Whirlwind

by Hilary Norman

  ‘Oh, dear God!’ a woman cried – Norman Clay’s wife, Liza thought – and a fresh billow of fear rippled around the church, and in the north-east front pew, young Grace Glover began to weep and her mother, Clare, wrapped a protective arm around her.

  ‘Please, Reverend.’ Reaper remained courteous. ‘I’m simply asking you to go sit down there.’ He gestured toward the pews. ‘For the sake of your congregation.’ He looked down and picked out a young man sitting beside Rosie Keenan. ‘You. Give your place to the vicar.’

  ‘Me?’ The young man – a church volunteer from Shiloh Town named Luther Brown who’d stayed the night with the Keenans because of the weather – sat still, frozen with fear.

  ‘Now, if you please.’ Reaper’s voice sharpened.

  ‘Go on, Luther,’ Rosie said gently.

  Brown stepped unsteadily into the aisle, stared helplessly at the people in the second row, who quickly made space for him, and huddled down, trying to make himself invisible.

  ‘Thank you,’ Reaper said.

  With no alternative, Keenan moved aside, descended the steps, reached the seat beside his wife and took her hand, then looked up at the stranger with the cane now taking over the pulpit.

  For the moment, the man in charge.

  Reaper laid his hand on the open Book of the Gospel.

  Regarded the congregation, taking his time.

  This night years in the planning, his strategy vague, not fully formed until he had found and enticed his team to join him.

  He looked down over the sea of faces, some ashen, many clutching hands with their neighbors, some with their eyes shut, praying. Waiting.

  ‘People of Shiloh.’ Reaper’s voice rose to the occasion, became resonant. ‘I am here to tell you that you have all been taken hostage by a group named Whirlwind.’

  New alarm flew around the nave, people repeating the word hostage, quickly hushing each other, afraid of being singled out for any reason.

  ‘Not only are we armed,’ Reaper went on, ‘but I must advise you that every exit from Saint Matthew’s Church, above and below ground, has been wired with plastic explosives.’

  Patty Jackson, the church cleaner, sitting in the sixth row with her elderly parents, let out a terrified cry.

  ‘So long as you all keep your places and remain calm,’ Reaper said, ‘there’s no immediate danger to any of you. Stay well clear of the doors, people of Shiloh.’ He paused. ‘All will become clear quite soon.’

  ‘What do you want with us?’ William Osborn asked from his front row place, left of the aisle.

  ‘For you all to be quiet,’ Reaper said sharply. ‘Speak only when you’re spoken to. That includes you, Mr Osborn.’

  The old newspaper man’s face grew red with anger, but Freya Osborn grasped his hand, squeezed it urgently, and he nodded, kept silent.

  Reaper looked around the church, smiled and took a breath.

  ‘A happy and a holy Christmas to you all.’

  Liza stared at Michael Rider, standing at the undercroft door, looking back at her again now, his eyes dark and unfathomable.

  ‘May you all live to enjoy it,’ Reaper said.

  FIFTY

  As the Blizzard-to-End-All-Blizzards continued to render highways impassable, bringing down trees, fences, barns and smaller manmade structures and bridges in rural districts, Whirlwind was at work inside St Matthew’s.

  Nemesis the only member not yet up in the nave, and she’d been wavering earlier in the day, until she’d called her brother and been refused a conversation by some bitch at his care home, and anger had refueled her commitment, made it easier to push on.

  Busy now, downstairs in the vicar’s office.

  Reaper had instructed the deacon, altar server, the choir and Stan Nowak, the organist, to move back to the eighth row, after which Jeremiah, Luke and Joel had collected every cell phone in the church, those claiming not to have brought one being subjected to bag and body searches.

  Now, at eleven-fifteen, the team were back in position. Clergy and worshipers sitting in angry, strained silence, many leaning on others for support, a few unable to stop weeping, the atmosphere shifting constantly as pockets of panic rose, then fell again into uneasy quiet.

  ‘Isaiah.’ Reaper turned to the man still standing at the undercroft door. ‘A short introduction and explanation from you, if you please.’

  Sitting beside her grandfather, Liza froze.

