Criss Cross (12 page)

D
errick 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.”

I
t 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 through 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.

Raven ignored Brandi's edginess. Her mind was filtering through outfits of what she would be wearing for dinner with Micah. Brandi's reply was already trailing in the winds of the past.

 

 

Shaughn stood admiring himself in the mirror. He was buff, lean and smooth. He loved it. He turned away. When he turned back a different reflection peered back at him. His demeanor, posture, and stance had changed.

Vaughn was six years old. He was Shaughn's alter personality. He struggled to push his way out to the forefront. There was a slight pop, like electricity, and Vaughn was out visiting.

Vaughn said to Shaughn, “You have a date with a lady.” He giggled. “Is she pretty?”

The body demeanor and posture changed again. Shaughn's tone was supremely arrogant. “Yeah. She is. She belongs to Micah. And tonight, I'll get to sample Raven. I'll get to devour all that he cherishes.”

There was another quick popping sound. Vaughn struggled to make his way to the forefront once again. “I don't want to sample Raven. I want my mommy. Can I see her, Shaughn? Please?”

Shaughn pushed Vaughn out of his place. When he was back his eyes flashed fire. “Stop being a baby. You'll see her when I say you can. You'll see her for sure when you return to hell because that's where she'll be. That's where we'll all be.” Shaughn's eyes took on a faraway look. “Down in the bowels of the earth,” he laughed.

Vaughn started to cry. He and Shaughn struggled for first position in the body. Shaughn and then Vaughn. Vaughn and then Shaughn. Shaughn's body took on the characteristics of a floppy rag doll. They twisted and winded, back and forth. They fought each other fiercely for the dominant position.

Shaughn was a great deal stronger than Vaughn most of the time. But when Vaughn really wanted something, he cried and he fought.

Vaughn pushed with all his might. He pushed with a vengeance. Shaughn toppled out of the dominant position. Once Vaughn regained control he pushed Shaughn down into the deep. The deep was the inner place where the personality resided who was not in the dominant position.

Satisfied Vaughn sat down on the floor cross-legged. He pouted his lips as tears streamed from his eyes. He told Shaughn, “Mommy. I want to go see my mommy.”

Shaughn was tired. He most definitely was not in the mood for Vaughn's whining. Sometimes he'd stay in the deep and let Vaughn stay out and play, just to pacify him so he didn't get in the way later on.

Unfortunately, Vaughn had now pissed him off. He wanted time to get ready for his date with Raven. So with one Herculean yank he snatched Vaughn down into the deep. Taking the body back, regaining full control of it. Vaughn gave a startled whimper as he plunged down into the dark place.

Shaughn stood up. He looked in the mirror. He walked over to the bust of Raven to kiss each eyelid again. He could taste this girl. He couldn't wait. She was fine with a capital F. And she was Micah's.

Vaughn was in the deep dark place now. Shaughn had an iron grip on him. He couldn't move. He could hardly breathe. He retreated, letting Shaughn have the body for now. He hadn't even gotten to color in his books while he was out, or ask for raspberry sherbet.

 

 

That night, Shaughn Braswell sat across the table from Raven. He was an exact replica of Micah Jordan-Wells. He possessed the clean-cut look, the voice, the tone, and the very mannerisms of Micah.

Raven glowed. Excitement flowed through her body. At last she was having a private dinner and some time with Micah. Her excitement was contagious.

Shaughn smiled at her excitement. He looked at her captivatingly across the dinner table.

He leaned over and smoothed back a lock of Raven's hair, placing it gently behind her ear. It was the same gesture Micah always used with her.

He looked deeply in her eyes. He touched her on the cheek. It was a feathery stroke pent up with conveyed longing. The physical wave of it reached out to touch her, “Let's get out of here.”

Raven looked at him tenderly. “I love you, Micah.”

Shaughn leaned across the table. He flipped his tongue in her mouth, sucking her into a sexual cyclone. Fever lit her throat. Fire ignited her body. Only Micah could do that. His longing tasted salty on her lips.

“I know you love me,” Shaughn told her.

I
n her Victorian parlor, Evelyn sipped from a cup of coffee. She sat straight, her body rigid. Across from her, the persistent old reverend gazed in her direction.

Reverend Erwin Jackson had just come from The New Jersey Institute of Living—the orphanage where he spent a good deal of his time. He was running the entire ministry now. On the long drive to Evelyn's he had suffered in the spirit at the thought of his pending confrontation with her.

Evelyn had listened to all her favorites this morning, Beethoven Symphony #9 and Liszt. The music had now stopped. Actually, if she were honest with herself, the music had really stopped long ago.

