The lighter mood that Michael had felt on arrival had long since been overtaken by bleakness, but suddenly that too was gone.
Fear in its place, again, for sure. But something else, too.
Motivation.
And clarity of a kind.
In the Casey Motel in Glocester, Luke and Nemesis were in her unit, listening via her laptop. The man in the chair, the woman on the edge of the bed.
Both absorbed in their leader’s words.
‘Too late for doubting now.’
Luke’s own doubts were burning ulcers in his gut. As a marine, he’d been trained for far more dangerous missions than this, but he’d never come to terms with the trauma of risking innocent lives.
Mostly innocents on the line in this ‘mission’, no getting away from that.
Nemesis was fighting with all she had to blot out her own misgivings, listening so hard to Reaper’s voice that she thought her ears might bleed.
‘We all know what to do,’ he said. ‘What’s expected of us.’
She closed her eyes, kept her brother’s dear face in her mind.
For him. All for him.
At the Foster Inn, feeling his isolation keenly, Joel lay on top of the bed, dressed in a roll-neck and jeans, feet bare, listening to Reaper’s voice but remembering the life he’d loved before it had been snatched from him.
He’d only felt fully alive as a doctor, felt that he’d ceased to matter since then. Not dead but not living either. Yet right now, he did matter again, could be of use again, and not only to Whirlwind but, if things went to plan, to others suffering out there in the world.
‘We’ve checked and triple-checked the details,’ Reaper said from the MacBook resting on his legs. ‘We know exactly how Revelation will begin.’
Jeremiah was in Amos’s room at the Five Mile Inn listening to the voice coming from the reconditioned MacBook Pro standing open on top of the chest. Amos leaning against the windowsill, Jeremiah on the other side of the room beside the door.
The less time they spent together, the better.
Nobody except Reaper knew anything about Amos. Which meant, Jeremiah figured, that Amos had more to hide than the others, which probably meant that he was some kind of career criminal. Unlike the rest of them, who were, however well Reaper and Amos had primed them, still beginners.
And the new guy, Isaiah, had had no time at all to prepare, for fuck’s sake, which made Jeremiah edgy.
Everything making him edgier by the minute.
‘What we have no way of knowing, of course,’ Reaper’s voice went on, ‘is exactly how things will move on from that point. Or how it will end. We know our aims, our individual and collective goals.’
The man called Amos listened to the boss and watched Jeremiah.
Jittery as shit, though he guessed they all were; and he had high regard for Reaper, but there were too many amateurs on this job.
Always a dangerous thing.
Worth it, though, if it went according to plan.
He never did anything that wasn’t worthwhile.
Not planning to start now.
In Woonsocket, Michael had not moved since Reaper’s first words.
‘No one with quite as much reason to be here as Isaiah,’ the man said now.
Michael shut his eyes.
‘We all know what his goal is,’ Reaper went on. ‘It’s the same in many ways as yours and mine. It’s why you were chosen. We all want to right wrongs. We all want justice.’
Michael’s eyes opened in more ways than one.
There was hypocrisy in those words and no way of denying that to himself, however much he might have been longing to do so.
Reaper had not chosen them because they wanted justice. He had selected them – with the possible exception of Amos – because they were all losers. Because they saw no legitimate or sane way left to get themselves back on course.
They had been lured here because of their weakness. And though he had no way of knowing how Reaper had gone about snaring the others, Michael suddenly had little doubt remaining that he was using them to some personal end.
His cause and Reaper’s, according to the older man, were closely linked.
Whether that was true or false was yet to be seen.
Still apparently only one way to find out.
Revelation.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Less than an hour later, the man himself came to call.
Reaper wore his overcoat but no hat, his scalp shining wet through his hair. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Of course not.’ Michael stepped back.
Reaper glanced around, then nodded. ‘Good.’
‘It’s a wonderful room. Very generous.’ Whether against his will or not, Michael felt his hostility melt away in the older man’s presence. ‘Can I take your coat?’
