Criss Cross

by Evie Rhodes

  His gaze bored into Micah putting a lock on his soul. “You don’t even know who you are. Your world as you know it ain’t no more, Micah. Poof.” Silky laughed. “Smoke and mirrors, my man. Mirrors and smoke.” Silky bowed his head paying homage. He mocked Micah.

  The windows of Micah’s eyes flickered. Hot electricity crackled in the air. Silky faltered, confused by what he saw. The bowels of his being flipped, opened and flushed. White-hot pain seared his insides.

  Silky howled a wolf-keening laugh. Realizing too late that he had been played. Then he burst into flames before Micah’s eyes. The courtroom filled with the sight and acrid odor of Silky’s burning flesh. His howling turned to shrieks of pain and dark torture.

  There was one liquid motion of body movement as the media and most of the spectators rushed out of the doors. Some just stared in rapt fascination at the unfolding evil taking place before their eyes.

  Pure pandemonium broke loose. Silky, who had been torched into a human fireball, weaved to the left and then to the right. He finally fell to the floor, a smoldering blanket of flames. Not one person moved to help put out the flames.

  Nugent stood in a semi-state of shock. Wolfgang shouted, “We’ve got to get this under control.”

  Micah looked at the flaming Silky and said, “Nugent, call the medical examiner and tell him to get here quick. We need some answers.” Wolfgang ran down the aisle with Micah right behind him.

  Out on the courtyard steps, Wolfgang stepped into his element. This was his city. He’d be damned if any criminal would usurp him. Even one who had suddenly burst into flames.

  Wolfgang, composed as a picture of calm assurance, stepped before the public. He waved his hands at the press to garner their attention.

  Meanwhile, police vehicles and fire trucks screamed in the distance. A rookie police officer handed Wolfgang a bullhorn.

  “Listen to me,” Wolfgang said, “David Edward Stokes, also known as Silky, has burst into flames. Medical assistance is on the way. After we have examined Mr. Stokes we will have more information.”

  Wolfgang handed the bullhorn back to the officer. He turned his back on the media and made his way through the crowd as they shouted out unanswered questions. Micah followed him. He made no comment at all.

  Derrick Holt, who had kicked off the media circus with Micah before the start of the penalty trial leaped forward from the crowd. “What the hell happened, Wolfgang?” Unknowingly, he was parroting Wolfgang’s exact thoughts.

  “Was Silky affiliated with the occult? Come on, the people of Newark have a right to know. He burst into flames. What gives?”

  Wolfgang stopped in midstride. He turned to stare at Derrick. “That’s all I have for now.” He pushed his way through the crowd.

  Wolfgang’s statement only heightened the air of edginess. But their shouted out questions went unanswered. The policemen and firemen moved in to break up the crowd and maintain order.

  Derrick stared thoughtfully at Wolfgang’s departing back.

  Micah turned back to look at Derrick. They waged a silent eye battle, metamorphosing into the invisible line between the police and the press.

  Derrick was no match for Micah. So he backed off breaking the intense eye contact.

  Derrick stuck a toothpick in his mouth. Frantically he gnawed at the tip of it. Ever since he stopped smoking the toothpick was a must. It kept him sane.

  Never mind Wolfgang and Micah for now he decided. They were going to come face-to-face with his master research. Then he’d see what they had to say.

  Hell, what did they think he was? Crazy? People didn’t just burst into flames. “What’s done in the dark, always comes to the light,” Derrick muttered under his breath as he made his way through the crowd. He headed to his office.

  Micah entered the now-empty courtroom ahead of Wolfgang and Nugent to discover Silky had left him a message. Seared into the wall behind the judge’s bench was a melted down charcoal warning. “Your chains can’t hold me! And your fire can’t destroy me!”

  Micah looked over at the defense table where Silky had been seated to find the shackles and chains that had held him sitting in the seat. Impossible. He walked over and picked them up. To his surprise, they were cold to the touch. They didn’t have a scorch mark on them.