  Watched Michael hesitate before moving to the steps and up to the chancel, where he gave Reaper his shotgun, and Reaper moved to a carved chair beside the pulpit so that the younger man could address the congregation.

  ‘My real name is Michael Rider,’ he began. ‘I expect that few of you, if any, have heard it before, though some of you have most definitely heard of my grandfather, whose life and death have come to form a small, but significant part of Shiloh’s history.’ He paused. ‘His name was Donald Cromwell.’

  ‘Oh, dear Lord,’ Betty Hackett said.

  ‘Cromwell,’ Stephen Plain said disgustedly. ‘We might have known.’

  Liza saw Michael waver, thought she saw his eyes find her again, then veer quickly away as he waited for the murmurs to die down.

  ‘Emily Cromwell Rider, my late mother,’ he went on, ‘left Shiloh soon after my grandfather’s death, and I was born three years later. Her hope was that the past might have no impact on my life, but that was not to be.’ He paused. ‘My life, however, is not my reason for standing here tonight. My reason for being here, for wrecking your Christmas Eve, is that I recently learned that nearly forty years ago a miscarriage of justice took place here in Shiloh, continuing at Providence County Superior Court and ending in a prison cell at the Rhode Island maximum security prison.’

  ‘Where a child killer committed suicide,’ William Osborn said loudly.

  ‘I asked for silence,’ Reaper said.

  ‘We don’t kowtow to bullies with guns,’ Stephen Plain said.

  ‘That’s very noble, Dr Plain,’ Reaper said. ‘But ill-advised.’

  Liza looked at her grandfather, saw anger and distaste, hated that the man with the cane knew him by name, and wondered with a chill what was coming.

  ‘Several of you here tonight’ – Michael was continuing – ‘were key witnesses at that long-ago trial, people whose testimony led Donald Cromwell to conclude that he had no hope.’ He paused. ‘Don’t be afraid. We’re not here to punish you, just to get to the truth.’

  ‘The truth’ – this time, Osborn got to his feet – ‘is that Cromwell was guilty as sin and hanged himself because of it.’

  ‘He hanged himself, in good part,’ Michael said, ‘because of the biased reporting of the case in your newspaper, Mr Osborn.’

  ‘I’d write it all the same way again,’ Osborn said, ‘and be proud of what little I was able to do for poor Alice Millicent.’

  ‘But not interested, apparently, in doing the same for Donald Cromwell, when I now know that you were in possession of a letter that might, at the very least, have cast doubt on his guilt. A letter from my grandmother.’

  ‘A piece of paper scribbled on by an unstable wife,’ Osborn said. ‘A woman later proven to be mentally ill. Hardly a document worth raising as evidence in a case where the accused was so patently guilty.’

  Reaper got to his feet, handed Michael back the shotgun, changed places with him and focused on the congregation.

  ‘Most of you weren’t here in Shiloh back then, many not yet born, but there is a great deal at stake here tonight, so I have to ask you to bear with us.’

  ‘Or you could let us all go home,’ Denny Fosse – whose German shepherd had helped in the search for the missing child back in 1975 – said from the seventh row.

  ‘Not until we’re done, I’m afraid,’ Reaper said.

  ‘This is a church.’ Simon Keenan was unable to stay silent any longer. ‘This is the night we celebrate the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, and you’ve come in here with guns.’

  ‘
And now’ – Reaper ignored him – ‘I’m going to ask that anyone present who feels they may have something to contribute in the way of long-belated testimony, should take some time to search their conscience.’ He paused. ‘And in the meantime, while our further arrangements are put in place—’

  ‘What arrangements?’ Keenan asked.

  ‘They’re going to kill someone.’ Mark Jackson, a retired local farmer whose testimony at Cromwell’s trial had been ordered stricken from the record, spoke loudly now. ‘They’re going to have some kind of terrorist-type trial and then they’re going to lynch someone.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake.’ His wife, Ann, stared at him, appalled. ‘Are you trying to scare everyone to death?’

  ‘They’re already scared to death,’ Jackson said.

  ‘Dad, please.’ Patty Jackson’s face was scarlet.

