by Evie Rhodes
Nope. He didn’t want to tell him that the only voice picked up in the sweeps had been his. Telling him could serve no purpose at this time. He continued to listen.
“Nugent we’re dealing with a master serial killer. He’s very secure in his own powers.”
Nugent weighed Micah’s words against the mounting evidence. He tried to figure out how they could beat it before the pressure on Wolfgang was pushed to the limit. They were skating on very thin ice.
Micah stopped in front of the window. “Here’s what we do know. He’s a master planner. He’s somehow connected to Silky. He’s a power tripper to the nth degree. Power and control are everything to him. And the name Criss Cross coincides with the carrying of the ‘X’ that split open the middle of the boy’s chest. The sign of the ‘X’ matches. So far he’s demonstrating a vast amount of power.”
“Yeah,” Nugent said, “well right now he’s holding all the power until we find the connection.”
Micah was quiet. A thought niggled at him. It was just at the base of his consciousness. Something they missed.
Micah started rifling through files. He found the one he was looking for. He opened it spilling out the contents.
Nugent came over as pages of obituaries of the dead women scattered across the desk. Their faces smiled hauntingly at them.
Micah scanned the contents. Suddenly a piece of text literally jumped off the page at him. Six-year-old son. Six-year-old son. Six-year-old son.
Micah’s heart raced. “That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
Words tumbled out of Micah’s mouth with the speed of light. “All of the women Silky murdered had one thing in common. I mean outside of beauty, youth, and the fact that they all lived in Newark.”
“What’s that?”
“They were all the mothers of six-year-old sons. Look at this.” He passed the information to Nugent.
“Every single one of them, Nuggie. Every one of them had a six-year-old son. I think they were selected for that reason. What are the odds that all of those women would just happen to have six-year-old sons?”
Micah paced the room. Nugent felt that common thread that ran through both of their veins at the same time whenever they hit on something important in a case. “I’m feeling you,” he said.
“It’s a hell of a coincidence. And, it links them. Damn it! It links them in a way we never thought of before. Maybe Silky’s mother didn’t want him. Maybe she gave him away when he was six,” Micah said.
Nugent ran with the ball. “A psychological link. He was killing his mother.” The tentacles of Nugent’s thoughts reached out to entwine with Micah’s. Now they were vibing.
“Exactly,” Micah said. “Frequently, in case after case, we’ve seen that serial killers often have some childhood trauma that relates to the type of murders they commit. Not in all cases, but in enough of them to make it a viable point.”
“That’s true,” Nugent replied as he absorbed the information that was now processing through his brain at the speed of a nanosecond.
“Okay,” Micah said, “the tie that binds. That question has been left at every one of the boys’ murder scenes. Criss Cross asked me the same question. When I didn’t answer quickly enough the child screamed. A shot was fired. The answer is a child to his mother. It’s the most binding tie in life. She rejected him—the murdered women. She didn’t want him—the murdered boys. Full circle. One and then the other. Silky, then the illusive Criss Cross.”
Nugent exhaled.
“Both of them are probably rejects,” Micah stated with satisfaction.
For the first time Nugent heard something that made sense. A dawning horror seized him with the blow of a sledgehammer. He sucked in a deep breath. “Oh my God! There are two of them. They committed the murders in stages. Silky was only the beginning.”
Micah smiled. “Dead on. Silky was only a piece of the puzzle. One damned piece.”
Micah ran down Criss Cross’s mental profile. “He’s inferior. Insecure. He’s twisted. Killing the boys is a punishment. The man is in a rage, Nugent. He’s ripping them up. Marking them.”
“Yep. He’s extinguishing them.”
“Because murdering them is not enough,” Micah said. “He’s pushing them into nonexistence. That’s why he brands them, scribbling his signature on their carcasses. He’s a sick bastard.”
“The sixes and their carriers will be no more,” Nugent said, the deadly threat springing from his lips.
Micah looked at Nugent sharply, “What?”
