Rebel Angels

by James Michael Rice

  So what's that asshole planning? Does he think I can lead him to Mike and the others? Yeah, he probably thinks I know where they are. Either that, or he figures they'll come looking for me to join them sooner or later. Oh, shit, or maybe Moriarty's looking to bust me for drugs. That makes a lot more sense, doesn't it? They've been after Pepsak for years, but they never seem to find enough evidence to charge him with anything. That's gotta be it, there trying to find out where I get my weed. That's why they sent me to rehab instead of putting me in lockup.

  When they arrived at their Cape-style house on Tower Street, Kevin and his mother unloaded his things from the rear of the caravan and moved them into the house. It wasn't the nicest house on the block, with its water-stained shingles, fading blue trim, and crumbling driveway, but it was home, and Kevin was glad to be back there.

  “Are you hungry, Kev?” his mother asked, as she placed one of his bags on the kitchen floor. “We can order takeout, if you want. Chinese? Anything you want.”

  She still felt guilty for turning him in, and it showed.

  “Nah, not really. I think I'm gonna clean my room or something. Maybe unpack some of my stuff.”

  Are you hungry, Kev? That's all she could say? He knew she loved him, and he loved her too, but really, Are you hungry, Kev?

  Grabbing his bags, he shuffled down the hallway and into his bedroom. Curtains drawn, it was dark inside, which was just how he liked it. Instinctively his hand went to the wall and his fingers found the switchplate. He flicked on the dim bureau light. His room was exactly as he'd left it, which wasn't necessarily a good thing. The walls were plastered with posters of all kinds, everything from Pink Floyd's Dark Side Of The Moon to a life-size image of Lauren German. There was a small television on a wooden stand in the corner; below it, a Playstation 2 console and a dozen or so games had spilled onto the floor. With a sigh, he looked at the dirty mounds of clothes on the floor and kicked them into one large pile in the corner of the room, near his closet. He decided he'd confront the washing machine later that day. Right now, he didn't have the energy to do laundry.

  When his room was as clean as he cared for it to be, he slid a CD into his stereo, hit the PLAY button, and flopped down on his waterbed. A Beth Orton song wafted through the speakers. His mind wandered, electric with thought. He'd had plenty of time for reflection while serving his time at the rehab center, and now it seemed he'd have plenty more.

  Where were they? What happened? Were they alright?

  He knew it would be some time before he'd find the answers to these nagging questions, but he went on thinking just the same.

  Still in deep thought, and with Beth Orton's hypnotic songs still drifting through his head, he soon fell under a calming sleep.

  When Kevin awoke, nearly three hours later, he was more than grateful that sleep had taken him. He crawled out of bed, changed into a pair of fresh clothes, kicked the old clothes into the corner with the rest, and went out into the kitchen to find his mother.

  “Can I borrow the car?”

  His mother, who was watching one of those afternoon talk shows he loathed, looked up. “Where are you going?” she asked, sipping on a cup of herbal tea.

  “Don't know. Get something to eat, maybe. See if anybody's still around.”

  She nodded sympathetically. “The keys are on the table.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Kev?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you knew where your friends were…you'd tell someone, wouldn't you? Their parents must be worried sick.”

  He lied her a smile, and nodded.

  “Sometimes it's not so easy, Kev. Having kids, I mean.”

  He smiled sadly. “Y'know what? Sometimes it ain't so easy being one, either.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after stopping off at Cumberland Farms for a pack of Marlboros, Kevin found himself driving aimlessly.

  No place to go, no one to see. Where did they go? Canada? Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he turned onto Titicut Street. Where the hell are they?

  He passed Rick Hunter's house, and noticed that both of Rick's parent's cars were there. For a moment he thought of stopping by, to see how they were dealing with things. But something made him drive ahead, to the barren section of Titicut Street—where trees rather than houses lined the road, and the decade-old pavement was marred with cracks, frostheaves, and potholes—and it was here, on this mile-long stretch that connected Titicut with Roller Coaster Road, that Kevin began to slow down. Surrounded by the greenery of the Hockomock Forest, he pulled the caravan into the tall grass that flourished on the shoulder of the street, and slid the shifter into the park position.