  When he looked down at Silky’s smoldering ashes he found that Silky had also left him a single mark by which he was to be remembered. The ashes had been arranged in the form of an “X.” A thin waft of smoke trickled up from the ashes that used to be Silky.

  When Wolfgang and Nugent entered the courtroom they saw none of what Micah had witnessed.

  Chapter 6

  Derrick stood at his desk in the cluttered, crowded, noisy newsroom of the Star-Ledger newspaper. Telephones rang. Pagers were going off. The constant click-clacking of computer keys were in rhyme and rhythm. They all provided the familiar background music of his world.

  His desk was a study in organized messiness. Paper created the order of his world. Though it may not look like it, he knew where every scrap of paper and every scribbled note lay.

  Chris White, a fellow reporter, spotted him. He headed straight over to his desk. “Man, you have got to be kidding me. I know David Stokes didn’t blow up in the court today. Right?” Chris waited for Derrick’s answer.

  Derrick leaned over close to Chris’s ear and said, “He did! Silky burst into flames! He just spontaneously combusted! Just like that!” Derrick snapped his fingers.

  “Like he was on a timer. You had to be there, Chris. It was really weird. I mean like tenth-degree weird. Something ain’t right.”

  Derrick sat down heavily in his chair. Chris perched on the edge of Derrick’s desk.

  Chris looked at Derrick. “All right, run it down for me.”

  Derrick exhaled. “There was a- a- a sort of black chemistry in the air. Between Micah Jordan-Wells and Silky. It was like electricity crackling. I mean you couldn’t see it but you could definitely feel it. Know what I mean? Then just like that. Boom. Silky exploded. Turned into a flaming wonder. When’s the last time you’ve seen a man just burst into flames?”

  Chris raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak. Derrick jerked open his side drawer. He took out a new toothpick. He spit the old one into the trash.

  The toothpick habit annoyed Chris, but he knew better than to comment. Derrick was a reformed smoker.

  Finally, laughing, Chris said, “Okay. I haven’t seen anyone burst into flames. But, don’t go getting all superstitious on me. This is news, not fantasy. Let a brother give you a one up. You’d be wise to treat it as news.” Chris knew how Derrick’s mind operated. He knew Derrick was in overdrive.

  “There are a few documented cases in the United States regarding spontaneous human combustion. Things happen, Derrick. Some things are more easily explained than others are. That’s all. Your job is to unearth the facts. You can’t give in to runaway suspicions. If a man explodes there must be a reason why.”

  Derrick was not moved by Chris’s little speech. He didn’t like the feel of this one. Jitters ran up and down his spine. He felt like someone was walking over his grave. Making up his mind he said, “The Prince of Darkness just made a visit to Newark.”

  Chris sighed. “Have you seen him personally?”

  Derrick leaned back in his chair. “Hell, yeah. Problem is, I’m just not sure whose face he was wearing.”

  Chris frowned.

  Derrick’s eyes remained on Chris’s face. Then he spun around and booted up his computer. He typed in the headline; “Micah Jordan-Wells Slays Another of Newark’s Dragons.”

  Chapter 7

  Micah stood outside of Evelyn’s gabled Victorian house. When he was a kid the house used to give him the creeps, with its multitude of rooms, creaking floors and whistling windows. Not to mention the images that seemed to float around at their own will.

  He’d seen them hovering around in hallways. They also lingered in remote corners of the house. But, when he told his mother s
he always dismissed it as his overactive imagination. He’d wondered then and sometimes he still wondered now.

  Reverend Jackson hadn’t been any better at trying to explain his flights of fantasy to him. Micah had found the reverend’s explanations even more disturbing because it was almost as if he himself didn’t quite believe what he was telling Micah.

  He used to wish he had someone to really share the haunting feelings with, as well as the burdens of his mother.

  It was hard to believe that in the years she had lived in the house, his mother hadn’t seen the weeping old woman. The one with the outstretched arms that she held out to him, as tears streamed down her face. Her hair flew out behind her as though a great wind were blowing it. Always she was dressed in a flannel white nightgown with a high collar.

