Criss Cross (14 page)

M
icah stood in the hall outside of Patrick Hayes's office. Patrick was forty years old. He was hands down one of the hottest DAs on the East Coast.

He rose to shake hands with Micah as he entered the office. “Micah. Please have a seat,” Patrick told him. “It's good to see you.”

Once Micah was seated Patrick took his seat behind the desk.

“It's good to see you too, Patrick,” Micah replied.

Patrick smiled. He had always liked Micah. His manner was forthright. He had a strong sense of fair play. Those were qualities Patrick respected and admired. Micah was a man who could be trusted. Not to mention one hell of a detective. They had danced together on a tightrope in their case against Silky and won.

“So, what brings you here?”

“Do you still have the psyche report on Silky?”

Patrick gave him a strange look. “Silky's dead.”

“Yeah I know but I'm playing the hunch so humor me.”

Patrick knew it was more than that but he didn't question it further. “Yeah, I've got the report.”

“Patrick, let's go over Silky's psyche.”

Patrick looked at Micah before replying, “You know he was the devil's watchdog. Automated and programmed.”

Patrick picked up a computer disk from his desk. He twirled it in his fingers. “Just like this disk. What you put in is what you get out.”

Micah didn't say a word.

“The problem is, Micah, you're talking about mind control. You know as well as I do the medical community doesn't totally accept it. But it happens.” Patrick looked past Micah, momentarily. “This case crossed the realm. David Edward Stokes was possessed. He wasn't an ordinary criminal by any means, you know that.”

Patrick sensed Micah's uneasiness but he continued on. “There were things about the murders that were inconsistent with other murders of this type. I still have the report.”

“What do you mean by inconsistent, Patrick?”

“Remember the markings?”

Micah seized on a moment of insight as the image of the marking parked itself in his mind's eye.

Patrick flashed Micah a look. “All of the victims had the number six embedded into the base of their skulls. Just above the neck area. Barely visible to the human eye.” Patrick cleared his throat.

“When David was interviewed he claimed the women he killed were carriers. He said they were carriers of a mark from God. Carriers of a seed that would rise up and fight against the seed of Satan.”

“He said that was why they needed to be destroyed. He claimed the seeds of the chosen ones were here. Here in Newark. Who knows what he meant? He ranted on and on about how Satan had been tricked because the women were carriers of the mark but would never produce the seeds of the chosen ones.”

In a flash of insight Micah suddenly realized an elaborate plan of deceit had taken place. The chosen ones were not born of the murdered women. These women had the ability to produce but the boys they had born did not bear the mark. The ones that were being killed now did.

A tremor shook Micah's body. Shadowy images of the murdered women branded with an “X” rose from his consciousness. The six-year-old boys floated before his eyes.

Trying to gather himself Micah asked, “What did the report say about Silky's parents?”

“It said he was an orphan. He was picked up by Child Protective Services while wandering the streets of Newark when he was . . .” Patrick paused trying to recall. “When he was six. David Stokes was raised by the State of New Jersey at The New Jersey Institute of Living. The address of the institution is right here.”

A seed of truth dropped in Micah's lap. The stench of deceit clogged his nostrils. Micah switched gears.

“Just one question, Patrick.” Before Micah could ask the question, his body began to quiver strangely. Patrick's face was replaced by a molten “X” melting and dripping in flames.

Micah was tossed into a room. Derrick Holt was engulfed in flames. Derrick's screams of anguish bounced, and then echoed off the walls. Over in a corner of the room, a silhouette moved. Micah was face to face with his own shadow. He smiled at himself. Derrick was dead. So was the secret. It had died with him.

M
icah sat on the edge of his bed listening to the news on the radio. The announcer's voice was like a cold blast of air in his ear. “A fire in Newark today claimed the life of the
Star-Ledger
's news reporter, Derrick Holt. A top-notch reporter, Derrick was noted for his outstanding journalism in the field of criminology. The origin of the fire is at this time unknown.”

Micah closed his eyes. The phone rang. It rang and rang. Finally, he lifted the receiver. “Micah Jordan-Wells, here.”

“Micah, is everything okay?” Evelyn said. Her voice was laced with something unrecognizable. It went over Micah's head. “I've been worried about you.”

“You shouldn't be worried about me, Ma. You should be writing your next book.” Micah was careful to keep the strain out of his voice. He knew Evelyn was not good with trauma or stressful situations.

In her parlor, Evelyn peeked again out the window from behind the heavy brocade drapes. She saw the reverend across the street watching her house. She took a sip from her coffee cup. The reverend beckoned to her. Quickly she pulled back from the window.

“Well, I'm doing that too, Micah. But I still find time to worry. I know you don't like to discuss your cases. But, please. Be careful. I don't like the sound of this one.” This statement was a major milestone for Evelyn. It was as far as she could bring herself to go.

The beautiful glass figurine flung itself from the table, shattering in tiny, colorful pieces. Except for the neck. The slender neck of the figurine was broken in half. Evelyn fought to keep her calm. Micah must not know.

“I'll be careful, Ma. Don't worry. I'll be by there soon. Okay?”

Evelyn forced a calmness she didn't feel into her voice. “Of course darling. You know I'll be here.”

