Criss Cross

by Evie Rhodes

  The voice switched channels again. This time he spoke in the third person. “Criss Cross doesn’t like to be crossed Micah, so why don’t you be a good boy and go to McDonald’s. Get the kid a Happy Meal.”

  There was another flip of the frequency. “Other wise you’re gonna make me blow. Then I’ll deliver him to you piece by piece in candy wrappers. Come back to the phone when you’re done.”

  Click.

  He was gone.

  “Great. That’s just great,” Micah, said, “A serial killer with the skills of a ventriloquist.”

  Micah’s head was pounding again. He slammed down the phone. He knew Silky’s voice when he heard it. Yet there was something else. Nothing in Micah’s career had prepared him for this inside glimpse into hell.

  One thing was crystal clear, he was playing in a different league. And this league had its own set of rules. Furiously he stomped his way over to McDonald’s.

  The restaurant was crowded. He was not in the position or frame of mind to wait at the end of a very long line.

  Flashing his badge, Micah nudged his way rudely through the crowd. Seeing the badge people grumbled but moved out of his way. He reached the front of the line and stared at the clerk. The clerk gave Micah a baleful look.

  “I need a Happy Meal,” Micah told the clerk. The clerk, who was annoyed at Micah’s actions, made a production of looking down and around Micah. Not seeing a child under twelve, he said, “Happy Meals are for children twelve and under.”

  Micah flashed his badge within an inch of the clerk’s face. Exasperated, he was skidding just on the edge of his breaking point. Patience for the antics of this smart-mouthed punk was not in his program. “Just give me the Happy Meal.”

  The clerk shrugged and sighed. “Will this be for a boy or a girl?” Micah gritted his teeth and lost it. He’d had enough. He put a hand underneath his jacket feeling his shoulder holster. “Boy.”

  The clerk scurried to get the meal. He was sure he had heard the sound of metal clicking. This fool might shoot him over a Happy Meal. He handed it to Micah. Micah threw a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.

  The Happy Meal in his hand he raced out of McDonald’s without waiting for his change. On his way to the telephone he bumped into an old man who was dressed in rags. He neatly sidestepped the man. Passing him, Micah looked into his face and realized it was Nugent. Nugent winked at him. But Micah gave no sign of recognition.

  When Micah reached the phone, it was already ringing. Quickly he picked it up. His heart thumped out a chaotic beat.

  Micah had made up his mind as to what his play would be so he confidently said into the receiver, “I want to talk to the boy, Criss Cross.” He’d had enough of the Silky game.

  Criss Cross replied: “You’re a quick study, Micah. I had you there for a moment though.” He laughed. A long silence ensued.

  Finally, Criss Cross said, “Well, now that Silky is no longer between us,” he hesitated, “thanks to you he’s gone. Poof. How about we play Go to the Head of the Class? You’re a smart boy.”

  The hairs on Micah’s skin crawled at the supreme arrogance emanating from the beast on the other end of the line.

  Criss Cross continued, “If you don’t piss me off maybe I’ll give you a clue. Here we go. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.” Byron’s voice exploded in pure terror across the wire in Micah’s ear.

  “Mommy! I want my mommy!” The boy’s voice was abruptly cut off.

  Micah froze.

  He looked around trying to get a handle on where their location might be. While he was searching, Criss Cross spoke, “What is the tie that binds, Micah?”

  Micah hesitated a second too long.

  “Sorry. Time’s up. He’s dead.”

  “No, wait! I know!” Micah yelled into the phone.

  The boy’s chilling scream sounded in Micah’s ear. The loud report of a gun went off. Then there was a deadly silence.

  “No. Oh, God. No.” Micah dropped the phone. It dangled wildly in the air. The Happy Meal dropped to the floor. Micah raced through the station with his revolver drawn.

  People scattered, running for their lives. Old shoeshine Bob backed into a corner. He ducked behind one of the shoeshine chairs. Never had he seen the twisted and chilled look that now formed Micah’s features. Micah’s eyes were shining like twin beacons of light in their sockets. Dark streams of it sprang from his eyes.

