Whirlwind

by Hilary Norman

  ‘Go on, John Tilden,’ Reaper said. ‘Stand up, if you’re able, and tell us about those people you blamed and hated.’

  Tilden rose, looked down momentarily at Eleanor’s frightened face, then stared into space. ‘I was crazy at the time,’ he said. ‘I know that now. I just wanted to punish them all so badly.’ He took a breath. ‘I didn’t really know the little girl at all.’

  ‘By “little girl”, do you mean Alice Millicent?’ Reaper interrupted.

  In the third row, Betty Hackett drew a sharp, audible breath.

  ‘Yes,’ Tilden said.

  The case, Liza realized. Finally, after four decades, this church had become a courtroom, with that man as prosecutor.

  Maybe judge too.

  She remembered what Mark Jackson had said earlier about lynching someone, and felt sick.

  ‘I’d seen her now and then, going to school,’ John Tilden said. ‘She was a pretty little thing, and her family lived outside the village. My troubles had nothing to do with them, but I was crazy, wasn’t I?’

  ‘Oh, dear God, no,’ Eleanor Tilden said, and covered her face with her hands.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ellie,’ he said. ‘Sorrier than you’ll ever know. But from the moment I met Lynne Rigby over near Greenville – we were both buying blueberries at an orchard – she called it “serendipitous”. I’d never have come up with a word like that, would I, Ellie?’

  ‘John, please stop this.’ Eleanor’s voice came from behind her hands.

  ‘I can’t. Can’t hold it in any longer. She was so beautiful, and she wanted me, which seemed like a miracle. She wanted to move to Shiloh and bear my children.’ His old mouth quirked. ‘That’s what she said: “I want to bear your children.”’ He looked down at his present wife, her face still covered. ‘You’ve been the best wife any man could ask for, Ellie, but you’re a strong woman, you’re tough. You’ll get over this.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Michael asked, horror in his voice.

  ‘Yes, John Tilden,’ Reaper said, quietly. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I set him up.’ Tilden’s voice was starting to crack. ‘I went to a rental company and hired a black Cadillac Seville, same model as Cromwell’s, and I sprayed the license plates with paint I could clean off later. I went to Providence and bought an expensive suit and panama hat just like his, even the kind of shiny black leather shoes he wore.’

  Beside him, Eleanor groaned, dropped her hands from her face, looked briefly at the pulpit, then stared straight ahead, her gaze on a split piece of grain in a wood panel, best place as any to stare at while her life cracked wide open.

  ‘The puppy wasn’t so easy – you need luck on your side to find golden retriever pups just when you need one. But I was lucky. I don’t know if she was the spit of the one Cromwell had bought for his daughter, but it was good enough.’

  A spasm of cramp in her right leg hit Liza, and her back and shoulders had begun to ache too, from the backpack and from sheer strain, but she didn’t dare move, panned to Eleanor briefly, then to Reaper, then Michael, wanting the outside world to see his stunned expression. No way had he known of this when he’d joined forces with Whirlwind, and she didn’t know if that made him less or even more guilty.

  She moved back to Tilden, the lens tight on him now.

  ‘I’d picked my day well.’ Tilden sounded as if he was reciting. ‘It was a good week, because one of the teachers was off sick, so there was only one teacher – Gwen Turner – supervising in the playground.’

  Liza saw the vestry door open, saw old Seth Glover step onto the chancel, saw him stop, realizing that something was happening, but she didn’t pan to him, kept her lens on Tilden.

  ‘I parked the Cadillac under an oak tree just to the side of Main in a shady spot so that Alice would see the puppy, focus on that, not me, and my plan was that anyone else who saw me would assume they were seeing Cromwell.’ He licked his dry lips. ‘I was counting on someone seeing. It was a gamble, but that was the whole point, after all. I don’t know what I would have done if they hadn’t.’

  ‘Oh, dear Jesus.’ Glover stood frozen with horror, his lined face already gray with the tragedy of his family’s loss, and now, hearing this …

  ‘It was me you saw, Seth,’ Tilden told him. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. You thought I was Cromwell, just like I meant you to.’

