Rebel Angels

by James Michael Rice

  “G'night.”

  Flashlight in hand, Karen went inside the cabin, and the two boys on the porch could hear her footsteps as she pranced upstairs, speaking soft goodnights as she went.

  Mike closed the cabin door after her. Then he walked over to the corner of the porch, and faced the river. “Got a smoke?” he asked, resting his elbows on the railing, looking out towards the chainsaw blade of mountains (giants) which rose in the distance. The moon gleamed like a pearl embedded in the black belly of the northern sky, transforming the valley below into a dreamland.

  “Yeah, here.”

  Mike popped the cigarette in his mouth, and Rick lit it for him with the Zippo.

  “Thanks,” Mike muttered.

  For a long time they stood silently, relaxing with their cigarettes, marveling at the beauty of the night sky.

  Rick knew straight away that something was gnawing at his friend, and that it was only a matter of time before Mike would have to unburden himself of whatever it was that was bothering him. Nevertheless, it was a lovely night, and he truly didn't mind if Mike wanted to take his time. Whatever it was that Mike wanted to talk to him about, Rick knew it had to be very personal, and could only be told from one best friend to another, because they trusted each other more than they trusted anyone else in the world.

  “Sometimes,” Rick said, looking out at the moon and stars, “this world can be so pretty, it hurts just to look at it. And other times… it's so goddamn ugly, it makes me wish I was never born. Y'know what I mean?”

  “I heard about what happened today, between you and Stacey,” Mike said after a very long time. “You wanna talk about it?”

  Rick lowered his head in shame. After a few seconds, he shrugged. “There's nothing to talk about.”

  “Then why do you keep avoiding her?”

  “I'm not avoiding her.” Rick's voice rose an octave.

  “You know she likes you.”

  “Pfff...she doesn't even know me.”

  “How can she? You won't even give her a chance. You can't keep pushing people away for the rest of your life.”

  “I'm not pushing anybody away,” insisted Rick.

  Mike raised his voice a notch. “That's bullshit, and you know it. You've been pushing us away for months. She's gone, Rick. Lori is gone. You've got to let her go.”

  “How can I let her go?” Rick asked, throwing his hands in the air. “I killed her.”

  “That's not true,” Mike said. “You didn't—”

  “I know I didn't kill her directly,” Rick interrupted. His voice was flat, emotionless. “But I'm the one who got her into drinking. I'm the one that talked her into it, even though I knew she didn't want to. She had never even taken a drink until she met me. I'm the reason she left the party by herself that night. If it wasn't for me, she'd still be alive.” Rick paused. After a moment he said, “Did you know that I betrayed her, that after she left, I ended up fooling around with Rebecca Morgan?”

  Mike flinched. Even in the darkness, he could not conceal the look of shock that fell across his face. He started to speak, but couldn't find the words.

  “My girlfriend was dying,” Rick said, with a trembling voice, “and I was kissing someone else.”

  “It's not your fault,” Mike said, looking him in the eyes. “You were drunk and upset. There's no way you could have known. All I'm trying to say is that Stacey cares about you. She was only trying to help. I see the way your eyes light up when she's around. The way you smile—”

  Rick looked up, his face as cold as stone. “I don't need her help. I don't need anybody's help.”

  “What's your problem, man? Why are you so mean to her?”

  “Nothing. I don't even know what you're talking about.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Rick opened his mouth to defend himself, but sighed instead. After a moment, he muttered, “You wouldn't understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Rick chewed his bottom lip. “I made a promise…to Lori…that I would never love anyone else but her. So I can't. I won't. Jesus Christ, I owe her that much.”

  “You're right,” Mike whispered after a time. “I don't understand. Lori is gone, but Stacey is alive. And after all the shit she's been through, I thought you were the one person I could count on to show her some compassion.”

  “It's not that simple.” Rick tossed his hands in the air. “I just can't allow myself to get that close to someone again. I can't handle losing somebody else that I care about. I can't do it, Mike. I won't.”

  Mike answered softly, “I just don't wanna see you miss a chance to…to be happy again, y'know? I miss you, man. I miss my friend. And I need you now, more than ever.”

