Reaper shrugged, then winced.
‘You OK?’ Amos asked.
‘As ever,’ Reaper said.
‘She should go up before we start,’ Amos said, looking at Liza.
Liza started to rise.
‘Sit down,’ Reaper told her.
‘Is that a good idea?’ Amos asked.
‘Ms Plain is my chosen witness. She may as well stay for this.’
‘Can I start broadcasting again?’ Liza asked. ‘He took away the camera and backpack.’
‘Not just yet.’ Reaper turned to Amos. ‘I have no concerns about her cooperation. Not with all those hostages upstairs.’
Another threat hitting home.
No one safe yet.
And clearly no surprise to Reaper that Amos had confiscated the equipment before the robbery, which really begged the question as to why she’d been taken along, though maybe just having a hostage along made for additional insurance in case of trouble …
‘I’ll go get Joel,’ Amos said.
The phone was still ringing as he left.
‘What about Mr Osborn?’ Liza said.
‘Enough,’ Reaper said.
And took the phone off the hook.
Joel came down alone, and Liza was able to study his face more closely, saw lines and contours probably driven south by disappointment and bitterness, saw bleak eyes, showing no hint of pleasure on seeing the money.
A doctor unfairly robbed of his career in the AIDS-fearful years.
Not a good enough reason for this, Liza thought again now. Nothing a good enough reason.
Not even Michael’s car crash of a life.
She watched Reaper organize his share, place a huge amount of cash in a buff-colored envelope and hand it over, remembered Joel, clearly distraught, trying to help after the Grace Glover tragedy. Yet after that, he’d gone on doing Reaper’s bidding, and now, hours later, he was taking a large chunk of what had been stolen from Bill Osborn – and she was trying not to think about him because there was nothing she could do, and he might already be beyond help.
‘It’s been a pleasure.’ Reaper shook Joel’s hand. ‘Time for you to go now.’
‘I’m not leaving,’ Joel said.
‘Sure you are.’
‘Once the others go, there’ll just be you and Isaiah, and if the hostages get the upper hand and try storming the doors, I don’t like anyone’s chances, so I’m staying.’
‘The deal was you get out safely with your cut,’ Reaper said.
‘I don’t care any more if I get out or not,’ Joel said. ‘I’d like it if the cash could reach the right people, but I care more about Whirlwind. About you.’
Reaper said nothing.
‘I’ve written down the charities’ names.’ Joel opened one of his zip pockets, took out a piece of paper and held it out.
Reaper didn’t take it.
‘You’re sure about this?’ he asked. ‘You understand what might happen?’
‘Death or prison,’ the other man said flatly. ‘But I’d still be grateful if my cut could get through, help a few people.’
Reaper took the piece of paper. ‘I’ll do my best for you.’
‘I know you will,’ Joel said. ‘I trust you, sir.’
Sir.
The word hung in the air, seeming to Liza to embody the power that this man still held over those he’d dragged into this nightmare.
Joel started out of the office, then stopped.
‘I’ll see you up there,’ he said, ‘when the others have gone.’
‘When we’re all done,’ Reaper said.
‘And then we’ll make the doors safe, and let them go,’ Joel said.
Craving reassurance, Liza thought.
‘As planned,’ Reaper said.
The man lingered in the doorway.
‘Anything more I can do for you?’ he asked Reaper.
‘Nothing. Thank you, Joel.’
Jeremiah, next one down, had no qualms about leaving. He accepted his cut, secured it beneath his clothes, removed his balaclava, stared at Liza as if daring her to identify him later at her peril. Which she would, she decided, no matter what, certain that she’d always recognize those darting, resentful eyes.
He left the way she and the others had earlier, Liza hearing the trapdoor open and close in the archive room, and she guessed that Jeremiah would be heading to the intersecting tunnel down which Nemesis had disappeared, taking his chances along with his blood money.