  ‘How could you do that?’ Eleanor’s voice was soft, incredulous.

  ‘Yes, John Tilden,’ Reaper echoed. ‘Tell us all. How could you do that?’

  ‘Honestly? I don’t know.’ Tilden sank down onto the pew.

  ‘Get up,’ Reaper told him.

  ‘I can’t,’ Tilden said. ‘And the truth is—’

  ‘What would you know about truth?’ Gwen Turner called out bitterly.

  ‘I don’t expect anyone to understand – I can’t understand now how I could have done those terrible things to that poor child. I just remember being so consumed with hate, with such a need to destroy, to ruin, to punish – not her, not Alice – but I don’t actually remember doing any of it, not after getting her into the car. I know what I did, but I can’t picture it.’

  ‘Convenient,’ Reaper said.

  ‘Maybe.’ He looked up again at the man in the pulpit, his expression puzzled, and then he glanced sideways at his wife, and then he looked back down, focused on his knees. ‘I do remember the moment she went quiet. And then, God forgive me – and I know he won’t …’ He began to weep. ‘Then there was such a sense of relief, because it was out of me, all that terrible destructive hate.’

  ‘So you felt better,’ Reaper said.

  ‘I’m telling the truth,’ Tilden said.

  ‘Which is what, exactly?’ Reaper asked. ‘You say you know what you did, John Tilden. What did you do to Alice Millicent?’

  ‘I can’t,’ Tilden said again.

  ‘Did you strangle her?’ Reaper asked.

  ‘Don’t make me tell you,’ Tilden said.

  ‘Did you strangle Alice Millicent to death?’ Reaper was relentless again.

  ‘Yes.’ Tilden’s voice was low.

  ‘Louder,’ Reaper said.

  ‘Yes,’ Tilden said again.

  ‘And then you felt better.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tilden said.

  A sound emerged from Michael Rider, an exhalation of revulsion so profound it sounded close to sickness, and finally Liza risked moving her cramping leg, let her own soft grunt of pain mingle with the collective damning mutterings of people all around the nave, and she looked up at Michael, saw him gripping the pulpit’s edge.

  ‘I know how that sounds,’ Tilden went on. ‘But I was crazy. I don’t excuse what I did, I’m just trying to explain. And it was almost easy after that, watching Cromwell getting what was coming to him. I think I almost managed to blot out what I’d done, to believe that he was a murderer.’ He shook his head. ‘There was no real shame in me back then.’ His tears were flowing again now. ‘But I can honestly say that I’m finding this even more of a relief. Now that it’s out, after so …’

  His voice tailed away, and for several more moments everyone sat very still, the nave filled with sounds of dismay and nervous coughing, and of Eleanor Tilden’s quiet, anguished moaning.

  ‘You’re Cromwell’s grandson, do I have that right?’ Seth Glover was still near the vestry door, Keenan beside him.

  ‘Yes, sir. You do.’ Michael’s voice was quiet.

  ‘Then in other circumstances, I guess I’d be telling you how sorry I am for that terrible mistake. And may God forgive me for it.’ Glover took a breath, and a wrenching sob escaped, ran into his next words. ‘But given that you just helped to kill my own sweet, innocent granddaughter, I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t feel inclined to apologize to you.’

  ‘Amen,’ someone said.

  The old man turned and went back through the vestry door, the vicar following.

  Michael didn’t speak, just moved away from the pulpit, sank down on the chancel flo
or and put his head in his hands, as he had after the shootings, and Reaper, too, turned and sat in the chair beside the pulpit.

  Everyone silent now.

  And still no new sounds from outside, Liza registered numbly, only the howl of the wind and the creaking of snow on the roof. No sirens or motors. No helicopters.

  And maybe no one was even hearing this, let alone seeing it.

  The camera was real enough, she thought, but maybe the box of tricks on her back was a fake, who the hell knew?

  She looked back up at the stained glass, now totally opaque with snow, and knew that for as long as the blizzard kept up, neither law enforcement nor even the hardiest news breakers would be putting choppers or crews at risk.

  Many against a few in here, but no fight-back likely. All too exhausted and scared and cold and hungry after more than five hours of fear and shock upon shock, no one equipped to do more than sit and brood.