  The engine of his mother's caravan rattled noisily as it idled. He sat there staring longingly into the lush forest, down the front of the narrow path, at the end of which stood the small wooden shack he and his friends had built so many years ago.

  Are you hungry, Kev?

  After a long time he killed the engine, pocketed the keys, and began into the forest. He was hungry after all...for some answers.

  ~Twenty-Six~

  Mike Swart awoke upon the hardwood floor with the taste of beer still lingering in his mouth, and his mind in disarray. The dream world had taken the events of the past few days away from him, and had led him to believe that he would wake in his own bed, in his parent's house on Sunset Ave. As his eyes adjusted to the dusty light he found himself looking at a knotty pine wall, and he realized he was not at home but in his late uncle's cabin in New Hampshire.

  Still sleeping beside Mike was his girlfriend, Karen Sloan, the one person he loved more than life itself, and when this part of the reality came he was thankful for it. After watching her sleep for a little while he kissed her tenderly on the forehead, careful not to wake her as he rose from the floor.

  He shuffled across the room, still feeling buzzed, and quietly dressed himself with yesterday's clothes. The extra things that Rick had packed were being used up fast, and later Mike would have to decide whether or not another trip into town would be a good idea. But that was a decision (are you making the right decisions?) that could wait until later. Right now he had plenty of other things to worry about. Not the least of which included the granddaddy of all headaches.

  He left Karen sleeping and shuffled across the hall, where Max and Lou shared the smaller of the two bedrooms.

  He opened the door a crack and saw Max sitting in a decrepit rocking chair with a blanket draped over his shoulders, rocking slowly back and forth as he stared out the open window. His head tilted slightly back, he was trying to blow smoke-rings but was unsuccessful due to the breeze coming in through the open window. In one of his hands he held a can of Budweiser. After last night, the mere sight of it made Mike want to puke.

  “You look like an old lady,” Mike observed, perhaps a bit too loud for the otherwise quiet room.

  Startled, Max nearly tipped over backwards in his chair. He turned and sighed in relief as he saw Mike standing in the doorway.

  “Don't do that, man! You scared the living shit outta me!” Max scolded in his scratchy voice. He grinned sideways. “You hung over?”

  Mike yawned, stretching his arms above his head. “My head is killing me. Hey, where's Lou?”

  “Uh, I think he said he was going to sit by the river or somethin'.”

  “How'd you sleep?”

  “Pretty good,” Max said, tilting his beer can as he took a swig. “Back's a little sore. How 'bout you?”

  Mike rubbed his eyes. “I feel like I was hit by a truck. I hope to God I have some aspirin in my car. How can you drink that shit this early in the morning?”

  “What, this?” Max asked, as if he had forgotten about the beer can he was holding. “Ahhh, there's nothing like a piss-warm beer to chase away your blues. Sip?”

  Mike rubbed his temples. “No, thanks. I'll be back in a few. Looks like it's gonna rain.”

  “Yep.”

  Mike left the cabin and went directly to his c
ar and, much to his satisfaction, managed to find a few packets of aspirin in his glove compartment. He tore open two of the packets and swallowed three tablets dry, all but gagging on the chalky taste they left behind.

  Shortly thereafter Mike was in the meadow, almost waist-high in the tall grass, as he strode down to the river to find his younger brother. The morning mist was rising from the sleepy earth, and the dew-soaked meadow sparkled like a vein of diamonds in its wake. Birds flapped lazily from tree to tree, occasionally swooping down to wrestle an unsuspecting worm from the moist earth, and then retreating back to the safety of the foliage. Clouds made dark shadows that crawled across the mountains like giant insects. The only sounds were those of the birds chirping, the ringing of insects that defiantly continued their nightsongs, and the shush-shush-shush of the wet grass against his jeans as he made his way across the field.

  Had Mike looked back toward the cabin at that moment he would've caught Max watching him through the bedroom window, but he didn't. Other things, beside his throbbing headache, were troubling him. Things that needed to be said. Things that needed to be talked about. Mike knew it would not be easy (he could not remember ever having had a serious discussion with his younger brother) but he knew it was something he must do.