  Micah had gone nuts. Penn Station erupted into pure fear and confusion. Nugent was now right behind Micah shouting at the crowds, “Everybody down. Get out of the way.”

  People scrambled and scurried trying to clear a path.

  “He shot him, Nugent! He shot him while I was on the phone! Oh, God! Where the hell is he?” Micah looked wildly around but didn’t see the target.

  Quentin Curry watched the unfolding disaster from his vantage point. Then he disappeared.

  Chapter 21

  Inside the downtown branch of Newark’s library, Derrick sat reading a headline from Silky’s capture, “Micah Jordan-Wells Captures Newark’s Notorious Serial Killer.”

  Derrick read the text, looking between the lines for subtle details. Maybe there was an angle he hadn’t noticed before. The story had also been reported in the New York Times. He needed to see what their take was on it.

  He looked around the library. He’d been really paranoid since the night of the flaming “X” in his bedroom.

  He didn’t see anyone so he continued reading, searching for the elusive. But he still felt someone or something was looking over his shoulder. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

  While Derrick searched through old news clippings, Reverend Jackson was on a similar quest for information. He sat at his desk in his library.

  Old time hymns floated softly from the radio while he absorbed the front-page picture of Micah in the Star-Ledger newspaper. He was obsessed over this picture. Something was there he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was disturbing. Carefully he studied the expression on Micah’s face, searching for a clue.

  A whooshing sound swept up behind him. He turned around to see the wall burning. The fire was contained. The wall itself was not actually burning. As he watched in fascinated awe, the flaming symbol of an “X” scrawled itself into the wall.

  Reverend Jackson inhaled sharply. He moaned. A name escaped his lips. It was barely discernible. “Evelyn.”

  The reverend rose from his seat. He stared at the flaming “X” shaking his fist in rage at the absolute daring of the evil.

  No longer able to contain himself, he said, “You are not the power. There is only one true power. Even though your deeds are dastardly, Quentin Curry, you are not the power! You’re not it!”

  The reverend walked closer to the wall. He screamed at the symbol of the “X.” “Release Evelyn! I said release her. Now!” He watched, almost expecting Quentin to appear. He felt the heat of his glowing eyes although he could not see him. The “X” was the only sign he received.

  Beads of sweat stood out on the reverend’s forehead as he spent himself, trying to fight a darkness that was ready. The darkness was invading. The darkness was here. Its position was unmistakably clear. Darkness in its most sinister form had arrived.

  The reverend trembled in fear. Rage crawled through his body. He reached for the telephone. It flew off the hook. It ripped right out of the wall. The telephone was flung across the room beyond his reach.

  He whirled around just as the image of the “X” cleared itself from the wall. A look of swift determination settled on the reverend’s face. He made the sign of the cross for the journey ahead.

  Chapter 22

  In the police lab, Wolfgang stared at Sidney Bowden, the charge officer on the Clinton Avenue murder.

  Wolfgang couldn’t believe what he had heard. “What do you mean Silky’s fingerprints are missing? This is a secure area. There has never been a set of fingerprints missing in my entire career here.”

  Sidney shook his head at Wolfgang. “I know, sir.
What can I tell you? Silky’s fingerprints are missing.” Wolfgang turned and walked out the door.

  That night Micah and Nugent sat talking about the day’s nightmare. “At least he revealed himself. We’re no longer chasing a dead man or a ghost,” Nugent said.

  Secretly, Nugent was relieved at this bit of information. Both of these aspects were unsound to him, not to mention plain insane. It had been grating on his nerves big time.

  “He hasn’t revealed anything. We still don’t know who he is. We just know who he’s not. And we still don’t know how the murders are linked.”

  Wolfgang walked in. “They found Byron Williams in the basement boiler room of Ridgewood Elementary School. He has the same M.O. as the other boys. Byron Williams was never shot.”

  Micah and Nugent traded a look. Micah’s look turned deadly and undeniably wrathful. He broke his exchange with Nugent focusing on Wolfgang.

