The Spiral Path (63 page)

To find the keys to the SUV, she had to
enter Kenzie's painfully neat room. He'd left no mark of his presence here.

The keys lay on the dresser, untouched
for weeks. As she pocketed them, she noticed a framed photo of Kenzie, Charles
Winfield, and Trevor Scott-Wallace. It must have come from the memorabilia
Charles had left to Kenzie.

She lifted the pictures and studied the
faces. Having met Charles, she could see his irony and humor easily. Kenzie was
... himself: young, handsome, contained, with haunted eyes that she understood
much better than the first time she'd seen the photo.

Reading Professor Scott-Wallace was harder.
In his own way, he also looked haunted. From what she'd read about pedophilia,
it was an unalterable sexual preference. How horrible to have those yearnings
while knowing they were deeply wrong.

She set the photo back on the dresser,
and gladly headed out into the mountains.

CHAPTER 37

S
he'd
worried that Tom Corsi would have become a pious, unrecognizable stranger, but
his dark hair was still untonsured and unruly, and his white robe hadn't
changed his smile. He'd always been so patient with his little sister and her
friends. Always tall and good-looking, he was now also tanned and serene.

"Am I allowed to hug you?" she
asked uncertainly.

"Of course. You're family." He
engulfed her in a brotherly embrace. She relaxed against him, painfully
grateful for the simple animal warmth.

As they separated, he said with a smile,
"Are you here to gather atmosphere for playing a nun? That outfit you're
wearing looks like it's trying to be ecclesiastical."

She pulled the hood lower over her
forehead. "A priest once told me in all seriousness that the color of my
hair was an invitation to sin, and I didn't want to cause any trouble."

"The monks here have moved beyond
that medieval tendency to blame women for being female," he assured her.
"Though the hood might be useful protection against the sun if you'd like
to go for a walk."

"That would be great." She
fell into step as he led the way through the cluster of adobe buildings that
surrounded the church. "Kate suggested I talk to you. Even if you haven't
any words of wisdom, it's wonderful to see you again."

He opened a wooden gate for her,
revealing a path that wound up the mountain. "Is this a secular form of
confession, allowing for the fact that I'm not a priest and you're not
Catholic?"

She smiled. "Close enough."

They started up the well-traveled
walkway. The monastery property was in the middle of a federal wilderness area,
and the scenery was spectacular. When they were well above the monastery, she
said, "This canyon is magnificent. Beautiful and rather savage, with a
harsh, clear light unlike any I've ever seen. A good place to seek God. Are you
happy here, Tom?"

"Yes, I am."

She glanced up at his face. "I hear
a 'but' in your voice."

"I love the land, the community,
and simplicity and spirituality of the life," he said slowly. "But
I'm not sure if what I feel is a true vocation."

"I thought Kate said you'd taken
vows?"

"Simple vows only. They can be
renewed annually for anywhere up to nine years." He grinned. "If I
can't decide if I have a true vocation by then, I deserve to be thrown
out."

Rainey was panting when they reached the
top of the path. Sage-scented wind whipped her loose garments. Tom gestured to
a flat, wide stone in the shade of half a dozen tangy pines. "This is a
popular site for contemplation. How about if we sit down and you tell me what's
troubling you?"

She settled on the stone and drew up one
knee, wrapping her arms around it as she gazed over the rugged red stone
canyon. How much could she say, should she say? "I'm very worried about my
husband, Kenzie."

When she paused, Tom asked quietly,
"What is he like?"

"Forget anything you've seen on a
movie screen. In real life, he's a quiet, wonderfully talented man made up of
kindness and shadows. Making a movie in England stirred up his memories of a
childhood that was ... about as bad as a childhood can get. Now the memories are
eating him alive. He can't bear the idea of hashing over everything with a
therapist, and he avoids drugs, even legal ones, like the plague, for reasons
that are similar to mine. He's in agony, Tom, and I don't know what to do.
I
don't know what to do."
She hid her face in her hands.

Tom waited patiently until she collected
herself before he said, "If he can't talk to anyone, suggest that he write
a journal chronicling whatever is tormenting him."

"A journal?" She stared at
him. "How would that help?"

"Studies have shown that most
people benefit from writing down traumatic experiences," Tom explained.
"The act of writing seems to put distance between the sufferer and the
original incidents."

"Kenzie is dyslexic, and writing
doesn't come easily for him."

"This kind of writing isn't easy
for anyone, but there's no need to worry about spelling and grammar and
sentence structure. What matters is digging down into the pain as deeply, and
as honestly, as possible." He frowned, trying to make the concept clearer.
"Words are a way of gaining control over the past. Some people later burn
the pages as a way of releasing the pain. It works pretty well, too."

"Have you done this yourself?"

He nodded. "I had a lot of anger
after my father threw me out of the house and told me I was no longer his son.
In San Francisco, I took a journaling seminar and decided it was worth a try.
Amazingly, it worked. I was able to feel compassion for my father, who was torn
between what he'd been raised to believe and his love for his only son.
Eventually, I was able to get past the anger and get on with my life."

"In other words, confession really
is good for the soul, even if it's on paper. This is certainly worth suggesting
to Kenzie. Maybe he can write what he can't say out loud."

"How is he using his time? If he's
too depressed to do anything but brood, it could send him into a dangerous
downward spiral."

"He's building a labyrinth. It
looks sort of like the patterns on the surface of the brain." She tried to
remember what he'd said. "It's a classic eleven-circuit labyrinth, the
same as one that's set in the floor of Chartres Cathedral."

"A labyrinth? Interesting. He has
good instincts," Tom said thoughtfully. "In the Middle Ages,
believers who couldn't travel to the Holy Land made symbolic pilgrimages by
walking on their knees around the cathedral labyrinth. There's a labyrinth in
the desert garden behind our chapel, actually. It's a very powerful meditative
device. A way to find God, and sometimes healing as well."

"But first the pain has to be
cleared away."

"The labyrinth can help with that,
too. Walking to the center is a journey into oneself. The center brings
release, and the journey out represents integration. It's not unknown for
people to have intense emotional reactions if they've been laboring under great
stress."

"Kenzie hopes his labyrinth will
bring him the kind of peace a labyrinth in England did."

"Maybe it will. But suggest the
journal, too. It might be the only method private enough to help him now."
He regarded her gravely. "Stay close to him, Rainey. Powerful tools
release dangerous emotions. Some therapists carry twenty-four-hour-a-day
beepers so that patients who are journaling can reach them at any time if they
have a bad reaction."

"In other words, 'Kids, don't try
this at home.'" She stood, feeling a little lighter at the prospect of
being able to offer Kenzie something that might help. "Thanks so much,
Tom. I'll let you know if your suggestions work for my husband."

Tom stood also, his body a protective
barrier against the wind. "Is he going to stay your husband?"

"I surely hope so." Hope had
been left in Pandora's box, which was why it sprang eternal.