Rebel Angels

by James Michael Rice

  “I just wanna be alone,” he repeated, his voice trembling, rising higher. He bowed his head and tossed his cigarette away as if he hated it, as if it was the source of all of his troubles. When he lifted his head, he saw that Stacey was standing right beside him. Tenderly, she reached out and began to wipe away his tears with her soft fingertips. She looked like an angel in the moonlight.

  She felt him trembling, felt the pain coursing through his veins, and the tide of emotions swelling inside of him. Before she even realized it was happening, she too began to cry. “I know,” she whispered. “Karen told me everything.”

  Before he could object any further, he found himself holding her, this girl, this stranger, who had endured so many horrors beyond his imagination. She was crying with him, for him, for herself, her arms wrapped around him, head pressed against his shoulder, tears rolling down his jacket. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since the last time he had held somebody that way, or since he himself had been held. He could smell her skin, the faint fragrance of apricots and strawberries; he could feel her long, silky hair caressing his arms and face, the warmth of her body, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed slowly, and it all felt so good. Not just for him, but for the both of them. For a long time, they stood that way; two strangers holding one another, crying together.

  “It's not your fault, Rick,” she whispered, so lovingly that he began to cry even harder against her shoulder, stroking her long hair, wrapped in her arms like a child.

  “She was there one night…then she was gone…we had an argument and I let her go, I let her go…I never shoulda let her go…I let her walk away and now she's dead and I can't live anymore…I just can't live…I wish it was me…Oh, God, why did she have to die?” Rick sobbed into her shoulder, his defenses broken down by her warm embrace.

  “Everything's gonna be alright,” she kept repeating, holding onto him as tightly as she could. “Everything's gonna be alright.” Stacey was actually grateful to be his source of comfort, and she said these words for her own benefit as much as his; it allowed her to push her own thoughts and fears aside. The knifelike memories that surfaced, threatening to severe the last tethers of her sanity, whenever she closed her eyes—the terror of her abduction, the ghastly images of the things she had witnessed inside the abandoned house.

  After some time the tears dried, and with a little coaxing on Stacey's part the two of them went back inside the dark cabin, where they slept together on the floor, still holding each other.

  Soon, sleep found them once again.

  It was the best sleep either of them had had in a long, long time.

  ~Twenty-Three~

  It was getting close to midnight.

  Kelly Brine stood inside the Futawam Grand Cinemas, gazing out into the parking lot, and could barely see her blue Toyota Camry in the darkness. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought some prankster had covered the windows with a velvet curtain. A black velvet curtain. It was that dark.

  She licked her lips nervously. If Kelly had known the name of the genius who had come up with the brilliant idea of having the outside lights shut off automatically after closing, she would have been on the telephone with that person right now, using language that would make her mother cringe. Though the name of that person was unknown to her, the thought of cussing him out made her smile just the same.

  Still looking outside, she unlocked one of the glass doors that stood beside the ticket booth and stepped out, where it was not only dark but chilly. She fumbled her keys from her pocketbook and locked the theater door behind her. At the same time, she went through her nightly routine of running down a mental checklist of all the things she was supposed to do when closing the theater:

  Did you make sure the cleaners did their jobs, that all the floors and bathrooms are clean? Are the rugs all vacuumed?

  Check.

  Did you make sure all of the candy and food was accounted for, and that any old food was thrown out?

  Check.

  Did you deposit the money in the night safe? Was the money all accounted for?

  Check.

  She turned and looked for her car on the far side of the parking lot, beside the dumpster. Still, she could not see it.

  Did you lock all the doors?

  Check.

  Good, then it was time to go.

  Taking a deep breath, she slung her brown Coach pocketbook over one shoulder, hooked one finger through her keyring, and started across the parking lot. For a moment she considered returning to the inside of the theater, where she could call one of her friends to escort her to her car. Only pride made her continue. They would think she was just plain silly, afraid of going alone to her car, which was less than fifty yards away. And the comments they'd make, and the sarcastic remarks. It just wasn't worth the bother. Besides, she was already halfway there.

