Criss Cross (8 page)

T
he following day, Micah was sweating through his ritual morning workout. High-level tension roamed through his body. The cross, made out of tree bark lay around his neck. He had stepped up his workout routine to a maniac level.

Music blared from the hi-tech speakers in the room. Micah dropped to the floor. He matched his push-ups to the rhythm of the beat.

He finished the push-ups, started his stretches. Next came his calisthenics. “Ummm,” he moaned as he felt the tension dissolving from his tight muscles.

He jumped on his Torso Track. While he performed the smooth back and forth motion, he emptied his mind. He gave his total focus over to the rhythmic pull of the machine.

He finally rose from the Torso Track, folded it and slid it under the bed. He pulled on his boxing gloves. He pranced. His feet danced lightly over to the heavy double-weight boxing bag. He gave the bag a solid pounding. Twenty, pounding, mind-emptying minutes later Micah was ready to go for his jog.

Tony, a retired policeman who served as doorman as well as security and stock analyst extraordinaire for the building's residents, sat reading the morning newspaper in the front lobby.

Tony looked up from the
Wall Street Journal
as Micah strode toward him. He liked Micah's discipline and agility. The boy had stamina.

Micah had a towel wrapped around his neck. He was outfitted in his running gear again. Tony watched Micah shadowbox over to him. He smiled in his direction.

“What's up, Tony? You losing money?” He nodded at the
Wall Street Journal
lying on Tony's desk. He grinned at him.

Micah came to a halt, shadowboxing in place. “Damn, Tony, you know you ought to be ashamed of yourself fronting as a doorman. You're almost the richest man in this city. Those old blue-chip stocks of yours are gonna disintegrate before you decide to cash in.”

Tony leaned back in his chair. He chuckled in satisfaction. “Shoot, ain't any worse than you fronting as though you're going to the Olympics. How many times are you gonna run in one morning?”

Micah quit shadowboxing. He pointed to Tony's coffee cup. “What's in that cup? You sipping on the job again?”

Tony glanced at his cup. He bellowed out his gut-churning laugh. “You save them there investigating skills for downtown. I know you when I see you boy. You trying to see if I still got it, huh?”

Micah laughed too. “It's my job to make sure you're still up on the game. I was just testing you, man. I'm making a lot of money off those stock tips. So every once in a while I gotta make sure you still got the eye and all. Just protecting my investment, man. Just protecting my investment. You can't blame a man for looking out for his own.” He shook his head at Tony. Then jogged out the front door.

Once he was on the street, Micah jogged as though demons were chasing him. He flew by neighborhood stores and houses, running to the park.

He sprinted out into the street. He played dodge with the oncoming traffic. His limbs were so incredibly lithe, he glided through the morning rush.

When he reached the perimeter of Branch-Brook Park he picked up his pace. He sped through his ten miles, pushing himself to the limit. His sneakers smacked the blacktop of the runway like tiny torpedoes being set off. Droplets of water gushed from his forehead. Sweat lubricated his body as he ran on.

After his run, Micah walked slowly allowing his body temperature to cool down. He went to the dry cleaners to pick up his clothes.

Sung-Yu greeted Micah as he walked through the door, fumbling in his pockets for his dry cleaning slip. “Morning again, Mr. Jordan-Wells,” Sung-Yu said to Micah, “Did you forget something?”

Micah looked up from fumbling in his pockets, annoyed. A strange feeling shook him as he said “What the hell is wrong with all of you people this morning? I want my clothes. I forgot my slip.”

Sung-Yu glanced at Micah as though he was losing it. Puzzled, Sung-Yu shook his head. “I'm sorry Mr. Jordan-Wells, I just gave you your clothes. You no remember? See.” Sung-Yu plucked a dry cleaning slip from the stand on the counter.

Micah looked down at the slip. He turned around and raced out of the shop with Sung-Yu yelling after him, “I'm sorry, Mr. Jordan-Wells. I do something wrong?”

Micah ran down the street to his apartment building. He darted through the door running past Tony who looked up startled as Micah whizzed by him.

Micah ran to the stairwell in his building. He leaped up the cement steps a few at a time. When he reached his apartment he searched for an illegal entry. He saw none. Quietly, he inserted his key in the lock.

