Criss Cross (13 page)

M
icah and Nugent sat with parts of Silky's file spread out between them. Each of them lost in their own thoughts.

Nugent broke the silence. He looked at Micah, seeing the wear and tear the case was taking on him. “Micah, you should take a break from staying all night. You're killing yourself, man.”

Micah just grunted in his direction. He looked at Nugent, not seeing him. His mind was in a faraway place. He fingered the papers from the file in his hand. Then he said, “The criminal psychology section is missing from this file. I'm going to pay Patrick Hayes a visit. I'd like to go over the evaluation on Silky.”

A soft knock sounded on the door, interrupting them. Nugent said, “Enter,” in a preoccupied tone.

Raven, a striking-looking figure in crimson red, swept into the office.

Both Nugent and Micah stared at the vision she presented. She floated into the room. Her vibrant warmth, the regal bearing she possessed, overshadowed the gloom that had settled in the room.

A smile lit up Micah's face at the sight of her. It had been too long since he'd spent any real time with her. He missed her. The sight of her slammed home this fact. Warm liquid flowed through his body.

Raven tossed out a greeting to Nugent as she headed for Micah. “Nuggie,” she used the nickname that Micah had for him, “You're still looking as good as ever.”

Nugent blushed. He lowered his eyes as he shook his head. “You're a lethal weapon that Micah should keep under lock and key.”

Raven laughed. “Well, he did a pretty good job last night. But he lets me out to play during the day.” Her casual remark dropped like a rock in the midst of the room. The smile faded from Nugent's face. Micah looked at Raven as though she'd lost her mind.

Raven felt the sudden shift in temperature in the room. She stopped in her tracks. She looked from Micah to Nugent. “What? What? Why are you staring at me? Did I grow two heads? What?”

Micah stalked over to stand in front of Raven. His eyes were two penetrating beams of light. “What do you mean about last night?”

Raven reached out a hand to touch Micah's cheek. He caught her wrist in midair in a viselike grip.

Startled at his reaction, Raven said, “Micah, let go of me. You're hurting me.”

Nugent quickly covered the distance to where Micah and Raven were standing. His brain shouted out a denial as the realization of what must have happened swept his consciousness.

Nugent looked at Micah. He silently pleaded with his eyes, as Micah held Raven's wrist in his grip. Micah didn't blink an eye. A cold frozen glance, dipped in black hatred, wrapped Nugent in its tentacles.

The air in the room took on the same frigid iciness that was reflected in Micah's eyes. Micah's stance had changed to that of a madman. The madness was on the verge of leaking out everywhere.

Nugent didn't want to make the wrong move by touching Micah. He thought quickly. “Micah, she doesn't know.”

Micah released Raven. She rubbed the area where he had gripped her. A red angry welt was popping out on her wrist. The print of his fingers was embedded in her skin.

Micah's eyes flashed white-hot anger. Hatred spilled out from behind his pupils at Raven. It boiled up from the pit of his stomach, splashing all over her. She took a step back as though she'd been struck. Hysteria held her as her windpipe closed, stricken with the pain of unshed tears.

Raven managed to croak out the words from her constricted windpipe, “What? What is it I don't know? What is going on?”

Micah took a last look at her. “Get out. Just get out.”

Incredulous disbelief flashed across Raven's face. Through no will of her own, she screamed, “Micah!”

Nugent knew when enough was enough. This was definitely enough. He took Raven's hand. He propelled her through the door of the office before she could protest.

Raven struggled against Nugent. “No! Wait! What's wrong?” Finally she started to cry. She just couldn't help it. This was too much. “Nugent, what's wrong with him?”

Nugent closed the door to the office. “Come with me.” He headed to Wolfgang's office with Raven in tow.

Micah stared out the window. The door to the office slammed. He heard the sound of Raven's hysterics on the other side of the door. Her hysterics grew fainter and fainter. Nugent was leading her away from the office. A stream of light streamed from Micah's eyes connecting with the desk.

Micah stared at a paper weight on the desk. It exploded into a ball of fire. He focused on different objects. At his glance the objects exploded.

He stepped back to look at the disaster he had created. The utter realization of what he'd done dawned on him. He put his hands to his head.

A severe headache seized him in a vise-like lock. He took another step back trying to distance himself from his own destruction. He tried to step back from his own malice.

He was tossed back into the courtroom. In front of him a vivid scene from the past was taking place. He saw Silky burst into flames.

Criss Cross's voice exploded in his head. “Whoosh. Thanks to you, he's gone. Poof.”

A moan escaped his parched lips, “No. No.”

Micah went to the men's room. He walked over to the mirror. He looked at himself. A desperate look of denial stared back at him. His eyes were illuminated. His cheekbones were chiseled in granite. Hard. Smooth, like a person locked in death.

