Two women in their sixties now on the screen, sweeping leaves off a driveway, both energetic, laughing.
‘The redhead is Gwen Turner.’ Reaper’s voice was a little huskier. ‘The teacher on duty in the playground at the time of Alice Millicent’s disappearance. She wept on the stand because of her sense of guilt, but admitted, under duress, that she had once told a colleague that during an official school visit by Cromwell he’d seemed to pay more attention to the girls than the boys.’ Reaper paused. ‘Turner left Shiloh soon after, but returned to her parents’ house after their deaths ten years later. She lives there still, with her partner, Jill Barrow.’
Next, a signpost reading Jackson Farm, and another old couple, sitting on a porch drinking out of mugs.
‘That’s Mark Jackson with his wife, Ann. Jackson told the court that they’d once seen the councilor in a Providence department store buying women’s underwear and joking about it. The prosecutor was chastised, Jackson’s remarks stricken from the record, and in any event, though Alice’s underpants had been removed, there was never any allegation of sexual molestation, but the jury had heard the remarks. Damage done.’
Two clips followed in swift succession, the first a shot of the Shiloh Weekly building on Shiloh Road, cutting away to film of another elderly man, portly and balding, with a silver-haired woman, the couple wearing matching green Barbour jackets – the film taken through trees as they walked two black Labrador retrievers in a sprawling landscaped backyard, the woman throwing sticks for the dogs.
‘William Osborn, proprietor and editor of the local paper at the time, who went on vilifying Cromwell after his death. Shiloh’s richest, fattest cat, rumored to have stashed away a fortune made from loan sharking, though nothing ever stuck, and so William and his wife, Freya, ten years his junior, seem likely to live out their days in Shiloh Oaks, the home they took over when all the Cromwells were gone.’
Reaper reached for the whisky glass, watched as the screen cut to that house, after which the shot pulled back on to Main Street, finally encompassing the whole village once again.
He went on, still holding the glass, not drinking.
‘Shiloh Oaks. St Matthew’s Church. The Shiloh Inn. The inhabitants, most of them respectable, some veritable pillars of their community, as Donald Cromwell once was.’ A pause. ‘Shiloh Village. A New England postcard. Not quite Norman Rockwell material, but almost grand by Little Rhodie standards.’ Another brief pause. ‘But, oh, the deceit, the hypocrisy, the lies.’
His voice had weakened a little.
‘Not long now,’ he said, ‘till they rise to the surface at last.’
Another pause.
‘Not long.’
He stopped speaking. Stared at the screen, not really looking now, gazing at nothing at all.
Not wholly aware of the frozen shot.
Or of the glass falling from his hand.
Which was trembling.
He was aware, though, of the tremor, knew in the cognizant part of his brain what it might be heralding.
It came, sometimes, at moments of great fatigue, but it also came, paradoxically, at times of intense psychological stimulus.
He regarded the hand.
Waited for what he knew would come.
It had been a long time since he had heard it, and he welcomed it now.
He nodded.
Closed his eyes.
And listened.
TWENTY-THREE
On Thursday, a week before Christmas, Liza was working in her room when a Google Alert caught her eye.
She’d set Shiloh, Rhode Island, as one of her subjects because, though nothing significant ever happened there, at least she got to find out who in the neighborhood had died.
She peered idly at the piece, then sat up a little straighter.
This from the Shiloh Weekly:
Thomas Pike, the eighty-five-year-old former vicar of St Matthew’s Church, disappeared a week ago and has not been located since. Despite the absence of any evidence of foul play, Mr James Pike, 48, the reverend’s son, who lives in Providence, is deeply concerned. The elderly man has lived alone in his Shiloh home since the passing of his wife eight years ago, but has remained a devoted member of St Matthew’s congregation. The incumbent vicar, Reverend Simon Keenan, says that he and all of Mr Pike’s many friends are hopeful that the gentleman has been traveling and will soon return safely.