‘Interesting group, don’t you think?’ Reaper asked Liza after he’d gone.
She didn’t answer.
Another matter having just sprung forcefully back into her mind.
The unanswered question she’d asked twice earlier.
‘Thomas Pike,’ she said again now, knowing she was crazy to raise this again, but unable to stop herself.
Her mind flipped back to something she’d been taught about using journalism to help people in jeopardy. About deciding whether to simply report or, in certain circumstances, to get involved. Probably the best way for her to deal with her suspicion that Reaper might have taken some kind of revenge on the retired vicar (maybe even on those other missing people, which was quite a stretch and one she really didn’t want to contemplate) was to keep herself safe and pass on her thoughts to the FBI at the first opportunity.
Except, what if she did not make it out?
Get the facts.
‘Are you behind Pike’s disappearance?’ she asked.
He smiled. ‘You have guts, Ms Plain. I admire that.’
‘Did you do something to him?’
She heard the door at the foot of the stairs open and close.
‘She being a nuisance again?’ Amos asked.
Reaper smiled again. ‘Just doing her job.’
‘Want me to deal with her?’ Amos asked.
Liza’s mouth was suddenly dry as dust.
‘No need for that,’ Reaper said.
Amos shrugged. ‘Your call.’
He received more than the other two men had, she noted. Double, she estimated. Probably his reward for the robbery, or maybe Amos had helped with more than that, maybe there was some other connection between him and Reaper.
Unlike Jeremiah, Amos did not remove his balaclava in Liza’s presence.
She thought she’d know him though, if it ever came to that, would not quickly forget what she’d seen of him before he’d donned the mask. The shaven head, the intimidating expression, the strange green-brown eyes which she’d seen close-up before, during and since their visit to Shiloh Oaks.
‘If you need me again,’ Amos said to Reaper, just before he left, ‘you know where to find me.’
‘I won’t trouble you again,’ Reaper told him. ‘But I thank you, Amos. It couldn’t have happened without you.’
‘It’s been a pleasure.’ Amos turned to the door.
‘Are you going the same route as Nemesis?’ Liza asked.
‘How many more times?’ Amos said. ‘Mind your own fucking business.’
‘Manners, Amos,’ Reaper rebuked mildly. ‘Just doing her job, remember.’
The big man shrugged again and went without another word.
Now what?
Clem Carson, relieved from phone duty but still in Shiloh, awaiting updated orders, had learned that an off-duty patrolman in the Glocester PD had called in some info that might turn out to be gold dust.
Seemed the guy had read someplace that there were tunnels under the village. He didn’t know where they began or ended, but he was pretty sure that the tunnels were seriously old – as, of course, was St Matthew’s. So Providence and the State Police were on the case, kicking people out of their beds, urgently seeking survey reports, zoning plans or old maps.
Not easy before sunrise on December 25.
And even if the right people were found and ordered to open up their offices, even if the worst of the blizzard had given way to heavy snow, the forecast for it to become lighter, the fact was that th
e son of a bitch running this show had stayed true to his word about not answering the phone again. No negotiation never good news.
Which left a church filled with exhausted, terrorized, possibly sick hostages, one family grieving for their child and everyone at the mercy of Whirlwind, a name that had not shown up on a single Bureau database.
Four key players inside St Matthew’s unofficially identified.
The leader, Joshua Tilden, the man Carson had spoken to.
A second man, also self-identified as Michael Rider, who had a rap sheet and had been in the same psychiatric wing of Garthville as Tilden.
Liza Plain, a former Shiloh resident, who claimed that she’d been reporting at the insistence of the gang, using equipment provided by them.
And then there was John Tilden, apparently Reaper’s father, who had, before the congregation and anyone watching or hearing Plain’s broadcast, confessed to a forty-year-old child murder.
Snipers in place now, tunnel plans awaited.
Not much else that could be safely done to end this thing till then.
Unless Whirlwind defused the explosives and came out with their hands up.
