Authors: Evie Rhodes
Criss Cross (7 page)
Chapter 11
S
haughn Braswell sat in the midst of a silver-and-chrome living room. He admired himself in all angles of the mirrored room.
haughn Braswell sat in the midst of a silver-and-chrome living room. He admired himself in all angles of the mirrored room.
Sofas and tables decorated the room. In the middle of the room sat a large table covered with sculpting tools. Every tool was in its place. The room was fastidiously clean. The high ceilings sported whitewashed beams.
Shaughn Braswell was tall and athletic. He had long dreadlocks pulled back in a ponytail. His looks were every bit of the handsome yet rugged rogue. His skin resembled porcelain. He had long lashes that fluttered over eyes that reflected an eerie emptiness. Sometimes they lit up with the miracle of creation.
His long handsome fingers were made to sculpt, to mold, and create. It was his gift.
Shaughn's face reflected intense concentration. He had just put the finishing touches on a sculpture. This was one of his favorite pastimes.
He stroked his long goatee. It was perfectly trimmed, as were his mustache and sideburns. Restlessly he stared at the front page of Newark's
Star-Ledger
newspaper.
Star-Ledger
newspaper.
Shaughn was a man that exuded a dangerously dark air. He had a you-don't-want-to-mess-with-me vibe. In the circle he ran in, he was not a man to be toyed with.
Next to the newspaper sat his recently finished, lavishly appointed, beautifully sculptured headpiece of Micah Jordan-Wells. He was mesmerized by the image that was Micah. He could feel him, taste him and touch him. The depths of his eyes were alive, alive at the second and third levels.
A shattering ring interrupted Shaughn. It pulled him out of his reverie. He picked up the phone. “We are perfectly positioned,” he said into the phone.
He listened. Then nodded his head in satisfaction. “Good. Let the games begin.”
He salivated at the thought of what was to come. “Micah. Micah Jordan-Wells. Welcome to my world, little man. Welcome to my world.”
Chapter 12
I
t was early morning in downtown Newark. Newark was a city that had in many ways been left behind. Since the riots of the '60s there was very little corporate commerce in the city. It was also a ghost of the city it used to be. The streets were strewn with vendors or street merchants who peddled their wares.
t was early morning in downtown Newark. Newark was a city that had in many ways been left behind. Since the riots of the '60s there was very little corporate commerce in the city. It was also a ghost of the city it used to be. The streets were strewn with vendors or street merchants who peddled their wares.
On this morning, the streets were brimming with those who were setting up for the day's business. Small shops and restaurants were dishing out the morning's coffee and pastry. The dealmakers were on the streets ready to get paid.
Derrick Holt had been waiting patiently inside the bustling corner coffee shop. As he sipped from his cup of tea he finally spotted Shimmy.
Shimmy was a part of the streets of Newark, a street historian in his own right. He had been on the streets for as long as Derrick could remember. He was also plugged into the word. There was very little that happened in Newark, be it personal, political, or criminal that Shimmy didn't know about.
He was part of a vast network of both criminals and politicians that shared information. He was the grapevine. If anything weird or out of order happened in Newark or on its streets, Shimmy was the man. Trusted in the streets by both the lowly and the mighty, he was a skinny little dude with a big attitude.
Derrick watched him as he set up his wagon of CDs, cassettes and movies. If there was music you couldn't get or find for any reason, then Shimmy was the person you went to. People from as far away as upscale Montclair came into Newark to purchase music from him or to get hard-to-find music, like 12-inch records.
Derrick was tired of waiting, so he drained his cup of tea. He strode purposely up to Shimmy while chewing on his ever-present toothpick.
Shimmy had been watching him. He sighed. Derrick was a major pain in the ass when he wanted something. He didn't know how to leave things alone. Shimmy had erected an entire life of survival on the streets built on this very principle.
On the other hand, Derrick had proved to be useful in some situations for him. He was a researcher. He would provide information when you needed to find out something. He just wished Derrick wasn't such a pest when he needed something. He made him want to swat him like a pesky fly.
“Shimmy, I need some information.”
Shimmy continued to set up his wagon. Without turning to Derrick, he said, “About?”
“Silky. I'm doing a piece on him. I know you heard what happened in court. I don't think his whole story came out in court.”
Shimmy stopped setting up his cart. He turned to stare at Derrick. “I think you best let that be, my brother. The man is dead. So is his story.”
“I don't think so. Was he affiliated with a cult? There's nothing shaking on this street that you don't know about, Shimmy. So I know that you know what the grandstanding Micah did in court didn't cover the whole story. The trial was a joke to Silky.”