When asked by the Weekly if any connection was being made with a series of unsolved Rhode Island church-linked disappearances between 1985 and 1995, a spokesman at the Scituate-based headquarters of the Rhode Island State Police commented that almost twenty years had passed since the disappearance of Reverend Laura Farrow, associate rector of a church near Primrose, Providence County, and that as yet there is no reason to connect the two cases. Both the RISP and the Shiloh Sheriff’s Office say that they are, however, taking this latest matter seriously, their focus on finding Mr Pike and bringing him home to Shiloh safe and sound.
Probably nothing, Liza thought. Almost certainly nothing if the RISP – with a rep for being one of the sharpest police forces in the country – believed that, so this would likely turn out to be no more than an old man getting himself lost or taking an unannounced vacation.
But something was niggling at her. She remembered that during her time working at the Weekly there had been another ‘church-linked’ case in the early winter of 2005. An artist fixing a stained-glass window that he’d previously made for a little church north of Harmony had apparently fallen off his ladder, blood found on the floor of the nave, but no sign of him. There had been varying hypotheses as to what might have happened to the poor guy, including amnesia following a blow to his head. Liza remembered that Glocester PD had been involved in investigating, but not long after that she’d relocated to Boston, and she was almost certain that the guy hadn’t turned up by then.
No mention of that case in today’s Weekly, nor had the RISP included it in their ‘series’ of disappearances, which presumably meant either that the artist had surfaced since then, or that the investigators had ruled out any link. Though if neither of those reasons applied, that changed the time frame somewhat radically: people disappearing over two decades, not one – and less than ten years having passed since the last case.
‘OK.’ Liza stretched, got up and went over to the window, gazing into the night, mulling it over.
Whatever the updated facts about the Harmony man, this new case was an actual Shiloh news story, and as such, maybe she could take it as a minor sign encouraging her to visit her grandfather. Though when she’d called him last week, Ethel Murrow had told her that Dr Plain couldn’t come to the phone, and he had not called her back, so Liza wasn’t quite sure why she was bothering.
Except, of course, that the housekeeper always spent holidays with her own family, which meant that if Liza did not visit, her grandfather would be alone.
And then again, this might actually be a story, and even if Reverend Pike turned up safe and well, she might still try to interview him, find out where he’d been, maybe take a look at elderly care services in their part of the state. And if the old vicar was not found before Christmas, and if she discovered that the Harmony artist hadn’t ever shown up, then she’d definitely have something to look into.
Something more worthwhile, perhaps, than Michael Rider.
So, arrival on December 23, then all of Christmas with her grandfather, and something legitimate to work on to absent herself for some of the time …
And duty done for a while.
TWENTY-FOUR
Early Thursday evening, Michael had been to the Mini-Mart around the corner for provisions and was carrying a six-pack of Narragansett Lager and some sandwich makings, and he was in no mood for anything tonight but his shitty little TV and a couple of ’Gansetts.
Two weeks had passed since he’d replied to that email, and nothing, not another word. No work either, no volunteer gigs, his old jacket was no match for the icy wind and it was start
ing to snow.
Happy days.
It was dark, several lights broken, and the street looked deserted as he approached his building and heard a sound behind him.
He paused, started to turn and was grabbed from behind, something – a bag or maybe a sack – pulled down hard over his head, and Michael freaked, his shopping hitting the sidewalk as his arms were pinioned behind him.
‘Help!’ he yelled and kicked out, but his voice was muffled by the thing over his head, and he was being dragged, struggling like crazy, hauled up into some kind of vehicle – a van, maybe, his voice echoing, the floor beneath him hard – and his wrists were being tied with something, and he kept on yelling, but his jackhammer heart sounded louder to him now than his voice, and he doubted that anyone would hear him, or that they’d take much notice if they did.
‘You’re OK,’ a voice said.
A deep, rough voice, belonging to a strong man.
