Criss Cross (4 page)

T
he stage had been set as they all filed into the courtroom. The defendant known as Silky, Newark's mystifying, calculating, serial killer, was already chained and seated at the defense table.

He sat with the relaxed posture of someone who was free, as if the chains that bound him were of no consequence and could only hold him if he allowed them to do so.

Silky's jet-black, kinky, thick hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Knots of long, black, unkempt hair trailed down his back. His eyes were mesmerizing and fixed as they took in the atmosphere.

He had cast a pall of malefic doom over Newark by branding his victims as if they were cattle. He left his signature firmly engraved in the skin of his victims like an illuminating light. He had created a frightful trail that was like a beacon shining straight into hell.

There was the heady feel of the hunt in the air, as the penalty phase of the trial began. Silky turned to look at Micah and winked. Micah gave him a ready-to-rip-your-head-off look.

Judge Leiberman was at the entryway to the courtroom. He was a stern-looking, no-nonsense man. He looked at Silky. The man was a monster. How could he be a creation of nature? In his entire career, the judge had never witnessed so black a soul so up-close.

The bailiff shouted, “All rise, please.” The people in the courtroom rose to their feet as Judge Leiberman approached and stood behind the old mahogany bench where he had presided over many a trial.

The judge banged his gavel. “You may be seated now. Will the defendant, David Edward Stokes, please stand.”

Silky slowly climbed to his shackled feet. He rose regally and majestically, chains and all. His attorneys, Judd Nelson and Rick Bowker, flanked him.

Judge Leiberman looked at him with disgust. Silky was unaffected by this. “Would you like to address the court before your sentencing, Mr. Stokes?”

Silky turned slowly. He swept the crowd with his intense gaze. He turned back to face the judge. “Yeah. Kiss my ass.”

Judge Leiberman shook his head. “You have absolutely no remorse or regrets. Do you, young man?”

Silky's eyes fluttered shut as he relived the sensuality. The sheer adrenaline pumping power of the moment he strangled and marked a woman. He loved the feel of the portraits he could conjure up at will. It was a self-induced motion picture.

His victims danced before his shut lids in all their terrorized glory. The lips of the women were bloated from strangulation. The silk panty hose knotted around their throats sent a stroke of pride trembling through his flesh.

An “X” was branded on their foreheads. In fascinating succession, they leapt before his eyes, each and every one of his six masterpieces.

Silky tugged himself reluctantly from the warmth of his reveries. He lowered his voice to a sultry, seductive tone. “I regret that I don't have enough time to tie my panty hose around the necks of the whores in this courtroom today.” There was a single gasp from the audience.

“That's enough,” Judge Leiberman said.

“I'll tell you when it's enough,” Silky replied.

Judge Leiberman puffed up with indignant anger. “How dare you? This is my courtroom—”

“—This is your hell. All of the judgments that you've made . . . my dear judge will come back to you. That's the beauty of being me. By that which you judge, so shall you be judged.”

Silky leaped aerobically, chains and all, in the air. His body twirled in a full complete circle. He landed on the defense table on his feet. “You will burn!”

“Get him down!” Judge Leiberman shouted.

“I am wrath! And you shall see it!”

Silky's attorneys were in a state of shock. They jumped away from the counsel table. The crowd gasped. People were shouting. The police guards wrestled Silky down from the table to the floor. They fell in a sprawling heap. Finally, they pulled on his chains, yanking him to his feet, back into a position of respect.

“I'll be back!” Silky shouted. “Only this time I'll be eating your young! Like I said! I regret I don't have enough time to tie my panty hose around the necks of the whores in this courtroom today!”

Silky laughed—the sound was like nails scraping against a blackboard. The high-pitched wail soared through the courtroom. The octaves of his voice climbed higher and higher. The sound of it was so dark it produced a scattering of shivers throughout the audience.

Outrage and pandemonium broke out in the courtroom. Judge Leiberman banged his gavel in fury, restoring quiet and order to his court.

The judge pronounced his sentence. “You have been found guilty on all counts of first-degree premeditated murder. You will be put to death.” Judge Leiberman banged his gavel a final time. “Court is adjourned.”

Silky's laugh was the only lingering sound in the room. The media ran to file their reports. The spectators breathed an uneasy sigh of relief. It wasn't easy to get the sticky feel of Silky off their skin.

Silky finally stopped laughing. He tilted his head proudly and knowingly.

Patrick Hayes closed his file. Micah Jordan-Wells glided smoothly from his seat with Wolfgang and Nugent in tow. He strolled arrogantly down the aisle.

Two police guards dragged Silky away from the counsel table. The chains that bound him clinked and clanged. The sentencing had been passed.

Silky seized the moment and shouted, “Micah!” His voice quaked with a deep and guttural resonance. The sound of Silky's voice killed the chaos in the room.

The media went into a feeding frenzy at the mere sound of Silky's voice. They committed a serious breach of conduct, but they could not and would not miss this story. Besides, court was adjourned. They smelled blood in Silky's voice and they were ready.

Flashbulbs popped off in Micah's as well as Silky's faces.

Micah halted. Disgust and haughtiness flashed from his eyes connecting with Silky. Silky laughed. Micah was stupid. “Micah Jordan-Wells. Well, if it isn't Newark's Golden Boy. Your payment is just beginning, man.”

Micah gave Silky a look that was worthy of a reptile. Silky didn't give a damn—he kept his focus on Micah. “You captured me, my man. But you ain't captured all that there is. All that there is will capture you, Micah. That's word.”

Silky had Micah's attention now. “Thy will be done. The flames of fire will engulf you, Micah. You will burn!”

A shiver raced through Micah's body at Silky's words. He rushed across the room toward Silky. His features were twisted and contorted. Silky's words had touched his core.

He stopped in front of Silky and the police guards. “You're scum, Stokes. Like what's on the bottom of my shoe.” Micah removed his Italian-leather shoe. He rubbed the bottom of it in Silky's face leaving a trail of dust on his cheek.

Silky didn't even flinch. He just smiled. Micah saw a flash. Behind the depths of Silky's eyes lay something sinister.

“It don't make no never mind Micah Jordan-Wells. You ain't gonna escape, my brother. You'll be caught up in the rapture. You know about that. Don't you?” Silky's eyes became mere slits. Then he opened them. A glaze-filled trance covered his pupils.

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.

D
errick 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.”