  Whenever Micah saw her it was always the same old thing. She reached out her arms to him weeping in sorrow. He had nicknamed her the “Weeping Willow” when he was a kid. Strangely enough he hadn’t seen her since he was grown.

  He wished he hadn’t started on this train of thought because all it did was increase his frustration regarding his mother. As he stood looking at the gabled house, the memories had flooded him.

  He also felt something else. He shivered. He looked up to see the vines on one of the trees blowing in the wind. There was no wind. None of the branches or leaves on the other trees was blowing.

  The vines turned to claws, reaching for him. Micah shook himself. He was a grown man now. Not a kid. He wouldn’t stand for this. He blinked and the image disappeared.

  Micah blew out a harsh breath. He didn’t know why Evelyn insisted on living in this house. He wished she would move to something lighter and brighter, maybe a nice town house.

  Although he respected his heritage and the inheritance of the house, it carried a certain weight. Its historical value aside, he preferred to leave the ghosts of the past as well as his ancestors in the past. But Evelyn insisted on keeping them alive by not relinquishing the old Victorian.

  Finally, he glided to the porch and stuck his key in the lock. Entering the foyer Micah called out, “Ma, hey Ma, where are you?”

  Evelyn was standing in the kitchen pouring a cup of coffee. Upon hearing Micah’s voice she quickly laced her coffee with Chivas Regal.

  Evelyn Jordan-Wells was now an agoraphobic, renowned novelist writing under the pseudonym of Blaine Upshaw. “I’m in the kitchen Micah,” she yelled.

  Micah passed through the parlor on his way to the kitchen and two items on Evelyn’s writing table caught his eye.

  He spotted the daily newspaper with its blaring headline. “Micah Jordan-Wells Slays Another of Newark’s Dragons.” A picture of Micah staring at a flaming Silky exploded from the front page. Micah looked at it. Then he tossed the paper into the wastepaper basket.

  Next he picked up the Advanced Reading Copy of Evelyn’s newest novel, In the Garden of Eden. Micah stared at the novel without opening it and Evelyn walked into the parlor, observing his keen interest in the book.

  “Micah, what’s keeping you?” she asked.

  Micah held up the novel. “Is this the latest and greatest?”

  Evelyn tilted her head watching Micah. She bit her bottom lip, a bad habit she had developed over the years and replied, “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  Micah finally turned to look at her and said, “It’s a strange title.”

  Evelyn walked over and touched Micah’s arm while looking up at him gently. “It’s gothic romance, Micah. The concept is derived from the pureness of the experience between the first man and woman.”

  Micah looked at her cynically. “It wasn’t all pureness, lady. There was a serpent in that garden.”

  Evelyn hesitated her eyes growing serious. “As there is in every garden. You are so cynical at times, Micah.”

  Micah gave her his most long-suffering look. The one he reserved for her whenever she said things like that. “It’s what’s kept me alive so far.”

  Evelyn pulled a wry smile. “Touché, Micah. Touché.”

  She reached into the wastepaper basket retrieving the newspaper. “I see you’ve been making more headlines of your own. Slaying dragons and all that.”

  Micah replied, “Yeah, I make it happen and one day the hunters are the hunted and the slayers are the slain.”

  Unknowingly he had touched a raw nerve in Evelyn. She snapped at him. “Do not be dark with me, Micah.”

  She laid the newspaper back on her writing desk. Micah was immediately apologetic. “I’m sorry, Ma. I’ve got a lot on my mind. Listen, I just came by to see if you needed anything.”

  He paused for a moment, looking at her pointedly. “I wanted to take you for a walk.”

  A flash of naked fear crossed Evelyn’s face. She hyperventilated. Micah was accustomed to these attacks so he put an arm around her shoulders.

  “You know I can’t go for a walk, Micah,” Evelyn’s raspy voice was almost a whisper.

  A tremor passed through her body. Her breathing was harsh and loud. Somewhere in the background a whistling wind floated through the house. A symphony of screeching voices rode through the room on an invisible blanket of sound that only Evelyn could hear.

