Rebel Angels

by James Michael Rice

  Rick nodded in agreement. He liked the place just fine.

  Lou, on the other hand, only wished he could share their enthusiasm. Like Max had said, there was no television, which, of course, meant there would be no video games, no DVDs, and no Internet. He walked over to the stone fireplace and stood there by himself, with his back to them. As hard as he tried he could not remember this place, any more than he could remember what his Uncle Jack had looked like. After a few seconds he turned around, a look of dismay on his face, and watched the others silently.

  “There's two bedrooms upstairs,” Mike told them. “Karen and I will take the one on the right, and you guys can fight over the other one. There's a bathroom, too, but I doubt if the toilet flushes.”

  “That's great,” Max said glumly. “I think I feel a shit coming on.”

  “How are we gonna get the boards off these windows?” asked Karen.

  “There's a toolbox in my trunk,” Mike said. He took out his keychain and dangled it in the air.

  “I guess I'll go,” said Rick, remembering the shotgun. He wasn't sure if his friends had seen it (if so, they had not mentioned it), and he did not want to cause a panic, especially so early in the day.

  Mike tossed him the keys. “We'll be here.”

  On his way back to the Thunderbird, Rick paused for a moment to feel the sun on his face. Closing his eyes, he listened to the birds and again he wondered if Mike had made the right decision in bringing them here, to the cabin. Rick knew the cops were probably looking for them, had probably already gone to question his parents, and the thought of the police in his house, with their dead eyes, notepads, and fake courteous smiles made him angry. But he believed in Mike, because Mike was his best friend, and because Mike had never let them down in the past. Besides, it wasn't as though someone had put a gun to their heads. They’d been given a choice, and they’d chosen to flee. Whatever came as a result of their actions, Rick knew they would have to share the consequences.

  As he walked to the car, Rick paused at the side window to get a better look at the girl. The blanket had fallen from her shoulder, revealing the delicate pink of one nipple on the soft white curve of her breast, and although he felt guilty for spying on her, he found it next to impossible to look away.

  She was about his age, fair-skinned and slender, with dark auburn hair that cascaded down her shoulders. Her face was delicately heart-shaped, with high cheekbones, sensuous lips, and a noble chin. Her eyelids twitched while she slept, the lashes long and dark, the eyebrows pulled down in a look that resembled either anger or frustration. She slept with both hands tucked under her head and one leg up on the seat, her body trembling slightly as she breathed (as if, in her dreams, she could still see herself chained to the ceiling of that horror-house.) Her legs were long and shapely, her toenails painted like little red mirrors. There was a tattoo on her left ankle; some kind of tribal design, by the look of it.

  It wasn't until now that Rick realized just how beautiful she was, like a princess from some fairy tale. Watching her sleep, he was overtaken by the sudden, protective urge to cover her exposed body.

  He carefully opened the passenger door, so as not to disturb her. Quietly, he knelt beside the sleeping girl. So soft, so gentle was her every breath. Balancing on one hand, he leaned closer to her. God, she was even more beautiful close up.

  He grabbed one corner of the blanket, pulled it up to the base of her neck, all the while imagining what it would feel like to run his fingers through her hair, to kiss her parted lips, to hold her small feminine hands in his own, to put his arms around her waist. For a brief second he imagined it was Lori Shawnessy sleeping there, but he quickly shook that image from his mind. She barely resembled Lori, and besides, Lori was gone. Gone forever, Rick reminded himself.

  As if to confirm this, he reached out one hand and gently caressed the side of the girl's face, finding her skin far softer and warmer than he had anticipated; so much so that he gasped, heart flexing with newfound vigor. For fear of waking her, he sucked in a breath and held it.

  With a strangled whimper, her eyelids flung open wide to reveal a wild, electric blue. She sprang from her resting place, clawing at him with her long, spade-shaped nails.

  Startled, Rick tried to stand, slamming his head against the car roof. Before he knew what was happening the girl was upon him, flailing and screaming.