Assessing Micah’s reaction, Nugent shook his head. “I’m sorry. I was just spacing, man. Anyway I have two questions. Why didn’t Silky kill the six-year-old boys of the mothers he murdered? And why would the murders of different boys start after his death? He could have killed the six-year-old boys that belonged to the mothers.”
Pictures of the surveillance tapes taken of Silky flashed through Micah’s mind. Knowledge opened like a rose. “Silky was a cold-blooded psychopathic murderer with one human flaw.”
“What was that?”
“I’ll show you.” Micah retrieved the surveillance videotape from the file cabinet. He popped it into the VCR. Nugent sat on the edge of the desk. A series of images appeared on the screen.
Silky stood behind a fence in the park watching the little leaguers play softball. In another image he shot hoops with some young kids in the playground. The next image captured him buying a kid an ice-cream cone. The look on Silky’s face in each of the clips was one of parental concern.
These images revealed a side of Silky completely at odds with his role as Newark’s worst murderer. The portrait was tinged. It was slightly off balance.
Silky knelt down in front of the kid with the dripping cold treat. He gently wiped the ice cream from the corner of his mouth.
Micah froze the frame. Nugent gasped as the walls came tumbling down.
“Criss Cross has got to do the kids himself. Silky worshipped kids. Probably thought he was doing the kids a favor getting rid of their no-good mothers. Killing kids went against his grain. I’ll bet this was the one area where he couldn’t be controlled. Because somehow Criss Cross was controlling him.”
Nugent exhaled for the second time in their exchange.
Micah was excited. He was on to it. He felt it in his bones. Nugent felt it, too. They didn’t have all the pieces. But, like joggers who run a well-known track, they knew they had hit their groove.
“Nugent, we have to look for six-year-old boys who were given away. Let’s start with foster care. Check the adoption agencies. Maybe that’s what they have in common. Silky hates the mothers. Criss Cross hates the kids and the mothers. Silky was a follower. Not a leader.”
Micah ejected the tape.
“Silky was under orders all along. It makes sense now. Remember how we said it seemed almost as though he was an observer at the murder scenes. As though he was looking through someone else’s eyes. His murders were like portraits.”
Nugent nodded, remembering.
“Somehow Criss Cross was using him like a conduit. I don’t know, maybe through some kind of a ritual. Criss Cross was present at the murder scenes of the women at some level. I’m sure of it. When Silky’s time was up, Criss Cross was ready to come out of the closet. And now he’s out in full force.”
Nugent shook his head. “At some level? Either he was there or he wasn’t.”
A lightning flash laid hands on Micah, tossing him into Silky’s body at the scene of the crime. He could see it all. Oh my God!
As though nothing had happened, Micah said, “It’s not that simple, Nugent. Something out of the ordinary is going on here. At the sentencing Silky said that I had captured him. But, I hadn’t captured all that there was. He said my world, as I knew it, would be no more. He talked about smoke and mirrors. And, we are definitely playing smoke and mirrors here. Hide and seek. Don’t you think?”
Nugent nodded.
“All right then. The only way we�
��re going to catch him is not to rule anything out. We’ve got to think outside the box. No matter how incredible it might seem. Otherwise we’re gonna be seriously played.”
Again, Nugent nodded. He knew that Micah’s capture of killers was legendary. He’d learned a lot from him in his time. Micah had not gotten where he was by thinking like those around him.
In the past Micah had come up with some far-reaching theories. Those very theories were what allowed him to catch the killers. Not one of those theories had ever been listed in the police manual. And not one of them had gone by the book.
Besides, if he and Micah didn’t come up with something viable soon, there was a good chance Micah himself could be charged with the murders.
There was no doubt things were getting shaky on the outside. Wolfgang was stretching himself to the limit keeping things under wrap. But the clock was ticking. They were dancing on a tightrope.
Anyway, he didn’t believe Micah was the murderer. He knew he wasn’t. Regardless of how it looked. But he’d be the first to say that it looked real bad.