  A woman three rows ahead began to sob – Annie Stanley, a teacher who’d been off sick the day of Alice Millicent’s abduction – and Betty Hackett put her arm around her. An angry sound escaped old Steve Julliard, who’d been sheriff back at the time, and a child near the back was crying too, and some of those who’d struggled for a semblance of calm since the initial terror began weeping again.

  ‘See what you’ve done?’ Ann Jackson accused her husband.

  ‘While our arrangements are put in place’ – Reaper overrode them – ‘we would simply ask that you continue your Christmas Eve service as you intended.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ a man said.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Gwen Turner said.

  ‘Precisely why we want you to have your service, Ms Turner.’ Reaper stepped away from the pulpit, leaned on his cane and motioned to the vicar. ‘Reverend Keenan, please return to your rightful place, and Mr Nowak’ – he pointed to the man in the eighth row – ‘go back to the organ.’

  ‘What about us?’ one of the choristers called out.

  ‘The choir can sing from back there,’ Reaper said.

  ‘So now we’re supposed to just sit here and sing carols?’ Stephen Plain demanded. ‘This is an outrage.’

  ‘Take it easy, Granddad,’ Liza said.

  ‘You think those explosives are real?’ Janet Yore whispered from behind her.

  Liza turned around. ‘Probably safest to assume they are.’

  ‘I can’t believe what’s happening,’ Janet said. ‘It doesn’t feel real.’

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ Stephen said.

  Liza turned back and saw that Michael Rider was coming down the aisle.

  ‘He’s looking at you, Liza,’ her grandfather said quietly.

  Michael stopped, stooped beside her. ‘Liza, I’d appreciate it if you’d come with me,’ he said quietly.

  She looked at him. A total stranger now, shotgun in one hand.

  ‘Where to?’ she asked, coldly.

  Stephen stood up. ‘What do you want with my granddaughter?’

  ‘It’s OK, Granddad.’ Liza’s heart was thumping. ‘We know each other.’

  ‘You know this man?’ Stephen sat down again. ‘Things just get better.’

  ‘Liza?’ Michael said.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Though I think this is something you might be interested in.’

  ‘You’re holding us prisoner.’ Liza was incredulous. ‘You have guns and explosives. Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘They’re terrorists,’ Stephen said.

  ‘No one’s going to be hurt, Dr Plain,’ Michael said to him.

  ‘Then put away your guns and defuse your bombs,’ Stephen said, ‘and let us go.’

  ‘We will,’ Michael told him, ‘when we’re through.’

  ‘Through with what?’ Liza asked.

  ‘Justice,’ Michael answered.

  ‘Terrorists,’ Stephen said again.

  The bizarreness of her own situation hit Liza suddenly, made her dizzy.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Michael asked.

  Liza took a deep breath, steadied herself. ‘What is it you want from me?’

  ‘Come with me, and you’ll see it’s in the interests of the whole congregation.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere with him,’ Stephen said.

  Liza looked up at Rider, searching for the man she’d been with last night, the man she’d kissed, trying to remind herself of all he’d been through.

  No excuse for this. There could never be any excuse for this.

  She heard the organ, and then the singing, first from the displaced choir, altar server and deacon, then a few members of the congregation following, faltering at first, then seeming to strengthen.

  ‘Gloria in Excelsis Deo,’ they sang, sounding almost defiant.

  Surreal.

  Liza stood up.

  Her grandfather’s hand gripped at her sweater. ‘No, Liza.’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ she said, and gently extricated his fingers.

  And began to walk, just ahead of Michael Rider, down the aisle.

  The singing wavered a little as Liza felt people staring, knew they had to be wondering about her, maybe even asking themselves if she had some part in this. Not being visibly forced, after all, so far as they could see, even if Rider did have a gun.

  Liza looked up momentarily and saw Simon Keenan looking down at her from the pulpit.

  He caught her gaze, held it, then nodded and smiled.

  The vicar on her side.

  That was something.

  FIFTY-ONE

  The woman in the office down in the undercroft was also dressed in black; sweater, slacks and boots, zippered waterproof jacket over the back of a chair, latex gloves covering her hands.

  Liza had only been down here once, to some event in the parish hall, found this section of the church a strange mix with its vaulted ceiling and ugly partitioned rooms.

