Rick dropped the shotgun and collapsed to the floor. With a bump and a thud, he went out.
Alan Moriarty, a.k.a. Alan Moody, a.k.a. The Hevven Hacker, was now where he wanted to be.
He was with the others—his victims.
He was with the voices.
In the dark fathoms of the pool.
~Forty-Four~
It wasn't often that Mike Swart drove long distances without his usual entourage of friends to accompany him, but today was different.
Today, only the shotgun seat was occupied.
If it had been up to Mike, however, he would have made the trip alone, without his co-pilot, but Rick had insisted on coming for the ride, and Mike hadn't had the strength to argue.
It was now September, some six weeks after Hell came to Uncle Jack's cabin in a gray Ford LTD, and a brisk morning had embraced the small town of Willow's Creek, New Hampshire. The trees were ablaze with their autumn colors, and the dry leaves were speaking in their static whispers, their predictions of the coming winter.
Local meteorologists had already formulated their own predictions for the season, and the forecast wasn't good. In spite of the ill-effects of global warming, it was going to be a damned cold winter in New England. Perhaps the coldest one in recorded history.
Between police reports, media interviews, and the funeral services for Kevin Chapman and his mother (whose dismembered bodies were discovered in the basement of Chief Moriarty's house on Elm Street), Mike Swart and Rick Hunter had little time to keep up with the nightly weather forecasts. This was their first opportunity to return to the place where the nightmare had ended.
But the real nightmare, the aftermath of that last terrifying day, was far from being over.
Lou Swart was at home with his parents. He would be returning to high school as a sophomore if, in fact, his newly appointed psychiatrist decided he was fit to do so.
Karen Sloan was in the Intensive Care Unit at Mass. General Hospital in Boston, where she remained in a coma due to severe head trauma, as well as internal bleeding.
Rick Hunter's hearing, as well as his vision, returned to normal after several days' rest. His left arm had been severely traumatized at the shoulder by both the Hacker's bullet, as well as by his fall into the river, but after 23 stitches and two weeks of wearing a sling, he was healing faster than expected.
Stacey Mackinnon had temporarily dropped out of college and had moved back into her parents' house in Watertown, where Rick visited her often.
“How's Max doing?” Mike asked as they passed Atkins' General Store. The store was closed at this early hour, and the front windows gave off the impression of two dark and sightless eyes.
Max Kendall was at Good Samaritan Hospital in Stoughton, Massachusetts. The doctors said…
“He's doing okay. But he's gonna have trouble walking after surgery. They said he's probably gonna have a limp for the rest of his life,” Rick said sourly, lighting a cigarette with the lighter Kevin had given him. He stared at the chrome Zippo, remembering his friend. He smoked his cigarette with a quiet intensity, choking back the tears that wanted to come.
Back in their hometown, Hevven, they had become heroes. Every television, newspaper, and radio station within a 500-mile radius was knocking on each of their doors, calling on their phones, pestering their parents, their neighbors, in search of any information they could use to feed the hungry public. It was sickening, really. But for their friends and families, it seemed the entire world had already forgotten Kevin Chapman and his mother, as well as the rest of the Hacker's victims; the search for their bodies had practically screeched to a halt. Everybody wanted a piece of the action, a piece of the story. What events led up to the youngsters finding the body? How did young Lou Swart feel about this and that? How did the charismatic Mike Swart lead his friends from the clutches of the serial killer known as the Hacker? Had Alan Moriarty sexually assaulted Stacey Mackinnon before she was rescued from the Moody house? Was it true that Karen Sloan was in a coma? Were they interested in a movie deal? A book deal? Would they appear on 60 Minutes? Oprah?
Bullshit. All of it was bullshit. People they'd gone to school with were even asking them for their autographs. Their goddamn autographs, as if they were movie stars!
But the truth of it was, the young group of friends were worse off than they had ever been before. Far, far worse.