  Kelly walked quickly, her keys jingling eerily in the stillness. She tried to tell herself to be calm. She tried to tell herself there was nothing to worry about. She was doing a pretty good job of it until...

  Something moved.

  She gasped, heart thudding so hard it made her chest ache. Okay, what the hell was that? She struggled to see, squinting, pushing her glasses further up the bridge of her nose, closer to her eyes.

  She wasn't a supermodel, but she was far from being ugly. With short blond hair, plump breasts, and shapely legs, she was certainly considered attractive. And though she wasn't conceited, she knew, looking like she did, walking alone at midnight in a dark parking lot, she was a prime candidate for rape.

  She jerked in the direction of the sound, to her right, toward the dark woods that bordered the theater. The sound, whatever it was, was coming closer to her. Was it the rustling of clothes, perhaps? She pictured a fat balding man with a maniacal smile rushing towards her from the woods, his polyester pants rubbing together at the thighs, rustling, rustling, his sweaty hands extended towards her as he prepared to fondle her private parts, and the image made her nauseous.

  The sound continued towards her and she picked up her pace, now able to see the windshield of her car as it reflected a sliver of moonlight. Though frightened, she was sensible. It wasn't the first time she had been left alone to close the theater. And as far as she knew, no one had ever been raped in the small town of Futawam. As far as she knew, there had never been a murder, either. But in Hevven, Futawam's neighboring town, that was another story. Weird things were happening there all the time. In fact, just earlier that evening, she'd overheard two of her co-workers discussing a pack of young killers who had escaped from the police the day before, and about the body of the girl that had been found. The story was on the front page of every newspaper, and on all the local television stations. It was big news for a relatively peaceful community. Hell, they'd probably end up making a movie about it.

  The rustling noise stopped.

  Just an animal, she thought. A cat or something. Here, kitty, kitty...

  She glanced back at the theater. With the lights off, the ticket booth empty, and concession stand void of the usual array of hungry moviegoers, it was a veritable ghost town back there. It seemed miles away, hours since she'd left there. As for the rest of the plaza—CVS, Payless Shoes, Happy's Music Store, the Fashionable Lady garment shop, and Bogart's Liquors—it, too, was dead.

  She finally arrived at her car, feeling out her keys, trying to find the one that would open the door to safety.

  The rustling began again. Faster than before. This time there was no mistaking the swish of polyster. The fat balding man, with that hungry smile and drooping eyes, was almost upon her. She could see him clearly in her mind. She whirled around, terrified, preparing to fight him off. Readying herself to claw out the bastard's eyeballs if she had to. And as the sound drew closer, closer, she finally confronted the source of all her fears.

  A crumpled piece of newspaper zigzagged in the breeze, rustling and scratching across the pavement. It stopped as the breeze stopped, just
several feet away from her.

  She sighed, smiling as she scolded herself for being so frightened. As she again set to the task of locating the key which would open the car door, the ball of newspaper was again caught in the wind, and scurried past her, disappearing in the darkness once again.

  Still somewhat nervous, her trembling hands fumbled the keys and they crashed to the pavement with a metallic jing-jingle. Shaking her head in disbelief of herself, she knelt down and scooped them into her hand.

  At last, she found it. It was hard to miss, really. Most of the other keys on the loop were house keys, which were all similar in shape and size, and each totally different than the thick, silver key that belonged to her Toyota.

  She slid the key into the door lock, instinctively pulling the handle at the same time, and the door came open before she had a chance to turn the key. Strange, she thought. I could've sworn I locked the door this afternoon. In fact, just as a precaution, she always made sure to lock her car. Lucky for me it wasn't stolen. Then it dawned on her that she hadn't been paying attention. And with her back to the woods, she was completely vulnerable. Idiot, she thought. I have to be more careful. After all, Hevven is only about a mile away. She glanced quickly over her shoulder and saw...nothing.