‘I’m not staying.’ Reaper paused. ‘I’ve made some changes because of the weather forecast. ETA any time from noon tomorrow.’
Michael moved his leather jacket off the armchair.
Reaper sat, removed his gloves, unbuttoned his coat, took an envelope from an inside pocket and handed it to Michael. ‘This shows your new approximate time of arrival, the secure parking place for your vehicle and the location where you’ll have to wait between then and the appointed hour.’
Michael opened the envelope, unfolded a sheet of paper, regarded it.
‘I wish you could have stayed here till then, as planned,’ Reaper said. ‘That place won’t be nearly as comfortable.’
‘Will we all be there?’
‘You’ll wait there with Joel, then walk together.’ Reaper paused. ‘I think you’ll be a good match. Joel is a pacifist by nature, like yourself.’
‘And the others?’
‘No need to concern yourself with them now, and there are no other changes from your perspective.’ He paused. ‘So, how do you feel, Isaiah? Doubting me, I imagine. And your decision to be here. How could you not?’
Michael didn’t answer.
‘Yet you seem calm enough. I expected to find you pacing, more agitated.’
‘Pacing in my head.’
Reaper studied him for another moment. ‘You’re almost looking forward to it.’
‘In a way.’ Michael realized it was true. ‘I never expected to feel any kind of drive again. I’d begun to think it was all over.’
‘As it may be, all too soon.’ Reaper’s gray eyes remained on his face. ‘You’re much too intelligent a man not to know that, Michael Rider.’
It was the first time this man had used his real name since the emails, and the use of it now felt oddly significant, as if a real connection had been forged between them.
The man was a user, Michael reminded himself. He scraped dregs from the bottom of the pile and set them to work for him.
And yet, old and arthritic as he was, Reaper did possess magnetism, a fascinating knack of persuading people to do his bidding.
The kind of power that equaled danger.
Then again, that was what Revelation was all about, wasn’t it?
Danger. Risk. Bad, crazy stuff.
He’d been put away years ago because they’d said he was crazy.
Michael guessed he could see now why they’d done it.
They’d been right.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Liza had prepared Stephen’s supper of pot roast and vegetables, following Ethel’s precise written instructions, then she’d put on a little extra makeup to boost her festive spirit and pulled on her boots for the walk to the Shiloh Inn.
‘Are you sure you won’t come, Granddad?’ she asked as he began his meal in the kitchen. ‘I’ll be happy to wait.’
‘I think not. Old man, snow and false geniality – not my idea of pleasure.’
‘And you’re sure you don’t mind if I go?’
‘As I recall, I suggested it.’ He regarded her as she zipped up her parka. ‘I’m trying to decide if you look more like a clown or a whore.’
>
Liza managed a smile.
‘How I’ve missed that silver tongue of yours,’ she said.
Reaching the inn, she almost turned right around because a private party was being thrown, but then Gwen Turner spotted her and called her name, told her to stay because she wanted to catch up.
‘I can’t just gatecrash a party,’ Liza said. ‘I don’t even know whose party it is.’
‘A banker and his wife from Shiloh Town called Mack and Mabel Sutter.’ Gwen laughed. ‘Really their names. Very nice people and they won’t mind.’
Liza hesitated but gave in, buying a decent bottle at the bar for the hosts, who were as welcoming as Gwen had described, and soon she was enjoying miniature smoked salmon blinis while being introduced to Rosie and Simon Keenan, the new vicar and his wife, both of whom seemed like fun. And Liza had not meant to stay long because of Stephen, but then she noticed the Osborns arriving; Freya in absurdly high-heeled boots, arm-in-arm with William. Liza had never much liked Osborn when she’d worked for him at the paper, but it always seemed to her that his younger wife genuinely loved the plump old millionaire.
So, good food, pleasant company and maybe even an opportunity to get the lowdown on Thomas Pike and those other missing Rhode Islanders.
Alone again, almost two hours after Reaper had left, and Michael had asked for a tray of sandwiches and beer, neither yet touched.
