Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense Read online

  Table of Contents

  PART I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  PART II

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  FINAL

  CROSSING

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Vantage Point Books and the Vantage Point Books colophon are registered trademarks of Vantage Press, Inc.

  FIRST EDITION: June 2012

  Copyright © Carter Wilson, 2012

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Published by Vantage Point Books

  Vantage Press, Inc.

  419 Park Avenue South New York, NY 10016

  www.vantagepointbooks.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-936467-33-4

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data are on file.

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Cover design by Victor Mingovits

  For Dad

  “The sun will be darkened, the moon will not give its light, the stars will fall from the sky, and the powers of heaven will be shaken loose.”

  —Matthew 24:29

  PART I

  1

  SUBURBAN PHILADELPHIA MARCH 31

  RUDIGER WATCHES the man who watches him. Dark eyes. Flecks of amber. Eye contact is difficult. His gaze wants to pull toward the ground, but Rudiger forces it to stay level. The man smiles. Rudiger tries.

  The man’s not too big. Good, Rudiger thinks. About fiveten, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds. Two hundred or more would’ve been a problem. He knows he’s strong, but there’s a limit. Hard work ahead.

  “You’re quiet,” the man says. His upper lip twitches. Nervous. He wears a pressed blue Oxford; the monogram on the breast pocket reads MLC.

  “My first time,” Rudiger says. Appalachian accent coats the words in a glaze.

  “Mine too,” the man says.

  Liar.

  A cell phone rings in the corner of the bar and a woman answers. She’s drunk, she tells the caller. A Neil Diamond song dribbles from an aging jukebox. The chrome sides of the machine are tarnished. Glass case covered in dried spit.

  “So,” the man continues. “What made you respond to my ad? Was...was it the photo?”

  The photo showed an erect cock that Rudiger doubts belongs to the man sitting across the booth from him. Who knows? Doesn’t much matter. Preacherman would’ve had a mouthful to say about homasechuals, but Rudiger doesn’t care. He didn’t choose this man because of who he fucks. He chose him based on his words.

  “Liked your wording, I suppose.”

  “That so?” Eyebrows raised in confusion. “Yeah.”

  Internet personal ads. All the words, the arrangements. They seem random, but they’re not. Random doesn’t happen. Random is only for those without the ability to see all the patterns.

  Rudiger sees the patterns.

  The man sitting in front of Rudiger had written an ad on a local website, looking for a discreet encounter. Rudiger had found it. He didn’t give a toad’s left nut about what kind of deviant had written the message; the ad he needed to find could have been in any of the categories on the site. Rudiger hadn’t been trolling the Internet to seek pleasure. He’d been there because the website was a wealth of words, and Rudiger appreciated nothing more than words. They were his playthings. He could do things with words no other person could, at least no one he had ever met.

  He looks closely at the man to see if there’s something special about him. Some kind of sign. Man doesn’t even know what he wrote, Rudiger thinks. But he wrote it all the same, so that’s just about the sum of that.

  Rudiger sees the black letters of the computer ad float before him, as though he was still staring at the smudged screen of the library computer.

  HOT ** LONELY ** BORED **** m4m

  He looks at them in his mind once again, one by one, rearranging, reinterpreting. The letters dance in his mind, switching places, twisting and tumbling, falling into new words and phrases.

  Holy Blood Enter.

  “Nothing special about the wording,” the man says. He drinks Scotch, holding the glass with a delicate hand that quivers just a little. Manicured nails. His name is Michael, he says. Not Mike. Michael. “My God, I hardly knew what to write.”

  “Caught my eye,” Rudiger says. “What’s your name?”

  “Gabriel.” Rudiger orders a Coke. “Not Gabe,” he adds. “Gabriel.” He scans the tabletop and focuses on a half-filled ketchup bottle, its insides streaked from use.

  “Where are you from?”

  He glances around the bar, sees more people than he wants but fewer than he expected. “Not here,” he says.

  Michael smiles, then reaches across the table to brush fingertips. Rudiger retracts his, a spider in retreat.

  “Shy?”

  “Jes want to make sure you’re the one,” Rudiger mumbles. The man leans forward, his salt and pepper hair coiffed

  just so. “I know I’m a little older but I’m in great shape and

  I’m totally disease-free.”

  Michael is funny, but Rudiger doesn’t think he knows it. “Everyone has a disease, Michael. Some jes have it more than others.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothin’.”

