Rebel Angels

  Rebel Angels

  ~One~

  ~Two~

  ~Three~

  ~Four~

  ~Five~

  ~Six~

  ~Seven~

  ~Eight~

  ~Nine~

  ~Ten~

  ~Eleven~

  ~Twelve~

  ~Thirteen~

  ~Fourteen~

  ~Fifteen~

  ~Sixteen~

  ~Seventeen~

  ~Eighteen~

  ~Nineteen~

  ~Twenty~

  ~Twenty-one~

  ~Twenty-Two~

  ~Twenty-Three~

  ~Twenty-Four~

  ~Twenty-Five~

  ~Twenty-Six~

  ~Twenty-Seven~

  ~Twenty-Eight~

  ~Twenty-Nine~

  ~Thirty~

  ~Thirty-One~

  ~Thirty-Two~

  ~Thirty-Three~

  ~Thirty-Four~

  ~Thirty-Five~

  ~Thirty-Six~

  ~Thirty-Seven~

  ~Thirty-Eight~

  ~Thirty-Nine~

  ~Forty~

  ~Forty-One~

  ~Forty-Two~

  ~Forty-Three~

  ~Forty-Four~

  ~Forty-Five~

  ~EPILOGUE~

  About the Author

  Rebel Angels

  James Michael Rice

  This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations depicted in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  © 2003 by James Michael Rice. All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Nu-Image Design

  This one’s for The Nightmares…

  ~One~

  Someone was following her.

  The mosquitoes and gnats didn't matter anymore, nor did the blisters on her feet, nor the fact that her car had broken down and she was stranded out here, in the middle of nowhere, all alone.

  The only thing that mattered was that someone was following her, had been following her for miles, and now she was going to be raped, or killed, or both, all because she had been too frightened to trust her intuition not to leave the safety of her car behind.

  Somewhere along the grassy shoulder of Route 11, Anna Hartsoe stopped, searching the darkness for her stalker, and found she was unable to tell one shape from another. Heart fluttering, it dawned on her that someone—or something—could be standing right beside her, and she would never even know it. Not until it was already too late.

  Clutching the straps of her maroon Kelty backpack, she cocked her head and listened. There was only the dry hissing of leaves as the treetops caressed the cauldron-black belly of the eastern sky. Whatever it was she thought she had heard, it was gone now.

  Probably just a squirrel, she reassured herself. Or maybe a raccoon. Stop being so paranoid. Stupid, stupid! Besides, if there really was someone following me, they would have made their move by now. Nobody in the world could be that patient. It's only an animal, scrounging around for food or something. Don't let your imagination get the best of you...

  Wait...there it was again! That sound!

  GO! a voice screamed inside her head. RUN! GET OUT OF HERE!

  In her mind's eye she actually saw herself running; arms and legs pumping wildly, Birkenstocks slapping the pavement, long chestnut hair flapping behind her in the wind. But in reality she had not moved a muscle.

  For several seconds she couldn't even breathe. Her body tingled to the core. She was shrinking. Either that or the world around her was expanding, because she suddenly felt very, very small.

  All around her the darkness lunged forward, swelling above her, ready to drown her, to suck her down, down into its unfathomable depths. She wanted to sleep. Her eyelids were heavy, her fingers and toes tingled with pins and needles. Sleep, yes. For a little while, anyway. It was soothing to close her eyes, to let her mind drift away. But what about that thing? she asked herself. That thing in the woods?

  As she struggled to keep her eyelids open the world began to tilt, and she realized for the first time what was happening to her: She was fainting.

  It wasn’t until she heard a familiar sound in the distance behind her that she could breathe again. It was an engine. A car engine! Jerking her head around, Anna saw two golden orbs floating toward her in the darkness, and a joyful sob escaped her. Thank you, God, she thought, watching the slow progress of the headlights.

  Then, in the nearby forest, it moved again. Branches snapped like firecrackers in the still summer night. The footsteps were slow, deliberate. Whatever it is, thought Anna, it wants to be heard.