  “Jeezus Christ!” was all Rick could manage as he tried to fend off the attack. Something sharp caught him just below the eye, and he heard his own skin ripping as she dragged her nails down the side of his face.

  “I'M NOT GONNA HURT YOU!” he hollered in desperation, but the attack persisted.

  Grabbing both wrists, he managed to pin her back against the seat. For several seconds they remained that way, sweating and panting into one another's face, he with his weight on top of her and she still struggling to break free.

  “I'm not gonna hurt you,” he repeated, softer this time.

  Her eyes were wild and unreachable. She growled at him helplessly.

  “I'm not gonna hurt you,” he repeated yet again.

  Then, all at once, she fell silent. Her body went limp. The muscles in her jaw relaxed. She looked at him questioningly, the rage having fled from her eyes. They looked at one another for what seemed like an eternity, one unable to speak, the other not knowing what to say. A moment of quiet understanding passed between them.

  What did he do to you? Rick wondered. Searching her eyes, it occurred to him that this girl was not entirely sane.

  As if responding to that thought, she began to wail uncontrollably.

  Not quite knowing what to do, Rick let go of her wrists and gently pulled her head against him. Clutching his shirt in both hands, she buried her face into his shoulder, and cried until the tears soaked his skin.

  “Noooo...” she whimpered in a muffled voice.

  “Shhhhh,” he told her over and over. “Everything's okay. You're safe now. No one's gonna hurt you. You're safe now. You're...”

  “Hey, we heard—oh, shit, what happened?”

  Rick turned his head and saw Mike and Karen standing outside the car, their eyes wide with concern. “She's awake now,” Rick said, and only after he'd said the words did he realize how stupid that sounded.

  “No shit, Sherlock.” Mike said. “I can see that.”

  “Well, give me a hand here.”

  Karen leaned into the car. “Is she okay?”

  “I don't know,” said Rick. He looked down at the girl. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Do you want to get out of the car?”

  The girl whimpered and locked her arms around his neck, like a frightened child being torn from her mother.

  “Come on,” Rick said, securing the blanket around her.

  She looked up at him, trembling. Their eyes met.

  “He...he...”

  “Who?” asked Rick. “I don't understand.”

  “HE'S COMING BACK!” she screamed, and fainted dead away.

  “Shit!” Rick said.

  Karen covered her mouth with her hands. “Ohmygod...is she...?”

  Rick lifted the girl out of the car. “She fainted.”

  Karen pursed her lips and sighed.

  “Man,” said Mike. “What the hell happened to your face?”

  Rick gave him a confused look. It took him a second before he remembered the scratches on his face. “Oh,” he said. “She, uh...it's my fault. I was trying to pull the blanket over her, and she just freaked.”

  “Jeez,” murmured Karen, softly touching his cheek. “It looks pretty bad. Does it hurt?”

  “Naw. Not yet, anyway. I'm gonna take her in the house.” He spun around with the girl still in his arms. “The keys are on the floor, I think.”

  “I'll go with you,” Karen offered.

  Rick only nodded as he started for the cabin, the half-naked stranger still cradled in his arms, her long, slender legs dangling lifelessly.

  With his hands in his pockets, Mike watch
ed them go.

  ~Twelve~

  Officer Bailey was hunched over his desk, chewing on a pencil and reading the morning edition of The Hevven Gazette, when Chief Moriarty appeared in front of him.

  “Officer Bailey,” Chief Moriarty rumbled, pronouncing the name as though it were an insult. “I'd like you to meet Agent Ferren.”

  The pencil fell out of Bailey's mouth. He crunched the newspaper into a ball and stuffed it inside the already-overflowing basket beside his desk. He stood up quickly, his boyish face blooming red.

  Moriarty loomed over him. He was a mountain of a man, his face a topographical map of bumps, creases, and folds. A large welt on the side of neck only added to the chaos of his features. His graying brown hair shone silver in the fluorescent ceiling lights. From somewhere deep within his cavernous sockets, two eyes glowed dully like little black pearls. After a moment, he stepped aside, made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and the man standing behind him stepped forward, as if on cue.

