Inside St Matthew’s, Michael, having listened to Reaper coughing for a while now, had offered to bring him water from the undercroft, but Reaper had shaken his head, had pointed, instead, to a veiled chalice of wine on the altar table, and in the front pew, the vicar had suppressed his anger and given his wife a rueful smile.
‘Perhaps Dr Plain could help?’ Rosie Keenan suggested moments later.
‘No help needed,’ Reaper said.
‘None offered,’ Stephen Plain called. ‘I’m not a doctor anymore anyway.’
‘Good for you, Doc,’ Mark Jackson said from the sixth row. ‘With a bit of luck, he’ll choke to death and we can all go home.’
A few sips of sacramental wine, and Reaper’s cough first grew more rasping, then faded away, but Michael felt it had tired him, and thought about whatever he might be dying of, wondered how long he could keep this up.
Wondered, too, if it would be better for everyone if he just keeled over now.
Felt guilt for thinking that way.
Guilt now whichever way this went.
The voice, booming in from outside the church, startled everyone.
‘This is the FBI.’
A male voice, strong, rational, uncompromising.
Michael heard gasps, saw the light of hope in some eyes, new fear in others, and he understood that, felt it himself, because who knew what would happen if some SWAT team stormed the church?
Or what Reaper might decide to do before that.
‘That’s it. All we can carry.’ Amos kicked at a pile of the loose green stuff around his boots. ‘Time to organize you, Nemesis.’
The other woman removed her jacket, pulled off her sweater and the vest beneath, keeping the balaclava in place, then raised her arms while Amos began taping bundles of cash to her bra and her skin, and Liza tried to keep a tally but lost count, thought it was maybe as much as seventy thousand, perhaps even a hundred grand, being concealed on her person.
‘How does that feel?’ Amos asked.
‘Warm.’
Amos turned to Liza. ‘Help her put her clothes back on.’
‘I’d rather not.’
He jerked the shotgun her way. ‘Do it.’
Liza struggled to get the black vest down over the other woman’s cash-fattened body. ‘Not sure this is going to fit.’
‘Make it fit,’ Amos said.
Liza stretched it, succeeded, and Nemesis tucked the bottom of the vest into her waistband, then motioned for the sweater.
‘Don’t you think people might ask questions when you pay your brother’s hospital bills with amazing stacks of cash?’ Liza asked.
‘I’m not a moron,’ Nemesis said.
‘Speed it up,’ Amos said.
Liza dragged the sweater down over the balaclava, helped Nemesis get her arms through the sleeves, then turned to the gunman. ‘What’s your cut for? Sick mom? Dogs’ home?’
‘Mind your fucking business, smart mouth,’ Amos said.
‘None of us knows his story.’ Nemesis picked up her jacket.
‘Help her with it,’ Amos rapped.
‘I’m OK,’ Nemesis said, and grunted as she tried zipping it up.
‘Any connection with Osborn?’ Liza dared to go on probing. ‘You seemed so angry with him.’
Amos stepped forward, fastened the jacket for Nemesis. ‘Can you bend?’
Nemesis tried. ‘Well enough.’ She turned to Liza. ‘Don’t push him.’
‘I’m just interested in motivation,’ Liza said.
Amos turned around and came so close that she could feel his sour breath. ‘How’d you like to get left in one of those tunnels we passed on the way in?’
‘Not one bit,’ Liza said, feeling sick.
‘Then keep it zipped.’
He hoisted the largest bag onto his own back, then helped Nemesis with hers.
‘Do you want me to carry some?’ Liza said.
‘Little Christmas bonus for you?’ Amos said. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I just thought it might help us get back quicker,’ she said. ‘Less time in the tunnel.’
Nemesis turned to Amos. ‘All set?’
‘One request,’ Liza said. ‘I’d like to check on Mr Osborn.’
‘No requests,’ Amos said.
The telephone in Simon Keenan’s office was ringing off the hook.
Michael could hear it, had been tuned in to it ever since the FBI had first appealed for someone to pick up. Special Agent Clement Carson, the man calling through a megaphone, telling Reaper that he wanted to speak to him, wanted to help any way he could.
No sign from Reaper as yet that he was remotely interested in talking to Carson.
Everyone growing edgier as time passed, Michael felt.
‘Wouldn’t hurt to talk to the man,’ Nowak, the organist, had called out a while back.
‘Just answer the damned phone,’ Adam Glover had added.
Reaper had told them to be quiet.
‘Making a noise won’t help you,’ he’d said.
‘If you don’t want to leave the nave’ – Simon Keenan tried now – ‘I could just go down and pick up.’ He stood up from his seat beside Rosie. ‘You could tell me what to say.’
Jeremiah moved across the nave, and pointed his shotgun at the vicar.
‘Or maybe not,’ Keenan said.
Michael just kept silent.
Thinking about Liza, hoping she was OK, not understanding why Reaper had wanted her down there with Amos and Nemesis.
Her continuing absence more troubling by the minute.