  Michael studies him. “My God, you have great arms. You must work out all the time.”

  “Body is a temple.”

  Michael looks ready to worship.

  “What happened to your ear? I mean, if I can ask.”

  He’s not surprised by the question. The scar is obvious and he makes no effort to hide it. His blond hair is no more than a sprinkling of dust on his head. “Childhood accident.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? You didn’t do it.”

  Michael takes a sip from his drink and looks downward. “Maybe...
maybe this isn’t right after all. You don’t seem into this whole thing.”

  “No,” Rudiger says. His powder blue eyes blaze against his alabaster face. “You jes don’t know me. Trust me, I am very happy we met tonight.”

  “So...so what next?”

  Rudiger pulls out a small roll of bills and drops a twenty on the table. “Figured on goin’ to my car.”

  Outside, cold night air stings Rudiger’s face, making him even more alert. Michael follows behind him. Well-trained dog. He pictures Michael as a boss of many during the day, a powerful man. By night, his weakness builds by the hour, straining for release. Dog needs to shed his collar.

  Rudiger leads him to a white van, front windows dirty and back windows non-existent. Michael hesitates. Rudiger smiles and nods. It’ll be okay, the smile says. It’s all good. Get in. Michael smiles back after a bit then climbs in the passenger seat, his movements delicate, a cat walking around puddles. Inside Michael fidgets. Doesn’t know what to do next.

  “Buckle up,” Rudiger says. He presses a button and both doors lock. Michael slowly pulls the strap across his chest and clicks the belt into place.

  “Where are we going?”

  “’Bout twenty miles from here.” Hesitation. “Is that where you live?”

  “No.” Rudiger leans down and picks up the bottle of ether on the floorboard. He unscrews the cap and dabs the top of the bottle against a black piece of cloth until it’s saturated. The smell is strong, so he cracks just his window a few inches. Screws the cap back on. Bottle falls to the floor. “Not close to anything, that’s the whole point there, Mike. Only thing waitin’ out there is a big cross I built. That’s where we’re goin’.”

  It takes a few seconds, which is about five minutes longer than logic says it should have taken. The fear hits Michael. Rudiger glances sideways at him and sees in one second a lifetime worth of second-guessing on his face. All those times before. All those strangers. Never had a problem, though it was always a chance, wasn’t it? Always a risk. But the reward was worth it, each and every time. Probably swore to never do it again. But couldn’t. Just couldn’t stop. Now he’ll never do it again, but not by his own choosing.

  Michael’s frantic fingers scramble for the release button on his seat belt. Rudiger begins to hum. Scraps of something he heard on the radio, little bit of country.

  Michael can’t find the button because there isn’t one. Seatbelt locked tight, strap holding him down like he’s on a roller coaster.

  Rudiger lunges, his speed preternatural, a monster attacking in a child’s night terror. His hand with the rag covers Michael’s mouth and nose while his other hand squeezes his throat. Just enough pressure. Michael shouts but his voice is muffled and weak. He thrashes but it doesn’t mean anything. Not a thing. Rudiger stops humming.

  “You’re not dyin’,” he says, for no real reason. Not to placate. He doesn’t care about what Michael thinks or about his feelings. “Need to stay alive a little longer. Can’t be dead when we start. Doesn’t work that way.”

  Michael’s body begins to go limp. Rudiger barely feels warm from the struggle, but he knows the real work is just ahead of him. It’ll take all his strength to drag Michael far from the road and lift the cross with the man’s body nailed to it. He’s never done it with a real person before, though he practiced three days earlier with a two-hundred pound dummy.

  Took him nearly an hour.

  And the dummy hadn’t been screaming.

  2

  WASHINGTON D.C. APRIL 3

  WHY DON’T you feel anything?

  Her words came back to him with the unpleasant certitude of an alarm clock reveille. Jonas downshifted, much to his Audi’s protests, and deftly maneuvered around the minivan in front of him. The speedometer told him he was going almost eighty, but Jonas had a bad habit of ignoring things that tried to slow him down. Besides, it was the Beltway. It would slow down soon enough.

  True to his thoughts, a sea of red lights illuminated before him, causing him to brake hard. Again his Audi protested. Jonas and his decade-old car had a love-hate relationship. He loved to drive it hard. The Audi hated him for it. He swerved behind a Fiat (who the hell drives a Fiat?) and hoped for a faster current in the swirling river of D.C. traffic.

