Rebel Angels Page 2

  Mr. Moody was smiling—a thin slash of white that glittered in the shadows. “What do you say we listen to some nice, relaxing music? Do you like jazz?” Before Anna could respond, he was already leaning forward to turn the dial on his antiquated car stereo.

  The speakers crackled softly with the sound of trumpets and saxophones, while in the background, a drummer ticked away the time with the detached precision of a metronome.

  Two minutes passed before either of them spoke again.

  At last, Anna swallowed uncomfortably. “I couldn't help but notice that sign back there. It said 'Entering Hevven.' Is that where we're going?”

  Outside, the shadows fled from the Buick's headlights, only to return again to swallow the road behind them.

  “Tell me, Anna,” Mr. Moody whispered in a stony voice. He removed his small, silly glasses, tossed them carelessly into the back of the car. He looked at her with eyes as black as coal. “Do you believe in God?”

  Anna was pondering the relevance of that question when a large, cold hand grabbed her by the back of the neck and mashed her face into the edge of the dashboard in one lightning-fast motion, instantly shattering her two front teeth. Something warm and salty exploded in her mouth. Stunned by the impact, several seconds went by before she realized it was her own blood she tasted.

  Dimly, she raised her head and saw the man who had called himself Alan Moody staring back at her with glazed, lifeless eyes. He was still driving calmly, with one monstrous hand planted firmly on the steering wheel. In the background, a trumpet wailed with reckless abandon.

  Before Anna could scream, his other hand returned and worked its thumb into the soft spot just below her larynx. Gasping through her ruined mouth, she thrashed against him, arms flailing, sandaled feet stampeding against the carpeted floor. At last her long red nails found purchase on the side of his face, and the soft mound of his cheek fell away into her hand in a single, rubbery flap. Through the hollowed-out cavern of his face she saw the deep and delicate reds of striated muscle, the white flash of bone, the receding skeletal grin of something that was not entirely human.

  Suddenly, that thing in the forest didn't seem so scary anymore.

  ~Two~

  Scars, thought Rick Hunter as he walked in the shadows of the elmwood trees, never really heal.

  He wasn't thinking about physical scars, like that pale and shiny line that had already begun to form around the sutures on the soft side of his left wrist. He was thinking about the scars people carry inside. Those kinds of scars, he realized, never stop hurting, never go away.

  As the auburn sky slowly draped itself in a rich blanket of night, he stepped from the decayed, sand-washed pavement of Titicut Street and entered a dark and wondrous place known as the Hockomock Forest. Although his mind wandered elsewhere, his feet remembered the way. They led him through briars and ferns, between tall stands of elms and dense groves of evergreens, around rotted tree stumps, and over thick black roots that protruded from the mossy earth like the gnarled hands of corpses grabbing at his feet.

  It was mid-July in the uninspiring town of Hevven, Massachusetts, and the evidence was all around him. Birds heckled one another from their leafy hideaways, their songs giving way to the rusty drone of crickets, the thrumming basso profundo of bullfrogs.

  A cool breeze mingled the earthy smell of freshly cut lawns with the mouth-watering aroma of backyard barbecues, the sweet and sour fragrance of wild grapes and honeysuckle, the sharp odor of skunk cabbage. If nothing else, the air tasted like summer.

  As Titicut Street vanished behind him, seventeen-year-old Rick Hunter faced the biggest—and perhaps, the last—decision of his life. He could rendezvous with his friends, allowing them to offer him the help he so desperately needed, or he could walk back to his house, write another suicide note, and make certain he did the job right this time.

  Live or die? Live or die? A tough decision, that.

  Reflectively, he glanced down at the fresh gauze bandage that was wrapped around his left wrist. His white flag of surrender. He could not wait to be rid of it. As he slowly worked the fingers on his left hand, a sharp pain coursed down the length of his arm and into his chest. His hand began to spasm. He shuddered weakly, not so much from the pain as the memories it conjured.