  Wearing a black suit with a black necktie, Agent Ferren looked as though he had wandered off the set of an old black and white movie. Maybe Citizen Kane, or even A Streetcar Named Desire. But aside from the stylish suit and the squinty black eyes, the likeness ended there. He looked to be in his early 40s, short and stocky, with a round face and thin black hair parted neatly to one side. He smiled pleasantly, showing off his perfect white teeth. A smile that could have been stolen from a textbook on good manners, thought Bailey.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Bailey said.

  They shook hands briefly.

  “Agent Ferren is here to, uh, assist us with last night's…how shall we put it? Incident.” Moriarty looked at Bailey steadily, his cold black eyes boring holes into his head.

  Bailey nodded thoughtfully. He hadn't told anyone about last night's chase, nor did he intend to. The fact that his radio had shit the bed was actually a blessing in disguise. Because of it, nobody knew how close he'd been to catching those punks, those murdering little bastards. On the same token, nobody would ever know how easily they had eluded him. “I wasn't aware the FBI had an interest in this case.”

  “I'm part of the STF division,” Ferren said.

  “STF?”

  “Serial Task Force.”

  “So, basically, you hunt serial killers?”

  Agent Ferren nodded. “Well...”

  “Agent Ferren is here as our consultant,” Moriarty interrupted. “He also understands that we have jurisdiction, and that we'll have the situation under control momentarily.”

  Ferren closed his mouth and smiled wanly.

  “Well,” Bailey said, “if there's anything I can do...”

  “Actually,” Moriarty turned to face him, “there is. I'd like you to take Agent Ferren over to the crime scene. Detective Cannon is already there, so please alert him before you arrive. And not one word of this to the press. They're already trying to compare this to the goddamn Hacker.”

  “I'd also like to interview anybody who knows the suspects,” Ferren said. “Their families, teachers, any friends they might have...”

  Moriarty lowered his bushy eyebrows. “The families have already been interviewed. Our detectives are writing the reports as we speak. As for their friends, that may difficult.”

  “How so?”

  “Our main suspect, Michael Swart, runs a close-knit group. All but one of them has disappeared. We're not sure if the others are involved, or just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Right now, we're treating them all as suspects.”

  “You said all but one of them has disappeared?” The pleasant smile was gone. He was all business now. Chief Moriarty stared at him for several seconds, but Ferren did not look away. If Moriarty wanted to have a pissing contest, then so be it. Agent Ferren had never backed down from anyone in his life. And he certainly wasn't prepared to let some small-town cop with a hard-on for authority get the better of him.

  “The Chapman boy,” Bailey interrupted.

  “Has he been interviewed?”

  “Not yet,” Moriarty replied. “Mr. Chapman is currently a ward of the state. The Mount Hope Center for Rehabilitation at Plymouth. This would be his third or fourth stay there. Probably not his last. I escorted him there myself, in fact.”

  “I'd like to speak with him,” Ferren said.

  “I'd rather you waited. As soon as they can complete all the proper paperwork, he'll be discharged. Monday, I believe. By my request. I think he'll be more cooperative if we conduct the interview at his home.”

  Ferren nodded. Moriarty was smarter than he looked.

  “Okay,” Bailey interrupted in earnest. He grabbed his cap from a hook by the door. Smiling politely, he said, “Follow me.”

  Ferren shook Moriarty's hand, once again noticing the bruised lump on the side of the larger man's neck, and thanked him for his time. Moriarty was halfway to the door when Ferren stopped him. “Oh, yes, Chief? Just one more question.”

  Chief Moriarty stopped and turned. “What is it?”

  “The tip you received, the one that led you to the body. Do you have any idea who made the call, or where it originated?”

  “The call originated from a pay phone, near the center of town. Our detectives have secured a perimeter around the phone booth, and are collecting fingerprint samples as we speak.”

  “I'd still like to hear a recording of the call, if possible.”

