Rebel Angels

by James Michael Rice

  Rick could only squeeze her hand as they sat and watched the clouds roll in.

  Half an hour later Max and Lou dragged their lazy bones downstairs, soon followed by Karen and Mike.

  “I feel like shit,” Max groaned, rubbing the small of his back with one hand. His long hair was matted against his head like a helmet.

  Mike chuckled, stretching his arms above his head. “You look like shit.”

  “Oh, and you don't?”

  “Not me,” Mike grinned. “I look like crap. You, though, you look like shit. There's a big difference, you know.”

  Max only smiled, too tired to think of a comeback.

  Karen and Mike sat beside each other, their backs against the outside wall of the cabin. Karen yawned. She looked as though she were still asleep. She wrinkled her nose. “Looks like it's gonna rain,” she said, yawning again.

  “Yeah. Maybe we could take a dip before it comes,” suggested Lou. He raised his eyebrows in anticipation. “Might wake us up a little.”

  “I'm game,” Max said. He lit a cigarette and offered one to Lou, who turned it down with a wave of his hand.

  Almost directly above the porch, the hawk screamed, and continued to circle the empty sky in search of a meal.

  After chatting for a little while about their current financial situation, including how long they thought the remainder of Rick's money would last them, they headed down to the river, surrendering themselves to its cold embrace. As the clouds rolled in, blotting out the sunlight, the water was even colder than they had anticipated. They stayed at the river for close to an hour, until the distant sound of thunder sent them packing. Together they grabbed their shirts, shoes, and towels, and hustled across the meadow, cold and hungry and eager for the shelter of the cabin. The tall grass whipped their bare legs, as a strong wind pushed its way into the valley.

  “Maybe we should get some dry wood for the fireplace,” Karen suggested, as they hurried up the porch steps.

  “I'll go,” Rick volunteered. He turned to Lou. “Wanna give me a hand?”

  “Sure,” Lou said, and the two started off for the treeline.

  While Rick and Lou scoured the forest for firewood, Mike was inside the cabin, gathering up the brown shopping bags to use them for kindling. Meanwhile, the two girls discussed their options for lunch.

  “Hey, Max,” Mike said, as he twisted up a part of a brown shopping bag and tossed it into the fireplace.

  Max, who was standing at the window, watching the storm shadows crawl across the mountains, turned his head.

  “Think you can get onto the roof?”

  “Yeah,” Max said. “Why?”

  “I want you to check on the chimney from the outside, just to make sure it's not blocked up.”

  “Alright,” Max said, sighing. “I'll do it. But if I fall, I'm blaming you.”

  “Be careful,” Stacey called after him as he stepped outside.

  He paused at the threshold, imagining her on her hands and knees, giving him mouth to mouth. He grinned sharkishly. It would almost be worth the fall. “Thanks,” he replied, and disappeared outside.

  Rick and Lou returned five minutes later with their arms full of branches and small logs, which they dumped on the floor, near where Mike was kneeling.

  “What the hell's Max doing on the roof?” asked Rick.

  “Makin' sure the chimney's clean,” Mike told him. He stood up and dusted off his knees.

  Just then, a deep voice echoed down the chimney. “HO! HO! HO!”

  Mike smiled. “All set, Santa?” he yelled into the fireplace.

  “Yeah, looks okay,” Max hollered back.

  “Well, get your ass down here.”

  “I'm on my way. You should see the view from up here. It's fuckin' incredible!”

  “Alright,” Mike said. “Let's get this baby going.”

  Rick flicked open his trusty Zippo and lit the corner of one brown shopping bag. A few seconds later, a small fire cracked and snapped cheerfully as Lou began to feed it branches. A yellow-orange light flickered on the cabin walls, and the shadows momentarily shrunk away to the corners of the room.

  “You know, I was thinking,” Max started ominously when returned a few minutes later. He was only halfway through the door, and his windblown hair made him look like the guitarist from an 80’s glam band. He pulled the door closed and smiled at Rick. “Do you think you could teach me to use that shotgun today?”

  Rick looked at Mike, as if to say Oh, shit!

