Angel Angst

by Abby L. Vandiver

  Angel Angst Copyright © 2017

  Shondra C. Longino. All rights reserved.

  This eBook is intended for personal use only and may not be reproduced, transmitted, or redistributed in any way without the express written consent of the author.

  Angel Angst is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, organizations, real people - living, or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. All other events and characters portrayed are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Find me on my website: www.abbyvandiver.com

  Follow me on Twitter: @AbbyVandiver

  Facebook: www.facebook.com/authorabbyl.vandiver

  Cover Design by Shondra C. Longino

  Chapter One

  Normal Junction is anything but.

  You won’t find it on any map, but it looks very much like the place you’re most familiar with. It has the same rhythm, the same pulse and no matter where you are, you’re never far from it. The people you meet there seem just like family, the people you work with, and even the ones who live next door. And, although you may find it hard to believe, once there, most don’t even realize that they’re somewhere other than home.

  That’s because Normal Junction is not a place that one goes of their own accord. It’s a place that you’re taken to when you need a little help. And because of that, some may try to convince you that it doesn’t actually exist. That the idea of a place like Normal Junction is just a figment of one’s imagination. Nonsense. Rubbish.

  Poppycock.

  I could go on, but I’m sure you get the picture.

  Okay, maybe just one more.

  Balderdash.

  So don’t be fooled. It does exist, and what’s more, I can assure you that in your time of need you yourself have traveled there.

  Ah, I bet now you’re a bit confused, thinking no, not you. You’d surely remember if such a thing happened. But, Dear Reader, it is true. Everyone has. Maybe even more than a time or two.

  Don’t be surprised. Or alarmed. Come. Give me a moment and let me explain.

  Have you ever had déjà vu? Something that made you stop and pause? Or a gut feeling – a sense of something “bad” that urged you to take a different path, that guided you out of harm’s way? Perhaps, at the time, you thought it might just be coincidence. Happenstance. Maybe even serendipity?

  It wasn’t.

  I can assure you that that was the time when that rocky road of life, your life, was guided by an invisible hand that took you to that place called Normal Junction. For it is there where Hope, A Helping Hand, Resilience, and yes, even Miracles reside.

  Oh no, the streets of Normal Junction aren’t paved in gold, the sun isn’t always shining, and even things on the surface aren’t ever picture perfect – actually it’s quite the opposite. But I will tell you this, all those that have passed through have come out on the other side the better for it.

  Well, maybe most of the people.

  Okay. A few.

  And as we look in, we’ll just keep our fingers crossed that’s that what will happen for our photographer, Leah “Sunny” Leibowitz, who unbeknownst to her, had just arrived.

  ⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷⸶⸷

  A tangle of hopelessness seeped through the refuse-filled landscape. Amidst the mounds of reddish-orange bricks from crumbling buildings fashioning the broken horizon, nondescript debris littered about. It clung to the ice and slush of pooled water, impregnable against the brisk, festering moan of the impending winter wind. A grayish sky seemed stalled overhead, filibustering against even a sliver of sunlight. It was surely portent of what was to come.

  Sunny pulled her eye away from the lens of the camera. Taking in a deep breath, she blew out trying to dispose of the desolation that had amassed within her, sucked in from the backdrop of her current assignment.

  “Get it together,” she told herself. She shook off her feelings of dread and let her naked eye slowly survey the terrain. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  Yes, Sunny assured herself, she’d be okay. She wouldn’t be among the desolation for long, just long enough to get the needed pictures for the magazine spread she’d been hired to shoot. Urban blight. Third world poverty in a first world country.

  She figured that nothing could go wrong in such a short time even in a bad neighborhood. Only, as we shall shortly see, Sunny figured wrong.