  Nothing overtly threatening about the Whirlwind woman. No shotgun in sight. Brown bobbed hair, slim figure, fortyish, Liza guessed. She had been working at the vicar’s desk when Michael and Liza had entered. The desktop PC was switched on, an open MacBook Pro and small backpack beside it.

  ‘Isaiah feels you might be interested in what we’re doing,’ she said.

  ‘Isaiah,’ Liza repeated wryly. ‘And you are?’

  ‘My Whirlwind name is Nemesis.’ The woman offered her hand.

  Liza didn’t take it. ‘My name is Liza Plain. It’s my real name.’

  ‘We’re going to be broadcasting from the nave,’ Nemesis said, ‘using a lightweight streaming pack – I’m guessing you might know what that is.’

  ‘I’m beginning to guess you know what I know and what I don’t,’ Liza said.

  ‘I don’t know anything about you,’ Nemesis said. ‘Didn’t know you existed until Reaper asked Isaiah to bring you in.’

  ‘“Bring me in”?’ Liza turned to Michael. ‘I’m not in on any of this.’

  ‘So.’ Reaper had come down behind them, stood in the office doorway. ‘I gather you’re a journalist, Ms Plain.’

  Close up, he looked old and lined, a million miles from any kind of gang leader or hard man Liza had ever imagined, though energy emanated from him like electricity.

  ‘Your name, Reaper,’ she said. ‘Is that as in “Grim” or as in reaping and sowing?’

  ‘The latter,’ Reaper said. ‘“They have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.”’

  ‘Biblical,’ Liza said.

  ‘Readers interpret it differently,’ Reaper said. ‘My take is that those who’ve sinned and not repented will finally suffer the consequences.’

  ‘What does that make this?’ Liza felt nauseous, knew she was trembling, only anger holding her together for now. ‘The Day of Judgment?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Reaper paused. ‘Which we’re hoping to broadcast to as many people as possible, with the aid of Nemesis’s remarkable bag of tricks.’

  ‘Not mine,’ Nemesis said. ‘On loan. A professional-grade lightweight field unit. Everythi
ng needed to broadcast live.’

  ‘All in a nifty little backpack,’ Liza said. ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Maybe for you too, Ms Plain,’ Reaper said. ‘If you’d like to report this.’

  She stared at him, then turned on Michael. ‘How could you be with me all those hours and not tell me?’

  ‘I tried to tell you to leave,’ he said. ‘I wish I could have done more.’

  ‘But he’d sworn to be loyal to Whirlwind,’ Reaper said. ‘An honorable man, your friend.’

  ‘He’s no friend of mine. And if you thought all this’ – she waved her hand at the equipment – ‘was going to tempt me to help you, you’re crazy.’

  ‘The original plan was for me to handle the broadcast,’ Nemesis said. ‘But it’s not my field. You’d be better.’

  ‘I’m not a reporter,’ Liza said. ‘And even if I was, I’m not doing anything for you.’

  ‘Am I wrong about you being a journalist?’ Reaper asked. ‘Presently wasting your talents on retail websites and the like?’

  She stared at him. ‘You’ve been spying on me?’

  ‘I know you spent time with Isaiah last night, so I did a little research early today, and it occurred to me that this might be the perfect opportunity for you.’

  ‘My big break.’ Liza was caustic. ‘You really are crazy.’

  ‘I do believe it would be exactly that,’ Reaper said. ‘Your big break.’

  ‘You’ve been wanting to write about this,’ Michael said. ‘You told me as much weeks ago.’

  ‘When you accused me of stalking you.’ Liza shook her head. ‘And here we are, down your mad rabbit hole.’

  ‘I hadn’t heard of Whirlwind back then,’ Michael said. ‘For the record.’

  ‘But you damn well had last night,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not asking you to report this from our viewpoint, Ms Plain.’ Reaper got back on-subject. ‘You could handle this entirely your way, be totally unbiased, just report it from your on-the-spot vantage point.’

  ‘Why would you want me to do that?’ Confusion muddied Liza’s thinking.

  ‘To get the truth out.’

  ‘But meantime, we’re all your hostages, right?’