Micah couldn't take his eyes away. The mirror melted under the sheer intensity of his gaze. A heat rose up from his eyes. His image melted away in the molten glass. Beyond the melted glass embedded in the wall his image remained, intact.

His reflection stared back at him. Micah grabbed his head. He moaned again, “No.”

He hit the wall with such force it rocked him backward. He fell on the floor. He rolled around like an animal in the throes of pain. Bile streamed up from the pit of his stomach. It spilled out of his mouth.

On the cold, hard tile floor, on his knees, he looked up at the wall to find his image still imprinted into the wall. It continued to stare at him.

 

 

Raven dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes with a tissue. She looked from Wolfgang to Nugent as though they had totally lost it. Unable to hold back her feelings, even for Micah's boss, she said, “You're crazy. You're all crazy. I don't believe a word of this madness.”

Nugent squatted in front of her. “Raven, Micah didn't leave his office all night last night.”

Raven blew her nose. She geared up for the confrontation with Nugent. She wiped her nose. Then she put it within an inch of Nugent's face.

She enunciated every word, “What . . . are . . . you . . . talking . . . about? Micah was in my bed last night. He made love to me. I've been with Micah for five years. I know every inch of him. Damn! What are you? Some kind of lunatic?”

Nugent exchanged a quick glance with Wolfgang. Then he looked into Raven's eyes. Finally, he bowed his head.

Wolfgang watched Raven. He saw what he believed might be the first ray of hope. He wasn't totally sure. But his gut told him that this girl might have the answer he needed.

Wolfgang was descended from a long line of policemen. His great grandfather had been a cop. So had his grandfather, his father and an uncle. Instinct was built into his genes.

Wolfgang went over to Raven. His voice held absolute authority. His tone brooked no argument. “Raven, I have to place you in protective custody immediately. I'm sorry. I know you don't understand. But this is the first break we've had. I believe the man you were in bed with last night is a serial killer. Somewhere, locked up in your consciousness is the information we need to catch him.”

Raven got up from her seat so fast her chair fell backward to the floor. Nugent, who had been squatting in front of her, tumbled backward, sprawling on the floor. He struck his head on the edge of Wolfgang's desk. Exasperated, a gasp of pain flew from his mouth. He rubbed his head while climbing to his feet.

Raven's eyes sprayed bullets at Wolfgang. She set her legs apart in a combative stance. She pointed a finger directly in Wolfgang's face. “For the last time. The man I was in bed with last night was Micah Jordan-Wells. And for the record, he is not a murderer.” She locked gazes with Wolfgang, looking supremely confident and sure of her position.

Wolfgang only nodded. His decision had been made.

L
ater in the evening Wolfgang and Nugent stood in front of City Hall. They were in a huddle. They watched the passing traffic.

Wolfgang pulled his collar close around his neck. The night air was brisk. He eyed Nugent before speaking. Finally he said, “Nugent, I have to ask you a question I'm not happy with.”

Nugent appeared distracted and said, “Shoot.”

Wolfgang turned to him. “I know you usually stay all night with Micah. Were you in the office with him the entire night last night?”

Nugent was back in focus now. He turned away from the burning heat of Wolfgang's eyes. “What kind of crazy-ass question is that?”

Wolfgang swallowed hard. “It's a direct question, Nugent. Were you with Micah all night long?”

Nugent was evasive. He shifted uneasily. “I might have left for a little while.” He walked away, but Wolfgang put out a hand to stop him.

“What do you mean by a little while, Nugent?”

Nugent stopped walking. He faced Wolfgang, “I don't know exactly, Wolfgang.”

Wolfgang stepped closer to Nugent. He grabbed him by the shoulders. “Micah is like a son to me, Nugent. He
is
the homicide department. He holds the most convictions in the history of this department.”

“He is the brightest, smartest, toughest detective Newark has ever seen. This is serious business. Now I'm going to ask you again. Exactly how much of a little while is a little while?” Wolfgang gritted his teeth. He waited for Nugent's answer.

Nugent summoned everything he had to stay in control. Wolfgang didn't miss a twitch. “I didn't stay all night. I was feeling burned out. I came back this morning. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Wolfgang let go of Nugent. Pure weariness was etched into his voice. “As a matter of fact, it isn't. I'm getting worried, Nugent. Lately Micah doesn't seem to be where people think he is. The evidence is stacking up against him.”

“Micah was in the office all night last night, Wolfgang,” Nugent said testily.

Wolfgang shot back, “How do you know? You weren't there.”

“If you'd seen his face when Raven stated he was with her last night, you'd know damn well he wasn't in bed with her, Wolfgang. If he's telling the truth about that, then he's telling the truth about the rest. Raven may very well be the only answer.”

Wolfgang looked up at the sky as though the answer to all his problems was written there. He closed his eyes in contemplation, and said, “Okay. Maybe Raven's all we've got. Maybe she's all we need.”