‘I’m a friend.’
Friend.
‘If you’re a friend, let me the fuck go,’ Michael said through the bag.
‘Soon,’ the voice said.
And suddenly Michael knew – he just knew – that this had something to do with those goddamned emails, with him having said yes.
That probability made him no less afraid.
The man pulled Michael out of the van, cautioned him to watch his step and told him again that he was a friend.
‘If we’re friends,’ Michael repeated, ‘take this fucking thing off my head.’
‘It’s for your protection,’ the voice said.
He heard a door open, creaking loudly, and then they were inside, out of the icy wind, though it was still cold and damp, and Michael figured they were in a warehouse, maybe a workshop, and he could smell gasoline, so maybe a garage.
‘Sit,’ the deep voice said, and hands pressed him down.
Not on to a chair – something hard, wooden, maybe a crate.
The bag was pulled up off his head and he saw a cone of brightness coming from a flashlight on the ground ahead of him, started to get up.
‘Please stay where you are,’ someone said.
Another male voice, lower, quieter, coming from a shadowy figure sitting dead ahead, a few feet past the light.
‘What the hell is this?’ Michael said, shakily.
‘Welcome to Whirlwind, Isaiah,’ the new voice said.
Isaiah?
What the fuck?
TWENTY-FIVE
The old man had been mortally afraid from the beginning, had felt certain that he was about to die.
Yet though he had by now lost all track of how long he’d been here, had no way of knowing even if it was night or day, he was still alive, despite his injuries and his age and his intense fear.
Despite the bone-chilling cold and damp.
He had drunk thirstily the water he’d been given – a while ago, maybe hours, maybe a day, maybe more – peering up at his tormentor with bafflement as well as terror, because the man who had first battered him unconscious, then brought him to this hideous place, the man who so clearly had wanted him dead, had suddenly brought him water and bread.
The Staff of Life.
The crumbs had stuck in his throat, made him cough, and he’d longed for more water to wash them down, but the other man had just smiled, had waited until he’d stopped choking, then tied back the material around his face, gagging him. Had turned, blown out the single candle he had brought with him and had left him again in the unrelieved darkness, surrounded by sounds that might have been rats or cockroaches or bats or multitudes of worms.
The old man had asked him, once: ‘Why?’
The answer had come simply.
‘Don’t you know?’
But he did not know. He had been a good man, he hoped.
Except for one particular lapse a long time ago. Of judgment at the very least, perhaps even of humanity.
A long time ago.
He had never felt particularly troubled by it, had always slept the peaceful sleep of a just man, had chosen to blot it out.
Now, though, he remembered it with an abruptness so strong that he jolted, the movement tearing at his already intensely painful joints and limbs.
He remembered the boy who had brought sacrilege into his church.
A boy with blood on his hands and face, and madness in his eyes.
Could it be?
He would ask him, next time he came.
If he did come.
If he found the courage to ask.
If death had not claimed him by then.
He had thought he wanted to live.
He was no longer sure of that.
TWENTY-SIX
‘I regret the manner in which we brought you here, Isaiah,’ the softer voice said out of the dark, ‘but it was necessary.’
‘That’s not my name.’ Michael’s heart was still pumping hard. ‘You’ve made a mistake.’
‘I know your real name,’ the voice said. ‘Isaiah will be your codename until the end of our operation. If you agree to it.’
‘What operation?’ Michael was sweating. ‘What the fuck?’
‘Isaiah was a great prophet who brought messages of vengeance,’ the man said. ‘Fitting, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I wouldn’t say anything because I don’t know what the hell this is about.’
‘I think you have an idea. It’s about righting wrongs.’
The voice was Rhodie-accented, Michael thought, but there was something almost cultured about it, reminding him of a teacher from way back.
‘So if this is “Whirlwind”’ – he fought to think straight – ‘that probably makes you “Reaper”, right? The bastard who stole my laptop and started sending me weird emails.’