“I saw on the news today,” Rick said. “You know that cop and the FBI agent who were working on the case? Looks like they're gonna make it, after all. I guess, once they fully recover, they'll be continuing with the investigation, to see if they can find out what happened to all those other missing girls.”
Mike nodded but did not respond. He couldn’t find it in his heart to care about those other girls. They were dead, and nothing he did could change that now. He only cared about the one he loved, Karen Sloan.
They soon arrived at the cabin, and for a moment, the two lifelong friends remained in the idling car, their thoughts drifting back to a different time.
Rick looked over at Mike. What now?
“Do you think...maybe...you could wait out here?” Mike asked, drawing a fresh cigarette from a pack on the dashboard. It occurred to him that Karen wasn't there to scold him for his habit. She couldn't shake her head, frowning, and fold her arms across her chest in that motherly fashion. She was in a hospital far away, and she was...sleeping. Yes, sleeping. And she'd awaken, the doctors assured him, someday. Maybe.
“Are you sure?” inquired Rick. Mike didn't look so well. None of them looked so well these days. Lou was bad. But Mike, he was far worse. He'd almost lost his brother, and was still in danger of losing his girl. He looked pale and gaunt, and there were dark bags under his eyes.
“Yes,” Mike responded too quickly, “I'm sure.” He lit his cigarette, wishing to God that Karen were there to react, to be annoyed with him. To yell at him, even. It occurred to him how insane that was, to long for her company even if it was only to argue with him (which didn't happen very often). But Karen Sloan, the girl he loved more than life itself, wasn't there. She was sleeping.
“Okay,” Rick whispered reluctantly. He found the power button on the stereo and pressed it. An acoustic song by Green Day came on, and he sat looking at the meadow, visualizing himself and the others as they were only weeks ago, swimming and splashing in the cool water, passing the time on the sun-baked sand. He could almost hear their voices floating above the whisper of the wind, their childish laughter, their deep conversations.
Rick Hunter thought about these things for a while, and as he stared through the windshield of Mike's T-bird, watching the river run its course, he soon became lost in a flood of memories. God, why did we have to come back here so soon?
Mike stood inside the cabin, looking at the playing cards that were strewn about the floor, just as Lou had left them.
We never did finish that game, Mike realized, as he slowly climbed the stairs, crossing over the chalked outline where The Hevven Hacker had met his violent end. He went to the upstairs bedroom that, for a number of pleasant nights, he and Karen had called their own. But Karen wasn't with him this time. She wasn't with him because she was still lying in a narrow bed, under cool white sheets, in a small cubicle in Mass. General Hospital, her body a circuit board of needles and tubes tied to machines that sustained her vital organs, keeping her neither alive nor dead, but sleeping.
Suddenly losing the strength to stand, he sank down on the pile of blankets that had been their bed, thinking of all the things that had happened there, at Uncle Jack's cabin. He clutched the blankets against his face with both hands, over his mouth and nose, and inhaled expectantly. Nothing; he exhaled. Frustrated, he inhaled again, as deeply as he could without choking on air, but the smell he was searching for—Karen's own sweet smell— was no longer there. There was only the dank, dusty air, the vague smell of mildew, and silence.
And—it suddenly occurred to him—many, many ghosts.
It was his d
ecision that had brought them to Willow's Creek, a decision that had rendered Max a cripple for life. It was that same decision that had, perhaps, scarred Lou's mind forever. It was also his decision to involve Kevin, and if he hadn't, Kevin Chapman and his mother might still be alive right now. And, lastly, it was his decision to let Karen come along. A decision that had left her…sleeping, he told himself, even though he knew it was a lie. She wasn't sleeping, she was dying. And it was his fault, his...
Decisions. Decisions. Decisions.
Are you making the right decisions?
Mike Swart's world was shattered. It seemed as though even the giants were his enemies now.
He removed two items from the rear pocket of his Calvin Klein jeans, one of which he let fall to the floor. The other, he held firmly in his hand.