Clem Carson, for one, not anticipating that outcome.
SIXTY-EIGHT
Now what?
Liza got her answer to that within seconds of hearing the trapdoor closing after Amos.
‘I have a big favor to ask of you, Ms Plain.’
She looked at Reaper across the desk, said nothing.
‘There’s little likelihood of my leaving this place a free man. Death or prison, as Joel said.’ He picked up the single sheet of paper from the desk, and held it out to her. ‘His preferred charities.’
Liza took it, saw through eyes suddenly so tired that they hurt, the former doctor’s shortlist: American Foundation for Children with AIDS. Bailey House. Keep A Child Alive.
‘Fine choices.’ She tried to hand it back, but Reaper held up his hands, palms out, so she placed it back on the desk. ‘What’s the favor?’
Though she already knew.
‘It seems to me you’re the only person here who could get Joel’s cash out to the right places. Luke’s cut too, if possible, which I know he wanted split between his parents and other Iraq veterans.’
‘This money belongs to William Osborn.’
‘This money actually belongs to a great many other people, none of whom are ever going to be identified or even looking for it,’ Reaper said. ‘I’d hate to think that Luke gave his life for nothing, and we both know what Joel wants.’
‘They made their choices when they joined you.’
‘Still,’ Reaper said. ‘Good causes.’
‘An old man was bludgeoned to get that cash,’ Liza said.
‘Regrettable, but necessary.’
‘It was not necessary, it was brutal, and is it necessary to refuse to get him help now?’
‘He’ll get help when this is over.’
Anger was making her shake. ‘I’m not doing one more damned thing for you – other than transmitting again, telling people out there what’s happening.’ Frustration goaded her on. ‘And you still haven’t answered my question about Thomas Pike.’
‘This is your last chance to help decent people.’ Reaper was cooler. ‘This money is tainted, Ms Plain. Whatever happens, it won’t go to any kind of worthy recipient unless you say yes.’
‘I’ve given my answer.’
‘Because we’re criminals,’ Reaper said.
Liza’s laugh was short and bitter. ‘Understatement.’
‘You heard my story. Don’t you feel sympathy for me?’
She looked him in the eye. ‘I feel sympathy for the boy you were back then.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve had a hard life?’
She didn’t answer, too busy asking herself why she felt this need to keep on pushing when she knew how potentially dangerous it might be.
But the fact was she had to know.
‘Where is he?’ she asked. ‘Where is Reverend Pike?’
Moments passed, and Liza noticed the tremor in his right hand.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
His eyes looked different, the pupils larger.
‘You want to know about Pike,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Though she was suddenly intensely unsure if she did want to know.
Reaper rose, slowly.
‘Put on your jacket, Ms Plain, and wait here.’
He turned left outside the office and Liza heard the sound of keys.
Stared at the phone, still off the hook.
She put out her hand – but heard him coming back.
Quickly, she put on her parka, zipped it up, felt for her gloves, then remembered that she’d dropped them in Osborn’s library.
He was holding the backpack and camera, held them out. ‘You need help?’
‘Only connecting the cable to the camera.’ Liza slipped her arms through the straps. ‘Feels tight with the parka.’
Reaper adjusted the straps. ‘Better?’
She hated his closeness. ‘Yes.’
He handed her the camera, made the cable connection, and then he bent, reached beneath Keenan’s desk and, with some effort, brought out another backpack and put it on, and Liza could see now that he was in pain.
‘Can I help?’ she asked.
He smiled, picked up his cane with his left hand and the shotgun with his right.
Liza saw that the tremor had ceased.
‘You’re about to,’ he said.
‘Where are we going?’
Though she thought she already knew, the prospect terrifying.
‘Is my grandfather OK?’ she asked, playing for time.
‘Perfectly,’ Reaper said.
‘And Michael?’
