Rebel Angels

by James Michael Rice

  “Why don't you wait here,” Ferren said, as Bailey parked in front of a small one-car garage. It was not a question.

  Bailey looked at him, wounded. “Why can't I come in with you? I'm just as curious as you are, to find out what he has to say.”

  “Because,” Agent Ferren said, “if Moriarty's gonna get pissed at someone for knocking on his door at 11 o'clock at night, it might as well be me. After this case is over I'll be on my way back to Quantico. But you'll likely be stuck with that prick until he retires. No need to make an enemy of him this early in the game.”

  Officer Bailey grinned, once again showing his age. If not for his uniform, Ferren could easily have mistaken him for a high school student. “Not for nothing, but I have the distinct feeling that the Chief and I are about as far from friends as two people can get.”

  Ferren chuckled as he opened the car door. “All the same, I'd prefer it if you kept the car running. I'll only be a minute.”

  Bailey nodded and sighed through his nostrils.

  He watched through the passenger side window as Agent Ferren approached the house and rapped his knuckles on the front door. Almost a minute went by, and no answer. Bailey was just arriving at the conclusion that Chief Moriarty was either not home, or did not want to speak with them, when the front door opened and Agent Ferren disappeared inside.

  “Come in, quickly,” the Chief answered the door, reeking of alcohol and fear. His pockmarked face was covered with an oily sheen of perspiration, the complexion itself the color and texture of cottage cheese.

  Agent Ferren stepped into the dark interior of the house and into a large vestibule.

  “Chief Moriarty,” Ferren said politely, “I'm sorry to bother you at home, but...”

  “Follow me.”

  Ferren sensed an urgency in the Chief's voice as he followed the larger man through the dimly lit house, through a drearily decorated living room, down a narrow corridor, and into a large but cluttered kitchen. Once inside the kitchen, Moriarty grabbed a small bottle of gin from the table and smiled wanly. “Drink?”

  Ferren turned down the offer with a wave of his hand. “I'm sorry to disturb you at home, sir, but I wanted to ask you a few questions regarding the coroner's report on the Hartsoe girl. There were traces of an uncommon substance found beneath one of her fingernail fragments. Medical grade silicon. I was wondering if, perhaps, you were familiar with any local companies that might produce such a substance.”

  The Chief pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. Slumping forward, he unscrewed the cap from the bottle of gin. “It's my brother,” he said. “My goddamn brother.” He put the bottle to his lips and drank a quarter of its contents in one gulp.

  Ferren took a chair across from him. He leaned forward on his elbows, cupping one hand inside the other. “Sir?”

  Moriarty bowed his head. “I should have stopped him when I had the chance. But he's my brother. The only family I had left after he ki…after our parents died unexpectedly.” His black eyes fell on Ferren. “What was I to do?”

  “Sir, I'm not sure I understand.” Agent Ferren removed one hand from the table. Beneath the table, and out of Moriarty's sight, he unsnapped his holster and rested his hand on the butt of his Glock.

  Moriarty paused for another drink. “You can't stop him. No one can. He's hardly even human anymore.”

  “Your brother?”

  “That's right.” Moriarty smiled drunkenly. “My brother, The Hevven Hacker. I even came up with the name, all those years ago, after they found his first victim. But it wasn't his fault, you see. It was the infection that did it, the one that stole his face and forced him to wear that God-awful mask. People, women mostly, they called him a monster. But it wasn't his fault. He was just a kid, a boy. The doctors didn't know how to help him. They said it was some kinda virus that caused it, the decay. They didn't even have a name for it.” He paused to take another sip of gin.

  “Whatever it was,” Moriarty went on, “it drove him mad. At least, I always believed he was mad. He used to tell me he heard voices. I always thought he was talking to himself. Said he was doing 'God's work'. Only recently, and I know you won't believe me, it seems like the voices have been talking back. Horrible things, those voices...”

  “Did you say he wears a mask?” Ferren interrupted as he quietly slipped his hand around his pistol.