  Never embracing her biblical name – the older, unwanted sister in the Book of Genesis’ story of Jacob – “Sunny” was the perfect nickname for Leah. Always ready with a smile, she had a perpetual optimistic outlook to share. An introvert for the better part of her thirty years, her life had seemed dull, ragged and inconsequential. Photography – her passion, was also her refuge. She’d always hid behind the lens of her camera, and there she’d felt safe and larger than life.

  Sunny’s mother, wanting her to be outgoing and bold, had often reminded her that the Biblical Leah was the mother of Judah - the lion of the twelve tribes of Israel. So after her mother died, Sunny decided to see just how loud she could roar. She resolved to step out and step up. Step out from the backside of her cameras, and step up and find for herself a life full of the vibrancy, action and wonder that filled the pictures she took.

  The day after her mother’s funeral, before she could change her mind, Sunny packed her camera equipment, her gray and white English bulldog, Duke, and her Alzheimer ridden grandfather, Pops, and packed them into her silk blue metallic Volkswagen Beetle convertible. Leaving her small city hometown behind, she headed to the jungle.

  Once they all arrived in the big city, she’d gotten Pops settled into an assisted living facility, then rented out a studio – complete with upstairs living quarters for her and Duke. She hung up a shingle, and started passing out business cards.

  Her grandfather didn’t last too long after the move, and although soon after she did make a friend, she discovered that she was all alone in her big city dreams. She knew she was good enough to make a living with her talent, but whether she was good enough to make it in a world she’d always hid from, especially now that she was mostly alone, was quite a different story.

  Unlike the “tender eyes” of her namesake, Sunny’s eyes were keen and exacting. In the pictures she took – stills that were dynamic and moving – she could grasp the very soul of any subject and reach beyond its plain, bleak and sometimes ugly veneer to bring out a beauty that, to the awe of others, seemed intrinsic.

  Sunny removed her black leather gloves, stuffed them in the pockets of her silver, puffy down jacket and tugged on her black mohair hat, covering her ears to shield the cold. She dismounted the camera from the tripod, wanting to shoot free hand. She took out a small plastic tarp from her bag and spread it out on the concrete, then placed her bag on top of it. She unscrewed the wide angle lens that she had used for panoramic shots. Digging through her bag, she tossed out light meters, remote triggers, boxes of filters, and a camera holster until she found the zoom lens she was looking for. She popped it on and adjusted the shutter to a slower speed. Walking across the small courtyard, she stepped over the ice and rubble, then nestled herself under the remnant of one of the dilapidated buildings’ doorway.

  Focusing her camera, Sunny skimmed along the decaying vista, randomly clicking the shutter button. It was then that she spotted the bright red door five hundred feet in front of her. It was just through an alley and was attached to a building that had long been abandoned. Through her lens, she could travel from where she stood and be close enough to that door that it seemed she could touch its shiny crimson facade. In all the gloom, even with its cracks and tarnished knob, the door stood out like a be
acon of hope, and perhaps it was a passageway to a brighter, cheerier existence – something needed, she felt, in this layout.

  “Why give them all the bad?”

  Sunny finished out the roll of black and white film with shots of the cracked walkways and fragmented stoops. Wanting to catch the little godsend of hope in Technicolor, she walked back to her camera bag and found a box of color film and switched out the rolls.

  She focused in on the red door and pressed the shutter button in quick succession taking pictures of it then narrowing in on its details – the ornate black wrought iron hinges, the once gold kick plate. Pulling back for the last few shots, she noticed movement in her sight breaking her concentration.

  People.

  “Ugh!” She lifted her finger from the button, moved the camera from her eye and squinted across the hundred and fifty yard expanse. “Why are you there?” she said in a whisper.

  She had been relieved to spend the afternoon alone in the broken down block of the condemned neighborhood. Even the initial anxiousness of being in the devastation generated by crime and neglect had soon been extinguished, causing her to settle in and became a part of it, as she often did. A synergy forged between herself and the subject of her shoot.

  Running her finger along the top of the camera, she thought, Maybe I’ll just go.