  Then there was Rick who, only seconds ago, Mike had seen sleeping on the cabin floor with his arms around Stacey, as if they had always belonged that way. Mike had taken special care not to wake them as he left the cabin. The two had looked so damn peaceful there, by the hearth of the fireplace. Still, Mike couldn't help but wonder how they had grown so affectionate toward one another without him knowing it.

  They barely spoke at all yesterday, Mike reasoned. Did I miss something? I wasn't that drunk, was I?

  Nevertheless, Mike was overjoyed for his friend. Rick had tortured himself for long enough, and it was time he got on with his life.

  And time for decisions, decisions, some voices in his head reminded him.

  When Mike reached the river he found his younger brother sitting on river's edge with his pants rolled up to the knees, his legs dangling in the shallow water. Lou's cherished New England Patriots hat, two Reebok hightops, two balled-up socks, and a few cigarette butts lay scattered in the sand around him. A fresh, unlit cigarette dangled from the fingertips of his left hand, and in his other hand he held a white Bic lighter.

  Mike stopped short and watched him for a minute. In the strange green-gold of the morning sunlight, it appeared as though Lou had been frozen, like a photograph, before he could bring his cigarette to life with a single stroke of the lighter's flint.

  A few more seconds went by, and Lou remained still, seemingly hypnotized by the dawn's swirling light. After a moment Mike had to speak up, just to make sure his brother was still alive.

  “What's up, bro?” Mike asked, easing down beside him.

  Lou snapped to life, and craned his neck to look up at his brother. “Nuthin',” he blurted, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong. He lit his cigarette and took a quick drag. Then he offered Mike a cigarette. Mike accepted it with a nod of gratitude.

  “Lou, there's something I want to talk about. Something I've been meaning to say for a long time,” Mike said, giving Lou a sideways glance.

  “You guys smoke,” Lou muttered defensively. “I'm the same age you were when you started smoking. I'm old enough to do what I want.”

  “No,” Mike said, and raised one hand to calm him. His large gray eyes appeared luminescent in the sunlight. He half smiled, half pouted. “It's not that. Look, I know you're scared, we all are, and I'd be lying if I told you any different. But we did the right thing. At least, I think we did the right thing. If we had stayed in Hevven we would've been putting mom and dad in a lot of danger. Look, I know it's rough on you…being away from home. But we have to be careful. We can't call them, or go home just yet, until we know things are safe. I know they miss us, and I'm sure they know we miss them, too. I'm just trying to do the right thing, like they always tried to teach us. They know we'll be back. I'm sure they're worried, but that's what parents do best, y'know?”

  Talking to his little brother was much harder than Mike had anticipated. Changing a play at the line of scrimmage, throwing a 40-yard pass into the endzone in tight coverage, getting sacked by a 300-pound infant on steroids; all child's play compared to this. He wiped his forehead with the back of his forearm and thought, God, I'm sweating! After a moment, Mike took a deep breath and plowed forward.

  “I…I know it's pretty rough on you, being the youngest of us all. But that doesn't matter. We give you some shit sometimes, but you're still one of us. Do you know what I'm sayin'? Up here, things are different. Things are…changing. Look at Max. I've never seen him so freakin' happy before. And Rick…did you see him with Stacey this mornin'?”

  Lou puffed on his cigarette; he nodded and grinned bashfully. He was so happy for, and envious of, his friend.

  “I haven't seen him look so happy for months,” Mike continued. “He's my best friend, and he tried to kill himself. And now look at him. Look, what I'm tryin' to tell you is that we should make the best out of this situation. I know I haven't been…the best brother in the world, but I care about you, and I've been told I'm a pretty cool guy to have around.” Mike turned his head and saw that Lou was smiling. “And I'm there for you if you need me.”

  For a few minutes they sat without speaking. The only sounds were those of the river gurgling, birds singing, and a few scattered insects still buzzing with their nightsongs.