  It was a long time before either of them spoke again.

  “Can I ask you something?” Mike said at last.

  “Yeah. Go ahead.”

  Are you making the right decisions, Mikey? Are you?

  “Do you think I made the right decision coming here? I mean, things were kinda crazy, and I felt like I had to act fast. I didn't realize that it might be the wrong thing to do. Maybe we shoulda gone to the cops.”

  “That's bullshit, and you know it. The cops wouldn't have helped us. They couldn't have helped us. You really think they care about protecting us, or our families? They probably would've used us to catch the bastard. That's if they believed us in the first place. Our asses could be rotting away in jail right now.”

  “Yeah, but...”

  “But what?”

  “Ahhh…never mind. It's getting late. I should head in. Karen's probably waiting up for me.” He took one more drag from his cigarette and flicked it onto the earthen driveway. A trail of orange sparks glittered in its wake.

  “I'm gonna stay out here and finish my smoke,” Rick said, feeling somewhat hurt by Mike's reluctance to elaborate on his thoughts. What’s bothering him so deeply? Rick wondered. Or is he just acting this way because he's upset that I won't talk about the accident? Mike hasn't exactly been himself lately. He's been acting strange. Even for someone in our predicament.

  Mike was already heading for the door, footsteps heavy, shoulders slumped, walking with the posture of a person who had no purpose in life.

  “Just remember, Mike,” Rick called after him. “We could've backed out any time we wanted. You offered us a way out, and we took it. We made up our own minds. Right now, we're all safe. Just be grateful for that.”

  Mike stopped but did not turn around. He nodded silently, and then disappeared inside, where he was swallowed by darkness.

  Listening to Mike's downhearted footsteps on the stairs, Rick decided it would be a good idea to keep a watchful eye on his friend. A good idea, indeed.

  ~Thirty~

  “You think he'll find us, don't you?” Mike asked the next day, just moments after they had left the cabin, and the others, behind. It was Thursday afternoon, exactly one week since they had fled from Hevven, and now that the two of them were finally alone Mike saw the chance to start asking some questions.

  “Whaddya mean?” Rick asked, preparing to light a cigarette with Kev's Zippo.

  “Remember the other day, when I sent Max to get the crowbar out of my trunk, so we could take the plywood off the windows?”

  Rick lit his cigarette, nodding. “Yeah, so?”

  “He found the fuckin' shotgun, Rick. No one else saw it but him, and I made him swear he wouldn't tell anyone, but you know how Max is about keeping secrets.”

  Rick slapped himself in the forehead. “Damn! I'd pretty much forgotten about it myself until earlier today. I'm sorry, man. I thought you knew.”

  “Shit, I was so freaked out the night we left, you coulda packed a friggin' bazooka and I wouldn't have noticed.”

  Rick exhaled a smoky sigh. “It's just a precaution.”

  Mike looked at him uneasily. “But you think he'll find us here, don't you?”

  Rick turned to look at him. “Maybe. Shit, I don't know. But he might. You never know, right? Better
to be safe than sorry.”

  There was a long period of silence, except for the low rumble of the engine.

  “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  “The shotgun? Nuthin' to it,” Rick assured him. “My dad took me to a firing range once, when I was just a kid.”

  They didn't talk for the rest of the ride into town. After a while Mike reached over, turned on the radio, and began to search the airwaves for some sign of life. After a full minute of static drizzle he found a strong signal, catching the tail end of a Jackyl song. When the song was over, the announcer came on long enough to inform everyone that today was a record-breaker (as if no one had noticed), with temperatures reaching the high 90s. The fire hazard was moderate to high, and was expected to remain that way for the next three or four days. On I-93, traffic was backed-up from Exit 3 all the way back to the Massachusetts' border, so the announcer warned that anyone who was planning a day at Canobie Lake Park, or Weir's Beach, was in for a very long day. A Connecticut boy had been taken into custody last night, following a two-hour standoff with police in Bartlett. According to one source, the boy, who was a minor, and whose name was withheld by the police, allegedly took his girlfriend hostage after finding out she had obtained a restraining order against him. After speaking to a police negotiator, the 16-year-old boy agreed to give himself up. When captured he was armed with a .22 caliber pistol, which was reportedly not loaded, as well as a hunting knife. The female hostage escaped relatively unharmed, and was treated for minor cuts and abrasions. On a lighter note, Matchbox-20 was playing a show at Loon Mountain next Saturday night. Tickets went on sale Monday, and were almost sold out.

