Criss Cross (16 page)

E
velyn sipped from her ever-present cup of coffee. The bottle of Chivas Regal was in full view. She just didn't care. She was tired of trying to hide her pain. She was what she was. It was bigger than she was.

The evening news blared in the background. She had no interest. The newscaster's voice broke into her thoughts, penetrating her fog of disinterest. She turned at the sound of the note in the newscaster's voice.

“Another body of a six-year-old boy has been discovered. Unbelievably, the body has been found right across the street from City Hall.”

An aerial shot of the area flashed across the screen. “The murders have been dubbed the Criss Cross murders. All the boy's bodies have been branded with an “X” indicating ritual-type murders.”

Wolfgang had kept this out of the media as long as he could but the story had broken. Evelyn didn't hear any more. Her mind ceased functioning. Her cup slipped from her hand. It clattered to the floor. Her hands trembled. She worked her mouth. It was as dry as a cotton ball. The newscaster's voice droned in the background.

Evelyn heard a muffled sound. She ran into the foyer. She checked the locks on the door. She leaned heavily against the door, breathing deeply. She tried to steady herself so she could breathe evenly but her breath came in short rasps. She screamed out, “No!”

Evelyn slid down the length of the door. She sat on the floor, sobbing. Quentin had struck with a vengeance. He was making his ultimate move. There was no way she could stop him. His prophecy was being fulfilled. And hers had been the womb that had made it possible.

She should never have listened to Reverend Jackson so long ago. She should not have gone through with the birth. None of this would be happening now if she had gotten the abortion. Then she thought of Micah. She sobbed even louder at her loss.

Quentin's prophecy slapped her in the face with the force of a windstorm. Guilt twisted her insides into a knot. Stark fear had completely immobilized her over the years. Now it would cost her. Big time. She would pay the price for not fighting back. A price that was too big for any one person to pay.

Evelyn rolled into a fetal position on the floor. Dry sobs racked her body. She was out of tears. Sounds like that of a trapped animal with a fatal wound poured from her being.

Pain surged through her body. It swelled in her heart. A piercing arrow of grief ripped through her fear. She would lose him. If she did not make a move, Quentin would kill him.

She didn't have the courage to face him. She might not even have time on her side. But there was something she could do.

Evelyn was so immersed in fear and pain that she could not stand. Instead she crawled. Inch by inch, she crawled back to the foyer. She thought of the mural she had seen. She thought of Micah.

She dug deep. Yes, there was a cornerstone. She remembered now. She couldn't remember where it was at before. It had been like that of a best friend she had lost contact with, bearing her thoughts for her.

She needed that cornerstone. Before her, she saw a solid rock. Suddenly a name flowed through the recesses of her consciousness. Jesus. He was the cornerstone.

“I'm sorry. Oh God! Jesus, I'm sorry,” Evelyn whimpered. She reached the phone and she dialed. When the reverend picked up on the other end of the line, her throat constricted in fear. Quentin would kill her. She envisioned the rock again. She reached for it. If only she could hang on.

Quentin's threatening words screeched in her ears drowning out all sound. Evelyn only moaned, “Jesus.” The reverend heard the name rise from her lips.

“Evelyn! Yes, Evelyn! Fight!”

“Reverend Jackson tell Micah the truth. Please.” Tears streamed from her eyes. The tears cast valleys along her cheeks. “The only way he can win is if he knows the truth. Please help to save my son. Don't let Quentin take his soul.” Evelyn slid the phone back into the cradle. Then she blacked out.

She had done what she could.

R
everend Jackson summoned Micah to the New Jersey Institute of Living. They walked in the brilliant autumn sunlight together. The day was brisk and windy. Both men walked with their collars pulled up.

The reverend had contacted Micah for an urgent meeting. He had chosen this place as the meeting ground. It was the place where Silky had grown up. Micah wondered at his choice. But he knew the reverend had been involved with the orphanage and with orphaned children for a great many years.

There was something else he wondered about too, but it could wait. The time would come.

“I've been following the murders, Micah. I wanted to talk to you about them. I do think you're on the right track, from what you've said. David Edward Stokes—Silky, as you knew him—grew up here. He was a friend of Shaughn Braswell. The two of them were thick as thieves. Never mingled outside of themselves.”

Micah wondered why the name Shaughn Braswell sounded familiar to him. Then it came to him. “Wait a minute. There's a Shaughn Braswell who peddles sculptures in downtown Newark. Is he the same one?”

“One and the same. Believe me. Dangerous and dark, that one. His powers are not of this world, Micah.”

Micah looked a bit surprised as a picture of a laid-back Shaughn, with impeccable manners and a long ponytail, flashed through his mind. But he didn't comment for the moment.

The reverend stopped walking. He stared past Micah almost hypnotically. Micah watched him. His feet were rooted to the spot. He didn't like the look on the reverend's face.

The reverend looked into the distant past as the brisk, sunny, autumn day faded from his view. He recalled his glimpse inside madness for Micah.

“They used to conduct rituals. Shaughn and David. They never stopped. On and on it went.”