  She whirled toward the forest, eyes rolling like big brown marbles as she scanned the dark wall of underbrush. The footsteps stopped. Leaves conversed in static, untranslatable whispers. Trees reached out with their clawed hands, as if to draw her into their shriveled arms. Mosquitoes landed on her arms and legs and drank their fill of her nervous blood. It was toying with her, this forest-thing. Trembling, she turned her attention back to the car, more desperate than ever for a savior.

  On the side of the road, Anna Hartsoe stood with one arm extended and a red-nailed thumb pointing towards the empty night sky. After a moment she realized the car was further away than she had perceived, and let her arm fall limply to her side. Frustrated, she clenched one small hand into a fist, nails shoveling into the palm. The pain felt good; it seemed to help her focus.

  Please, God, please let me get outta here alive. I won't ask you for anything for the rest of the week—no, make that the rest of the year—a long time, a long time, if you just answer this one little prayer, please God, oh, please...

  She had never imagined something like this could happen in the real world. Not to her. Her goddamn car had broken down for the second time that month, her cell phone was out of range, and there was something in the woods that was following her. No, those kinds of things only happened in the movies...or so she had believed, until the footsteps had begun.

  Crap, Deb was right, thought Anna. Debbie Allbright was her roommate at Boston College. She was also Anna's closest friend. I should've waited until tomorrow. A few lousy hours, and I could've saved myself a lot of trouble. Hell, maybe even my life. It's gonna cost a friggin' fortune to fix that stupid car. She squinted into the approaching headlights. You're gonna be fine, she told herself. You're gonna be fine. You'll laugh about this later. You know that, don't you?

  Anna stuck out her thumb again, hoping to attract the driver's attention. She wiggled her toes inside her Birkenstocks, wincing at the pain that traveled up the back of her legs, tying her calf muscles into hard little knots. She doubted if she'd be able to walk another mile before the pain became unbearable, or before she'd go insane with fright. If only she hadn’t taken that last exit to buy cigarettes. Hey, Mom, you always said smoking would kill me someday...well, hardy-fucking-har, are you happy now?

  Route 11 was a lonesome, winding back road that meandered all the way from Bridgewater to Buzzard's Bay, where it then junctioned with Route 44 and later ended abruptly at the coastline. Long ago, Route 11 had been the main thoroughfare for the many vacationers who made Cape Cod and The Islands their summer playground. There had once been restaurants, stores, and taverns all along the well-worn road, until the spring of 1987, when the completion of nearby Highway 495 drew the tourists away, quickly draining the area of its lifeblood. Those fortunate enough to have the means had long since packed their bags and migrated with the almighty dollar, while others stayed and floundered into bankruptcy. Entire neighborhoods were abandoned. Convenience stores, ice cream stands, and rustic clam shacks soon closed their doors forever, slowly consumed by the nearby swampland. All that remained was a dilapidated motel here, an empty foundation there, and
the occasional driveway to nowhere.

  After more than a decade of neglect, few motorists still navigated the pot-holed road called Route 11, save for a small clan of local residents who could not afford to move. They lived in dilapidated, century-old houses of weathered gray shingles, isolated by miles of cranberry bogs, forests, and pavement left scarred by the wrath of long ago winters. Before that evening, Anna would never have imagined such an ugly, desolate place could exist in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and so close to the hustle and bustle of Boston. Not counting the lonely, burnt-out streetlight she had passed over an hour ago, she had not witnessed a single trace of the modern world...until now.

  The car slowed to a near crawl as it passed the attractive young hitchhiker.

  It was an old tan Buick, freckled with rust. Anna could tell it was old by the shiny bumpers; they didn't make cars with chrome bumpers anymore, only trucks.

  Her heart leapt as the right directional signal winked on and the car began to pull over, some ten yards away from where she was standing. The Buick's tires rolled off the pavement, crunching softly into the sand of a narrow embankment, as the forest settled in the muddy glow of its headlights.