  “Mike?” Lou spoke suddenly.

  “Yeah?”

  “Where do you think the river runs? I mean, does it go to the ocean or something, or does it just keep going…forever? No one ever has the answer. No one ever seems to know.”

  “That's pretty deep, man. No pun intended. I don't know. Maybe Uncle Jack knows…now that he's gone…”

  Lou stared off at the mountains in the distance, the wondrously tall teeth of granite, and said, “Do you remember Uncle Jack?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said, flicking away his cigarette butt. “Do you?”

  “A little bit. Not much, though. Can I tell you something?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Promise not to laugh?”

  Mike nodded. “I'll do my best.”

  “Come on, seriously.”

  “Alright,” Mike said, putting one hand over his heart, and the other in the air, as though he was being sworn in to tell the whole truth, the truth, and nothing but the truth. “I promise.”

  “I had a dream about Uncle Jack the other night, but it was strange because I couldn't see his face. It was like there was a cloud in front of him or somethin'. I guess, until last night, I hadn't really thought about him that much since he died. Anyway, he told me not to worry. He said I would be okay, because the giants would look out for me. Pretty weird, huh?”

  Pulse racing, Mike swallowed hard. “Yeah, I guesso.” How could Lou have found out about the giants? Surely, Lou was much too young to remember anything Uncle Jack might have told him.

  Are you making the right…

  “Do you think we'll ever know?”

  …decisions? Are you? Are you?

  “Know what?”

  “You know, about the river? Where does it go?”

  Mike shook his head. “I don't know. To the ocean, probably. That's one of those things …one of those mysteries you don't know the answer to until you die. Wouldn't it be disappointing to find out it drains into a lake or something? Maybe it's better not knowing. Maybe we wouldn't appreciate things as much if we had all the answers.”

  Lou nodded thoughtfully. Then suddenly his face went dark. “You know why they call him the Hacker?”

  Mike opened his mouth, as if to speak, but then closed it. After a second, he stood up and folded his arms across his chest.

  “They say it's because he doesn't care how he kills people,” Lou went on. “He just likes to kill. That's also why they can't catch him. Because h
e always changes the way he kills people. He's evil. Pure evil. He just kills for the hell of it, because life means nothing to him.” He paused and looked up at Mike, who stood towering over him. “I don't wanna die.”

  Mike bent down and scooped the New England Patriots hat from the sand. He dusted off the hat and handed it to his younger brother. “You're not gonna die. None of us are gonna die. I promise.”

  Lou fell silent. His brother's words had relaxed him a little, although he still had that watery, petrified look in his eyes.

  After a while Mike's growling stomach broke the tender silence. He thought he could feel the aspirin tablets bouncing around inside of him like a pair of Mexican jumping beans with teeth. “C'mon,” he said, standing. “Let's go find somethin' to eat.”

  “Alright,” Lou agreed. He was putting on his sneakers when a cold, dime-sized raindrop landed on his forehead, and rolled down the bridge of his nose. “Looks like it's startin' to rain, anyhow.”

  Beneath a molten sky, Lou followed his older brother eagerly through the field. Still wondering about the destination of the river and the many mysteries of life, his stomach rumbled with the anticipation of nourishment. Side by side they walked back to the cabin in the late-morning haze, a cold and gentle rain falling on their heads, the reflections of two different people by appearance and manner; a young dreamer and a maturing leader. Yet, in the subtlest of ways, they were very much the same.

  ~Twenty-Seven~

  “You motherfuggglgr...” Lou's cry was cut short as Max tackled him and shoved him underwater; a continuation of the endless water-wrestling match Max had started several days ago.

  After the morning showers had passed and the thunderclouds relinquished their claim on the sky, the sun began to smile at the earth once again. It was Lou, standing by the window, who announced the departure of the clouds, and the six hideaways bolted from the cabin as though they had never seen daylight before, running through the meadow like small children on the last day of school. Beneath a pristine blue sky they convened at their favorite spot; the soft, crescent-shaped sandbar that skirted the water's edge. As the day wore on, it was impossible to tell that the storm had ever been there in the first place.