  From somewhere nearby, the rustling sound began again. Her heart thumped, then settled. That damn newspaper again! Doesn't anybody clean the damn parking lot around here?

  She got into the car, slamming the door behind her, placing her pocketbook beside her on the passenger seat. Sliding the key into the ignition slot, Kelly started up the Toyota, turning on her headlights with a flick of her wrist. Out of habit, she looked up to adjust the rearview mirror, and as she did so, panic made her freeze.

  There was a shadow in the backseat.

  A shadow that was smiling.

  Frozen, unable to scream, pure terror gripped her.

  Then a hand gripped her as well.

  By the throat.

  ~Twenty-Four~

  “You killed me,” the dead girl taunted. Maggots spilled from her open mouth and landed, squirming, on the ragged earth. She smiled wickedly, swollen lips and bloodstained teeth. In a blur, her face was three inches from his, her movements as erratic as a hummingbird's.

  “I didn't kill you, Anna,” Agent Ferren told the walking corpse. He tried to move away, but it was like trying to move under water.

  They were standing in a seemingly endless graveyard, in the middle of a forest. There were bodies everywhere, as far as the eye could see. They dangled from the trees like Halloween ornaments, stared at the sky from shallow graves. Ferren looked from body to body. He could tell how they had died by looking at their wounds. Shot, stabbed, beaten, strangled, and burned...the list went on and on.

  “You killed me,” the dead girl repeated.

  Her name was Anna Hartsoe, and she had been missing for a week and two days at the time her body was discovered in an upstairs room in the Moody house. Ferren knew her name because her parents had identified her body at the morgue, and because he'd spent countless hours staring at her photograph and coroner's report. Stabbed, repeatedly. Blunt trauma to the head. Severe lacerations to the neck, chest, and fingers.

  “I didn't kill you,” Ferren told the girl, speaking in his political tone. “But I can help you. Tell me who did this to you, and I'll make sure he pays for it.”

  Anna Hartsoe flashed a toothless smile. In a blur, she was facing away from him, and he could see her spine through a gaping hole in the middle of her back. A smooth black handle protruded from between her shoulder blades.

  “Agent Ferren,” she smiled at him over her shoulder. Her voice was schoolgirl sweet. “Can you please take the knife out of my back?”

  And with that, he returned to his plain-looking room at the Holiday Inn, where he had fallen asleep fully clothed, and with the light still on. He remained motionless for a time, first trying to remember the details of his dream and then wishing he could erase it from his mind. He squinted into the too-bright light, glanced around the tiny room.

  There was a bottle of Black Label on the nightstand. After no more than two seconds of consideration, he rolled over and poured himself a shot. The insistent red glow of a digital clock burned the time into his skull; it was 4:30 in the morning. He was about to nail down his second shot when the phone rang.

  “'Lo?” Agent Ferren spoke into the receiver.

  “Sorry to call so early, but I thought you'd want to know about this...”

  Teeming with nervousness and excitement. Bailey's voice.

  Ferren downed his shot. “What's going on?” he asked in his no-nonsense voice.

  “Another girl vanished last night. Her name's Kelly Brine. She works as a manager at the theatre in Futawam. Her mother swears she's never been late without calling. Her car was found in the parking lot with the keys still in it.”

  “Any sign of a struggle?”

  “I'm still waiting for the word on that. I mean, it could be nothing. She's only been missing for what? Four hours? She might've shacked up with someone. Hell, she could be out partying over one of her friend's houses. I just thought you ought to know.”

  “No,” Ferren said. “That's good. You did good. See if you can contact the Futawam PD and find out who they've got working on this. I'd like to have a look at the car. Like you said, it could be nothing, but I want to make sure. I'll be at the station in an hour.”

  “Alright. I'll be waiting.”