  With the nylon strap sawing into her shoulder, Anna adjusted the weight of the backpack as she walked slowly and cautiously toward the car. The engine's loud idle made it impossible for her to hear if the thing in the woods was still there, and she was grateful for that.

  Her legs trembled as she approached the driver's side door. The interior of the car was so dark, the windows might as well have been painted black. The engine knocked, the exhaust chuffed. Several seconds passed, and still no sign of the driver. This is way too creepy, thought Anna. The thought occurred to her that while she could not see the driver of the car, he most certainly could see her, was most certainly watching her right now from behind the glass—this alone was enough to start the alarm bells ringing in her head. She took a tentative step back, away from the car. A sensible part of her wanted to bolt; she could feel the eagerness of her legs, but it was getting late, and it had been a long time since a car had come her way. The important thing was to get away, far away, from the forest.

  At last, the driver rolled the window down. “Why, hello, there!” he beamed, his voice matching the congenial timbre of a television game-show host. The sound of jazz music wafted out through the open window, softening her nerves. “Do you need a ride somewhere, Miss?”

  Stepping a little closer to the car, Anna bent over, examining the shadow-splashed face of the driver. All she could make out was the dark shine of bifocals resting on the bridge of a porous nose, the knot of a black necktie on a white Polo shirt, and a thin crop of silver hair slicked back from a high, bulbous forehead. From what little she could see she guessed the man's age to be around fifty, give or take a few years.

  Glasses chuckled pleasantly. “I guess that's a silly question, huh?” He slapped his forehead in a pantomime of embarrassment. “Of course you need a ride. Why else would you be standing there with your thumb out?”

  “My car broke down.” She hated the way her voice sounded, like a skittish little girl asking her mommy for an ice cream. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “You might've passed it, about five miles up the road. Little red Escort?”

  “I saw it, alright,” he told her, nodding. “I'm sorry, Miss. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I've never been much of a mechanic. All thumbs, as they say.”

  “Oh,” Anna said softly. Her stomach flip-flopped. “That's okay. I don't suppose you could give me a ride to the nearest gas station, could you?”

  “As far as I know, there are no gas stations open around here. Certainly not at this hour. I'm truly sorry, dear. I'd really like to help you out, but…” He shrugged one beefy shoulder, as if that explained away everything.

  “Oh…” repeated Anna. “Well, thanks, anyway.” She glanced around, from left to right. No lights, no phones, no houses, only that hateful, never-ending darkness, as far as the eye could see.

  Alone, she told herself again. You're out here all alone…except for that…that thing in the woods. If Glasses abandons you here...well, you can bend over backwards and kiss your ass goodbye.

  Glasses apologized one last time, shifted his car into drive, looked both ways to make sure no other cars were coming, and began to pull away, leaving her in the backwash of his taillights.

  “Wait!” Anna shouted suddenly (that little girl's voice again). “Mister, wait!”

  The brake lights came on, splashing bloody light across her face. Her backpack swung like a pendulum as she jogged to the car.

  “Maybe,” she panted through the still open window, “you could just...drop me off...at the nearest payphone? I can...I dunno, call for a tow truck or something, y'know?”

  Glasses nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that's a good idea. I don't think I could sleep tonight, knowing you were still stranded out here all alone. My wife would kill me if I told her that I left you. I have a niece about your age...you have to be, what, about eighteen?”

  “Nineteen, actually.” Anna smiled politely and the man with the glasses smiled back at her, thin lips stretching back to reveal his crooked yellow teeth. Upon seeing his creepy attempt at a smile Anna felt her own smile start to falter, and she could only hope he hadn't noticed.

  “Nineteen,” he marveled. “The perfect age. Ahh, to be nineteen again...” Any trace of an expression seemed to vanish from his face. Several seconds ticked by until his smile returned again. “Hop in,” he offered at last. “I hope you'll excuse the mess, but I just got out of work, as you can probably tell.” He lifted his tie and waved it at her.