  The cold kiss of the razorblade. The way the skin had parted, so willingly, in its wake. The vicious, bloody smile of the incision. He had not felt the pain at first, but when it finally came it had rolled over him like a wave, embracing him like an old, dear friend.

  He could never forget the way his mother had screamed that night—a shrill, involuntary sound that rose and rose until her voice finally broke—when she discovered him on his bedroom floor, lying in a puddle of blood as eternal darkness beckoned him. Nor could he forget how she, along with his father, had stood on opposite sides of his hospital bed, asking him over and over why he had done such a horrible thing to himself, even though they already knew the answer.

  The answer. Oh, God, the answer.

  Lori.

  Stop that shit, he told himself. Try to think about something else. Something good. Anything. Like what? I don't know, but make it fast!

  It was too late. The incessant rustling of the branches against his jeans had destroyed his concentration, allowing his mind to return to the very contemplations he'd been trying so hard to avoid. The scales of Life and Death, always unbalanced, always tipping in favor of the latter. From a distant part of his mind, a frightened voice beckoned him to hurry, HURRY! But the boy knew that no matter how much he hurried, he could not escape that which awaited him in the Hockomock.

  (Her touch. Her smell. Her smile.)

  He could not escape the past.

  Over the years, Rick Hunter and his companions had spent countless hours there, in the seemingly endless forest that surrounded their hometown. The woodland was their play-ground, their refuge, and their kingdom. Even now it seemed as though every tree, every stone, every step, held a memory. He felt such great sadness as he pictured them there: A strange collection of scrawny, wild-eyed boys—mere shadows of the men they would inevitably become—hunting bullfrogs and lightning bugs on all those long summer nights, in a time that now seemed about as real as a fairy tale. But those magical times were gone now, gone forever, just like Lori, just like everything else he had once held sacred; gone to that mysterious place where all things must go when young boys become young men, and the past becomes a graveyard full of hopes and dreams.

  Yet a part of him truly believed that, in another time and place, they would eventually return to those glory days; and they would remain forever as children; and in their virgin hearts there would always be dreams yet to be realized, dreams that would never come undone. He smiled at the thought. Perhaps he was a fool to believe in such things, but memories themselves were inherently foolish, weren't they? Nothing more than ghosts of the mind...

  Just like Lori, sweet Lori.

  Rick stopped. He'd arrived at the spongy bank of a stream. Its shallow water tinkled softly, swirling in the afterglow. After a while he was aware of something warm on his face. He touched his cheek, and his fingers came back glistening with tears.

  He should have known better than to wander the past.

  After his recent hospitalization, during which time he had just barely escaped being institutionalized only by the mercy of the chief surgeon, who just happened to be an old family friend, Rick was no longer consumed by the idea of killing himself. At least, not with the same intensity as a few short weeks ago. But that failed to change the fact that nothing in the world seemed to matter anymore. Well, almost nothing. He still cared about his loved ones, his family and friends. If it hadn't been for them he'd be dead right now, because they were all he had left, all that still mattered to him.

  Damn them! he thought, fishing a box of Marlboros and a lighter from the inside pocket of his denim jacket. Damn them for caring, damn them for worrying, and damn them for being so painfully kind, when God know
s I don't deserve any of it!

  Rick lit a cigarette, and his first eager pull made his head swim. Then he looked at the lighter in his hand, the chrome Zippo his friend Kevin Chapman had given him last Christmas. It represented a time that he had, just recently, lost. A time of togetherness and happiness. A time when he had still enjoyed the simple thrill of being alive. As he returned the lighter to its place inside his jacket pocket, Kev's face smiled at him from the faded photo album of his mind.

  Amongst the parents of his friends, Kevin Chapman was secretly referred to as The World Class Fuck-Up, which was not to be taken lightly since most of them were actually fond of the boy. Though he was good-hearted, witty, and well-cared for by his mother, he could not escape the shadow of his misspent youth.