  “…But just keep listening to The Mountain of Rock, and you could be the lucky winner of a pair of Matchbox-20 tickets, as well as a chance to meet the band! That's right, we will be giving away five pairs of tickets to see Matchbox-20, with special guest Bambi's Apartment, as well as one pair of backstage passes to party with the bands! All you have to do is tune in, and when you hear any two Matchbox-20 songs in a row, be the seventh caller, and we'll give you a pair of tickets to see Matchbox-20 at Loon Mountain next weekend. It doesn't get any easier than that! Coming up next, we have the latest single from Third Eye Blind. You can only hear it here, on The Mountain Of Rock…”

  There was no mention of the boys (and girl) from Hevven; no announcement that began with, “The police are on the lookout for…”

  Still, Mike could not stop thinking about the Hacker, and how Rick had been worried enough to have stolen his father's shotgun. Was it an omen, that his best friend did not feel safe here? Or was it simply paranoia on Rick's part? Mike did not know.

  While he pondered the answers to these questions, the dead girl's face invaded his mind and would not go away. The image was so powerful he could almost smell the decay, could almost hear the chainsaw buzzing of the flies which had hovered over her, could almost feel the weight of her lifeless eyes upon him. Remembering these things, Mike cranked up the volume on his stereo, trying to lose himself in the music, trying to dash the thoughts from his mind. But despite his best efforts, the dead girl's face remained in his mind's eye.

  When they arrived at Atkins' General Store, Mike drove his Thunderbird around the side of the building and parked next to a mud-caked Chevy pickup, which was the only other vehicle in the lot. The two boys looked at one another solemnly.

  “Let's go,” Mike said, unenthusiastically, and they both got out of the car. “Oh, yeah. Try not to let me forget Max's cigarettes. And some hot sauce. Maybe that'll shut him up for a few hours.”

  Rick nodded as he followed Mike up the uneven steps and across the cluttered porch, where they began working their way through a maze of broken wicker chairs, a pair of prehistoric Coca Cola machines, several stacks of newspapers, and various other items of antiquity and refuse.

  Bells jingled above the old screen door, marking their arrival, as the two boys entered the store. Behind the counter, an old man snapped to attention. He greeted them with a fractured, buck-toothed smile as he gingerly set aside the issue of Bass Fisherman he'd been reading. The two boys smiled courteously and then divided their shopping list, which read like something from a scavenger hunt: two packages of D batteries (for the flashlights), two packages of hot dogs, a 12-pack of Coke, a deck of playing cards, a dozen bottles of Gatorade, a tube of antibiotic cream (for Rick's stitches), a roll of gauze (also for Rick's stitches), some magazines (mostly for Lou), a carton of cigarettes, six cans of Spaghetti-Os, a jar of natural peanut butter, a box of paper plates, a package of Gillette For Women disposable razors, a can of women's shaving cream, eight rolls of toilet paper, three bags of chips, a pound of pre-sliced turkey breast, a loaf of bread, a half-dozen Slim Jims, three flannel blankets, a can of Off! insect repellent (it seemed they could never have enough), some more toothpaste (Karen had already bought some on their first trip, along with several toothbrushes), and…of course, hot sauce (for Max). On top of all that, Rick insisted on buying a fishing rod. Mike thought it was a waste of money, but Rick considered it a worthwhile investment, so long as it kept one of them occupied for a time, and especially if they ran out of money. If worse comes to worse, Rick had said, only half-joking, we can always survive on fish.

  Meanwhile, the elderly cashier had already returned to his magazine.