  St Matthew’s, to all intents and purposes, cut off.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  An hour or so ago, Doris Clayton had still been sitting at her living-room table trying to work out if this was real, or maybe some bad taste drama or just a prank.

  Whichever, it was coming from Shiloh, her former home, from her own church – and it was St Matthew’s, she was certain of that by now, had seen enough, despite the poor picture, and one thing was for sure: it was doing nothing to alleviate her insomnia. She’d been happy in Shiloh Town as long as she’d remained in ignorance of her husband Wiley’s longstanding affair, but once she knew, she’d just had to get out. She’d come to Saugerties, New York, because her brother lived here, and she liked the place well enough, had made friends, but however easily she napped in front of the TV, as soon as she went to bed, she was always wide awake.

  That was why she’d bought a computer, and these nights she emailed, tweeted and played games, and since she’d learned about ‘live streaming’ last year, she’d watched tennis matches and other sports from different time zones, and she’d even tried NASA’s live link to the International Space Station – that had sent her off to sleep for a while because nothing ever seemed to happen.

  Still, it had become a habit to check to see if anything fun was happening someplace, and she’d been wrapping gifts ready for tomorrow when she’d spotted the name Shiloh, because some bright spark (maybe the new young vicar she’d heard about) had organized live streaming of the ‘Christmas Eve Midnight Service from St Matthew’s Episcopal Church, Shiloh, Rhode Island’.

  ‘Midnight’ had puzzled Doris somewhat, because she was pretty sure that it had always started at ten – though maybe this was another of the new vicar’s ideas, and it suited her perfectly, because she’d always loved that service, so come midnight she’d been ready and waiting, a little pot of hot chocolate and saucer of Oreo cookies beside her.

  Nothing.

  She’d waited a while longer, double-checked her settings, then dropped off in the chair, waking to find the chocolate cold and still no service, figuring the blizzard was messing with the link. And she was wide awake again, so she’d gone to heat up more milk, and when she’d come back into the room, it was connected.

  Live from St Matthew’s.

  Except it wasn’t a church service at all.

  A woman was speaking, and the picture – as shaky as Wiley’s hands during a hangover – was of a fire exit with cables strung across it, and Doris thought she’d heard the woman say something about explosives, so this was probably some kind of movie. And then the camera had moved dizzyingly across what did look like a church nave, coming to rest on a man with a black mask over his face, holding a shotgun.

  ‘What the heck?’ Doris said out loud.

  She stared at the screen as the focus turned to an elderly man at the pulpit – not the young vicar, for sure, but it certainly looked like a real church pulpit – and she leaned forward, trying to see if it might, after all, be St Matthew’s.

  The man had raised his hand, and the woman was still speaking. She sounded unsteady too, not a bit like a professional …

  Doris had stopped trying to see if it was her old church or not, listening instead to what the woman was saying.

  ‘This is St Matthew’s Church in the village of Shiloh, Rhode Island, where the Christmas Eve service was hijacked by gunmen over three hours ago. My name is Liza Plain, and I’m hoping that this live streaming is being picked up by the New England news stations and CNN, because this is breaking news, and we need your help now.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Doris had said.

  Had begun to get up to go to the phone.

  Then sat down again.

  Not prepared to be made a fool of. Because this had to be a hoax. You read about such things all the time, and she was not going to be the one to call the cops for a bad joke, certainly not in the middle of the night on Christmas Day, and in such terrible weather.

  She’d turned on the TV because if this was real it would be on the news, but found nothing on any channel, which meant it had to be a prank, or maybe some kind of amateur movie.

  She’d gone back to the computer.

  Actually, when you got used to the lousy picture, it was pretty convincing for an amateur movie.

  But then, a while later, something terrible had happened.

  Something very sick, if it was a part of a movie.

  Except right then, just after two twenty-five on Christmas morning, Doris had suddenly felt much less sure that it was either a movie or a joke, and goose bumps had sprung up on her arms. Because just supposing it was real, supposing what that woman had just told them about a child having been shot was true …

  It meant that St Matthew’s had actually been hijacked.