  “Shotgun?” Karen asked, pronouncing the word as though it were something that tasted sour.

  “I was going to tell you about it,” Mike said, shooting Max a dirty look. “I just wanted to find the right time.”

  “Oops,” Max said, tiptoeing past the couple.

  Karen frowned and bit one side of her lower lip. “So…where did it come from?”

  “Rick brought it along...just in case.”

  Rick bowed his head, unable to look her in the eyes. This was his fault, and he knew it.

  “You're crazy,” she scolded them. “The both of you. What if the police had caught us, huh? How would that have looked, to have a gun with you?”

  “Nice going, Max,” Lou muttered from the kitchen, where he was currently in the process of making a peanut butter sandwich.

  Max threw his arms into the air. “What the fuck did I do?”

  “I don't think it's a good idea right now,” Rick said, finally answering Max's badly timed question. “Besides, I'm starving.”

  “Aww, come on! I gotta learn sometime. Besides, this is lame. We can eat after. C'mon, just one shot! Please! Just 'cause it's gonna rain, it doesn't mean we have to sit here like idiots.”

  “I said, 'maybe'.”

  “Man!” Max whined.

  For a few seconds, the cabin fell silent, save for the crackling of flames.

  “Does...anyone wanna make popcorn?” Stacey asked, raising her eyebrows a little.

  “Hell, yeah. You have popcorn?” Max said, momentarily distracted from the shotgun.

  “Yeah.” Stacey held up a container of Jiffy Pop.

  “Jiffy Pop! I didn't even know they still made that stuff!”

  “I haven't had Jiffy Pop since I don't know when. Mom used to make it for us, remember?” Lou turned to Mike.

  “Yup. That was before they came out with that microwavable crap,” Mike said. He went over to Karen and rubbed her arm. She was still stewing over the shotgun. “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

  Karen narrowed her eyes at him. “You should have told me.”

  “I know,” he said. “I'm sorry. Don't be mad.” He kissed the tip of her nose, and she began to smile reluctantly. He looked at her for a moment, as if seeing her for the first time. He smiled. Kissed her again.

  “You jerk,” she said, giggling, knowing it was impossible for her to stay angry with him for long. “If you weren't so cute...”

  “Come on,” he said. “Let's go eat some popcorn.”

  They sat by the fire while Max tended the foil popcorn container, occasionally giving it a shake. Outside, raindrops plinked against the roof, and an angry wind hissed and howled, but inside the cabin it was cozy and warm.

  “I think you're burnin' it, dude,” Rick said, sniffing the air.

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “Pull it outta there.”

  “Trust me. I know what I'm doing,” Max said stubbornly.

  “You better not pour that goddamn hot sauce on it.”

  Thirty seconds later, a thin column of black smoke rose from the tiny hole at the center of the Jiffy Pop container, filling the cabin with an awful stench.

  “I told you,” Mike said, snatching the popcorn container from Max's hands.

  He set it down on the floor, and carefully pulled back the layers of foil. Then he looked inside, shaking his head in disgust.

  “What?” snapped Max.

  “It's fuckin' black,” Mike said. “It's no good.”

  Coughing through the smoke, Stacey
got up and went over to the kitchen, in search of some other snacks.

  “That's the way I like it,” Max said defensively.

  “What about the rest of us, you selfish prick?” asked Mike. He sighed in defeat. “Here,” he said, handing the container to Max. “It's all yours.”

  Shrugging, Max grabbed a handful of burnt popcorn and shoved it into his mouth.

  “What else is there to eat?” asked Karen.

  Stacey began to go through the list of food and, like Lou, they settled on peanut butter sandwiches, Frito's, and potato sticks.

  When Max was finished with the popcorn, he got up and stood by the door. “Please,” he begged Rick. “Just one shot!”

  “You better take him,” Mike said, sitting beside Karen on the floor. “He won't shut up about it until you do.”

  “When you come back, we can all play cards,” Lou said.

  “Fine,” Rick answered at last. “One shot, then we come right back. Okay?”

  “Damn straight!” Max boomed, overjoyed. He did a little dance. “Where is it?”

  “Under the couch,” Mike told him.