“Okay,” Nugent said. “Is Criss Cross randomly choosing six-year-old boys?”
“He’s leading us. He knew that once Silky was dead and these murders began, eventually we would make the connection. I’m not sure if they’re random or specifically selected. But we’ll find out. What matters to him most is: one, that he kills and leaves his mark and, two, that he taunts in the process. He’s flaunting what he thinks of as his superiority.”
Micah sat down behind his desk. “Which brings me to another problem. If we’re on the right track with this, then Derrick Holt from the Star-Ledger is a thorn in our side, because he’s acting like a dog in heat when it comes to Silky.”
“I think we may have found the link to catching this maniac, but that means nobody can get to that information before we do, Nugent.”
“I’m on it,” Nugent said.
Nugent hesitated then issued Micah a warning. “Be careful. What if he wants you to find him, on his terms? You’re walking in Criss Cross’s mind. Or maybe he’s walking in yours. Either way it’s a dangerous walk.”
Their eyes locked.
A silent understanding passed between them. “I know. I can feel him. But it’s the only way I can catch him.”
Chapter 25
Derrick sat in City Hall at a dusty old table poring over old birth records. He wiped the tiredness from his eyes with the back of his hand.
He had been squinting in dust for quite a while. He decided to make some photocopies of the documents he’d found to take with him. Then he’d call it quits for the night.
When he arrived outside he found that all of the tires on his car were flat. A red “X” was painted on the windshield of his car.
He looked up and down the street in frustration. He kicked the wheels of his car in a rage. He was getting tired of this now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t crap.
Out on the New York harbor Shaughn Braswell and Quentin Curry stood side by side on the pier looking out over the water. The sky was clear as several boats cruised by on liquid waves.
The island of Manhattan seemed blanketed in tranquility. Shaughn was in a rare and reflective mood. He watched the captain of one of the boats steer it smoothly through the waters. The floating ripples the boat left in its wake mesmerized him.
Shaughn said to Quentin, “You know, in a different time and in a different place, I might have done that.”
Quentin turned the full force of his magnetic gaze on Shaughn. “What is it that you might have done, Shaughn?”
Shaughn smiled, revealing charm along with his drop-dead good looks. He looked like a young man just out enjoying the evening. He pulled the collar of his parka closer around his neck as a cool breeze blew in from the water.
His long ponytail swayed in the wind. “Sail boats,” he told Quentin. “I’d like to feel the power of the steering wheel ripping through the waters. Be in command of the waters. I like the freedom it represents.” Almost nostalgically, Shaughn said, “I’d like to feel free. Just once.”
Quentin turned to Shaughn with a demonic intensity that bristled through the air. He raised his arms creating a storm of immense proportions. The storm blew like a raging wind over the harbor.
The boats on the water rocked and swayed. The wind howled and shrieked, blowing away everything in its path. Trash cans overturned. A fanatical dust storm rose in their midst. With one sweep of his hand Quentin had turned a tranquil scene into a nightmare of blazing levels.
Quentin didn’t blink an eye. His pupils turned fiery amid the turmoil. The fiery pupils locked on Shaughn. Flames of fire sprung from their depths. “There is no other time. And there is no other place, Shaughn. Do not dishonor me by wishing for the trivial things of the common man. I am power.”
Lightning flashed. The wind blew more fiercely. Quentin and Shaughn stood in the midst of the storm in one of the oldest face-offs on earth.
“Your mission in Newark is simple, Shaughn. The carriers of the sixes and the seeds lounging in their loins must be eliminated. They are my enemy. The merging of the power must take place. It will take place.”
Quentin pointed to the sky. His rage was palpable. “He is trying to make a fool of me. Look.” Quentin held out his hand. A vision unfolded.
He showed Shaughn the backs of the heads of the three murdered boys. At the right base of the hairline, very faintly etched just above the neck area, practically invisible to the normal eye, was the number six. A wave of Quentin’s hand and the vision was gone. Shaughn stared at him.