Shimmy turned his back on Derrick. He selected a CD and popped it into his state-of-the-art boom box. “The man is dead. That's the end of story. Dead is dead. Now leave me alone. It's over, Derrick.”
“It ain't over until the fat lady sings and as far as I'm concerned Shimmy, I haven't heard the first note sung yet.” Derrick turned and walked down the street.
Across the street, Shaughn Braswell observed the exchange between the two of them with interest.
Chapter 13
R
everend Erwin Jackson sat in his paneled oak library surrounded by his praised collection of Bibles. Books of every sort on the Gospel lined the shelves.
everend Erwin Jackson sat in his paneled oak library surrounded by his praised collection of Bibles. Books of every sort on the Gospel lined the shelves.
His collection included works of theology and history. He owned Bibles in most of their published languages, covered in every type of binder. He was versed in several languages including Hebrew. His loved tongue was the original language of Ethiopia.
An assortment of tapes of sermons both past and present delivered by pastors known and unknown lined the nooks and crannies in the library. There was also a multitude of commentaries on the Bible. Prayer books as well as documented histories on the life of the apostles after the crucifixion of Jesus Christ completed the awesome collection.
Like some of the men in the Bible, the reverend came from a colorful background. He had been born the son of a prostitute. His father was unknown. He had been abandoned on the steps of a church when he was an infant. His mother had watched over his growth from afar but never introduced herself to him or interfered in his life.
She died as she had lived. She had been found dead in a seedy motel after she turned her last trick. She had tried to place him where she felt he would receive the best. In many ways he had. He had come to know the one power that would shape his life.
One of the priests in the church had decided to shepherd him through his training, and placed him in an orphanage the church was affiliated with. He kept the reverend's mother informed of his progress. Over the years of his childhood, he had sat at the priest's knee, fascinated by the different Bible stories and heroes in the spirit.
His own life had become almost identical to the priest's who helped to raise him. He ministered to abandoned children at the orphanage after he grew up. He tried to lead others in the orphanage to that one guiding light. In his time there, he had seen the good, the bad and the ugly.
Every so often he reaped the fruit of his effort as he had in a young boy over thirty years ago who had sat at his knee hungering for the word. Now that boy was a grown man traveling all over the world. Sharing the life-altering message of Jesus Christ!
Reverend Jackson turned his attention to the front-page picture of Micah Jordan-Wells. He regretted that after all his teaching Micah hadn't followed his footsteps in the ministry.
The boy had been a rapt, as well as a keen, student. He had spent an inordinate amount of time with Micah when he was a boy, teaching him and laying the foundation of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. But Micah had his own mind and agenda. He always had. The old reverend sighed.
Chimes that sounded like the old Negro spiritual “Oh Precious Lord” resounded throughout the house. The reverend rose from his chair. He hadn't been expecting anyone.
When he reached the front door and looked out, he was surprised to see Micah standing on the steps. Micah was admiring the multicolored roses that were springing up around the doorstep.
“Micah. What a pleasure.” The two men shook hands. “Come on in.” Micah followed the reverend to the library. “Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Naw. I'm good. Thanks.”
“Well, it's good to see you. How are things in the homicide department ?” Micah glanced at the front page of the newspaper the reverend had been reading. Slightly embarrassed, the reverend followed his gaze. Had he known it was Micah at the door he would have put it away. An air of agitation sprung up between them.
“Things are fine Rev,” Micah said.
“And your mother?”
Micah smiled. “She's good.”
The reverend nodded.
Micah leaned back. He glanced at the old cross hanging on the wall. Pointing to it he said, “What's the cross made out of?”
“Tree bark. There is a claim that they found the original cross that Jesus was crucified on in Labella over in Ethiopia.”
Opening his desk drawer, the reverend pulled out a smaller replica of the tree bark cross. There was a warm heat generating from the cross. He'd never felt that before. The reverend looked at Micah thoughtfully. Then he handed him the cross.
Micah didn't touch it. “I can't take that, Rev.”
The reverend didn't move his outstretched hand. He gazed into the vibrant pools of Micah's eyes. There was a fleeting movement in their depths. Micah reached out to take the cross. “Thanks.”
The reverend knew deep inside that Micah would need the full power of all it represented. He would need the truth. It wouldn't be much longer. The cross was a simple reminder that sometimes a man's faith and strength must be extraordinary.
He thought about the story of Daniel and the incredible power that God had demonstrated through Daniel for a time, as well as the astounding faith that Daniel had to display in the face of great adversity.