He entered the apartment cautiously. He pulled out his revolver and slinked against the wall. He peered around the corner going into his police stance. But no one was there.

Making his way to the kitchen, he saw the remainder of a breakfast he had never eaten on the table. Adrenaline pumped through his veins as he searched the rest of the apartment.

There was no one to be found. He went into the bedroom. Lying on the bed were his clothes from the dry cleaner.

Micah shook his head trying to clear it. He mentally retraced his steps for that morning. He never ate before he worked out. What the hell was going on?

A blinding pain seized him. He grabbed his head. Moaning he dropped to his knees. The pain in his head increased. He put his head between his legs to stop the terrible throbbing.

Micah fell into a deep abyss. The loud cries of agony emitting from the dead six-year-old boys pounded in his ears.

Their arms reached out to him in a silent plea. Their small faces were etched in fear. Slowly they backed away from him in terror. The silver glint of a sharp instrument shone in its metallic glory. “No! Please, no!” they whimpered. A creamy white substance foamed from their mouths.

The “X” branded on their foreheads connected him to his own eternity. It connected him to them. Micah looked down to see the mark of the “X” tattooed on the back of his right hand. It was faint but it was there.

The mime's face floated before him. He pulled a long, sad face at Micah. He knew the truth. Teardrops cascaded from his eyes. The mime's gestures loomed large in front of his eyes as he seesawed back and forth like a rag doll.

As he swayed back and forth, Micah could feel the jagged cut of throbbing, ripping flesh in his hands as he gashed at the skin. Then he gashed some more. He gashed until he saw the carving of a masterpiece.

The interpreter spoke. “Ronnie Schaefer says the man he saw commit the murder is Micah Jordan-Wells.”

Micah couldn't stand this. He couldn't tolerate the things that happened when he was outside of himself. Through his blurred vision the room whirled around him.

He was in there. He saw it. The entire disgusting act. He'd done it before. He'd been there with the women. He peered through his eyes. Where was he now? All he could see was blackness. Everything was blocked. Why was he killing them? Why? Why? Why? It couldn't go on. He had to stop. Dear Jesus! Somehow it had to stop.

Insane laughter seeped through the walls of the room. The laughter surrounded him. It thumped through the Sheetrocked walls.

Micah lashed out, his arms thrashing wildly. Yet the laughter continued to swirl around him. It enveloped him in a blanket that was made for him. The “X” rose in its eminence. Grandstanding. Searing him. He felt the heat of it flow through his body.

It was a dance that had been orchestrated before his time. Written from the cradle to the grave. The handwriting was on the wall. All he had to do was find it.

D
errick had made up his mind. He decided he would not be blown off by the likes of Shimmy.

Regardless of what it looked like or smelled like, he knew something was brewing. And it had a rotten feel to it.

Somehow, neither Silky's conviction nor his death had ended that feeling for him. He realized it had always been there but he had tried to push it off. Until Silky had burst into flames in court. That had set it off. He watched Shimmy purchase a cup of coffee from the corner coffee shop.

As Shimmy emerged from the shop, Derrick followed him. He tapped him on the shoulder from behind. “Shimmy, we really need to talk.”

Shimmy whirled around spilling coffee all over his hands onto the ground. He glared at Derrick. “No we don't. I told you to leave it alone, Derrick. You don't want to mess with this. Drop it.”

Shimmy turned to leave. He threw the remainder of his coffee in the trash leaving Derrick seething behind him. Derrick contemplated following him. But as he watched his rigid body movements he realized he wouldn't get what he needed from him.

It suddenly dawned on him that Shimmy was scared. That was very, very, unusual for the tough street historian. Armed with this new revelation Derrick decided he'd better dig deeper. He was going to step up the volume. What could possibly scare a man like Shimmy?

 

 

Later that night, Derrick was awakened from his sleep by a noise in the room. Sitting up in bed, he saw the wall of his bedroom burning. It was on fire. He jumped out of bed.

On a closer look, he realized that the fire was somehow contained. The flames were burning an image into the wall. Immobilized by shock, Derrick stared as an “X” seared itself into the wall.

He backed away from the flaming “X” tripping over some shoes on the floor. Air exploded from his chest. He banged his head on the bottom rail of the bed.

Rubbing the back of his head he looked up at the wall. The “X” extinguished then erased itself. The wall was clear of any image or hint of fire. Not even a smell of soot was in the air.