  Wolfgang continued, “There was a voice recording found a few blocks from the school. A copy of a tape with the call Silky supposedly placed to you here, Micah. It has your prints all over it.”

  Wolfgang turned to leave the office under the heat of Micah’s gaze without saying anything more.

  A short time later, Nugent was on his way to the coffeemaker. It actually contained the world’s worst coffee but Nugent desperately needed a caffeine jolt. Wolfgang stopped him before he had a chance to pour the awful black liquid. “I need to see you in my office, Nugent.”

  Once in the office, Wolfgang said, “Have a seat, Nugent.”

  Nugent sat down.

  “Do you know where Micah was before the Penn Station incident today?”

  Nugent shifted in his seat, “No. I was with him shortly before we arrived at the office. Then I met up with him at Penn Station, later.”

  Wolfgang entwined his fingers together. He studied them intently. Nugent knew this was a sure sign of stress.

  “I’ve received a report that indicates a man who fits Micah’s exact description was seen in the area where Byron was abducted early this morning. Micah lives in that area. The boy was dead long before the Penn Station disaster at three p.m.”

  Nugent leaned back in his chair. He didn’t like the shift in the air. And he definitely didn’t like where this was going. “Just what are you getting at, Wolfgang?”

  Wolfgang sighed. “The tape with Silky’s voice on it has a sophisticated remote electronic activation device.”

  Nugent slid to the edge of his chair. He ran a hand through his hair in total exasperation before banging his fist on Wolfgang’s desk. “Oh come off it, Wolfgang! You’re getting too paranoid here. Whoever placed that call is framing Micah. He knows that only Micah knows if he was really on the phone or not . . .” Nugent stopped in mid-sentence as he realized the powerful impact of his own words.

  Wolfgang let the weight of Nugent’s words hang in the air, before dropping his second bombshell.

  “I’ve done a surveillance sweep of Micah’s phone. There is no record of a call coming in. We picked up the ringing of the phone and that’s it. There’s no conversation, unless you count Micah speaking into the phone with no one talking back. Only Micah’s voice is on the recording.”

  “The tape was found a few blocks away from the school. It looks like it was accidentally dropped in the killer’s haste to get away. The recording was a replica of the conversation Micah claims he had with the resurrected Silky.”

  Nugent continued to glare at Wolfgang but said nothing.

  “I also ran a voice sweep on the phone in Penn Station that Micah used. There was no conversation from the other end. In fact, there was no one on the other end. The only voice picked up on the line was Micah’s. The surveillance was live during the conversation. I was able to tap into the line. Both times. The only voice on that line was Micah’s. Period.”

  Wolfgang was now wringing his fingers together having graduated from simply entwining them. “I ran a check on Micah’s cell phone line. The number to the phone in Penn Station showed up with the exact time it rang in Penn Station. Twice. It’s beginning to look like the entire event was somehow staged.”

  Nugent couldn’t think of what to say, so he decided he’d just as well say nothing. Nada. Not a word.

  Micah stood outside of Wolfgang’s office. He listened quietly to their conversation. When he’d heard enough, he stealthily crept away from the door.

  Chapter 23

  Evelyn sat in her parlor. The television was on. She was sketching an outline for her new historical romance in longhand.

  The newscaster’s voice broke into her thoughts. It pulled her attention away from the manuscript. She fastened her eyes on the broadcast.

  “We interrupt this program to bring you a breaking story. A series of murders involving three six-year-old boys has gripped the City of Newark. From what we have learned at Eyewitness News the killings have all the signs of another serial killer on the loose.”

  Evelyn turned up the volume.

  “There is some talk that the murders have the markings of ritualistic type killings. Newark’s homicide department has not confirmed this information. The authorities are declining to comment at this time. We have learned that Newark’s star homicide detective, Micah Jordan-Wells, has been exclusively assigned to the case. A police advisory is requesting that all children be escorted by an adult and not be left alone until the killer is found. We’ll have more on these rising developments later.”