Quentin took a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He lit it. Slowly he pulled the smoke into his lungs.
“The people who carry that mark can upset the balance of power. My power. There are only a chosen few of them. We are doing well in the elimination of them, so far.”
Quentin took another pull on the cigarette. He turned to look out over the stormy waters. Shaughn watched him but didn’t speak.
“There is still work to be done, Shaughn. That is your job. He tried to trick me because the boys of the women didn’t carry the mark. Only the women were carriers. The boys who were just murdered would have grown up to implant the seeds, which would produce warriors at the ready, when the war on earth comes. Newark is the chosen ground.”
Shaughn nodded. “All of them will die.” His voice carried out over the howling winds. It floated across the waters.
Quentin smiled. Then he turned to the waters. A wave of his hand and the storm receded.
Shaughn had found his way back into Quentin’s good graces, and he listened. “Do not underestimate Micah Jordan-Wells. He is a major stumbling block. As such he must be destroyed.”
Chapter 26
It was time to perfect his masterpiece. Shaughn sat at his worktable. He worked steadily on the sculptured bust. He scrunched his eyes in concentration.
His fingers kneaded the final touches to the clay. They moved with deftness. They possessed the sureness of a true craftsman. His head was bent over the bust attending to the final details. When he finished he leaned back to admire his sculpting.
A smile touched the corner of his lips. He daydreamed into the serenity of Raven Oliver’s eyes.
Shaughn picked up his cell phone. He punched in some digits.
“Hello. Raven’s Boutique. How may I help you?” Raven’s lilting tone floated sensually over the wire.
“Raven. How’s my baby today?” Shaughn said in the perfect imitation of Micah’s voice.
Raven smiled. “Micah. I’ve been worried about you.”
“Maybe I can ease those worries tonight. How about dinner at seven? At Maroon’s on 16th in the city?”
“I’ll see you there. Don’t you dare be late.”
“I won’t,” Shaughn said intimately. He clicked off. He leaned down to the face of the bust. He kissed each eyelid softly.
Raven cradled the phone. A warm smile played across her face.
Brandi stopped going throu
gh the racks of dresses. She cut her eyes at Raven. She didn’t even need to ask. She knew by the expression on Raven’s face that Micah had been on the phone. “On again, huh?”
Raven looked at her. “You don’t like Micah, do you?”
Brandi replied truthfully, “I want to see you have some fun. Micah never has time for that. And yeah, there is something. He just doesn’t totally add up in some way, Raven. There’s something about him.”
Raven didn’t have a problem with Brandi speaking her mind. Brandi was bold. She always had been. She could deal with what Brandi considered her truth. She decided to sprinkle a little of her own truth on top of Brandi’s. “Brandi, there is something about Micah. He’s charismatic, mysterious and fly, girl! Every time I peel away a layer,” her voice took on a dreamy quality, “I find something else. Micah is definitely worth waiting for.”
Brandi turned back to the racks of dresses. She rolled her eyes. She could spot game a mile away. She snorted. “Humph. He’d better be. I got my doubts about your chances for a real life with him, though. And I just hope you don’t find a surprise under one of those layers. Go ahead. Peel away.”
Raven decided to put some distance between her and Brandi’s pessimistic attitude. She refused to allow her to spoil her day. “I’m going over to the women’s shelter. I want to spend some time with Maya and her son before I get ready for my date with Micah.”
“Suit yourself,” Brandi said. Normally she wouldn’t have been so short with Raven. She knew Raven’s work at the battered women’s shelter was important to her. She loved the time she spent with those women and their kids.
Raven frequently donated her time. She also donated clothes from the boutique. She had helped many of the women get on their feet, find employment and places to live.
She bought toys for those kids in abundance. She also made cash donations to keep the shelter running. But sometimes Raven wracked her last nerve because she was blind as a bat when it came to Micah Jordan-Wells.