  Max knelt on the floor beside the couch and pulled out the shotgun and the box of ammunition with a look of awe. “Oh, yeah!” He beamed. “Now we're talkin'!”

  Karen looked at him, folded her arms. “You mean to tell me that thing's been there the whole time?”

  Mike looked at her, shrugging innocently. “Well, not the whole time, exactly.”

  “We'll be back soon,” Rick said to Stacey.

  “Be careful,” she said, in a tone that bordered on pleading.

  “Yeah,” Mike said sternly. “And make sure Maxi-Pad doesn't blow his friggin' foot off.”

  “Fuck off,” Max said, grinning. He was too joyful to be offended.

  Max opened the door, and cool air rushed into the cabin. Rick followed him onto the porch, and bowing his head to the wind, closed the door behind them. Outside, they stopped to light cigarettes, which took great effort in the increasing rush of wind.

  “Gimme that,” Rick said, and Max reluctantly handed him the shotgun. “You can carry the shells.”

  With that, they began across the wind-whipped meadow. In the distance, lightning ripped a jagged line through the sky. From the forest nearby, something screamed in fear.

  “How many shells are in the box?” Rick asked, trying to gauge the progress of the storm. Thunder slapped the earth with several angry blows (or perhaps, it was the giants).

  Max opened the box and looked inside. “Four. Let's hurry before it starts to rain.”

  “Give me a shell,” Rick said as they reached the cliff. He aimed the barrel of the shotgun down, at the water. Max handed him a shell, and Rick loaded it into the chamber. “It's easy. All you have to do is load it like this, pump it, and you're good to go.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then you pull the trigger, and whatever you aim at goes bye-bye. So don't you dare point that thing at me. And be careful with the recoil. Don't hold it too tightly.”

  Max smiled. He didn't know what a recoil was, exactly, but it sure sounded cool. “Yeah, yeah. Let me try this bad boy.”

  As Rick gingerly placed the shotgun into Max's excited hands, a cool mist began to drift across the valley. “Hurry up, before the rain comes.”

  With his best gangster face, Max aimed at the river, pumped once

  —chick-chick—

  and squeezed the trigger.

  BOOOOM!

  The river at the base of the cliff convulsed and splashed several feet into the air. Max whooped with pleasure. “That was so cool!” he hollered. His ears were still ringing.

  “Alright Rambo,” Rick said, “that's your lesson for the day. We should get going before...” His voice trailed off as he looked back at the cabin. His jaw dropped open, and his face became a twisted mask of concern.

  Max turned, still holding the shotgun, and saw what had silenced his friend. Coming slowly down the dirt road, towards the cabin, was a gray Ford LTD. The two watched as it pulled off to the side of the cabin, where it parked several yards away from Mike's T-bird. Out of the others’ field of view.

  “What the fuck?” Max murmured. “Who...”

  “Give me the gun,” Rick demanded. “Now!”

  Trembling, Max handed Rick the shotgun and the three remaining shells. Rick reloaded quickly, pumped once, and breathed heavily. His hands tightened around the weapon until his knuckles turned white and he could squeeze no more.

  The driver's side door flung open on the Ford, and a tall man dressed in a dark uniform emerged from it. He paused by the side of the car, reached back for his hat and placed it squarely on his head, all the while looking steadily in their direction. The hat remained on his head for almost two seconds, before he realized the wind wanted it more than he. As an afterthought, he took off the hat, threw it back into the car, and slammed the door shut with both hands. Then he began toward them, moving through the wind and rain with a purposeful stride.

  “It's a fucking cop!” Max said in amazement, straining to watch the man through the blurring rain and wind. “Shit! What should we do? Should we run?”

  Rick pointed the shotgun at the ground. “No,” he said calmly, quietly. “I'm tired of running.” He was thinking of Stacey, and how much he cared about her; perhaps, even loved her. He wasn't certain about that last part, not yet, but he thought it could happen in time. He was thinking about his parents, and the pain he knew they had suffered when he left town without explanation to come here, to Willow's Creek. He thought about the time he and his friends had spent at the river, and how much their lives had changed since the night they found the body. He thought that, perhaps, this moment on the cliff was nothing more than a bad dream, and that he was really back at the cabin, sleeping on the floor in Stacey's arms, and would awake at any moment.