Uh-oh, Mikey, are you sure you wanna do that?
I don't know.
Are you making the right decisions?
I don't know. I don't care.
With tears streaming down his face, Mike Swart made another decision.
Just over 45 minutes had passed while Rick waited for his friend to return. He'd smoked nearly half a pack of cigarettes while he listened to the stereo, forced to remember all that had happened there. Finally, tired, hungry, and wanting to go home, he shut off the stereo and stepped out of the car into the cool autumn air. The treetops rattled eerily. The valley had become an empty place.
Crossing the earthen driveway, he wondered how long it would be before the landscape turned from green to gray, and the water would freeze on the riverbanks; how long after that, he wondered, would snow hide the valley beneath a northern quilt? His heart was already longing for the return of summer.
Taking one last look at the mountains, he headed into the cabin, where the smell of burnt Jiffy Pop still lingered in the air.
“Mike? Are you alright, man?” he asked from the bottom of the stairs.
No answer.
“We should be heading home,” Rick called out. “I'll drive, if you want me to.”
No reply.
Rick walked slowly up the stairs. He entered the large bedroom, and saw his friend in the corner, hunched over a pile of blankets. “It's okay, man. It's going to be o...”
God, no! No!
Rick ran and skidded on his knees across the dusty wooden floor. He rolled Mike over, onto his back. Mike's body was bloody and cold. Both arms were slashed vertically from the wrist to the elbow. Rick quickly felt for a pulse. Nothing! He began to perform CPR, which he had learned in his high school health class.
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand…
Still not breathing. Still no pulse.
“C'mon, breathe, you sonofabitch!” Rick screamed hysterically, hammering away at Mike's chest. “Breathe!”
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand…
“Oh, God! Please, Mike. Please, man. You gotta breathe!”
Nothing.
Still kneeling, he scooped the limp, bloody body into his arms, crying so hard that he felt as though he would explode, looking into Mike's gray unblinking eyes. And suddenly, a lifetime of memories came crashing through Rick's mind.
Suddenly it was five years ago, and he was in the woods with Max Kendall, Kevin Chapman, and the two Swart brothers, erecting the frame of what would later become their secret hangout and—God!—they looked so young and happy...further back in time, and suddenly he was a soldier again, one of the brave few who protected the Hockomock Forest with squirt guns and slingshots (though, in the world of make-believe, their squirt guns fired laser beams, and their slingshots could kill a swamp monster with one well-placed shot). And Lou, who couldn't have been any more than seven years old, was galloping along behind them through the meadow near the end of Titicut Street, hollering for them to wait up, and they were laughing, pretending they didn't hear him...a party at the Cherry Street pits ...it could have been any party...Mike and Rick and Max were leaning against the hood of the T-bird, passing around a joint, and Rick was telling them about a new girl he'd met in school, a cute little blonde by the name of Lori Shawnessy, and Mike was patting him on the shoulder, telling him to go for it, wishing him good luck...Lori stood between him and Kevin, an arm over each of their shoulders, smiling that bright smile, as Mike squinted one eye in front of them, ready to take their picture...Karen Sloan clinging to him, her face pressed against his chest, her body trembling fiercely...they were all dressed in black, and in front of them there was a coffin covered with flowers...and on the other side of that coffin, Lori Shawnessy's mother cried into her hands, while Mr. Shawnessy rested one arm over her shoulders, his face a ghastly white...they were at the river...the water flowing, pulling, pushing, cooling, relaxing, endlessly moving to a place unseen...the river knew no hatred, or love, or prejudice, it only knew its course...Lou and Max were wrestling and Karen was wading out to wash her hair...Rick and Stacey were lying down beside each other on a blanket near the water's edge, and Mike was standing beside them, watching Karen...there was a strange look on his face, a kind of strange look in his eyes, a bit of a smile pulling up the corners of his mouth (a reflection of the man he would never become)…
Rick hadn't paid much attention to that look before, as the event unfolded before him, because he'd been too busy enjoying the moment, but he paid attention to it now, as it played out in his mind, and he knew that expression.
