Criss Cross (22 page)

E
velyn looked up at the cathedral in Newark. It was a majestic, awe-inspiring structure. It reached high toward the sky. It was located in a part of Newark where it was truly most needed.

The area skirted the edge of Branch-Brook Park, renowned for its cherry blossoms. It boasted an old state building, a roller skating rink, and housing projects that had been closed down due to the vast amount of bodies that had been found in its hallways, on its steps, and in its garbage Dumpsters over the years.

There were blocks of ordinary residences and corner stores. The streets were littered with kids, yelling and screaming in a kaleidoscope of culture and different languages.

The boarded-up windows of the projects and the dilapidated area were in stark contrast to this structure, which was regal and proud in its standing.

Evelyn idly wondered if any of the squatters, who surely must inhabit the closed-down projects, had ever looked out through eyes that had seen it all and wondered if there were something or someone residing in the cathedral that could really help them.

She wondered if they ever reached out from behind the grunge and the wasteland of their lives. Did they even know about faith and its power? She hadn't.

A familiar feeling washed over her at the thought. She recognized it as despair. It was a feeling she had lived with for a long time. She sighed. Now it was all behind her. She knew she must take one step at a time. She had to put one foot slowly in front of the other, into the future.

The haunting sound of Vaughn's voice never left her. She could hear it in her head. She heard it when she was awake. She heard it when she was asleep. The child she had borne had been caught in a web of deceit. A part of him had longed to be free. She shook her head at the devastating futility of it all.

Evelyn climbed the stairs to the cathedral. Slowly she walked down the red-carpeted aisle. She gazed at the sun's rays reflecting through the stained glass windows.

She went to the altar and lit four candles. One was for Micah. One was for her. One was for Reverend Erwin Jackson. The last and final one was for her child who never grew, Shaughn Braswell. She prayed in silence.

Her next stop was the cemetery where she laid one single white lily on the grave of Shaughn Braswell. She knew she was the only one who would ever shed a tear over his passing. That single fact in itself made her sad.

Through his death she had grown into a forgiveness that she never would have thought herself capable of. She had lived in bondage for more than thirty years. She still didn't understand it all.

But, her wounds were healing. She must heal. It was the only way to go on. It was the only way she could continue to hear the music, the symphonic notes, which drew the linear outline to her being.

Evelyn walked slowly out of the cemetery. She did not look back. It was the last time she would ever visit. However, it was not the last time the haunting voice of a little boy would call out to her: “Mommy! Mommy!” Not even the power of the grave could silence that voice.

For a moment in time, she saw Shaughn flash a grin. She heard Vaughn asking for raspberry sherbet. With a mother's heart, she wondered what it would have been like had things been different.

What if she had had the strength to fight the evil? Instead of being paralyzed with fear, instead of giving in to it? Would things have been different? It was a question she would never know the answer to.

Like a pawn on a chess table, she had only been able to make the moves that were given to her. They were limited in their capacity. There were other pieces that had more power.

Evelyn closed the gate to the cemetery. She walked the dirt path that led out to the street. When she reached the street, a van went by. Written on it was a slogan that read: “New Beginnings.”

Evelyn smiled. She walked down the street. “New beginnings,” she whispered in the wind.

M
icah and Nugent were across the street from the Prudential Center watching a towering spray of water shoot up from the fountain. The laughter and silly games of the kids getting out of school resounded in the air around them. It was a good sound.

Nugent picked up a rock. He threw it into the fountain. “You know, I was really worried about whether you would make it out alive.”

“I know. So was I. Until I found out that the things you don't see are the most profound.”

Nugent glanced at Micah from the corner of his eye. He sensed a change in him. He still looked like Micah, but there was a different layer to him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. But it was there.

There was something in the way he moved. The way he looked. He looked the same. There was just a different quality to his looks.

“Well, I hope we see whatever monsters are destined to come our way in the future. Somehow I just feel more comfortable when I can see them.”

Micah frowned. He turned to watch some kids bouncing a basketball. “That's the thing, Nugent. The most powerful enemy is the one we don't see. The one we don't believe is there.”

Nugent scrutinized him. “You getting deep on me, man?”

“Naw. It's just an observation, Nuggie. Just an observation.”

M
icah sat in the dark room with its vast ceiling. His mind raced. The images kept banging away, dancing in front of his eyes.

He'd been inside the dark tunnels of the minds of too many killers. Where did they end? Where did he begin? It was a futile question.

His skill lay in the ability to delve into their minds. He was a man walking in a dark cave, but he knew every crevice, every cragged step and nuance.

Inside their skin, he became one with them. The air they breathed seared his lungs. Their thoughts tumbled through the vast valleys of his conscience. He peered at the victims through their eyes.

It was an eerie place to be. He was tired.