  But the man in the uniform continued toward them, unmindful of the torrent, undaunted by the shotgun.

  “I knew I'd find you boys sooner or later,” the policeman said, almost cheerfully, as he stopped several feet away from them. He raised his bushy eyebrows, deepening the wrinkles on his forehead, as he waited for the boys to respond. The wind had whipped his snow-white hair into a tousled froth, giving him the appearance of a very old man. He was in his mid-50s, Rick guessed. But, judging by his size, he was in damn good shape for a man his age. His large right hand rested against the butt of his gun, which was in a holster on his side. “I'm afraid you'll have to come back to Hevven with me. The rest of my men are waiting just up the road a bit. There's a lot of questions we need you to answer for us.”

  “We didn't do nothin',” Max said angrily. He looked at Rick for guidance, but Rick was too busy looking at the cop.

  “I'm not saying you did, son,” the policeman said calmly. “I'm just doing my job. We just want to know what you saw at the old house that night. We need to know everything. Don't do anything you'll regret, son. Now, please, put down the gun.”

  I can't shoot a cop, thought Rick. He's just trying to do his job. He's just some old-timer…probably got a wife…kids. Maybe this is the only way to clear our names. Damnit, if only we'd had more time. In the back of his mind, he heard Mike telling everyone it was time for change, and Stacey whispering in his ear that they might never get a chance to make love again.

  Rick bent his knees, slowly lowering the shotgun to the ground, and as he did so, a smile began to form at the corners of the policeman's mouth. It was then that Rick realized he'd been tricked.

  But it was already too late.

  Rick was quick with the shotgun, but the Hacker was quicker with his Glock. A silenced shot wheezed in the air, and Rick Hunter, with the shotgun still in his hands, let out a muffled cry of pain as he disappeared over the edge of the cliff behind a crimson mist.

  “Noooo!” Max yelped in horror, bolting toward the place where Rick had been standing only seconds ago. Slipping across the wet grass, his feet flew up from beneath him, and he tr
aveled the rest of the distance on his ass, arriving at a clumsy halt just inches away from the edge of the cliff.

  Panting like a dog, he peered down, and his eyes grew wide as he saw the river sloshing through the valley; the water had risen several inches due to the downflow of rain from the mountains, and the current had already quickened its pace tenfold, working itself into a foaming frenzy. It was raining so hard that the drops were ricocheting off the river, creating a blurry white mist above its surface.

  Rick Hunter was gone.

  Max screamed incoherently, pounding his fists against the ground. When he turned around, he saw that the Hacker was grinning.

  ~Forty-One~

  “What's taking them so long?” Lou wondered aloud, shuffling the deck of cards, and everyone looked at him.

  Stacey was standing in the kitchen, using a plastic knife to smear peanut butter onto a slice of white bread. She set aside what she was doing to look out the kitchen window. Through the rain, she could make out the shapes of two dark figures in the distance. “They're just standing there,” she reported. “It looks like they're arguing.”

  “That figures,” Mike said, sighing. He turned to look at her. “Do you need any help with those sandwiches?”

  Stacey gave him a distracted smile. There were four sandwiches lined up on the countertop, and she was working on the fifth. “No, thanks. I'm just about finished, anyway.”

  “Don't worry,” Mike assured her. “He'll be back soon.”

  Stacey blushed. “Guns scare me,” she confessed with a shrug.

  “Me, too,” Karen said from the couch, where she'd been watching Lou shuffle the cards. “What're they doing out there, anyway?”

  Stacey made a face. “Like I said, just standing there.”

  “They'll head in soon,” Mike said again, tossing a few branches into the fireplace. “They're probably soaked already.”

  “Does anybody feel like playing Scat?” Lou asked, and sipped on a warm can of Coke. He made a sour face. When no one answered he said, “Come on, you guys. You're not afraid of losin', are ya?”

  “Might as well,” Mike said, and sat down on the floor beside his brother. “What're we playin' for?”