‘Your laptop was borrowed,’ the other man said. ‘To facilitate contact.’
‘What for? Why me?’ Michael’s panic was rising. ‘What is this? Why am I tied up in the dark? Where the fuck are we?’
‘The darkness is for your benefit, Isaiah. To give you time to make up your mind. Because once you see us, there can be no going back.’
‘So does that mean I’m free to leave?’ Michael asked.
‘Would you like to leave, Isaiah?’
‘I’d like you to quit calling me that. I’d like you to untie me.’
‘Of course,’ the man said. ‘Amos?’
‘You sure?’ The rougher voice, belonging to the man who’d grabbed him.
‘Certainly.’
Michael felt the big man close in again and free his wrists, and he flexed his hands, felt a little relief, tried to figure out where the door was, doubted he’d make it out if he found it, and he didn’t know how many others were here, and for all he knew they were armed.
‘So would you like to leave now, Isaiah?’
‘Damn right.’
‘We’ll have to hood you again until you’re back home.’ The man paused. ‘Aren’t you even a little curious, since you’re here?’
Michael hated the fact that now he’d been untied, he was curious.
‘Why don’t I tell you about the team?’
‘I haven’t said I’m staying.’
‘Just codenames, don’t be alarmed.’
‘Codenames.’ Michael shook his head. ‘This is so nuts.’
‘But necessary, and in a fine cause.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. First, I am Reaper, as you surmised. I’m very glad to finally meet you, Isaiah.’
‘Can’t say the same,’ Michael said.
‘Hopefully, that will change,’ Reaper said.
The ‘team’: four other men and one woman, all with hard-luck tales, related briskly by the man called Reaper. A guy codenamed Jeremiah whose daughter had died and who’d lost everything trying to lay blame. A woman named Nemesis, who’d gotten herself in trouble struggling to pay hospital bills for a disabled kid brother. An ex-Marine named Luke who’d lost half his face to a roadside bomb in Iraq and who couldn’t b
ear being a burden to his elderly parents. And a guy codenamed Joel who’d been an MD in the nineties until he’d gone to help a victim of a car wreck, cut himself and contracted HIV; enlightened times since then not making up for his losses.
Michael’s unease intensified with each story. All those biblical names, for one thing, religious nuts rarely being good news in his book; besides which, this was sounding like some off-the-wall support group with money presumably its members’ primary aim. Which meant that Whirlwind was probably a criminal gang, and maybe Reaper had picked on him at least partly because of his record, in which case Michael wanted out before it went any farther.
‘All of them bitter, angry and isolated until they joined Whirlwind,’ Reaper said. ‘Sound familiar, Isaiah?’
Sounded like a bunch of sad-sack losers.
Familiar as hell.
Michael took a breath. ‘What about Amos?’
‘Amos chooses not to share his story with Whirlwind, but his codename sums him up pretty well. Amos, the prophet, pronounced judgment on those who perverted justice. Amos is a man you want to have on your side.’
Not a man to pick a fight with, for sure.
‘All the team know your background, Isaiah, and they’re all committed to helping you. As you would need to be for them.’
‘Helping with what, for Christ’s sake?’
‘That’s not for today,’ Reaper said.
Impatience stoked Michael’s anger. ‘And what’s your story?’
‘It’s a long one. Not for today either.’
‘But I’m supposed to join your little gang, no questions asked?’
‘I prefer “team”, but yes, that is what we’re hoping for.’
‘This is crap,’ Michael said. ‘I want out of here.’
‘To what end?’ Reaper asked. ‘What exactly will you be going back to?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Of course it is.’ Reaper paused. ‘I’ve known about your history for a long time, Isaiah.’
The short hairs on the back of Michael’s neck rose and he was still filled with anger, but now intrigue was mixing with that and the fear, and there was something about this man that was threatening to suck him in, he could almost feel it.
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