The years fell away like melting dewdrops. The reverend was face to face with the past. Micah Jordan-Wells made the journey with him.

It had happened down in the basement of the institution. The reverend stood in the dark shadows afraid. He was mesmerized by what he was witnessing. Through no will of his own, he was fixed to the spot.

A young Shaughn stood in the middle of a circle. It was made out of blazing candles. He stood on top of a flaming “X” that glowed pure red and gold flames. Yet his bare feet were not even burning.

Shaughn's eyes were transformed. They were translucent. They were hypnotic. His eyes were dark black glowing coals. They were pure emptiness shining through the night. They streamed an eerie and incandescent light.

He was dressed in a monk's outfit. The hood was pulled over his head. The tunic was roped and knotted at the waist.

The reverend watched. He didn't dare breathe.

David stared at Shaughn. He was completely under Shaughn's spell. He had no will. He had no control over his own limbs. Nor did he have any will over his own mind. He was an empty shell. Waiting to be possessed.

The reverend stifled a gasp. He fingered the cross, which hung from his neck.

Shaughn said to David, “Your soul is now in my command.”

Shaughn thrust out his right fist. The “X” glowed. Shaughn shouted at David. “Do you surrender?”

David's dreamlike state never changed. “Yes.”

“Good. Then I am the master of all that you are.” In that instant Shaughn possessed David.

Shaughn turned his head with an air of command. A rushing wind blew through the room. The room turned upside down. A funnel of air created total chaos. Objects flew. They banged around.

Shaughn stared at David. Light streamed from his eyes. He lifted David's body from the floor. It slammed against the wall. Shaughn twirled in the circle. His arms outstretched.

His image superimposed itself on all the walls, blown up, surrounding him. Shaughn was the inheritor. He was the inheritor of a great, dark kingdom. He was the ruler of souls! He laughed. Glory and immortality were upon him.

“There is only one thing left between me and the ultimate power. I am my brother's keeper.” His eyes gleamed.

He knelt in the circle. He bowed his head. The candles flickered around him. The wind in the room ceased. The room returned to normal.

Shaughn passed into a trance, whispering, “The final twinning will take place the day my brother steps foot on this property.”

Shaughn lifted his head. He stared at the area where the reverend was hiding outside the door.

The reverend feared that Shaughn had spotted him. He stepped back from the peephole. He shivered in his hiding place. All was silent. He breathed a sigh of relief. Shaughn didn't know he was there. He turned to leave.

Upon turning, he came face to face with Quentin Curry. Quentin was dressed identically to Shaughn. The piercing eyes blazed at the reverend from beneath the hood. The reverend retreated backward. He tripped over some old wood lying on the floor. He could feel the waves of darkness emanating from Quentin.

The evil that Quentin generated was a tangible thing. The reverend could reach out and touch it. A cloudy haze seeped up from the ground. It cloaked the charismatic figure in front of him.

“Need I introduce myself?” Quentin said.

“No. I know all about you.”

“That's good. Surely a man of the cloth understands that destiny and prophecy are entwined as one. As such, it must not be disturbed.”

The reverend nodded. He could hardly believe that this man was the devil. But he knew he was. He had always thought of Quentin as a spirit. He wondered what had happened to allow him to come to earth as a man. Because just as surely as he was standing here, he knew it was him in the flesh and while he had been visiting, he had reproduced himself. The reverend closed his eyes against the stark reality of it all.

Quentin watched him. He read the reverend's thoughts.

“Yes, I have reproduced,” Quentin, said. He smiled. “There can only be one power in the end of things. The night of the final twinning will declare who that will be.”

Again the reverend nodded. To his horror, he discovered he was incapable of speaking. He thrust his old tree bark cross a bit in front of him since he was not able to form words.

Quentin smiled engagingly at the reverend as one smiles sometimes at an errant child. Then he threw his hands in the air, in the act of surrender. He bowed his head slightly. Then he was gone. A rushing wind swept the reverend back against the wall.

The reverend shivered from the memory of it. He opened his eyes to find Micah staring at him. For a heart stopping moment in time, a scary image flashed in front of him. He saw Quentin's eyes, and now Micah's.

The reverend frowned.

There was that feeling again. The same one he had experienced while studying Micah's photograph in the newspaper. He was slightly disturbed. He stared off into the distance. Micah tried to digest all he had just learned.

Returning his attention to Micah he saw the questions in his eyes. The reverend said, “The time has come. What do you need to know?”

“Why didn't you come forward about Silky when the women were being murdered?”

His question stung the reverend deep. He knew Micah felt betrayed. “I was under a sacred oath. There is commitment and loyalty that must be upheld.”

“At the risk of the loss of life, Reverend?”

The reverend swallowed hard. “I offer no excuses, Micah. It wasn't time. I couldn't.”

Micah looked closely at the reverend he'd known since childhood. “I know why Silky was here. Why was Shaughn Braswell here?”

Reverend Jackson sighed. He faced the ultimate moment of truth. As Micah had so justly pointed out, he had already been silent too long. There was also Evelyn to consider. At whatever cost, he would help to save her son.