  By the time the mid-afternoon rush poured in (mostly consisting of out-of-state campers looking for directions back to I-93, and a handful of regulars who came to replenish their daily supplies of Budweiser and Schlitz) Carl Atkins, long-time proprietor of Atkins' General Store, had already forgotten the two scruffy youths with the Boston accents. He would not recall the two boys until several days later, when the state and local police, as well as two men dressed in tailored suits, dropped by with half a dozen pictures and twice as many questions. After leafing through a small stack of photographs, Carl Atkins would finally admit that he had, indeed, seen two of the boys, although in person they had looked much older than they did in the photographs (which were actually enlargements of their high school yearbook pictures). At first, Carl Atkins would think they had looked older in person because of their facial hair, but would later change his mind. The fact was, there was something in the boys' eyes, a kind of hardness that was not present in the photographs. But Mr. Atkins would keep that information to himself.

  “How would you describe them?” one of the two suits would ask him.

  Carl Atkins, who didn't very much care for being interrogated, and who cared even less for stuffy men in suits, would lean forward, over the cash register, adjusting his little bifocal-style glasses on the tip of his nose. He would smile the buck-toothed smile that was a landmark in these parts, and say, rather sarcastically: “They weren't fancy fellars like yourselves, understand, but they was true gentlemen nonetheless.”

  When Mike and Rick had finished their shopping they thanked the old man behind the counter, and transferred their bundles to the trunk of Mike's car.

  The day was pleasantly hot, tempered by the occasional breezes which drifted down from the mountains, ruffling the leaves of the trees that cast their shade along Main Street. Several tourists, easy to spot in their bright summer clothes, were picking their way along the shady sidewalk. They paused at the display window of each store, sometimes pressing their noses against the glass, sometimes talking quietly amongst themselves, and then moved on to the next one, as if chasing the illusion that something better was always waiting just around the corner.

  When the last of the supplies had been deposited into the car, the two boys gathered up a handful of pocket change, and walked around to the other side of the building to use the pay phone.

  “What if he's not out of rehab yet? What happens if his mother answers?” Rick asked as Mike punched the keys. Nervous as he was, Rick thought maybe a smoke would calm him down, but as he brought one forth from his pack, he found he was even too nervous for that; he tucked the cigarette behind one ear for later.

  M
ike shrugged. “If his mom answers, I'll hang up.”

  Rick nodded. Mike sighed, waiting.

  A few seconds later, someone picked up on the other end.

  “Hello?” Kevin Chapman's voice crackled. He sounded as if he'd been sleeping.

  “Kev?”

  “Yeah, who's this?”

  “Finally made it outta the Funny Farm, hey, Chapman?”

  The voice on the other end became lively. “Shit! Mike?”

  “Yeah, it's me.”

  “Mike,” Kevin blurted, his excitement giving way to urgency, “the fuckin' cops have been lookin' everywhere for you guys. They even tore apart the shack lookin' for clues. God only knows how they found out about that place. You've been in all the papers, on the fuckin' television. The other night some chick over in Futawam disappeared. Everyone's searching for her body in the woods and shit. You know how it is around here. They think you guys are part of some kinda cult or something. It's drivin' the cops crazy. Why the hell do they think you guys did it?”

  “Slow down, man. I don't have enough time to tell the whole story. I think we're safe where we are now, but we're not coming back until things are all cleared up. We didn't do nothing. But we saw who did it, Kev, and he saw us. That's why we had to haul ass outta there.”

  “Who?” Kevin said. “Who'd ya see?”

  “The killer. The Hevven Hacker, I think. Whoever it was, he saw us, too. “

  “Whoa, waitta minute...Mike, did you say the Hacker? But the Hacker was...”

  “Caught? I know, we thought they caught him, too. But I'm telling you, it's him. I saw the body, Kev. I don't want to get into details. Maybe they caught the wrong guy. Maybe there was more than one killer. I don't know. And there's another thing...”

  “What?”

  “I've seen him before. The killer. I've seen him somewhere, but I can't remember where. I think he may be a townie.”

  “Jesus,” Kevin muttered under his breath. “Mike?”

  “Yeah, I'm still here.”

  “Where the fuck are you guys?”