It was increasingly difficult for her to become lost in the soaring genius notes that poured out of the recordings. To let her mind fly as though it possessed wings of its own. She sighed deeply at the loss.

Evelyn took another sip before she began what she thought of as her monologue with the reverend. Something dark, and deep, floated from her eyes to peer across at him.

A sense of great sorrow seeped from her pores. “Why don't you just let it go, Reverend? It's bigger than both of us. There's nothing I can do. I have no proof. She hesitated, “Even if I did . . .” Her voice trailed off into nothingness.

The reverend leaned forward in his seat. It was urgent that he get through to her. He knew Evelyn had built a wall around herself; one even he was having trouble penetrating. Nevertheless, there was too much at stake. He must get through to her, no matter what it took.

“You have two powerful weapons, Evelyn. You have the truth. And you have your faith. If you don't use them, you're going to lose the most precious thing in your life.”

The reverend rose from his chair. He knelt in front of Evelyn.

“If you do not come forward soon . . .” he searched the depths of those twin dark pools that were beholding him. “If you don't, then I will be forced into a difficult position. This is a war of the spirit. It must be fought as such.”

The reverend stood up. He slid the seat a little closer to her so he could be in more direct eye contact. He took his seat again. “I am not as frightened as I once was. I will use what I know.” His tone left no doubt as to his conviction.

Evelyn sat forward in her chair, leaning toward him. Her empty coffee cup tumbled from her hands. She didn't pick it up. Her eyes flashed a fire that hadn't been present in her in a long time. “Don't be a fool, Reverend. Quentin will destroy you. Let it be. You don't know for sure.”

The reverend gazed around the parlor. It seemed even darker than usual. The room had a very somber feel to it.

He shook off the cloying feeling of the room's spirit. He spoke to Evelyn in evenly clipped tones, “I know this. Micah Jordan-Wells will be destroyed unless you or I tell him the truth. He's your son. For God's sake, Evelyn.”

Evelyn shivered. The screeching reached her ears. She refused to grasp the implications. As the reverend watched, Evelyn retreated. She was no longer able to deal with this, so she simply blanked the reverend out.

The reverend watched her. Then he said, “Evelyn, you must save your son.” He realized his statement had fallen on deaf ears. He pushed back his chair. He squinted. He could have sworn he had seen a shadow. Something had flitted across the foyer. He looked closer. There was nothing. He shrugged.

The reverend came to a silent decision. He prayed for the strength he knew would be necessary to carry him across a sea of great evil.

He knew the principalities of darkness were descended right there in their lives. It was alive and in full effect. He prayed for faith. He prayed for the strength. He also prayed from the depths of his being for the life and soul of Micah Jordan-Wells.

He knew that the biggest problem with evil was that most people didn't really believe it existed. It did. The reverend let himself out.

A short time after he left, Evelyn rose. She picked up her cup off the floor. In the kitchen, she poured a fresh cup of coffee.

Lethargically, she returned to the parlor. Upon entering the parlor, a scream of magnified proportions flew from her mouth. It soared through the room, gaining in momentum, gaining in pitch.

Every piece of furniture in the parlor had been moved. All of it had been rearranged. She could hear the music from the past. The melody of it assaulted her ears, spinning her back in time. There had been a gala party. Beautifully dressed people. Gay, happy, they were laughing. The parlor hadn't looked like this since Evelyn was a very young child.

But there was more than that. A huge mural dominated the center wall. There was a vivid depiction of two people. It was alive, in motion. It was vibrant with movement, slithering, humping movement. The colors were stark.

The bodies of a man and a woman writhed in harmony. Their bodies bucked tightly together. The woman's head was thrown back, in the throes of ecstasy. Her mouth was wide open; her eyes were glazed with the type of intimacy that would be considered a cardinal sin.

Behind them was an exact replica of the parlor as it had been then. It had happened in this room. Evelyn looked down. One of the man's feet was hanging from the sofa. The screams stuck in her throat. Evelyn gagged. Then she fainted.

Weeping Willow leaned over in her ear. “Evelyn, the reverend is right. You must save your son.”

A splash of cold water hit Evelyn's face. She woke up sputtering. She looked around. The parlor was exactly as she had left it. There was no depiction on the wall.

She must have been dreaming again. She couldn't stand to dream.

Weeping Willow floated up the staircase to her room. Her face was drenched in tears. It was no use. Evelyn would be no help at all. She was held too firmly in his grip.

Another way would have to be found. That way would have to be Micah Jordan-Wells.