked. “He got that way on the basketball court, too. He missed a shot, and all of a sudden he’s kicking the wall in the gym. Just because he missed a basket! I mean, it’s not like he made that many in the first place—he really sucked at basketball. I thought he was going to break his foot or something.”

North emerged from the closet. “And neither of you think he was doing drugs?” he asked as he started going through Kip’s desk. “Like steroids, maybe?”

Clay spread his hands helplessly. “I wouldn’t even know what steroids look like. And he wasn’t a jock, so why would he be doing something like that anyway?”