  As she sidestepped the Buick's blunt nose, Anna weighed her options once again. When she boiled it down, she decided she was left with only two choices: walk or ride. Before she had time enough to second-guess her decision, she had already gotten into the car, shrugged off her backpack, and surrendered herself to the much-welcomed comfort of the cushioned vinyl seat.

  “Thanks, mister,” she said. She closed the car door and set her backpack on the floor, by her feet. As her head met the headrest, it occurred to her that vinyl had never felt so luxurious. “I really appreciate this.”

  Glasses extended a large hand towards her. “You're very welcome, young lady. Now, where're my manners? I'm Alan. Alan Moody.”

  “Anna Hartsoe.” His hand was cool and clammy but she accepted it just the same. She even tried to shake hands firmly, as her father had taught her when she was very young, but found it was next to impossible to do so. Shaking his hand was like trying to shake hands with a giant. Only now, sitting beside him, did Anna realize the full immensity of the man named Alan Moody, who was easily the size of a Patriots linebacker. Arms as thick as stovepipes, connected to broad shoulders that strained against the seams of his shirt; large, powerful hands that were at least twice the size of her own; a barrel-shaped torso; legs as thick as tree trunks. Sitting beside him, Anna suddenly felt very safe. Surely, a man that size wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her. A man that size probably wasn't afraid of anything.

  “Nice to meet you, Anna Hartsoe.” After a few seconds he released her small hand, shifted into drive, and slowly accelerated into the crisp July night.

  “If you don't mind my asking,” he said, his voice almost fatherly, “where were you headed, Anna?”

  I've been asking myself that same question all night, she wanted to say. Instead she shrugged, offering him a friendly smile. “My friend Debbie said she had a job lined up for me on the Vineyard, so I decided to give it a shot.” She laughed a high, nervous little laugh. “My car hasn't been running so good lately, but I haven't had the time to have it looked at.”

  Mr. Moody nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, I hear you. I know how it is, not enough hours in the day. I was a college student myself once, believe it or not.”

  “How'd you know I was a student?” she asked suspiciously, squinting into the headlights of an oncoming car. As th
e two cars passed one another, she stole a look at Alan Moody's face, and saw he was wearing that strange crooked-toothed smile once again. Her mind began to resonate with the sound of bells, loud and sharp and full of warning. She didn't like his smile. It looked fake to her, almost too polite. Fear, she remembered. Don't let your fear control you.

  “Your sweatshirt,” Alan Moody answered, jutting his square chin towards her. “Boston College, my old Alma Mater.”

  “R-really? You went to BC?”

  “Yep, back when I was just a pup. Hmpph! It seems like that was just about a million years ago.” He half-chuckled, half-snorted, into the top of his fist.

  It was a childlike gesture, and it made Anna feel at ease. She thought, This guy ain't so bad after all. A little goofy maybe, but what the hell. I guess Deb’s right; you can't judge a book by it's cover. Besides, this is a hell of a lot better than standing around in the dark, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, waiting for some maniac to jump out of the woods and rape me.

  The warning bells fell silent, her heartbeat slowed, and she settled back against the seat. Ahead, a metal sign materialized in the gloom. Anna had time enough to read the reflective lettering:

  Welcome To Hevven—Population 15,000.

  And then it was gone in a blur.

  “You must be one brave girl, Anna.”

  Anna looked at him uneasily. “P-pardon me?”

  “Well, to have walked all that way by yourself...and at night.” He glanced at her solemnly. “You know,” he went on, “you should be more careful. Don't you watch the news? There're a lot of strange people out there. A lot of strange people.”

  Thinking back to the footsteps in the forest, Anna felt the blood rush to her face. They were far away from that place now, but she couldn't shake the memory of the terror she had felt.

  After a moment, she said, “I have to admit, I was a little scared.” She considered telling him about the thing in the forest and the noises she had heard, but quickly changed her mind. He'd probably just chuckle condescendingly, thinking it was all in her imagination. But it wasn't. She really had heard something, hadn't she? Or had her mind been playing tricks on her?