  Kevin Chapman had started smoking at the age of ten, mostly to impress the older boys who hung out at the bowling alley after school. At twelve, while most kids his age were still playing with their GI Joes, Kevin was discovering the wonderful world of alcohol. By thirteen, he'd already grown bored with alcohol and had moved on to marijuana. Eventually his mother caught on, and sent him away to the Mount Hope Rehabilitation Center in Plymouth. It wasn’t the brightest move on her part, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. It was there that Kevin had met Gino Pepsak, a rat-faced crackhead who sold drugs out of a shitty, roach-infested apartment somewhere on the outskirts of Boston, and who claimed to have the finest marijuana that money could buy. “I got a connection with this guy who grows his shit in Honduras,” Pepsak had confided. “Best shit you ever had. Get you stoned in one puff. We can make millions selling this shit, man. Millions! Trust me. We'll be wiping our asses with $100 bills. Just gimme the word and you're in. Just gimme the word...”

  This went on for six weeks or so, at the end of which Kevin had finally given Pepsak the word. It was a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  As it turned out, Kevin Chapman never wiped his ass with a $100 bill, or any other form of legal tender, for that matter. But he did end up with a shitload of weed. And like most young drug dealers, he typically smoked more than he sold. From that point on, Kev was almost always stoned. When he wasn't stoned he was drunk. Usually, he was both. With the possible exception of Max Kendall, whose recent preferences included ecstasy, acid, and cocaine, Kevin Chapman was the worst drug abuser with whom Rick had ever been acquainted.

  Unlike Max, however, Kevin never got out of control when he was high. He never yelled profanities or smashed things or started brawls, as Max often did. Kev was no angel, but at least he was civil. He was mellow and quite intelligent, and could probably make it through college if he ever decided to straighten himself out a little.

  And apart from his problems, Kevin was Rick's friend, whether he was a World Class Fuck-Up or not.

  That Kevin Chapman was careless, however, was an irrefutable fact.

  Nearly a month ago, while changing the sheets on her son's bed, Ms. Chapman had stumbled upon the stash of weed Kevin kept hidden under the mattress. As a result, Kevin was given two alternatives. His choices were 1) Get Help, or 2) Find Yourself A Place To Live, Kiddo. It wasn't a tough decision for Kevin, who worked part-time delivering pizza and selling weed (usually at the same time), and who had nothing to show for his labor but the twelve joints his mother had confiscated, a vast collection of Pink Floyd CDs, and one hell of a permanent buzz.

  Kevin Chapman, the mellow fellow from Hevven, Massachusetts, had made the obvious choice. He agreed to Get Help...again.

  So off he went.

  “I miss ya, man,” Rick whispered. He had not spoken for several hours, not since Mike Swart had called to invite him out for “some drinks with the boys.” If it had been anyone else Rick would have refused the offer, but Mike was his best friend, and he would not take no for an answer. A persistent son of a bitch, that one.

  Now Rick wondered what the hell he was doing here. Already he found himself wishing he hadn't answered the phone. Mike just didn't understand—about Lori.

  Rick Hunter hadn't realized until after Lori Shawnessy had vanished from his life just how much of himself he'd given to her. He'd fallen in love with her so completely, he often wondered if there was anything left of himself to squander. What little remained of his heart was barely enough to keep the blood flowing through his veins.

  Why? Rick asked himself. Why can't I just get on with this miserable life?

  Because, a voice in his mind replied mockingly, you loved her while she was alive, and now that she's dead you love her even more!

  He couldn't bear it much longer. Lori had been everything to him. He'd lived his life for her, and her for him. And now she was gone and there wasn't a damn thing he could do, by the godforsaken laws of life and death, that would bring her back into his arms. Nothing. He felt empty and lost. But above all, powerless.

  He looked up at the sky. Through the trees he saw the Big Dipper, the Milky Way, and part of Orion's belt. What’s my purpose in this world? he wondered. Does my heart beat for a reason, or does it simply beat, unaware of itself, a prisoner of its own design? After a few moments he looked away. There were no answers there in the heavens, only the ghosts of stars that perished long before mankind had ever thought to give them names.

  He took another drag from his cigarette, wondering what might come next, wondering where the night might take him. So many thoughts were rattling around inside his troubled mind that it was hard to grasp a single one.

