Whirlwind

by Hilary Norman

  St Luke’s Episcopal Church on Burgess Road in North Foster. Rural territory, the road dark, the only light around coming from the church itself. A somewhat desolate spot, no sign anywhere close by of the preparations for feasting that had surely to be going on in homes all over. There should, he’d thought earlier, watching from inside the truck, be nice little houses close by, lights aglow, families getting set for the holiday, turkeys resting inside dark refrigerators, relatives in distant places packing overnight bags before their journeys; or perhaps they’d already arrived and were sipping hot toddies or eggnog …

  Here and now, inside the church, the lights at the sanctuary end were ablaze, bulbs and shades dusted, wood reasonably close to gleaming; but most of the nave was unlit, and he was seated on a pew beside the north wall, shrouded in semidarkness.

  Very still. All but invisible.

  He stared up, briefly, at the altar, then let his gaze travel around the whole interior, over the two stained-glass windows, their design scarcely discernible without sun or moon or electric light to show them off. He thought, for a few moments, of other intricate windows from his past, of choral music, of the glow that had once filled him.

  And had been stolen from him. Together with his life.

  Not that he’d been exactly ‘right’ even back then.

  ‘OK,’ he said, inside his head. ‘Speak.’

  The Messenger spoke.

  It was hard for him to be sure sometimes who was the obedient one: he or the Messenger. Both so different now, not at all the way they’d started out. He had believed in the Angel then with all his heart and soul, but he knew now that even back at the start of it the commanding voice had been in his head, part of his condition. And once he’d accepted that, it had become a matter of realizing that he could – at least some of the time – turn it on and off at will. Tricks he’d taught himself. Tricks no doctor or shrink would sanction, let alone condone.

  Free will.

  His will.

  In the Bible, angels were messengers among other things, and the ancient Greek angelos meant messenger, depending on where you looked it up, and he’d appreciated learning that, felt that was good enough for him.

  The Messenger was speaking now.

  He closed his eyes, felt his heart contract, felt heat fill him, and then he cooled and his breathing slowed almost to a standstill, to nothingness, and he could concentrate entirely on listening – it was impossible to do anything but listen, because the voice filled his head, filled all of him, velvety gentle but galvanizing at the same time.

  Commanding him.

  She was kneeling.

  An innocent, probably good woman, a godly person, most likely a member of the altar guild. A lay person, harmless—

  ‘Not harmless,’ the Messenger corrected him. ‘Neither good nor innocent.’

  And the man who had once been the boy who heard angels understood that it was neither a messenger nor an angel telling him these things, that they were simply the truth. For he knew who and what had stolen his life from him; and all through his hideous afterlife, his purgatorial existence, he had been keeping those truths carefully stored, locked inside the miniature sacristy in his brain, to be released only at special moments.

  Released now.

  Enabling him to see this woman for what she truly represented.

  Hypocrisy. Cruelty. Wickedness.

  One of his visions filled him, a terrible visualization of those things, a logjam of absolute inner ugliness, threatening to suffocate him. And with that came the need – and the Messenger was here to help him, urging him on, commanding him.

  To emerge from the shadows, make himself known to her.

  Do what he had to do.

  What needed to be done.

  By him.

  Now.

  SEVEN

  Great childhood.

  All Michael’s early memories were happy ones.

  His mom had cared for him twenty-four/seven until he was old enough to go to kindergarten, then taken part-time work in sales for a fashion store in Wayland Square in Providence. Michael could not recall a time when he had not felt proud to have her for his mother, simply accepting of the fact that his father was not in his life. Emily had told him when he was twelve that if he wanted to look his dad up when he was older, she would not stand in his way. Michael had looked into her blue eyes and doubted that he’d ever want any more parent than her.

  She’d waited until he was fourteen before telling him about his Shiloh family history, and hearing that his grandfather had been accused of killing a child had packed quite a punch, though Emily had said she didn’t think that Donald Cromwell had been guilty.

  ‘My dad swore to me on my life that he was innocent, and I believed him. But no one else did, and there was no way of proving it either way, not once he’d died.’

  ‘Killed himself,’ Michael had said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why do you think he did that if he wasn’t guilty?’

  ‘I guess because no one believed him,’ Emily had said.

  ‘Except you,’ Michael had reminded her.

  ‘Yes,’ she’d said.

  When Michael had asked if she would take him to meet his grandmother, Emily said that it might be distressing, but Michael insisted he wanted to go.

  The encounter had been sad and boring; just an old lady in a chair who didn’t recognize his mom or care a damn who he was. And after, since they were near Shiloh, they’d gone together to the village, and Emily had shown him the house where she’d lived, and the site of the old school, the building now converted into an inn. He’d found her suddenly very bleak, which had troubled him, partly because the trip had been his idea.

  She’d gotten drunk that night for the first time since her pregnancy.

  The first time Michael had seen his mom in a less-than-perfect light.

  Having the best mom in the world could give a kid unrealistic expectations.

  Bound to crash sometime.