It was serenity.
Then, as suddenly as they had come, the memories drained away.
Once again, there was only Mike's gray eyes staring up at him, unblinking. And, once more, for the very last time, there was serenity.
“Bre…eeethe!” Rick pleaded. “Puh-lease, jus-just breathe!”
As he bowed his head, whimpering helplessly, still holding Mike in his arms as if he were a doll, Rick noticed the bloody razorblade, which had fallen to the floor, probably released from Mike's hand as the life drained from his body. With dark intentions he reached out for the tool which had aided in his best friend's suicide only moments ago, certain his own destiny must also lay in that direction, and paused before his fingers found the blade.
Once again, Life and Death weighed on the scales of Rick Hunter's mind. Only this time, he found that the measurements had shifted. He had once chosen Death, but not this time. In the end, it was Life that ruled the scales. He stopped his hand and brought it back slowly, leaving the razor where Mike had dropped it. It was then that he noticed a folded sheet of paper on the floor, just far enough away so that the blood had not stained it, and, with one trembling hand, he leaned over Mike's body and reached out for it. Before he even opened it, he knew exactly what it was: Mike's farewell letter; his suicide note.
Weeping softly, he smoothed out the paper, and read out loud, wiping away the tears with the back of one hand.
“Dear Rick, I wish things didn't have to be like this, but I can't change what has happened. Remember when we used to talk about finding a place to fit in? You've found your place, with Stacey. Maybe now I've found mine.
“You've got a good girl there. Don't let her go. I wish I could have been around longer, so that I could have gotten to know her better, but it just wasn't meant to be. Tell her about me someday. Tell her all about the crazy things we used to do, so she can know what I was like before things went bad.
“Kevin and his mother died because of me. Max is crippled now. Karen is in a coma, and I don't think I could face her, even if she did come out of it (I'm not kidding myself, man, because I don't think she will). And I just can't go on alone, not after all that has happened. But if by some miracle she does wake up, tell her I love her. And tell her I'll always love her, and that I tried.
“I really tried.
“It's a cold world out there, but you already knew that, I think. I noticed we haven't been quite as close lately, since Lori passed away, but I wanted to tell you this: you're the best friend a guy could have, Rick. Like a brother. I don't know what my life would have been l
ike if I hadn't met you. You guys were like a family to me. We were always together, through the good and the bad, and I want you to always remember it that way.
“Watch out for everyone for me. Especially my little brother. He looks up to you. I'll bet you never noticed before, but it's true. Tell him I love him, because I never had the balls to tell him myself. Tell him I'm gonna go on looking for the end of that river. Ask him about it. He'll know what I mean.
“No matter what happens, don't let the memories die with me. Sometime in your life, that might be all you have. There are other worlds than the one we know. Better worlds. Someday, somehow, somewhere, we'll all meet again in one of those worlds. I promise. It's just one of them feelings, you know? Do you feel it, too? I'm missing you already, old friend.”
Your friend,
Mike
Rick sobbed against the stillness of his best friend's chest. Trembling, he kept his eyes closed tightly, but the tears kept rolling down his cheeks from between his closed lids. The suicide note still in hand, he held Mike Swart in his arms the way a child might hold a doll, rocking, rocking, rocking, until finally he threw his head back to the ceiling and expressed his sorrow with a long and painful roar.
From somewhere outside, above the weathered cabin walls, and far beyond the reach of the blazing treetops, a hawk answered with a similar cry.
~Forty-Five~
In the days to come, the four remaining friends—Max, Lou, Rick, and Stacey—set time aside each week to go to the hospital where Karen Sloan, looking pale and on the threshold of death, lingered in a coma.
Rebel Angels Page 26