  Ferren hung up the phone. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the big mirror that rested above the dresser, directly across from him. His dark hair stood up in shocks, showing more of his scalp than he had ever noticed before, and there was about 40 years worth of luggage under his eyes.

  “When the hell did I get so goddamn old?” he wondered aloud.

  After a few moments he opened the nightstand drawer, where his Glock 9mm and an extra clip of ammunition looked strangely at home beside the hotel Bible.

  As he thought about God and bullets, he poured himself another shot.

  ~Twenty-Five~

  It was late Tuesday morning, five days after Mike Swart and his friends had fled from their hometown of Hevven, Massachusetts, and Kevin Chapman, the World Class Fuck-Up, was coming home.

  Kevin sat silently in his mother's white caravan, watching the blur of trees through the passenger window. His mother drove, her long brown and gray hair blowing in the wind, both hands wrapped firmly around the steering wheel, her face a strange combination of relief, sympathy, and concern. The concern was for her only son, who had apparently heard the shocking news earlier that same day.

  Kevin knew he and his friends were considered misfits in the little town of Hevven. He knew Max could sometimes explode for no reason, that Rick had teeter-tottered on the edge of insanity, and that he himself had garnered a well-deserved reputation for being a pothead. But murderers? Hell, no! They were harmless in that regard. Well, maybe not entirely harmless. There was that one time when Max had beaten the crap out of Willy Grant after school...for no good reason other than the fact that Willy was fat, and Max always got a kick out of picking on fat people. If one of Willy's friends, along with a couple of brave teachers, hadn't been there to break it up, Max probably would've messed the kid up pretty badly, perhaps would have sent him to the hospital. But even Max knew when enough was enough, though sometimes he got carried away.

  At the most, Kevin supposed, he and his friends could be considered troublemakers, but they were a far cry from the cold-blooded murderers the police and the media were making them out to be. And they sure as shit didn't belong to a cult. He was certain about that.

  But how did they get caught up in a murder? This thought had troubled him the most since he had heard the news. And where did they go? Where? Canada? Knowing Max, that's probably where they were right now. Just before Kevin was sent away, he and Max had had a very long conversation about Canada, about running away and starting their lives anew. But maybe, to Max,
it had been more than just a topic for discussion. Maybe he'd been planning it all along, though Kevin doubted that was true. Max had never been much of a planner; that was Mike's job. Wherever they were, though, Kevin wished that he was with them, even with the trouble that would find them sooner or later.

  It was better to know. Kevin Chapman needed to know.

  What the hell had happened? Were they set up? Was it some kind of freak accident? What if...what if Max really had killed that girl, and the others were trying to cover for him? These questions would bother Kevin until he found some answers. Anything to assure him that his friends had not become killers overnight.

  Now, his early departure seemed aimless. There wasn't much to look forward to, with his friends gone and his probation officer already breathing down his neck. His high hopes for another slamming jamming summer were shot out of the sky and were now dying slowly, waiting to be put out of their misery. Bang! Bang! Bang!

  What the hell is happening to Hevven? Kevin wondered. The town was becoming a black hole of misfortune. Yet, there was another thought in his head that carried just as much weight and confusion as the others.

  How the hell did I earn an early release? Why me? Why now? He knew it had something to do with the cops, particularly that new guy, Officer Bailey, whom Kevin had seen talking to Doctor Parker yesterday afternoon. But why would Officer Bailey give a rat's ass about Kevin? Bailey was a new guy; he hadn't been on the force long enough to have formed a grudge against Kevin, or any of the other so-called punks in Hevven. Kevin guessed it probably had more to do with Bailey's dickhead superior, Chief Moriarty.

  Moriarty was a typical small-town cop, a ticking timebomb of piss and venom. Everyone who had and hadn't met him knew that, either by firsthand experience or by word of mouth. It was Moriarty who had helped send Kevin to Plymouth. Hell, that bastard was the one who had taken him there from the courthouse.