“The killer has made his first real mistake, Wolfgang. By sleeping with Raven Oliver.”

Micah Jordan-Wells stood across the street from City Hall in the shadows of the alleyway. He watched Wolfgang and Nugent talking.

Darkness descended on the city of Newark. Micah stared down at the ground. A molten “X” in flaming fire appeared before his eyes. A spasm passed through his body. Micah shook uncontrollably.

Standing behind Micah in the shadows was Quentin Curry. Light streamed from his eyes. He whispered, “Welcome to my world, Micah. Come to me, little boy.”

Micah stood stock-still. He was not aware of Quentin's presence. He continued to stare across the street at Wolfgang and Nugent.

A light emitted from his eyes. The pounding in his head started once again. He grabbed his head as though somehow he could stop the searing pain.

T
he following morning some kids were cutting through the alleyway across the street from City Hall. One of them screamed. The others stopped to see what was going on.

Once the horror of what they were looking at sunk in, the screaming broke out in unison. A collective high-pitched wail erupted from their throats as though being conducted by an unseen director.

One of the boys retched on the ground losing his breakfast. It bubbled up from his stomach landing with a splat all over the ground, covering his shoes.

On the ground was the body of a six-year-old boy. Written in blood on the ground was the symbol of an “X.” Below that, in blood, it read, “X was here.”

The boy's body was nude. It was the same pattern as all the others. The child lay in his own urine and feces. His body was drenched in blood. The carving of an “X” had split open the middle of his chest.

His arms and legs were spread-eagled, nailed to pieces of wood. His eyes stared at the early morning sky. They were filmed over with a glaze that enhanced the petrified look in them.

Rigid eternity glared from the fixed pupils. The child's expression was one of scathing horrid fear. The fear was so cloying it hung in the air.

The nails in the child's body were rusty, ragged and much too large for the size of the child's hands and legs. They had torn and ripped the skin, leaving a trail of ragged, jagged skin, ripped and torn with blood trailing out.

A foamy white creamy substance streamed from the boy's lips. The child's mouth was thrown open as though a desperate plea were trying to escape it and it had gotten strangled in the creamy white substance.

 

 

Wolfgang hung up the phone. He looked at Nugent. Nugent stood tensely in the doorway of Wolfgang's office. “Another boy has been found, right in our own backyard, across the street from City Hall. It's the same M.O. Although, the usual message, ‘What is the tie that binds?' is missing.”

Wolfgang stuck his hands in his pockets. He went to the window and stared out wondering how many times he had made this same journey from his desk to the window. It was becoming a familiar pattern.

 

 

At the offices of the New Jersey Institute for Living, Derrick Holt was talking to one of the office clerks. She shook her head at Derrick. “I can't help you. I'm sorry.”

“Well thanks for your assistance,” Derrick told her. He left the office. He was determined, yet disappointment flashed across his face.

Outside, Derrick spotted an old man. He watched the old man. He seemed to be about seventy-five years old. He was the maintenance man for the institution.

The old man had the wizened look of someone who had seen everything. Excitement coursed through Derrick's veins as an idea developed.

He walked up to the man and introduced himself, “Excuse me, sir.” The old man stopped raking the leaves to look at Derrick. Derrick stuck out his hand in a warm and friendly manner. “I'm Derrick Holt from the
Star-Ledger
newspaper.”

The old man wiped his hands on his overalls and reached to shake Derrick's hand. “Nice to meet you. I'm William Broughton.” William was glad to see a friendly face. Sometimes working at the institution was very lonely for him.

Encouraged by the maintenance man's warm manner, Derrick decided to take a chance. “How long have you worked here?” he asked William.

William scrunched his eyes in thought, “About forty years.”

Derrick brightened at his answer. He took a flying leap in pursuit of his goal. “So you knew Silky? He probably went by the name of David Edward Stokes when he was here.”

William smiled a toothy grin. Derrick knew he had hit pay dirt.

“Knew him and the other one. Things about them that you wouldn't believe though. Strange things.”

Derrick was taken aback at his answer. “The other one? What other one?”

William raked the leaves so he could look busy and not like he was just gabbing. “Him and the one named Shaughn Braswell. Whew!”

Derrick watched him work, mesmerized with his good fortune.

William wiped a hand across his brow. “I'll tell you they were something. They used to conduct some kind of rituals.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “Unspeakable things. Ugly things. Pure evil. Messing with things people shouldn't be messing with. Stirring up bad spirits. It wasn't pretty, I tell ya. It was a rare day the reverend ever left his knees at the altar in the chapel when them two was here. Had to pray them bad spirits away.”

He pointed to a basement window in the institution. “Right over there.” He stopped raking to look at Derrick. “Of course, you learn over the years to keep your mouth shut in these places about things. Everybody has something to hide. So many secrets, you know.”