The drawings and addendum were spread over the bed, though he’d memorized everything, knew as well as he could where and when each stage of Revelation was to take place, knew how it was going to kick off.
Though still not much more than that.
Uncertain whether that was a good or a bad thing.
Reaper had commented on his stillness, but now Michael was really pacing. Back and forth between the window – pausing there each time to stare out into the snowy night – and the bed, where the sheets of paper lay like a challenge.
Or maybe a reproach.
At eight o’clock, the party was buzzing. Liza had just eaten a sweet chili-glazed chipolata and was drinking her second glass of champagne when she decided to dive in with her first question.
‘Do you know much about the missing vicar?’ she asked Jill Barrow, Gwen’s partner.
‘Afraid not,’ Jill said. ‘I’m not much of a churchgoer.’
‘Bill Osborn’s your best bet.’ Gwen had overheard. ‘He may be retired, but I’m guessing he’s still the person in Shiloh with the most information about just about anyone.’
‘Is this for a story?’ Jill asked.
‘Possibly,’ Liza said. ‘What about the new vicar?’
‘Worth a try, I guess,’ Gwen said.
‘Though I heard him say he couldn’t stay long,’ Jill said. ‘Stressing over his first Christmas service, poor man. I suggested he give sermons a miss, said I wouldn’t mind.’
‘Will you be going?’ Liza asked.
‘Tomorrow night? Oh, sure.’
‘We like the music,’ Gwen said.
‘And vexing the upstanding villagers who consider us deeply sinful,’ Jill added.
‘Really?’ Liza said. ‘Still?’
‘Lord, yes,’ Gwen said. ‘Not to our faces, of course, and not the majority.’
‘A righteous handful,’ Jill said.
THIRTY-NINE
At a quarter to nine, the man codenamed Amos was in the Explorer, alone, driving slowly south on Oak Street in Shiloh Village.
He’d finished his calls to the guys only he and Reaper knew about.
Four men, hired by him for an essential part of the mission.
Efficient types, not high-flyers in their field, but cold and sufficiently skilled to do what was needed to get the job done.
Reliable because, bottom line, they wanted what he was going to give them.
Oak Street was quiet, no one out, not even a dog being walked.
A party happening inside the Shiloh Inn – lights, music, movement, laughter.
Seven out of the eight rooms on the first and second floors booked through to Monday, Reaper had informed him. Most of the third floor permanently occupied by the proprietor and his wife.
Amos had a list of Shiloh Village residents pretty much memorized, his near-photographic memory always useful in his profession.
The only fulltime lawbreaker inside Whirlwind.
Unless you counted Reaper, though he couldn’t really be categorized, and Amos, having come to know him at least a little over time, had no wish to know more, knew when and where to draw the line.
What he felt most for the old, sick guy was respect.
No higher compliment in Amos’s book.
The snow was light this evening, the sidewalks well-covered by late December standards, though nothing – if this mega-storm came their way – compared with how it might look this time tomorrow.
He went on driving slowly, peering at houses, passing St Matthew’s on Main, then taking a look at the homes on Elm Street, and moving on to South Maple. Lights were on in most houses and apartments, drapes, blinds or shutters keeping many private.
Just checking the place out. Reconnoitering. Liking to be prepared, not feeling any significant anxiety about Reaper’s plan because he understood worst-case scenarios, was as ready for them as he could be in this mission.
Being a loner suited Amos. No wife or kids, no one to give a damn. A life of pleasing himself and getting through tough times without the guilt of having someone else weeping into their pillow.
Reaper’s ‘team’ his biggest concern now.
Jeremiah still too damned uptight, and Amos was sure he wasn’t the only one.
Nothing to be done about them.
For now, all was quiet.
‘Ghost town,’ Amos said quietly.
He found his way back onto Main and headed west on Shiloh Road.