  “That's right, Agent Ferren. A mask. A prosthetic mask to hide his face. That's why he only goes out at night. It's the only time he can pass for a normal human being.”

  “What about that other fellow?”

  “Who?”

  “Christopher Pennington. The guy you sent to prison for the Hacker murders back in '75. The one who hung himself. Where did he fit in?”

  Moriarty smiled without humor. “Oh, him. Innocent. He was a homeless man. A bum. I'd seen him around town a few times, had threatened to write him up for vagrancy, until I realized I had the perfect suspect.”

  “So you set him up?”

  “I had to help my brother out of an uncomfortable situation. So, yes, I set him up. I even paid one of the prisoners to take care of him before it went to trial, make it look like a suicide.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  Moriarty snorted as he went in for another sip of gin. Before his lips reached the bottle, he paused. “Doesn't matter anymore. I always knew it would only be a matter of time before someone traced the house back to me and my brother. It belonged to my grandfather on my mother's side. Harry Moody. I did what I could to cover my tracks, Agent Ferren. But now I'm tired of lyin'. Tired of always lookin' over my shoulder, especially when I'm in my own goddamn home. I can't control him. Never could. I know that now.” Finally, he put the bottle to his mouth and tilted it back.

  “Sir, I think it would be a good idea if we take a ride to the station.”

  Moriarty stopped and looked at him blankly. Then his face became twisted with fear. “Oh God, what time is it?”

  “Almost eleven,” Ferren said, glancing at his watch.

  “Oh, shit,” Moriarty blubbered. He tried to stand and nearly tipped over in his chair. “Shit, shit, shit!”

  “Whatsamatter?” Ferren couldn't tell if the man was laughing or crying.

  “My brother...”

  “What about your brother?”

  Moriarty trembled, looked at him with dark, bloodshot eyes. “It's too late,” he muttered. “He's home.”

  Agent Ferren heard the floor creak behind him. A heavy sound, which could only mean one thing: he and the Chief were no longer alone. Ferren drew his Glock from its holster and sprang from his chair. He whirled around toward the direction of the sound.

  Then the world went suddenly black.

  Now alone, Officer Bailey once again tried to get his mind around the odd findings of the coroner's report. He found it difficult to believe that the body of Anna Hartsoe, decomposed as it was, had offered no evidence as to the identity of the killer; nothing so little as a partial fingerprint, or a single strand of hair.

  Aside from the body itself, their only other piece of evidence was the broken fingernail, which Agent Ferren had recovered from the floorboards of the old house, the results of which were equally baffling. If Anna Hartsoe had tried to fight off her attacker, then why hadn't the coroner been able to find traces of his clothing, or DNA? At what point had trace amounts of medical grade silicon found its way under her nail? Was that something the perpetrator had planted there, simply to mislead them?

  Bailey was still thinking of these things as a much-needed sleep pulled him under.

  Close to 15 minutes later, Officer William Bailey awoke with his head against the passenger side window. The glass was cool against his face, and he yawned as he tilted his head to look at the digital clock on the dashboard. He could not remember dreaming, and he was glad of that. He'd temporarily shaken off all of the many questions that had tortured him, and for the moment his mind was a clean slate.

  What the hell'
s taking so long? he wondered. After a few seconds he shut off the patrol car's engine, pocketed the keys, and headed up the walkway for the front door.

  Standing on the front stoop, Bailey knocked twice and waited. No answer. Other than the distant sound of a dog barking, Elm Street was darkly quiet, and he could hear no sounds emanating from inside the Chief's house, not even so much as the low din of conversation. Bailey knocked again, but even as his knuckles met the metal screen door, he knew there would be no answer. He was beginning to get the sense that he was unwanted here. All he wanted was to find Agent Ferren and get the hell out of here, so he could go back to his apartment in Futawam and get some sleep. He was tired of looking at photographs of dead people, and memorizing medical reports that read like horror stories, and obsessing about things over which he had no control.

  After another minute had passed, he opened the screen door and stepped inside. “Hellooo,” he called. “Chief? Agent Ferren?”