William rambled, “I can't say these people haven't been good to me. I'm seventy-five years old, should have been gone long ago, but they been keeping me on, continuing to let me work. I've got to work you know. When you get to be my age, if you don't work, you die.”

Derrick nodded. “At your age you should be enjoying some of the finer things in life too, William.” Derrick pulled three crisp one-hundred dollar bills from his pocket. He slipped them to William. “I'd like to talk about Silky and Shaughn's stay here.”

William accepted the bills. They walked across the manicured, leaf-strewn ground as William narrated the story of Silky and Shaughn for Derrick.

William's sense of loneliness had faded for the time. He was animated with sharing information from the past. The past was where he lived most of the time these days.

The past was also where some of the darkest of his memories were buried. This particular memory had been tucked away behind a curtain in his mind, not to be retrieved until now.

They walked over to the basement window as William Broughton led Derrick down a pathway to a dark world that hovered just outside of the natural. Occasionally there was a merger that upset the balance of things.

 

 

Later that night, Derrick was in the dark office of the New Jersey Institute. It was the same office where the clerk had refused to help him. He shined his flashlight into a broken file drawer where he had just picked the lock.

In his entire career, he had never broken and entered into anything to obtain a story, but he considered this a small breach considering what he thought he was on to.

He spotted the file he was looking for. He lifted it out of the drawer. Opening it, he reached inside to rifle through the papers. He scanned the information quickly. A surge of joy rushed through him.

Derrick pulled out a mini camera. He snapped shots in quick succession. The digital camera produced laser-quality photographs. He was euphoric. He came to a newspaper clipping. He pulled it out for closer inspection.

A long slow involuntary whistle puckered his lips.

Derrick exhaled. He felt like he had been waiting to exhale all his life. Now he knew what all those women had been so exhilarated about when the phrase “Waiting to Exhale” had been coined. Yes. It could happen to a man too.

Albeit his reasons were different.

But feel it he did. His excitement knew no bounds. He'd known all along that something wasn't right. Now he had the evidence to prove it. Although in a million years he had never expected this particular bonanza. He wouldn't have imagined this in his wildest daydreams. “I'm going to be Journalist of the Year!”

It was all he could do to keep from flipping a cartwheel. He was already picturing the sparkling award hanging in his office. Offers would pour in from all over the country when the story broke. Damned if he wouldn't be ready.

Derrick drove home. He talked into his microcassette recorder. Getting it all down. One of the first things he had learned in journalism was to always carry the tools of your trade. You never knew when something might pop up.

Derrick was a good student. He had followed this advice religiously throughout his career. He put the microcassette recorder close to his lips and said, “This exposé is hot. It is going to blow the lid off one of the most incredible, twisted cases Newark has ever seen.”

He paused visualizing the headlines. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

When Derrick arrived home, he went straight to his desk. He pored over his notes. He flipped through his files. He knew he had finally hit on the truth surrounding Silky. What an incredible truth it was.

Silky and Shaughn. There was no doubt after what he'd discovered that Shaughn was part of the killings, both then and now. He had known Silky's story didn't stop there, that there was more to it, that Silky was somehow affiliated with the occult. The murders of the women had smacked of it and so had Silky's strange death.

People always said that
the truth
was stranger than fiction. Here he sat with the perfect specimen of the popular myth.

The story was so explosive he knew it was going to rip Newark open to its very core. It would blow away the very foundation of Newark. This was absolutely the mother ship of all stories. Derrick slapped his forehead. He just couldn't believe it.

Shivering with excitement, Derrick booted up his computer. He gleefully typed in a draft of what his headline would be.

“Damn,” he said as he looked at the headline he'd typed. “Pulitzer Prize material.” His daydream ran rampant. The bold black letters leaped from the computer before his eyes. He could hardly wait to see the expression on Chris White's face when he told him. The sweet smell of being right was making him dizzy.

“Now Wolfgang and Micah will come face-to-face with the truth. And we'll see what they have to say about this. Oh, what a day it will be.” Derrick smiled.

He thumbed his nose at an imaginary Micah. He recalled Micah's words, “There is no story. Period. Now go find some real work to do.” Derrick's eyes shone brighter than the light on the computer.

“No story, huh? I wonder what you'd call
this
, Micah.”

He leaned back in his chair. He jiggled the toothpick from side to side, unaware he was being watched and of the threat his newfound information posed. He heard a whooshing sound behind him.

Derrick turned in shocked surprise to see a flaming ball of fire heading toward him with the speed of light. In an instant Derrick was engulfed in flames. He turned into a human fireball. His screams of anguish bounced and then echoed off the walls.

The flames licked slowly away at everything in the room. His research, his camera, and his computer melted in the molten heat of the fire.

The fire licked its way over to the microcassette recorder. It left nothing in its wake but ashes.