  It had bothered him, for sure, even scared him, but Emily had been sober the next morning, and ashamed, and he’d told her he understood, even though he had not, at least not entirely, but then they’d both gotten over it and had gone on with their good, happy life.

  No crash yet.

  That was still to come.

  EIGHT

  1985

  From The Foster Weekly Post

  December 5

  Robbery Suspected in Case of Missing Foster Woman

  The family of Margaret ‘Peggy’ Jerome, missing now for eight days, were persuaded yesterday by the Foster Police Department to make a Channel Five News appeal for urgent information into her disappearance. Mrs Jerome, fifty-two, a member of the Altar Guild of St Luke’s Episcopal Church, Burgess Road, North Foster, was last seen by her husband, Ray, on the morning of November 27, when, having made breakfast pancakes, she said that she was looking forward to preparing the High Altar for the Thanksgiving Eve service.

  According to Reverend Anthony Rivera, all evidence pointed to Mrs Jerome having completed her tasks ‘as beautifully as ever’, though according to Deputy Police Chief Robert Cook, ‘an item of value’ was later discovered to be missing, presumed stolen. Robbery as a possible motive is now being considered by Foster PD, but with each passing day, deep concern is growing for the safety of this well-loved pillar of the local community.

  Three graves here now, in the velvety dark, damp, beautiful place where Margaret ‘Peggy’ Jerome had been laid to rest, her grave previously dug, ready to receive her. The other two already occupied, the first by a dead lamb snatched from a field in Moosup Valley which he’d killed before burning it, a symbolic fulfillment of the first mission given him by the Angel. The second grave containing the body of a man he’d spied from the road in Chopmist one early evening, sitting in his kitchen with the door wide open, wearing a T-shirt and shorts and eating a bowl of cornflakes, the open door and absence of others seeming like an invitation.

  N
othing to do with the Messenger, therefore, that first one, just a case of sheer chance while he’d been driving around in his patron’s truck looking for a place to rob, and there it was, this nice white Cape Cod house, and no one home but the cornflake-eater, which meant he’d been able to help himself to cash and the man’s watch and wedding ring – all of which he would take back to his patron – and to a surprising stash of medication, which he’d keep for himself to sell on, and, finally, to a silver crucifix which he’d used down here to posthumously cut the dead man’s throat.

  Only he hadn’t been able to stop there, had gone on and on, stabbing and pounding until his hunger was sated and he’d been fit to bury the man.

  More than a hunger, he’d learned since then, for when it came, it crept through him as insidiously as the aura preceding a seizure, and then it grabbed hold, of his mind and hands, taking total possession. He’d heard men say that some things were better than sex, but he couldn’t tell about that because he had never experienced a true act of sexual intercourse. Because the things that had been done to him, boy and man, had been acts of perversion and, loathing aside, he had always been able to detach from them, almost in the way that he’d been able to detach, at least partially, from what he’d done to the cornflake-eater and, more recently, to Peggy Jerome.

  Dissociation, he had self-diagnosed, his learning coming from books. Possibly a result of his infant sickness. Possibly not.

  He had read, too, that some psychotic killers experienced powerful sexual gratification in their deeds. Not so in his case, his need simply overwhelming, the acts that followed giving him neither erection nor climactic explosion. Yet they were all-consuming, so perhaps it was death, he had wondered, the creation of death, in all its hideous magnificence, that was better than sex, better than anything.

  ‘RIP,’ he said, when he was ready, at last, to leave Margaret Jerome’s grave.

  Knowing it was time to go back.

  Home, hideous home.

  NINE

  It had been during the late summer of 2001 when Liza, working on a feature for the Cigar about a special education school near West Concord, Massachusetts, had first met Michael Rider.

  Walden Pond Campus School, she’d been told, was an extraordinary place staffed by inspirational people, all finding ways to draw the very best skills, confidence and happiness out of the children in their care. Rider, a year older than Liza, a graduate of Rhode Island College in Providence, had been chosen to show her around; a volunteer counselor at the school’s summer camp, he was building up his own credits, a BA in early childhood education already achieved, striving toward his goal, which was to become a classroom teacher at this renowned school.

  The attraction had been instantaneous for Liza.

  Reciprocated, at least to an extent.

  But she’d been there on assignment.

  Priority for them both.

  The school was as remarkable as anticipated, with a comfortable feel, sequestered yet outgoing, the summer camp’s focus on the development of skills and fun, its approach relaxed, with plentiful laughter and almost tangible love. Liza had spent the day sitting in on various activities, after which she and Rider had gone for a working supper at a restaurant less than a half-mile away.

  It was a relaxed family establishment, and when he’d excused himself for a few words with the owners about an upcoming event, Liza had taken a look around at the art on the walls – some well-executed charcoal drawings of musical instruments, all for sale – and had used the moments for a few covert glances at him. Truth was she’d spent the day liking the look of Michael Rider: his slim, wiry build, about five-eleven, his dark hair in a ponytail, his expressive, capable hands, friendly brown eyes, small sharp nose, mouth not quite straight, swerving from wryness to laughter in point two of a second.