  The stream shimmered in the bruised glow of sunfall as he stared at his own dark reflection, watching himself smoke. He was five feet and eleven inches tall, darkly handsome, with a medium build and a naturally tan complexion. His raven-black hair was parted slightly off-center, with several loose strands tumbling over his dark, conscientious brow. On the stream's mirror-like surface, his mouth was almost invisible. But when he smiled (which was a rare occurrence these days) he looked like a movie star. The female seniors of Hevven High School had even nominated him to appear in the yearbook under the banner of Best Smile, although he had modestly declined the honor. According to the late Lori Shawnessy, however, his best feature was not his smile but his eyes; they were a brilliant blend of hazel and green, thoughtful and kind, wild and intense, strong yet full of compassion.

  But now, after the accident, there was something else within those hazel-green eyes, something only he could see. Hatred. He hated himself, and this hatred burned like a fire within him, so hot it felt numbingly cold. He hated himself so badly he could taste it, like bitter ashes in his mouth.

  If only there was some way to travel back in time, to the place where his life in Hevven ended and his tailspin into hell began...

  It was a chilly April night when Lori Shawnessy, the only girl Rick Hunter had ever truly loved, lost her life to a terrible accident. Two days later, when they lowered her coffin into that dark and hungry hole at the Pleasant Pines Cemetery in Hevven, covering it over with the cold, uncaring earth, a part of Rick was buried with her.

  Buried forever.

  It had happened just three short months ago, though it seemed more like years to him now, when Rick and his tight-knit company of friends had made their yearly exodus to Sundown Beach for the traditional end-of-the-school-year bash. With the exception of Lou Swart, who was only a freshman, they were all graduating seniors. Their days as students at Hevven High were numbered, and they were determined, like most high school seniors across the country, to go out with a bang.

  The party had begun like any other. Hordes of teenagers milling about a keg, drinking foamy beer from clear plastic cups, already fearful for that miserable moment when someone would cry out those dreaded words: “THE KEG IS DRY!” Stereos were blaring. Several bottles of hard liquor were being passed around, and dozens upon dozens of partygoers were staggering about, talking their usual drunk-talk.

  Although the scenario was a familiar one there was something unique, something almost enchanting in the air that night. Perhaps they all knew, in the
back of their minds, that after graduation day things would never really be the same again. Perhaps, in some strange, secret way, they had already begun to miss one another.

  By nine o'clock, a few juvenile pyromaniacs had begun to set fires against the night. The seven friends—Rick Hunter, Lori Shawnessy, Max Kendall, Mike and Lou Swart, Karen Sloan, and Kevin Chapman—were swilling beers by firelight, telling each other tall, tall tales, and talking about the years to come. They spoke of the things only close friends could share: hot-red sports cars and mansions by the sea, tropical islands and golden sunsets, memories and dreams. And always, in these visions, they were together. Always together. Friends forever.

  They had believed they were immortal, and nothing could have convinced them otherwise. Nothing, that was, save for the horror of the following day, which would shatter those beliefs, and alter their lives, forever.

  The night moved on.

  Soon, ten o'clock floated in like a misty dream.

  Lou Swart, having had one too many mixed drinks, was reviving his most recent meal (a Whopper Junior and a large order of French fries, as he would laughingly confess on the way home) in the privacy of the duneland.

  Mike Swart and Karen Sloan, with whom Mike had been going steady for almost two years, were also in the company of the cool, dark sand dunes, and if anyone had been sober enough to notice they were missing (which, of course, no one was) they would have known better than to disturb the two lovers.

  Meanwhile, Max Kendall and Kevin Chapman, along with several others, were sitting around a large bonfire, passing around their Funny Cigarettes, whooping it up like a pack of hyenas. They were trying to sing an Ozzy Osbourne tune, but not one of them could remember the second verse, and so they repeated the chorus over and over:

  “I'M GOIN' OFF THE RAILS ON A CRAZY TRAAAAIIN...GOIN' OFF THE RAILS ON A CRAZY TRAAIIIN...”