  No answer.

  Only darkness.

  In fact, it was darker inside than out.

  Thick velvet curtains, drawn tightly together, kept the moonlight at bay. The foyer was dark, but up ahead he could see a puddle of dim yellow light spilling onto the floor, apparently from some other room. Walking slowly, it occurred to him that he should draw his firearm, but the very thought made him feel ridiculous.

  Oh, I'm sure the Chief would get a kick out of that, mused Bailey. Me walking into his house with my weapon drawn! He'd probably have me directing traffic until my arms fell off!

  Bailey crossed the dark foyer. It was a creepy old place, that was for sure. Ahead of him a tall, gothic-looking lamp shone dully on the scuffed brown wood of the living room floor. Using the lamp as his guide, Bailey continued to move slowly through the house, half-expecting to find the two men at the kitchen table, discussing the coroner's report over a couple of Budweisers. But as he rounded the corner into the dimly lit living room, he saw the lumbering frame of the Chief kneeling over Agent Ferren, who was lying motionless, face down on the hardwood floor.

  “Shit,” Bailey murmured, rushing to aid his friend. Then his voice rose to its highest level of concern. “What happened?”

  The Chief did not answer him. As Bailey rushed past him, dropping to his hands and knees, the Chief rose quietly, stepping back into the shadows.

  “Ferren!” Bailey shouted, trying to roll the man over. “Are you alright?” Two words flashed through his mind as he searched for a pulse: heart attack. No pulse! Shit! What am I supposed to do? He was about to cry out for someone to call the police, when it suddenly struck him that he was the police. At the very same instant, Bailey realized that something in this house was very, very wrong. Why was it so dark in there? Why wasn't the Chief helping him? And why was Ferren, whom had entered the house in a $500 suit, now wearing nothing more than boxers and a T-shirt?

  At last Bailey managed to grab him under one arm, his fingers brushing lightly over some-thing wet and warm and sticky, and rolled the lifeless man onto his back. Suddenly Bailey felt the static wave of panic coursing through his veins.

  In the murky yellow light of the living room lamp, he found himself looking at Chief Moriarty's contorted, terror-stricken face. His mouth was wide, his eyes frozen. On the front of his white T-shirt was a dark and blooming blood stain.

  If that's the Chief, thought Bailey, then who the hell is standing behind me?

  Before he could discover the answer to that question, his ears were drawn to a scratching sound that was coming from somewhere off to the right of him, and at the opposite end of a long corridor, he spotted Agent Ferren squirming toward him on the floor. His arms and legs were tied together behind his back, and there was a strip of duct tape covering his mouth. His face was a river of blood, eyes bulging as he raised his head in desperation, silently screaming, trying to warn the young officer.

  But it was already too late.

  Bailey spun around, still on his knees, and found the man dressed in the Chief's clothes standing over him. He was about the same size as the Chief, perhaps even larger, with shocks of long white hair that seemed to glow in the dark. Until now, Bailey had always secretly wondered whether or not the rumors of the Chief living with an invalid brother were true, or if it was all a part of some half-baked rumor. But there was no denying the family resemblance, although the rumors of him being badly deformed were apparently just that. In fact, his face was unusually smooth, almost similar to that of a department store mannequin; quite unlike the Chief's craggy, pockmarked complexion.

  Alan Moriarty leaned over and pressed the cold muzzle of the police-issue Glock against the center of Officer Bailey's forehead, face expressionless, eyes gleaming with cold indifference.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” Bailey mouthed. His voice was less than a whisper. “Wh-why?”

  With the Glock still pointing at the young officer's head, Alan Moriarty used his other hand to reach behind his own right ear. For a brief moment his fingers fumbled at something, until there was a barely audible snapping sound.

  And then his face fell away to the floor.

  As Officer Bailey trembled in sheer terror, from somewhere far away he felt the warmth of release trickling down his legs. It now dawned on him that it was not a man that stood before him. It was an urban legend in the flesh; the living, breathing embodiment of every child's nightmare-conception of evil; the Hacker was real!