  Evelyn turned off the television. She took a sip from her cup of coffee. Going over to the liquor cabinet, she pulled out a bottle. She laced the coffee with Chivas Regal and took a long swallow. Draining the cup, she refilled it with Chivas.

  She wandered over to the window, her hands trembling. Peeking through the heavy drapes, she saw Micah standing out front, staring at the house.

  Puzzled, she waved, wondering why he was standing out front. But Micah didn’t wave back.

  Evelyn frowned. She took a closer look. Something in Micah’s eyes made her blood run cold. She dropped the cup of Chivas. It spilled all over the Persian rug.

  She hurried to the front door. Panic rose up from the depths of her belly as she realized she couldn’t go out the door. “Damn!” she swore.

  Still, she pressed on into the foyer. When she reached the front door she willed herself to at least open it.

  Evelyn hyperventilated. Her breath was coming in wheezes, but she called out, “Micah!” as she looked across the lawn. The street was empty and deserted. Micah was gone.

  Weeping Willow stared out the door behind Evelyn. Turning, she saw Quentin Curry as he was. He was the ultimate destruction of them all. In him was damnation. She covered her ears so she would not hear the shrieking. From beyond the realms, she would do what she must.

  Later that night in Micah’s office Micah and Nugent had files and papers strewn all over the place. They were both silent. They lived in the captivity of their thoughts.

  Chapter 24

  Micah had been up all night. His clothes were wrinkled. His shirt was open at the collar. His tie had been long ago abandoned. Light fuzz had sprung up along his cheek line. He looked like a rogue cop.

  Soda cans, coffee cups and candy wrappers were strewn around the room. Milky Way wrappers were all over the place. It was Micah’s favorite candy bar. He had polished off a bag of the miniatures during the night.

  He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, trying to rid himself of a cramp. He stretched out his long legs in front of him.

  Looking over at Nugent he said, “No one at the jail ever reported Silky’s fingertips were missing. They were shaved completely off. That must have been what the killer used at the murder scenes. Very clever. I’m sure Silky thought it was a great way to laugh at us from the grave.”

  “We should have known about that. I mean, damn, how many people are walking around without their fingertips? I can’t believe someone didn’t report it,” Nugent said completely exasperated.

  Micah grunted. />
  Nugent got up. He did a couple of knee bends. “It’s a moot point now. Why did the killer use them?”

  “He gets a kick out of being other people. He’s a man of many faces,” Micah said, “one of which appears to be mine.”

  Micah dug a little deeper. “He’s playing us. He knew our first conclusion would be that there’s a copycat killer. This dude isn’t a copycat. He’s an original. He was having fun with us with the Silky game. I’ll be damned if he didn’t pull off the voice. He knew we would have to investigate regardless of how it might look or smell. It’s not like we’re dealing with a rational mind here.”

  Nugent sat down. He decided to let Micah explain this out by himself. He listened as Micah spun his web.

  “He’s playing according to the rules of his own world, Nugent. A self-created imbecile.” Micah stepped over the edge then fell into the pit of his anger. With extreme effort he dragged himself back into focus. Uncontrolled anger could get him killed.

  Shrugging off the clawing feeling of lividness he said, “He calls himself Criss Cross. It fits with the sign of the ‘X.’ He likes to play head games.”

  Nugent watched Micah.

  “He sounded just like Silky. The tape is a ploy. He’s using the recording to try to frame me. Although, I haven’t figured out how he got my prints on it. The bad thing is I think he’s only begun to dig into his bag of tricks.”

  Nugent nodded.

  Micah got up. He paced the room. “Alright. Let’s tear this thing apart for the sake of argument. He used Silky’s prints at the murder scenes. Say, the call he placed here was pre-recorded before Silky’s death. That means they planned it. It means the two of them are connected.”

  Nugent rather reluctantly decided against telling Micah that a sweep of his phone showed no record of the conversation, except the actual ringing of the phone, which he himself also heard. Nor was he going to tell him there was no voiceprint of his conversation in Penn Station.