  “I'm afraid it isn't. The tape in question was accidentally recorded over before we were able to examine it. The officer responsible for the oversight has been reprimanded, I assure you.”

  “And the caller?”

  “Anonymous. But the voice was that of a young woman, probably a teenager. Possibly that of the suspect's girlfriend, or possibly that of the young woman they allegedly abducted. Whoever it was, she sounded terrified for her life.”

  “And you're sure the caller identified the Swart boy and the others?”

  “Positive. I should know, Agent Ferren. I took the call myself. Now, if you'll excuse me...”

  “Of course.”

  The Chief slipped out of the office and closed the door behind him, while Agent Ferren stood with his arms crossed, staring at the floor. His brow was furrowed, his jaw tight. After a few seconds, he whirled around to face the young officer. “So...is this your first homicide?”

  Officer Bailey glanced down at the floor and then up again. His round, boyish face turned several shades of red. “Yes, sir. You don't get too many of those around here. Homicides, that is.”

  Bailey turned and Ferren followed him toward the door.

  Ferren smiled to himself. Chief Moriarty was toying with him. The mere fact that he had assigned a rookie to act as his liaison was proof enough of that. Had he wanted to, Ferren could have squashed Moriarty's precious authority like a bug, but he had dealt with small-town cops before, and he'd long since grown accustomed to their lack of cooperation. Rather than hinder the investigation, the best way to handle men like Moriarty was to give them the illusion that they were still in control. Of course that trick only worked for so long. But hopefully, by then, the case would be solved.

  As they entered the reception area, Bailey threw a wave to the dispatcher, a plump brunette whose hair was pulled into such a tight bun that it kept her eyebrows raised in a constant look of surprise. She glanced up from the switchboard, mouth moving rapidly as she spoke into a headset, and gave them a wink as they stepped outside.

  The sun was bright, the air already humid. As he followed the young officer, Ferren surveyed the town center. The Hevven Police Department, which occupied the first floor and basement of the Town Hall, was situated at one end of a small oval-shaped rotary. From there he could see the busiest part of town. The buildings were small, mostly one or two levels. With the exception of a McDonalds, a Dunkin' Donuts, and a Citgo station, most of the businesses appeared to be of the “mom 'n pops” variety. With its shady sidewalks and wide boulevards, Hevven didn't look like the kind of town that
bred cults or killers. In fact, it looked like the kind of place where one might go to escape such hazards. But Agent Ferren knew better.

  “So,” Bailey said as they crossed the parking lot, “how long have you been with the Bureau?”

  “Nine years,” Ferren answered without hesitation.

  “Yeah? Do ya like it?”

  He grinned. “It's a paycheck.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Ferren said. He cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “Is he always so pleasant?”

  “The Chief? No,” Bailey said with a boyish smile. “Sometimes, he's in a bad mood.”

  Ferren smiled. The two of them would get along just fine.

  Bailey led him around the back of the building and through the gated entrance of a chain link fence. “Well, this one's mine.” He motioned toward a new Ford Taurus.

  They got into the patrol car, and Bailey did a U-turn out of the parking lot and started driving toward Roller Coaster Road, where the crime scene was. “Where are you staying?” he asked after a few minutes.

  “The Holiday Inn in Middleboro. I arrived early this morning.”

  Early? thought Bailey. He glanced down at the digital clock on the dashboard. It was 7:30 a.m.

  Leaning over to turn on the air conditioner, Bailey said, “If you don't mind my asking, why would the FBI bother to investigate one dead girl?”

  Ferren raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think there was only one?”

  ~Thirteen~

  By 10 o'clock that morning, the task of settling the cabin was near completion.

  Karen and Lou had each chosen the uneasy task of cleaning the interior, evenly dividing the chores between them. He cleaned the spider webs from the cupboards; she dusted and scrubbed the countertops. He swept the two upstairs bedrooms (which were mostly empty but for a couple of folding chairs, a dismantled bed, and a stack of crusty newspapers dating back to the early 1980s); she swept the living room and kitchen.