Maybe he should tell Wolfgang he couldn't be the star boy anymore. He was not the Dragon Slayer. He could no longer trade pieces of his soul with killers.

The level of darkness he had stepped in had gotten to him. Then there was Raven. She had experienced ruthlessness at its deepest depths. And he couldn't prevent it. She had become a target because of him. Used to place a stamp that would forever sear his soul, although she would never know the truth of that.

He was going to marry Raven and he wasn't sure if he could continue to subject her to the terrors of his work. He wasn't sure he could risk losing her, because at risk she would definitely be. She was a part of him. To have her wrenched away by an evil that was uncontrollable would be unbearable. It would rip him apart. How? How could he continue to risk her?

Serial killers were natural hunters. In this last case, he had been the hunted not the hunter. It had taken a supreme power to save him.

Every time he came up against one of them, he was always left with the feeling that someone had opened up his body, shook everything out, and left nothing but the shell. The killers left the imprint of their signatures indelibly stamped on his spirit.

He sighed. In the silence of the night, he was the only one that heard them, the cries of the victims, the raging of maniacs, the brutality slashed across a canvas in all its bloody gore. They plagued his dreams.

The truth was painful. It did not always set you free. It carried a burden, a dedication, and an obligation. The truth had transported him from his everyday world. It had set him in a realm that most people never see.

He should get out of the streets. He needed to get out with his mind, body, and soul intact. He needed to get out while there was still a chance to get out. His life was like an urban thriller.

But some things in life couldn't be escaped. And some gifts couldn't be refused. As he sat there in the darkened room with its vast ceilings, once again it was upon him.

A man screamed, howled and jerked in the spasms of agonizing pain. Again, a visionary manifestation in the flesh transported him to the scene. Like a caged bird on an airline flight, he was there.

Micah's hand trembled with each slice of the knife, as it ripped and gouged the skin of the victim. Blood spurted as he carved out two trophies. He dropped them in a cellophane bag.

Tossed back into his own skin, frame by frame, shot by shot—in his mind's eye he saw the latest killers prancing in their supreme arrogance. Leaving a trail that could not be forgotten. Silky, Shaughn, and Quentin. They represented the elite power of Criss Cross. They were by far the most sadistic, powerful killers he had ever witnessed. And in them had been damnation.

The lights came on in the vast room, shattering the darkness. The curtains rolled slowly shut. The audience rose from their seats in a hushed silence. The kind of silence you get when people are stunned and don't quite know what to say.

Sirens shrilled in the distance. It was the symbol of vision and reality clashing. Micah stood up. He relived his recent descent into hell. Criss Cross was a quest for power at its most supreme. Criss Cross was an illusion, an image.

The greatest way to destroy a man was to create an image of a world he couldn't live in, because in his mind, that world became real.

When he had stepped into Quentin and Shaughn's illusions, he had had to tap into a belief that was rooted in the core of his being. He had tangoed with Satan. Face to face. Enough was enough.

The sirens were getting closer. Reality was racing toward him.

The ushers started down the aisles sweeping up popcorn and picking up soda cups. Micah watched the credits roll by for a story he had not seen. The only story he had seen was the one of his life.

The title, “Criss Cross” flashed in bright blood-red across the screen.

Micah shut his eyes. When he opened them the words were gone. The credits rolled normally. The soundtrack thumped.

He knew it would be a long time, if ever, before he got over Criss Cross. It was too personal and too close to home. It was a spiritual journey, a fight not of the flesh, but of the spirit. The prize at stake had been his soul. He had come face-to-face with damnation, and survived.

His cell phone rang. Micah clicked on.

“Micah, I need you on this. We have two dead rival gang members. They're tied to a tree. Together. They've been cut up pretty badly. Their throats have been slashed.”

For an instant, Micah thought about getting out and saying “No.”

But he had been given a gift. He had to use it. The fight for justice swelled up inside him. He had tapped into the greatest belief in the world, and found it to be true. He owed a debt.

“You're a good boy, Micah. Keep the faith.” The words of his grandmother touched his spirit.

“I'm on my way,” Micah said.

The path had been laid. He was a champion. He hadn't seen the most powerful light in the world so he could turn away. No matter what he thought, there really wasn't a choice. The choice had been made for him.

He'd received an extraordinary sight at the third level. Not merely a second sight, but a third. It was rarely heard of. He couldn't run from the darkness. He had to stand up to it. That was how he had won the battle. Criss Cross was only the first round.

Wolfgang's voice brought him back into focus. “Micah, there's one more thing.”

“What's that?”

“The gang members. Both of their eyes have been cut out. There's a note that reads: ‘Eyes that see, but have no sight.'”

Micah tucked the cellophane bag in his pocket. He couldn't yet see who he was.

 

 

EVIE RHODES

 

 

 

 

 

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Copyright © 2006 by Eva M. Rhodes

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-0872-9