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strode to the shower. He knew it was time to face the real demons of his world. There were enough of them; he didn’t need to conjure up more in his sleep.
    Micah Jordan-Wells was a high profile, very celebrated homicide detective in Newark, New Jersey. He was a man who had done battle with a great many of Newark’s dragons. He’d affectionately been given the nickname of the Dragon Slayer by Newark’s elite corps of the press. Right now he was the darling of the media for reeling in a man called Silky who had wreaked terror in the streets of Newark.
    Silky had created horror in their hearts. He had numbed the minds of Newark’s citizens and police force. In short he had scandalized them into electric outrage.
    Silky didn’t just commit crimes; he gave the impression of creating them like an artist creates a portrait—murder by design. His murders were like hideous paintings, created by a master who wants you to marvel at the boldness of his strokes and guess at the illusions he has hinted at.
    Silky possessed a darkness of spirit that leapt out from the carcass of his victims and screamed for justice. The callousness with which he performed made him unparalleled in the annals of crime.
    Micah was still grappling with the tail end of Silky’s case, which was taking its place in Newark’s crime history as something akin to notorious.
    He turned the spray nozzle in the shower to full force. He shivered as the shock of ice-cold needles sprayed his body into rigid alertness. As the water rained over his body the “X” beckoned, once again. It summoned him. There was no resistance in him because there could be none.
    It was happening again. A visionary connection between him and an horrific act manifested in his flesh, swamping his being, connecting him to a dark and evil path. The inhabitation of the person’s eyes he looked through made him shudder. The things he saw made him weep. They were his eyes and yet they were not. Physically the eyes belonged to someone else, spiritually he carried the burden of seeing and feeling what they were doing. They were his hands and yet they were not. Who was he fooling? He was there. The burden of the act was his.
    The immeasurable joy of the act of murder swept through his limbs and merged with his being. It was another woman, another victim, and yet another masterpiece.
    She was a prized photograph. Her high-heeled feet kicked wildly. Her legs were bare beneath the gold dress. Moonlight streaked across the shadows of darkness in the room. Tied around her throat was a pair of silk panty hose. He pulled tighter and tighter. The “X” seared itself into her forehead.
    Her wild kicking slowed. Her legs flopped beneath her. The last shred of life drained from her body. One of her gold silk-strapped, high-heeled shoes fell off her foot. Her body went limp. It was final.
    He stroked the soft silk of the panty hose. He loved the feel of the silky softness between his fingers. Stark fear sprayed from her eyes. Only now it was frozen in its portrayal.
    He smiled. The rapture was upon him.
    The mark of the “X” pulsated within his body. His skin gleamed with the shine of it. He took one look around. His final gaze rested on the framed picture of a six-year-old boy.

Chapter 4
    T here was a sizzling current of anticipation in the air outside of Newark’s courtroom, as well as a deep rippling wave of destiny riding on a strident undercurrent.
    The penalty phase of the trial for Silky—also known as David Edward Stokes—was just beginning. It had brought out the masses in full force.
    Present were the common citizens of Newark who sought peace of mind and justice, as well as law enforcement officers from bordering cities who had kept abreast of the chase as Micah tracked the elusive Silky.
    The media had marshaled itself in full force. Everyone was waiting for the final hammer to sound on Silky’s murdering spree.
    Impeccably