A snappy tone edged into Micah's voice. He couldn't help it. Evelyn simply exasperated him at times with the way she ran away from things. “I wish you wouldn't be there, Ma. You should be out having live book signings or something. Your fans should be able to see you in person, not just in pictures and via video tapings. I still don't know why you write under the name Blaine Upshaw anyway. You should be proud of what you do. Why are you writing under a pseudonym?”

Evelyn frowned. She sucked in a space of air. She was a bit taken aback by Micah's blunt question. He generally handled her with kid gloves. She had come to expect this gentle treatment from him. He had spoiled her in many aspects by catering to her idiosyncrasies. Now, just when she didn't need it, he was intruding on things better left alone.

What Evelyn didn't realize was that Micah had had about as much secrecy as he could bear. He was slowly sliding off the edge.

When she answered, Evelyn's tone had a bit of snap in it as well. “Listen, Micah, do not start this. I didn't call to fight. I just missed you. There are things in life better off left alone.”

Evelyn's nerves were frayed around the edges. If there was ever a time she didn't want to explain this to Micah, now was it. She drained her coffee cup.

“Yeah, I know. You've always told me that. I love you, Ma,” Micah answered.

Evelyn risked another look out the drapes. She saw that the reverend was gone. She sat down. She looked at the glass figurine. Its neck was broken. She clasped her shaking hands in her lap. “I love you, baby. More than you know.” Softly she hung up the phone.

She saw Quentin force her face up to his. His gaze bore into her. His words echoed in the chambers of her ears. “If you ever try to leave you will die! You will die a death more vicious than the wildest imagination can conjure up.

“Painfully and slowly, I will release life from your body. Until you beg for death. Until you seek its face. I will kill you and anything you love. Understood? Look at the mark.” The “X” swam before her eyes like a watery illusion.

Evelyn put her head in her hands and wept. If she tried to protect Micah he would die. Weeping Willow sank down on the sofa. She looked at the woman sitting before her, and she too wept.

Micah heard the soft click of the phone in his ear. He decided to call Nugent. He listened to the ringing until Nugent's voice came over the phone. “Nuggie, how's Raven?”

Micah listened to Nugent's reply and said, “Listen, I can't deal with this right now. Just make sure she's in good hands for me. Tell her I still love her.” Micah's voice broke on the last words as he examined the ruins of his manhood.

His ego had been badly damaged by another man making love to his woman. Micah twisted the phone cord tight around his whitened knuckles. He spat out his next words. “He slept with her, man. Can you believe this? This is bull crap, Nugent. Are you getting me? She thought it was me. It wasn't, Nugent. You know damn well it wasn't me. He went too far this time. I'm gonna rip this punk to shreds when I find him. How the hell could she have thought it was me? That's impossible. I've been with Raven for five years. She knows me. How in the hell could she have thought it was me? He touched her. She made love to another man, and she thought it was me!”

Micah had finally voiced the one fear that wouldn't leave him alone. The one thought that always nagged him. It vanquished his sleep. He couldn't escape it.
How in the hell could somebody be him, unless it was him?

The murders always came to him in visions. Flashes of what would be, of what was. Only, he had finally seen himself in Derrick's apartment. Face to face.

A frustrated storm raged through his body. He threw the telephone against the wall, not bothering to finish his conversation with Nugent.

Nugent, who had been standing with the phone to his ear, heard the crash. He pulled the phone away from his ear. He listened at a distance. When he realized Micah wasn't coming back, he hung up.

Micah put his head between his knees. His head was beginning to hurt again. If only he could remember what happened.

After a time, Micah opened the drawer to the nightstand. He pulled out a bottle of Hennessey. He swigged the cognac, taking deep swallows.

He stared at the bottle in his hand while the alcohol burned its way down his throat. The bottle exploded in a ball of fire. He jumped up and stomped on the burning bottle.

Recognition seized him, sweeping him off his feet. This couldn't be possible. But it was. He focused on different objects in the room, realizing his newfound power. Coming into a gift so profound it rocked his world.

He stared at objects, discovering he had the ability to move them and float them at will. If he stared intently, they burst into flames. He also discovered the ability to quench the flames. If he moderated his stare, he could move, float, or destroy the object, depending on his level of intensity.

He restored everything he experimented on to its rightful state and place. Then he sat down on the edge of his bed trying to come to grips with what he was.

Had he been hunting himself all along?

The thought of it made his insides heave. He'd thought it was just some kind of sick joke. Although, he still hadn't figured out how people kept thinking he was in places he wasn't. At least he didn't remember being there until they floated back to him in images.

Micah stared at the wall. Realization, the awful truth of what he was, gripped him in a steel-like vise. Once more, the molten “X” burned itself into the wall.

Shrieks of insane laughter came at him from out of the wall. The shrieking surrounded him now. The banshees wailed. Micah's entrée into a different world was upon him. He was welcomed.

Micah twirled around. He grabbed his head. The shrieking laughter grew louder. He felt a presence in the room. Quentin Curry stood before him.

Micah blinked. “Where the hell did you come from? How did you get in here? Who are you?”