  Alan Moriarty watched the dark stain blossom between the young officer's legs, and the maw that was his face opened wider to form a death's head smile. As he began to laugh, with all the warmth and humanity of a funhouse clown, the curtains of flesh surrounding his smile trembled.

  Yes, thought Bailey, there is evil in this world.

  The Hacker holstered the Glock and withdrew a hunting knife from a brown leather sheath that was attached to his belt. The serrated blade was still wet with his brother's blood.

  In an instant, Bailey saw that nightmare smile flash closer, as the Hacker bent toward him. Then a large, powerful hand grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air with the same swift motion. Bailey's legs danced uselessly above the living room floor. He felt something sharp and cold slide into his flesh, just above his belly button. There was a brief moment of silence and agony. And then the world went gray…and finally, black. But before the darkness came Bailey heard the static, papery whispers of voices fill his head…voices like a thousand angry wasps, all stinging his brain in unison, injecting it with their venom.

  He heard two words:

  The Truth.

  And then, he heard nothing at all.

  ~Forty~

  The sky was clear above the cabin, but in the distance, dark gray clouds were boiling over.

  There was no doubt about it, a storm was brewing. Beyond the horizon, it had already begun in Potter's Bluff: a cold, sweeping rain.

  On the edge of the porch, Rick and Stacey sat beneath the rippled asphalt sky, snuggling against each other as they waited for the others to awaken.

  A hawk was circling the otherwise empty sky, and Rick raised his eyes to focus on it, lighting a cigarette with the Zippo lighter. Watching the bird of prey as it soared gracefully overhead, his mind slipped back to the night before, to when he and Stacey had made love under the stars, and his entire body tingled with the memory.

  As if receiving his thoughts, Stacey turned to look at him, and kissed him gently on the cheek. He turned to her and smiled warmly. She had never imagined that she would find someone like him. His smile alone was enough to fill her heart with hope. And those eyes, those passionate hazel-green eyes, were full of the kind of magic she had always searched for, and had never known until recently. She loved the way he looked at her, the way it made her want him. Last night, it had taken but one look into those eyes, and her inhibitions had melted away into nothing. But now she wondered: Was he for real? And did he feel the same about her?

  “Thank you for the flowers,” she whispered. “They're beautiful.�
��

  It was the first thing she had seen when she awoke that morning—a small bouquet of daisies and tiger lilies, fastened with a white ribbon Karen had given him, set upon the floor beside her head.

  “I'm glad you like them,” he said.

  “Where did you find them?”

  “I can't tell you that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It's a secret. A mystery. Women like that stuff, don't they? Mysteries?”

  She smiled playfully. “Not me. I like my men mystery-free.”

  “In that case, I found them over there, on the edge of the forest.”

  Stacey felt her heart swell. The thought of him searching the forest for flowers in the early dawn nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  “Do you regret what you said last night?” she asked shyly.

  “No,” he answered without hesitation. “Does that bother you?”

  “Of course not,” she said, inching even closer to him. She put her head down on his shoulder. “I just wanted to be sure.”

  He looked down at her. “Are you sure now?”

  “Yeah, I'm sure,” she answered, nuzzling her face against the side of his neck. And she meant it.

  “How 'bout you?”

  A flirtatious pause. “How 'bout me what?”

  He smiled. “Do you regret anything that happened last night?”

  She raised her head so that their faces were almost touching. She caressed his cheek. “No.”

  They looked into each other's eyes for what seemed like a very long time. Then she rested her head against his shoulder again. She took his hand and began to play with it, pressing her palm against his palm, sliding her fingers between his fingers. When at last she spoke, her words were warm against his neck.

  “You make me feel safe, Rick. No one has ever made me feel safe. I know you probably think that's crazy. Part of me thinks it's crazy, too. I mean, I hardly know a thing about you. It's almost like we were supposed to meet. Like in a movie, or something. That's why. I can't explain it, really. It's like déjà vu, only stronger.”