Micah broke into the reverend's thoughts. “You think I need this?” He was surprised at the reverend's gesture for two reasons. First, he knew how rare the cross was and what it meant to him. Second, he hadn't uttered a word of anything out of the ordinary to him. So what had moved him to give him the cross?
“No, Micah. I don't think you need the cross.”
Micah frowned.
“I know that you need it, son.”
Micah tucked the cross inside his suit jacket pocket. “Then I guess I have what I came for.”
The reverend stared into a pair of piercing, damning eyes behind Micah's head. The vision was nothing but the pair of eyes. There was no body attached. The eyes glittered at the reverend. Then they vanished.
“Yes,” the reverend said, “I guess you do.”
A frown creased Reverend Jackson's brow as his thoughts came to rest on the past of Evelyn Jordan-Wells.
Chapter 14
T
he following morning the reverend stood facing Evelyn in the foyer of her home. She was somewhat less than happy to see him. He knew it. But it didn't matter.
he following morning the reverend stood facing Evelyn in the foyer of her home. She was somewhat less than happy to see him. He knew it. But it didn't matter.
She had known he would come. She just didn't want to deal with him. She knew it ever since she saw the front-page picture of Micah in the newspaper. Things were spiraling out of control.
She gave the reverend a steady look. “You shouldn't be here, Reverend Jackson.”
The reverend didn't mince words with her. “There is darkness being unleashed, Evelyn. A great many years have gone by. Its presence is far-reaching. There are events taking place that you can no longer ignore. We've got to do something.”
Evelyn adopted an air of denial and indifference. “I don't know what you're talking about, Reverend.”
The reverend lost his patience. He gripped Evelyn by her shoulders. Face up he geared into eye-to-eye contact with her. “Evelyn, you can't ignore this and pretend it's not happening. Your soul will be damned, enough of this hiding. The truth must be told.”
Evelyn was rooted to the spot. Mutely she looked at the reverend. She shifted her gaze to the front door behind him. The door banged open.
The reverend released his grip on Evelyn's arms as a force pushed him backward through the foyer. He landed roughly on the front porch.
His face twisted with a stricken look. His eyes glazed over with shock, disbelief, and finally real fear.
“You have a vow of silence, Reverend! Surely you would not consider breaking such a sacred oath!” Evelyn said. Her voice roared like a lion shouting across a valley. The words echoed around him.
The reverend looked at Evelyn. The words had come forth from her lips. But the voice was not hers. Neither were the eyes that looked back at him.
He fingered the cross around his neck, drawing strength from it. Finding his voice he said, “Evelyn please. You've got to listen to me. I . . .” his voice trailed off when he saw the silhouette of Quentin Curry appear behind Evelyn. Quentin was a horrible memory from a not too distant past.
Quentin silenced the reverend with a single look. His eyes glittered like glowing coals from inside the hood that covered his head.
His look held the old man in its grip, suspending him from a very high altitude where the air was very thin. But his feet were still on the ground. Dizziness soared through the reverend's head.
“You have no place here, Reverend.”
The reverend breathed deeply. Sudden strength flowed through the reverend's limbs. Air flooded his lungs. “Neither do you.”
The old man amused Quentin. He smiled. It had actually been quite a while since anyone had tried to fight him back. He rather enjoyed a good duel every now and then. He decided the reverend would be good sport. “Who is going to keep me out?” he asked as he stared at a trembling Evelyn.
The reverend gazed at Evelyn, who was held in the sharp grip of fear. “Evelyn, you must fight back. Please Evelyn.” Not one spoken word left Evelyn's lips. Terror had her rooted to the spot. She had no wellspring she could tap in to. Quentin was stronger than she was. She couldn't beat him.
Revulsion flipped over in the pit of the reverend's stomach. His fierce angry eyes turned to Quentin. “There is one who can keep you out,” he said with the faith of Job.
Quentin pulled his hood tighter. His eyes gleamed. “We shall see.”
Quentin disappeared from the reverend's line of vision. The door slammed shut in his face disconnecting him from Evelyn.
Reverend Jackson mumbled a prayer under his breath, “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .” Collecting himself he banged on the front door.
“Evelyn, you've got to fight back. You've got to put a stop to this madness. Otherwise it is going to go on and on. Can't you see Evelyn? Evelyn. Please. It's him. I know it's him. You know it's him. Evelyn.”
The reverend's pleas and banging went on in vain. Evelyn was unyielding to his requests.
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