Quentin laughed. “Who I am doesn't matter. It's who you are that matters, Micah. You're demon spawn.”

Micah lunged at Quentin and came up with air. Quentin was behind him, laughing at him. Micah was so very tired of living with this insane laughter. He whirled on Quentin. He would rip him to pieces with his bare hands. But Quentin disappeared. “No!” Micah shouted at him.

The laughter stopped as quickly as it began. Quentin's words were all that were left in the room. “Yes,” he said. “Oh, yes, Micah Jordan-Wells.”

Over in a corner of the room Weeping Willow stood with her arms outstretched to Micah. Tears streamed from her eyes. They rolled down her cheeks.

Before Micah's eyes, she knelt in a state of repentance.

T
he reverend lay in his bed as Quentin Curry silently slipped into the bedroom. He crept to the reverend's bed, watching his sleeping form. He had originally thought the reverend might add a bit of an edge to things, something he would enjoy, but now the reverend's meddling was getting out of hand.

The reverend hadn't posed much of a problem in the early days. But since the murders started, his concern with Micah had escalated. Now the reverend was becoming a liability Quentin could no longer afford. As such, he simply had to be eliminated.

Quentin stared at the sleeping figure. He blinked his eyes, emitting light in a stream toward the reverend.

The bolt of light struck the bedpost. It bounced back. Quentin frowned in surprise. He tried again. The reverend should be an easy target for him. He didn't tolerate opposition. Again, the stream of light struck the bedpost without touching the reverend.

Quentin didn't have time for playing games. There was work to be done. He mustered his supreme power. Screeching from the depths of hell broke out in the room. The level of darkness deepened to an unholy degree.

Quentin's eyes gleamed with a force that rocked the very foundation of the reverend's house. The house shook from the force of it. He rooted the house up out of the ground leaving a gaping hole.

The house soared through the atmosphere. Tiles rained down from the roof. Another bolt of light streamed from his eyes directly at the reverend's heart.

An authoritative energy blocked the bolt. A golden light circled the reverend's bed rendering it untouchable.

Quentin was furious.

The house soared through the air at a greater speed. The doors slammed. The windows blew out. He hurled a chair at the reverend's head. It crashed against the wall, never touching him. A wind of tornado-like proportions blew through the room, intent on sucking the reverend into its vortex.

It would suck the reverend and his house into oblivion. The tornado whirled right past the reverend. It hurled itself out the back bedroom window.

Quentin spat fireballs at the reverend from his eyes. A golden circle absorbed the balls of fire like a sponge. He threw a shroud of darkness, the net of his kingdom, at the reverend. There were very few men who had ever escaped it. The shroud dissolved.

The old cross made of tree bark fell from the wall. A blue streak of lightning burst forth from the cross. Thunder rolled, rocking the room. The cross was stained with a dark red substance. Blood. Underneath the cross a pool of blood seeped into the carpet. It was the blood of the slain.

The collection of Bibles were hewn from their shelves, they pummeled Quentin. The word assaulted him. Quentin screeched in abject fear. A howl rose from his throat. Pure, unadulterated fear racked his body.

Before his eyes the rock-hewn churches of Ethiopia rose out of their depths. They surrounded him, a circle of holiness and deep empowering faith. Housed in a shrine in one of the churches were the Ten Commandments.

A man dressed in heavy black winter clothing with a derby stuck on his head rose up before Quentin. He spoke one word. “Go!”

Quentin backed away from the reverend. He backed away from the cross. The blood was still seeping.
Please. Don't let it touch me.
There was a flapping sound. The flapping of thousands of wings sounded throughout the bedroom, rising in crescendo. The screeching came to an immediate halt. A holy army had arrived.

Quentin backed out of the room. He backed into the hallway. The room was bathed in a soft golden light. The door slammed in his face.

The house settled. It was restored to its rightful foundation. An angel of wrath guarded the door. Quentin knew him. He wielded supreme power. The blue-white mist of a spirit settled itself before the door.

Quentin couldn't believe it. There were very few of these idiots who ever tapped into that power. Apparently the reverend had. The reverend had discovered the ultimate weapon. He believed. And he had seized hold of the only power that could force this snake, raised out of the pit, back into its place.

Quentin had underestimated the reverend. He remembered a time when the reverend had shook at the sight of him. “Damn him,” Quentin said.

But he knew his words were without effect or power. The reverend had risen to the occasion. He had connected to The Lord Jesus Christ! The King of Kings! The King of Glory!

Quentin was pissed. It didn't matter. The reverend was protected. And he couldn't touch him. He had no choice but to back off. He would have to chalk the Reverend Erwin Jackson up as a loss. Quentin took one last angry look at the door, swept his hands in the air and disappeared.

Inside the bedroom, the reverend lay on his side in the bed. He clutched his tree bark cross. There were only four of them in the world. He had been graced to be the owner of three. One of which he had given to Micah Jordan-Wells.

He prayed softly under his breath, “He that is in me is greater than he that is in the world. He that is in me is greater than he that is in the world.”

He looked up from his prayer to see the silhouettes of angels rising upwards.

“Thank you, Jesus,” he said. “Thank you, Lord.”