  That a real-life little girl had been killed.

  ‘Oh, dear God, forgive me,’ she had said.

  Had stood up, trembling, and gone to pick up the phone.

  ‘Oh, my dear God, please forgive me.’

  She’d been wearing the wrong glasses, but she made out the numbers.

  Nine. One. One.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Michael was still sitting on the chancel floor when Reaper stepped back into the pulpit.

  ‘John Tilden, please stand up,’ he said.

  Like a judge about to pass sentence.

  ‘Told you,’ Mark Jackson said to his wife. ‘They’re going to hang him.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Ann Jackson told him.

  ‘Dad, please, shut up,’ Patty Jackson said.

  John Tilden did not move.

  Michael got slowly to his feet, looked at Liza, saw that she was too absorbed to look back at him.

  ‘John Tilden, get up,’ Reaper commanded.

  Tilden sighed and stood, and a wave of trepidation rippled around the church.

  ‘What now?’ Eleanor Tilden asked, bitterly.

  ‘A little more truth to come, Mrs Tilden,’ Reaper answered.

  ‘I’ve made my confession,’ Tilden said. ‘What more do you want?’

  ‘I want you to look at me, John Tilden,’ Reaper said.

  ‘I’m looking,’ the child killer said. ‘We’ve all been looking for hours.’

  ‘Look more closely.’ Reaper paused. ‘No recognition?’

  Tilden shook his head, his expression confused.

  ‘That’s not so surprising,’ Reaper said.

  ‘Are you saying we’ve met before?’ Tilden asked.

  ‘I am saying that,’ Reaper said. ‘Though it has been a very long time. Stretching back even farther than your crimes against Alice Millicent and the Cromwells. It all links up, of course. If we go back to the reason Donald Cromwell considered you unfit to adopt.’

  Watching Tilden, Michael saw his eyes narrow, confusion seeming to waver.

  ‘Almost ten years before that,’ Reaper went on. ‘So, a half-century ago, give or take.’ He paused, then spoke with great clarity. ‘Since you put me away.’

  Tilden went chalky-white, shock seeming to hit like a punch to the solar plexus. />
  ‘Remember now, do you?’ Reaper’s voice was loaded with irony.

  ‘Oh dear Christ,’ Tilden said. ‘Oh dear, fucking Christ.’

  He sat down again, hard, and stared.

  ‘Remember now, do you?’ Reaper said. ‘Remember your own son?’

  Reaction rumbled around the nave, sounds of disbelief and doubt, people shaking their heads, craning their necks to see better, everyone wondering if they’d misheard.

  Michael saw Liza look up at him then, and shook his head in bewilderment.

  Tilden was saying something, his voice too soft to carry.

  ‘I’m sorry, John Tilden,’ Reaper said, ‘but I don’t think everyone heard that. Perhaps you’ll repeat it for them and for the record.’

  Tilden shook his head.

  ‘I’ll repeat it then,’ Reaper said. ‘“Always mad.” That’s what my father just said about me. About his son. That I was always mad.’

  ‘But you can’t be.’ Eleanor spoke for everyone.

  ‘It seems impossible, doesn’t it? But your husband is seventy-nine years old, Mrs Tilden, and I’m twenty years younger. Born in 1955 to Naomi and John Tilden.’

  ‘Dear God,’ Stephen Plain said quietly.

  ‘I know I look much older,’ Reaper went on, ‘but that’s what suffering does to a person. If it starts early enough, goes on long enough.’ His hands were on the pulpit, his cane hooked over his left wrist, the shotgun leaning beside him. ‘I’m not here to argue John Tilden’s point about my sanity. But I was just ten years old when he had me shut away. And I was mad about one thing back then, that is true enough. About the church. This church. About God.’

  ‘He was insane.’ Tilden was rallying, sitting up straighter, his expression wild. ‘He was a young boy, but he killed animals and—’

  ‘One animal,’ Reaper corrected calmly. ‘An intended sacrifice, by a naïve boy.’

  ‘It was his mother’s fault,’ Tilden said frantically. ‘Naomi filled his head with the Bible, read him scriptures instead of fairy tales, and he swallowed everything she told him.’