FORTY
‘Not much to tell you, dear.’ William Osborn put a miniature steak pie into his mouth, chewed, swallowed and smiled at her. ‘A retired cleric living alone in our midst, yet I can’t say that I knew him.’ He shrugged. ‘Not being a regular at Saint Matthew’s or anywhere else – tomorrow evening and possibly Easter, you know how it is.’
‘You said ‘knew” him,’ Liza said. ‘Past tense.’
‘I did, yes,’ Osborn said. ‘Though naturally I hope to be wrong.’ He picked up a bite-size rib, tore meat and sauce off the bone with his teeth, then licked his lips. ‘Food’s fine, don’t you agree? Not Tilden’s own. Private caterers.’
‘It’s delicious.’ Liza looked around and saw Eleanor Tilden behind the bar, serving, her husband John holding a large glass of red, working the room.
‘So how have things worked out for you since you were with us, Liza?’
‘Ups and downs,’ she said. ‘You know.’
He nodded. ‘Keep looking for the ups and you’ll be fine.’
‘Last week’s Weekly mentioned other church-related disappearances,’ she said.
‘Glad you’re still a reader.’
‘It brought back a memory of a man going missing from a church near Harmony while I was working for you. It wasn’t mentioned in the article.’
‘I daresay the new editor had good reason to omit it. Maybe the man came back and all was rosy.’
‘Maybe,’ Liza said, and suddenly, with Osborn right beside her, it seemed idiotic not to raise the older topic. ‘The Cromwell family used to live in your house, didn’t they?’
‘You know very well that they did,’ Osborn said, a little testily. ‘Our house now, as you rightly say, for a very long time. Freya and I like to think we’ve expunged all traces of that man, Miss Plain.’ Osborn gave a small wave to his wife, presently in conversation with Mabel Sutter, the banker’s wife. ‘Donald Cromwell was a disgrace to this community and to his family.’
‘It’s actually the family I’m interested in,’ Liza said.
‘Destroyed.’ Osborn stood up. ‘Wife lost her mind, daughter too, finally, and who could blame eit
her of them?’
‘I saw Emily’s son in Boston a few weeks ago.’
‘I’m surprised you’d know him,’ Osborn said.
‘Our paths crossed a long time ago. His name’s Michael Rider.’
‘I know his name.’
And with that, he moved away.
Subject closed.
FORTY-ONE
At nine-seventeen, one mile west of Shiloh Village, the Explorer made a left off Lark Road onto a track leading to a long-abandoned fruit farm, its old signpost and the narrow access road itself covered in the steadily thickening blanket of white, no vehicles having passed this way for a long while. Amos might have missed the barn altogether if it hadn’t been for its snow-clad rooftop visible from a couple of hundred yards away. The landscape was like a photographic negative tonight, outlines of every tree, bush or structure showing up clear and sharp.
No sign of the Volvo yet.
Amos killed the Explorer’s lights and waited. Heard, after about twenty seconds, the engine, then the door and, finally, the sound of boots tramping slowly through snow, coming his way.
The rear offside door opened and Reaper climbed in, leaning his cane beside him against the seat. ‘All well?’
‘All good. Damned quiet,’ Amos said. ‘Where’d you leave the car?’
‘On the road, a little way,’ Reaper said. ‘Can you get this around to the back of the barn?’
‘Got the right tires. Should be fine.’
Amos put the Explorer into gear and nudged it forward, his touch confident, giving the barn a wide berth in case of a skid, making it smoothly to the rear.
‘I’d say we’re invisible from the road now,’ he said. ‘Can’t speak for anyone out that way.’ He nodded toward the old farm and the desolate-looking white space beyond. ‘Looks deserted, but you can never tell.’
‘Hardly the only risk we’re going to be taking,’ Reaper said. ‘Good job, Amos.’
He opened his door, stepped down into the snow and used his cane to steady himself, the other man not offering assistance, aware he disliked help.
At the rear of the vehicle, Reaper took a small Maglite from his coat pocket and nodded to Amos to open it up, saw two tarps, one gray, the other white, nodded approval.
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