‘Don’t worry about Isaiah,’ Reaper said. ‘You go first, Ms Plain.’ He gave her a gentle nudge with the shotgun. ‘You know the way. Back to the archive room.’
‘I don’t want to go down there again,’ she said.
‘If you want to record, you should probably use the shoulder strap for the camera.’
‘You really want me to report this?’ She allowed herself a tiny surge of hope.
‘You’re the journalist.’
‘You think it’ll work down there?’
‘Time will tell,’ Reaper said.
In the nave, Michael paced, watched, waited and listened.
The telephone below had ceased ringing, was probably off the hook since he doubted that the FBI would have stopped calling.
Only two of them up here now, though Joel’s return a while back had touched him, but still, he was beginning to feel overwhelmed by tiredness and lack of food. And fear.
Less for himself than for everyone else here, and, increasingly, for Liza.
His shame piling ever higher, his personal motivation for this crime no longer remotely comprehensible to him.
He thought that something was going on, back in the eighth and ninth rows, something to do with the two kids Amos had dealt with earlier. The one with red hair and the one with the ear stud were sitting closer together now than they had been, the general sense of listlessness apparently not affecting them, and Michael had noticed too that, while the choir, deacon and altar server were all sleeping, Nowak, the organist, had become jumpier.
Those three planning something, he was almost certain, making him very apprehensive. Because if they did try jumping him or Joel any time soon, Michael was as certain as he could be that neither he nor Joel would fire a single shot. Which meant that the kids and Nowak would probably seize their weapons, and then Christ only knew what might happen, because next step, they’d be looking for a way out, which meant they’d probably head down below.
Reaper was armed too, would not let them leave without a fight.
And Liza was with him.
He walked down the aisle, scanning left and right, reached the front, saw that John Tilden, the murderer, was asleep, his wife’s
back to him, her eyes following Michael’s every move.
He wondered what Eleanor Tilden saw, found it hard to imagine her pain, her world shattered, learning that she was married to a monster. Not that the Tildens or the wrongs perpetrated against his family were at the forefront of Michael’s thoughts right now. Not even the uprising he felt might be coming.
Almost all his thoughts were for Liza.
His fear for her growing with every passing quarter-hour, because though he’d been deeply uneasy about Reaper’s apparently last-minute decision to use her as reporter-cum-witness for everything, right down to the robbery and division of spoils, all that had to have been done with by now.
So what the hell was happening down there with her and Reaper?
An interview, perhaps. Liza’s first major exclusive.
Not impossible.
Michael had been trying to remember what she’d asked Reaper before he’d dispatched her to the undercroft, and now it came back to him. Something about the missing former vicar, her implication seeming to be that Reaper might know something about that disappearance.
Good question, perhaps, and one which Reaper had chosen not to answer, and Michael hoped to Christ she hadn’t persisted with that.
Alone down there with an armed, sick man.
A man capable of organizing this madness.
Michael wanted to go down to the undercroft, to check on them.
On her.
But he could not leave the nave, could not leave Joel.
He looked at Liza’s grandfather and saw that the old man was staring back at him.
Accusation in his eyes.
Michael didn’t blame him.
SIXTY-NINE
Back in the dark, Liza’s teeth were chattering with cold and fear.
Going somewhere.
Not allowing herself to think where or to what.
She’d tried to start recording again once she’d climbed down, Reaper behind her, but her fingers were icy and she’d been shaking too badly to hold the camera still, so she’d stuffed it into her parka’s right-hand pocket, and it wasn’t so much a case of reporting now rather than of trying to alert someone to her whereabouts.
Please come find me.
Send help.
The only light was coming from behind her, from Reaper’s flashlight, tucked into his belt, the man with the shotgun slow, but keeping her moving, with no chance of retreat, and it occurred to her that if she suddenly accelerated, ran ahead of him to Shiloh Oaks, where Osborn might still be alive, maybe they could lie in wait together for the sick man lagging behind …
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