“No way!” He got up.

He went to the bathroom. He was trembling. He needed a drink of water. He had witnessed an evil so bold it had shown itself. Or did he? Was he dreaming? He pinched himself. He felt the pain. Hell no. He had seen it.

It had also given him his first real clue. The “X” was connected to Silky. It was the mark he had left on all the women he had killed. But Silky was dead. A shiver traveled along the back of Derrick's neck.

Derrick felt shaky but composed himself. This was a story that had the capacity to make his career. There must be a reason why he'd seen what he'd seen. Maybe some entity was trying to reach him. Wanted him to tell the story.

Hell, stranger things had been known to happen. He would record as well as report every detail. That was his job. He was a reporter. He wasn't going to be one of the corporate drones that only reported stories people could handle. No.

The truth wasn't always black and white. He knew that sometimes it lurked in the shadows. He just needed to connect the dots.

S
everal days later cars were stacked and packed outside of St. Patrick's Cathedral where Rasheem Thompson's memorial services were being held.

Inside the church Micah stood rigid, dressed in black, looking like he'd just stepped out of the pages of the latest fashion magazine. He peered from behind his black shades at the crowd in the church.

The church was filled with uniformed and undercover police. It was not uncommon for a serial killer to show up at the services of one of his victims. Some of them liked to view the aftermath of their handiwork.

The television crews and print media were out in full force. They would record every teardrop that fell from Nakisha's eyes.

The press was watching Micah's next move. He was fresh off of Silky's case, which was still lingering in the public eye due to Silky's fantastic demise.

Before the ink was dry on the print from that episode, two children were dead. The murders had thrust Micah right back into the spotlight.

Micah had barely managed to keep certain details about the child murders out of reach of the media, such as Silky's trademark signature.

That information alone being released would have started a backlash of press. It would have created speculation that would have totally crippled his investigation as well as the Newark community. They could not afford to be mired in crackpots looking for their day in the sun by claiming responsibility for the murders.

Wolfgang had called in some serious markers to keep specific details of the murders from being released. Micah knew he had to move fast. Time was not on his side.

He turned his attention to Nakisha as she lit a candle and began to recite an emotional rendition of the Twenty-third Psalm. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want . . .”

Micah shifted restlessly as he silently eye-stalked the people who had crowded into St. Patrick's Cathedral. Suddenly, he realized Nakisha had finished her recital.

A soloist had stepped up to the microphone. She was delivering a hauntingly beautiful musical version of the song “Going Up Yonder.” “If anybody asks you . . .” the lilting, spiritual notes rose from the singer's throat.

The melody and lyrics captured Micah. Something inside him crashed. He looked at the tiny pure white casket holding Rasheem Thompson.

A loud voice boomed in Micah's ear. “Dead boy walking. Dead boy walking.” On top of the casket the dead boy tap-danced. He smiled at Micah. Then ripped open his burial clothes exposing his chest.

The “X” flashed blood-red, taunting Micah. He stretched out his arms. His head spun around once, a complete turn. Again he smiled.

Micah removed his sunglasses. He moved swiftly but with control through the mourners. Just as he reached the front of the church, the boy evaporated like mist into thin air. The soloist's voice soared.

The priest stepped to the front of the casket—which was undisturbed from what Micah could see. He sprinkled holy water over the casket. Several young men stood waiting. When the priest was finished they pulled the casket down the aisle of the church.

Micah stepped back. He put his shades back on to hide the wild look in his eyes. It was a good thing his movements had been smooth. Otherwise he would have interrupted the entire service with something he could not explain and that only he had seen.

Nakisha placed one foot forward, beginning her journey down the aisle, preparing to commit her son's body to the earth.

The priest held her arm, lending her support. The lyrics to “Going Up Yonder” cascaded like a waterfall around her as she followed the casket of her only child.

Pain and grief were etched into Nakisha's face as though her pain had been sealed in granite. The mourners stood in a silent salute as she passed by. Her sorrow was so tangible that even the media backed off respectfully. They conducted their work discreetly so as not to intrude on her very real suffering.

Quentin watched Nakisha's descent to bury her son. He also watched Micah Jordan-Wells.

Inside the tiny pure white coffin the slain boy lay in final peace.