  Gently, Micah guided her to a chair. He eased her down on the chair and patted one of her hands soothingly. “Ma, one day soon, you’re going to have to go outside. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  Evelyn moaned. She shook her head from side to side. She panted, “No, Micah. Never. I just can’t. I know it is just an illness . . .” She couldn’t finish her sentence. Her eyes were framed photographs of dismay.

  Micah had consulted every expert psychiatrist, as well as every psychologist available. They had all been to this house at one time or another. The bottom line was that Evelyn had to overcome her fears by facing them. But she was incapacitated and could not bring herself to do so.

  Evelyn hadn’t ever left the house in all the years that he had been alive. Micah’s shoulders slumped from the tragedy of it all.

  No psychiatrist or psychologist had ever been able to determine the source of Evelyn’s fear. All they knew was that prior to Micah’s birth, she had stopped going outside. She had not stepped out of the house since. So much for experts.

  Micah stared at his mother. His eyes held a questioning look. He decided to let it go. Every time they had this conversation of her going outside, it ended exactly the same way.

  He couldn’t bear to see her in pain. The issue of her going outside always produced that pain, the sudden fear. He wondered once again at the source of it and then backed away as he drew the usual blank.

  He watched Evelyn retreat into that special place of hers. Where warm and embracing arms reached out to comfort her.

  Micah didn’t know. He could never understand. How could he possibly ever, ever understand? Nor could she jeopardize him for any reason. No. No, there was just no way. She watched Micah’s face slowly fade away from her world.

  Evelyn sought peace, in that corner of her mind that had been helping her for more than thirty years.

  Micah brushed long, dark locks of hair peppered with gray, back from her brow, knowing and accepting she was beyond his reach for the moment.

  Chapter 8

  That night, Micah lay in his bedroom with his girlfriend, Raven Oliver. Raven was the owner of a specialty boutique shop in Newark. She was also a model in New York City. She had a flair for fashion that overflowed into her life. It made her a vibrant individual. Style and class were stamped all over her.

  She was a tall, svelte, young woman with an athletic body, caramel-colored skin and soulful-looking brown eyes, which at times appeared too large for her face.

  It was exactly this look that had helped her to grace the covers of some fine magazines. Raven’s eyes were a startling brown with flecks of gold. When she stared out from a magazine cover, all you could see were those eyes and the fine high cheekbones accentuating her face.

  She was also hell on a runway. When she strutted down th
e aisle, generally every eye and camera was fastened on her.

  Raven had known Micah was meant for her from the start. Though there were times when Micah’s mystique baffled her. Sometimes he seemed so near and yet so far away. But there was no denying that the impact of a look from Micah sent quivers up and down her spine. With a single look he had laid claim to her heart. She was locked in solid.

  Micah and Raven lay on a thick rug on the floor of his bedroom watching the flames leap and crackle from the fireplace. Candles were burning around the room. Micah was finally getting some much-needed relaxation.

  As Micah relaxed, the one who never slept watched his every move from in between the beams of his walls. As he watched intently, he reduced Micah to nothing but an aura, removing the physicality of the man that Micah was. He did not like what he saw. Still, he continued to watch.

  Raven traced Micah’s hairline softly with one finger. Slow, tantalizing music reverberated from giant surround-sound speakers. A silver bucket filled with ice held a bottle of Möet. Raven leaned over for a long lingering kiss.

  She pulled back to look at Micah. “Why don’t you take a break, Micah? Get away from the demons of the streets. Let’s go away. It’s been so long since we’ve been out of Newark.”

  Suddenly one of the candles blew out. Micah gave it a strange look. He reached over and relit it. Raven looked around the room. There was no draft.

  Returning to the conversation Micah said, “We’ll go. Soon. How’s the house hunting going? Have you seen anything I’d want to be king of the castle in?”

  Raven smiled. She was aware of Micah’s penchant for changing difficult subjects. He was definitely sidestepping her now. “No. I haven’t yet seen home and hearth. I’m still looking.”

  Micah poured some champagne in their glasses. He looked tenderly at Raven. “Soon. I promise. Soon. Come on, let’s dance.”