  What she’d liked most, though, had been his easy, gentle warmth with the kids, and he seemed much the same with these adults, demonstrating something now with those hands, laughing at some joke.

  Nice guy, definitely, she decided as he turned toward her, and they sat down at a window table and Liza shut down those thoughts, remembered why she was there and switched on the recorder they’d agreed on earlier.

  The owners, Rider explained, regularly provided picnics for school outings, had originally moved here to be close to their son while he was at The Pond – as it was known locally – and had loved it so much that they’d never left, though the son had long since gone to college and was doing great.

  ‘I’m betraying no confidences telling you that,’ he said. ‘Apparently stories get shared around up here, positive and sad, and the kids get a welcome wherever they go.’

  ‘Sounds like a special community,’ Liza said.

  ‘Lot of good people.’ Rider glanced around at the drawings of musical instruments. ‘The artist teaches arts and crafts at Walden Pond. Nice woman.’

  ‘Talented,’ Liza said.

  ‘The cello’s my personal favorite.’ He smiled. ‘Sparse lines but very female.’

  Liza took another look. ‘It’s the violin for me.’

  ‘Do you play?’

  She laughed. ‘I’m against cruelty to my fellow man.’

  Their cheeseburgers arrived swiftly and they set to eating, both hungry, working easily through Liza’s list of questions.

  ‘You seem very invested in the place,’ she said, midway through, ‘considering you haven’t been here long.’

  ‘I think you’d have to have a damned cold heart not to feel that way,’ Rider said. ‘These kids deserve so much credit. I’ve never encountered such courage: the challenges they face on a daily basis, and the ways they find to tackle them. It’s awe-inspiring.’

  ‘I’ve been here less than a day,’ Liza said, ‘and I see what you mean. Though I think it’s the school, the teachers and therapists – and the volunteers – who deserve as much credit.’

  ‘Just please don’t mention me in your feature,’ Rider said. ‘It’s honestly a privilege to be allowed to work in that place.’

  ‘Am I allowed to mention the impact The Pond has on its volunteers?’

  ‘I guess,’ he said.

  ‘I’m looking forward to writing this,’ she said. ‘I hope I do it justice.’

  ‘I have a feeling you will.’ He finished his burger and drank some Coke. ‘Off the record, I’m afraid I’ve never had much time for journalists.’

  Liza smiled. ‘I have a grandfather who loathes them, so if you feel like venting, I’m used to it, and I can always turn off the recorder.’

  ‘I don’t need to vent,’ Rider said.

  Something behind that perhaps, Liza had thought, but then he’d moved them back to the main subject, and his undoubted passion had gone on lighting up his answers while they ate apple cobbler and she finished her questions, and it had all added to her certainty that she really liked this man, was definitely attracted to him, though he probably had a girlfriend and it was unlikely, in any case, that her feelings might be reciprocated.

  And then it had been over, he’d walked her back to her B&B and their handshake at the door had been warm but final, leaving her feeling flat.

  ‘If it weren’t inappropriate’ – he’d waited till the last moment – ‘I think I’d be asking if we could do this again.’

  ‘Would it be inappropriate?’

  ‘I’m here on behalf of the school.’ Rider’s mouth edged into wry mode. ‘So yes, it feels that way.’

  ‘I guess you’re probably right,’ Liza had said.

  And that had been that.

  Except that next morning, on checking out, she found that he’d come by earlier and had left an envelope for her containing a photograph of the violin drawing, signed by the artist (so maybe she was a girlfriend – maybe that was how he’d got it signed so fast), together with a note.

  ‘The real work definitely would have been inappropriate, but I thought you might get a kick out of this. You can look at it and remember the kids. I know you�
��ll do them proud.’

  She’d driven by the school but he’d been off somewhere with a group, so she’d scribbled a quick message of thanks and assurance that she’d be doing her very best and got back in her car, still warmed by the photo and his note.

  But then, the first thing that had happened when she got back was that she’d caught the flu. The real McCoy, the kind that made you sick as hell and left you shaky for weeks.

  The second thing, soon after the start of the fall semester, had changed everything for everyone. 9/11. Liza had written the piece by then, but now there was no space for it. She’d sent a letter of explanation and regret, addressing it to him c/o Walden Pond, but the response had come from the school because Rider was, of course, no longer there. She hoped he’d been sent a copy of her apology but didn’t feel she could bother the school to ask about that, not at such a time, her feature so trivial a casualty she knew it would not be missed, probably not even by him. Massively greater things by far to be written about and wept over, people turning to those close at hand to share the horrors.

  It would have been the same for Michael Rider.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Though it had not, in fact, been the last she’d heard about him.

  Two years later, she’d spotted his name in a small article in the Boston Globe, and had read with dismay what had happened to him. Had learned, too, for the first time, about his connection with Shiloh and the Cromwell family. Having no other point of contact, she had mailed another letter c/o Walden Pond, marking it for forwarding, asking if there was anything she could do to help, because what he’d been accused of doing made no sense to her, but her letter had come back unopened with a note from the school’s personnel department saying they had no forwarding address.