  Sunny had already decided that the pictures of the door were the last in the area anyway. She had planned to move a few blocks down the street to the four-way intersection where a handful of businesses were still hanging on, and a gaggle of people still populated the milieu.

  She lifted her camera and took another look toward the door. They were still there – the back of one facing her camera lens and blocking the face of the other. They were locked in some sort of confrontation, evident by their body language. It seemed their disagreement was escalating.

  The two were dressed for the weather, but Sunny let out a chuckle as she scanned down to their feet. Both were donned in colorful scarfs and gloves, the one with their back to her in a parka, hood up, the decorative fur outlining the head was dressed in skinny jeans and low cut tennis shoes. But the other was barelegged and wearing canary blue heels.

  “Who wears five-inch heels in the snow?” Sunny mumbled. “And on this crumbling terrain?” She moved her view back up their bodies. Faces still hidden, through her lens Sunny could see their breath escaping from their warm bodies and up into the cold air, circling and dissipating over their heads. She instinctively pressed the shutter, even though there was no reason for it. The bickering duo covered her redemptive red door, and their quick movements would only be captured as a blur at the slow shutter speed. But she snapped away, reasoning that a clear shot of them didn’t really matter.

  But oh, Sunny, it did. And it was for a long time after that that Sunny wished she had taken care in capturing those moments with focused, flawless photography. Something that she was more than capable of.

  For it was what she saw through the lens of that camera, and the onslaught of events in the aftermath of her witnessing that murder that caused Sunny Leibowitz to land smack dab in the middle of Normal Junction.

  And, yes. I did say murder.

  Chapter Two

  Bap! Bap!

  The sound was muffled as it reverberated from that door and shot back through the alley. It enveloped Sunny and shook her through and through. Its sound vibration was distinct and undeniable, and the realization of it made her entire body quake.

  It was a gunshot.

  The photographer nearly dropped her camera, fumbling, she barely recovered it before it smashed to the ground. Sunny’s heart began to race, her fingers trembled, and her mind was awash with fear.

  “Oh my god,” she whispered, her voice faint, nearly devoid of the breath needed to make the words audible.

  She looked through the lens as the woman with the blue heels slowly fell, loosened from her assailants grip. Hands shaking from fright, and fingers numb from the cold, Sunny scrambled to change the exposure, to get a clear picture – but knew it was too late.

  And she was right.

  She put the camera back up to her eye ad there was no one there. The shooter had ducked from view.

  “Where did you go?” she whispered. Then she scanned down and gasped – those canary blue heels were now laying horizontal to the ground. She instinctively clicked the shutter – it opened and closed. But as she pressed again, those blue pumps slid from view.

  “Oh no!” she said and lowered her camera. She tried to breathe evenly and calm herself, but, at first, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. So she just stood still.

  As we all know, the best thing for Sunny to do, or anyone in such a situation, would be to run. Which, eventually, is exactly what she did.

  Only Sunny ran the wrong way.

  Sunny hopped over fallen bricks, and maneuvered around puddles of water, she ran down the alley toward that red door. Toward that girl in the canary blue shoes.

  Breathing hard and out of breath, Sunny made her way there to no avail. She stood over the body of that young woman in the blue shoes and knew there was nothing she could do to help.

  A flurry of white snowflakes began to fall around her, yet everything seemed to stop for Sunny. The body was splayed across the concrete walkway behind a pile of rubble, the killer hastily trying to cover up the act. She looked down at the camera clutched in her hand, and innately ran the strap between her thumb and forefinger draping it over her head, and letting it drop to her chest.

  The dead woman appeared to be in her early twenties. She had a long, silky brown hair, and lifeless green eyes that seem to stare at Sunny. Her crimson-colored lips slightly parted, there was no longer any warm air to escape.

  “Ohh!” Sunny let out a groan. “Why did this happen to you?”