Looking at Micah directly, he said, “His mother was afraid of him. She was afraid of his father. Of the evil they demonstrated. In her one and only act of defiance, she refused to keep Shaughn and placed him here.”

“He was placed here when he was six years old. Shaughn's father threatened to kill her if she ever tried to leave. He allowed the removal of Shaughn only because it suited his needs. Shaughn's mother is a reclusive and prominent woman.”

The reverend turned away. He was unable to meet Micah's eyes. Micah sensed that this was not the time to interrupt. He waited patiently.

Turning back to Micah, the reverend said, “She went to great lengths to cover her relationship with him. She had another child to protect, one who wasn't like Shaughn. One who was caring and loving. He's different in every way.”

“Nevertheless, I believe Shaughn found out who she is. He went on a murdering rampage. He used Silky. He's leaving his mark for her. Waiting for her to recognize it. He's leaving his mark for the world to see. I can't prove anything, of course. It's just my own feeling. But I also believe her life is in great danger.”

“Who is Shaughn Braswell's mother?”

The reverend's eyes glittered. He didn't immediately answer. He placed both hands on Micah's shoulders. “Understand, Micah, that I am bound by the laws of man since I am part of the orphanage to keep that information confidential. But I am also bound by the higher law of God to release the truth.”

It really wasn't a decision. He had no choice. But he had felt the need to say that, to make it clear. Besides, Evelyn had finally stepped out. And for that she would be rewarded. Her son would be given what he needed to fight back.

“Shaughn's mother is . . . Evelyn Braswell Jordan-Wells.” The name dropped like a rock in the middle of a lake, causing the smooth surface to ripple from the shock of it.

“She is the famed novelist also known as Blaine Upshaw. Micah, Shaughn Braswell is your brother.”

A startled, shocked gasp of air exited Micah's lungs. A sharp stab of pain shot through his gut. He leaned over from the force of it. His eyes reflected shocked disbelief.

Micah pulled the collar of his coat around his neck. His head pounded. Shadowy images floated before his eyes. Images he had suppressed in the deep recesses of his memory. The reverend's words had unlocked the door. The memories tumbled forward in full force.

There was a six-year-old boy looking out the window. His nose was pressed against the filmy glass. It was made steamy from his breath. He wiped the window with his small hand so he could see.

Another little boy was crying. It was sad and tragic. A man was taking him from the house against his will. The boy was fighting the man. He was struggling. He tried to run back to the house. He yelled out, “Mommy! Mommy!”

The boy broke the grip. He ran. He tried to reach his mother. But the man caught him. The man.

Who was that man?

Micah peered closer. The reverend's face swam before his eyes in vivid clarity.

It had been long buried. Forgotten, until now. Micah remembered. With that memory came pain, shock and outrage.

He looked into the reverend's eyes. The evidence of the truth stared back at him. The small things were adding up for him. Tallying up in fact with the speed of light. Micah dared not to check the total.

“There is more, Micah.”

“How the hell can there be more? Don't you think that's enough?”

Reverend Erwin Jackson nodded sadly. But he had to go on if he were to protect Micah. He landed the last and final blow with a volume of not much more than a whisper, “Micah, you and Shaughn Braswell are identical twins. Mirror images. Shaughn's looks are altered because looking at him, for you, would be like looking in the mirror. Genetically speaking, you have the same voice and the same mannerisms. There is absolutely no way to tell the two of you apart . . .”

Micah closed his eyes against the harshness of the day. He stood rigidly in place as the pieces of the puzzle slowly dropped into their designated spots. Of all the scenarios he had envisioned, this was not one of them.

The deceit had been so complete he'd wondered if maybe he
had
committed the murders. Maybe he had blacked out and killed them. All along, the secrets of his past had been haunting him.

Hatred, vile and venomous, rose up from his belly. He asked the final question. One more thing that was still niggling at him, “Who is our father?”

“Your father and Shaughn's father is Quentin Curry.” The reverend described him. Micah flashed back to the image of Quentin in his bedroom. He heard Quentin's words, “It doesn't matter who I am. All that matters is who you are. You're demon spawned.”

“Only fate played a cruel trick on him, Micah,” the reverend said, “when it came to you.”

Micah didn't want to hear any more. He walked away.

“Micah! There's more. You can't win if you don't know it all.” The reverend ran to catch up to him.

Micah glided to a halt. His eyes beamed a strange, angry glow, seizing the reverend in its grip.

“Quentin Curry has no past or present, Micah. No birth records exist, no driver's license, no social security number, and no fingerprints. Nothing. Years ago, your mother and I tried. She was so afraid of him she developed agoraphobia. That's why she hasn't left the house since your birth. When trying to get rid of him didn't work, she stopped trying. His power was stronger than hers.

“That and the fact that he told her he would kill you if she ever left. He told her he would kill the both of you. You are the only good thing that has ever happened to Evelyn.”

The reverend grabbed Micah by the shoulders. He gave him a penetrating look, willing him, praying for him to understand. For years he hadn't gotten through to Evelyn, but he would not let Micah be lost too.