  Jonas cursed under his breath. There were directions for his anger to fly. Juliette, for one. She was beautiful, intelligent, and had the sexiest accent he’d ever heard. For almost six months, she had also been his.

  Until this morning.

  The Fiat slowed. Jonas cursed. The lane to his right was packed. The shoulder was to his left, and he had just enough respect for the law not to drive on it. Nowhere to go. Goddamn Juliette. Bad enough she dumped him, but why the hell did she have to live so far away? Now Jonas was going to be late to work. The traffic growled around him. He was trapped.

  Trapped.

  Trapped? Juliette had asked this morning. How the hell do you feel trapped? You have all the freedoms of the world. I don’t ask you for hardly anything. What the hell do you mean trapped?

  Bored was more like it. But how could he be bored with such a beautiful and intelligent woman? How is that even possible?

  Jonas gritted his teeth, wanting to gnash out around him. But all he could do was seethe and let the frustration of another failed relationship wash over him. Why couldn’t he ever feel satisfied?

  He checked his rearview. What was it women saw in those eyes that convinced them Jonas was the one? Were they trusting eyes? Eyes that bespoke long-term commitment and a deep desire to procreate? Or were they just pretty blue eyes that God shoved inside the skull of a heartless bastard?

  He rammed the shift hard against the gearbox and made the Audi growl. It wouldn’t get him where he was going any faster, but it made him feel good.

  Then he saw the problem. Stalled Jeep, two vehicles up from him. No emergency vehicles on the scene yet.

  Traffic wasn’t moving. Horns started. Everyone trying to maneuver around the stall, pressing on.

  The Jeep’s driver—older man, maybe sixty—had gotten out of his car and was rummaging under the hood.

  Not smart, thought Jonas. Too many impatient drivers out here. Wandering around on foot’s going to get you killed.

  The Fiat managed to get around the Jeep and Jonas crawled behind the stall. He turned on his hazards and studied the man for a few seconds. After that time, Jonas made his assessment. The guy had no clue what he was doing.

  Jonas ignored the honking behind him and climbed out of the Audi.

  The frosty morning air smelled like exhaust. Jonas paused, thinking he should put on his coat. Decided against it.

  “I’m fine,” the man said, waving Jonas off without a hello. “Tow truck’s on the way.”

  “Then why are you still looking under the hood?”

  “Thought maybe I’d find the problem.”

  “And?”

  The man stared at him. “Not finding anything.”

  “Not safe out here, sir. I can help you push it to the shoulder. Let’s clear this lane, then you should sit in your vehicle and wait for help.”

  Jonas saw the man’s reaction to his advice. He was going to obey, Jonas knew. Civilians always did. They could see the military infused in Jonas’s posture and his attitude, and, though he no longer wore a uniform, people always did what he said.

  Almost always.

  Chrissakes, Juliette, just stay so we can talk, will you?

  “All right,” the man said.

  The Jeep inched forward after an initial effort. Jonas heaved against the back of the car, and then immediately realized how much dirt transferred from the vehicle to his suit. Goddamnit.

  The man shook Jonas’s hand and thanked him for his help, though he didn’t seem thankful in the least. Then he got in the driver’s seat, turned on the hazards, and waited.

  Jonas looked at his watch.

  Shit.

  He was supposed to meet with the Senator in twenty minutes. He’d never m
ake it. He wondered if this day was supposed to be shitty or if it just decided to turn that way, suddenly and on a whim.

  He didn’t wonder for more than a flashing moment. The next three seconds lasted just long enough for him to assess the situation and see he was fucked.

  He reacted calmly and objectively to the sight of the Ford F150 smashing into the back of his parked Audi. His mind even wandered enough to consider it was probably a good thing—the Audi was released of its misery and would no longer be subjected to his daily torture. He considered the distance between his legs and the front of his car. Years of military and physical training even allowed him the reaction time to jump high enough to clear the top of the hood as the Audi careened beneath him.

  He offered his shoulder to the windshield rather than his head or back. Absorbed the impact perfectly, just as his body had been trained to do.

  As the impact propelled him into the next lane of traffic, Jonas then knew his luck had run out. Yes, he would try to do something about it. Maybe he could roll out of the way before a car crushed him. But, statistically speaking, he would most likely die. He accepted it. It did not anger him. It was just math.

  He fell hard onto the concrete. He had a moment to look up.