Matthew leaned so close Joseph could smell the faint scent of body wash on his neck. “I’ve heard it being referred to as Purgatory.” Joseph’s breathing stuttered. “As for the building, it’s not visible in plain sight.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never looked, and I have no intention to. But rumor has it that there’s a set of sunken stairs that leads to a hidden door. It takes you underground, to another dorm. That’s where you’ll find Purgatory.” Matthew sat straighter, then got to his feet. As if he hadn’t just told Joseph a shocking secret, he began changing out of his robes and back into his school uniform.
Joseph looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Purgatory. He couldn’t get the word from his head. It was one that all good Catholics knew. A place of suffering, filled with the souls of sinners who were paying for their sins before going to heaven.
Place of suffering . . . sinners paying for their sins . . . He could hear Father Quinn’s lectures. His words circled around Joseph’s head—a taunt, or maybe it was a warning, given in plain sight. A covenant between priest and pupil that if any of the Holy Innocents students strayed from the righteous path, there would be a special place for them to repent. And what James had done, the sins he had committed . . . What would be done to him?
Three months. He’d been gone, repenting for his sins, for three months.
Joseph jumped to his feet. He had to move. Every cell in his body was wired with the need to find James. To find this Purgatory. Matthew looked over his shoulder at Joseph’s sudden movement. “Be careful,” he warned, clearly understanding what Joseph was going to do. “If they see your interest, you may end up on the wrong side of that hidden door.” Matthew met Joseph’s eyes. “You don’t want them to believe you a sinner too.”
Joseph regarded Matthew. Concern and worry were written on the upperclassman’s face. “How?” Joseph rasped. He cleared his throat. “How did you know about this place? If it’s such a big secret.”
“One of the kids came back.” A flicker of hope burst in Joseph’s chest. But when he looked at Matthew, that hope fell at the pinched, faraway look on Matthew’s face.
“He did?”
Matthew seemed to come back into himself and nodded. “He came back. As a priest, of all things. But . . .”
“What?”
“I didn’t know him personally before he was taken. I was too young when he left. But I was under his instruction when he returned as a teacher.” Matthew shook his head. “I didn’t like him. Something dark lurked in his eyes. The older boys, who had once been his friends, said he was different. Acted strange. He was downright creepy. He didn’t last long here, then he disappeared again. Someone said he was transferred to a church in Ireland.”
“You never believed that, did you?” Joseph stated.
“I have no idea.” Matthew shrugged. “For all we know, all this Purgatory crap could be urban legend, created by students who wanted to mess with the heads of those who came after them. And all the kids who misbehave are just taken to a part of the home we haven’t been to. Truly in isolation. It’s probably the truth. We only have access to about a quarter of this place. Who knows what goes on in the places we don’t go?”
But something, some tight squeeze in his gut, told Joseph he had to look for Purgatory anyway. If there was even the slightest chance that this place existed, that James was there, he had no choice.
Joseph waited well past curfew and lights-out before moving from his bed. He dressed in black and covered his head with his jacket’s large hood. His platinum-blond hair was too obvious and easily seen, even in the pitch-dark.
On light feet, Joseph moved to the door and silently turned the knob. His heart felt like it was beating in his throat as the door creaked open and he checked the long hallway of the dorm. Once he could see it was clear, Joseph sneaked down the hallway and down the staircase that led to the back door. Clutching his rosary for comfort, and silently begging forgiveness for his disobedience, he entered the code that let him outside. Father Quinn had trusted him enough to tell him the code. Guilt ran thickly in Joseph’s veins at the fact that he was violating that trust so honestly given.
The second the door was open, a gust of wind clattered against Joseph’s face. He gasped, the wintery chill stealing his breath as it slapped his cheeks. Joseph tugged the hood higher on his head until he appeared to be nothing but a wraith, melting seamlessly into the night. He wrapped his arms around his waist, trying to stave off the wicked Boston cold. Sticking to the dark treelined path, Joseph followed his feet north. Blue eyes narrowed, he searched every bit of space around him, looking for any sign of the sunken staircase and hidden door. Joseph had crossed four sports fields before his feet ground to a halt at a sudden flash of red. Rushing backward into the cover of trees, Joseph watched through the clustered shield of thin branches as a boy he didn’t know emerged, seemingly from beneath the ground, crawling on all fours. He was dressed all in white—white pants and shirt. The bright moonlight made it possible for Joseph to see him fairly well. The boy’s feet were bare and smattered with dirt. His closely cropped red hair was a beacon in the darkness, a red so vibrant it was stark against the white clothes he wore. On unsteady feet, the boy pushed himself to stand. He almost fell back over, he looked so weak. Joseph’s breath left his body, leaving him starved of oxygen, when the boy’s face lifted to the light of the moon. Cuts and dirt covered his skin. Blood was seeping through the white material of his clothes. Joseph sucked in a sharp inhale, and, on instinct, stepped forward to help him. Then suddenly, from the same sunken entrance the boy had emerged from, a man gave chase. A man, Joseph quickly realized, he knew well—Father Brady. Joseph was sure he would have heard the crack of the whip Father Brady brought down upon the boy’s back even if he were back in the dorm room far across the fields.