  The pooled liquid – just as vibrant and red as that door – puddled under the woman’s body and a single tear pushed out from Sunny’s lower eyelid and ran down her cheek. She swiped it away, not quite sure why she was feeling so emotional. It wasn’t the usual pain one suffered over a lost one – she hadn’t even known the girl. Yet, she felt so sad.

  A loud bang made Sunny jump. She jerked her head from side-to-side searching for the source of the noise and then for the first time, realized that the killer might still be close. She took off running.

  This time the right way.

  She stopped long enough to get her things. Frantically, she folded her tripod, and hastily stuffed her gear back into the bag – spilling some of the equipment out of her hands several times before securing it inside. While she packed she began to mumble the words to a psalm she had learned as a child. It seemed to just pop into her head.

  Because I have made the Lord my refuge, she whispered as she threw the box of lens filters inside her bag, no evil shall befall me. For He will give his angels charge over me, to keep me and they will bear me up in their hands . . .

  Sunny was not a particularly religious person, and even in later ruminations about the events of that day, she couldn’t explain why she’d deferred to saying a little prayer. But then, don’t most people? Whether you’re a firm believer or not, asking God to come and help when your life is in danger, just kind of comes naturally, doesn’t it? And just in case there really is one (a God that is), asking for help when you most need it certainly couldn’t hurt. But let’s get back to Sunny . . .

  “Please, God. Send your angel to help me get out of here safely,” Sunny whispered, remembering the words in her plea. She zipped her camera bag shut and threw it over her shoulder. “Please. Just let me be okay.”

  Sunny rushed to her car, repeating her prayer as she reached for the door handle. And then, just as she finished the words, an unexpected calmness washed over her. And at that same moment, the sun peaked from behind a cloud, the gloom that had filled the day dissipated, and a light tender breeze brushed past her. Its whooshing sound seemed to form words. To speak to her. “Fear not,” it seemed to say.

&nbs
p; Sunny jerked her head around and searched the area. She felt her heart slow, and her breathing ease.

  “Who’s there?” she said breathily. “Who are you?” She stood still to listen. She knew she should be leaving, but the voice had made her feel – she wasn’t sure – calm? Unafraid? Yes. That was it – unafraid.

  The voice seemed to come from somewhere just right there . . . Her eyes drifted to her side . . . Right over her shoulder, just out of her periphery. She let her head follow her eyes.

  Had someone been there? Was that a shadow that had passed outside the fringe? Had a figure that moved quickly - no fleetingly – yes fleetingly just been there with her? Beside her. She was sure that something had.

  Was it the killer? And if so why wasn’t she afraid?

  The words seemed almost to have been spoken into her ear. Spoken by someone close. Someone that cared for her.

  “It couldn’t have been the shooter,” she said aloud. “No one knows I’m here.”

  And it wasn’t until that very moment that Sunny had even given a thought to being seen by the killer. Oh yes, she had consider how if she ran into the shooter that she might be in danger. But she hadn’t thought that maybe he had seen her. That he’d been watching her without coming to confront her. That he knew she had been there.

  “That couldn’t be good,” Sunny said, as fear once again rose up her spine. She shook herself, flinging those thoughts from her mind. “I was too far away,” she said wanting to reassure herself.

  Except for when you ran over to her, the words floated into her head. To the spot where the killer had just been.

  “No,” she resolved. “No one could have seen me. No one did see me. No one will ever know I was here.”

  Except when your pictures are published.

  “Oh. My. God!”

  Sunny snatched the car door open and threw the duffle bag and tripod into the back seat. With hands that began to tremble again, she buckled herself in and pressed the lock on the door. She tried to stick the key in the ignition, but her hands were shaking too much. Snapshots of that girl, her bare legs and those canary blue shoes in the snow, flashed through her mind. She closed her eyes, and noisily sucked in a breath through her nostrils. She felt sweat beads forming on her head. She pulled her hat off of her mop of curly black hair and flung it across her car. She cracked the window and gripping the wheel tightly, she tried to calm herself.