Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense
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Jonas saw the odds had caught up to him. Then he saw nothing.
3
RED DUST caked Jonas’s lips.
He was face down, his body armor pressing painfully against his torso. He lifted his head, aware his helmet was long gone. He squinted and tried to focus, succeeding after a few seconds. Pain rifled through his core, the kind that came not from the clean wound of a bullet but from the crushing blow of a three-story fall. He remembered it all—the little girl, that fucking Army grunt Sonman, the grenade... The concussive force of the blast had blown him out the window, and he remembered thinking it would have been more desirable to die from the grenade rather than from the impact of a spine-shattering fall. But the corrugated tin awning had softened the blow. By the time he rolled off and onto the empty Mogadishu street, he still had a chance of survival.
He tried to push himself up but couldn’t. Searing pain. If the sniper was still anywhere in the area, he could place as many rounds into Jonas’s back as he wanted.
Silence.
Jonas turned his head to the left and saw the dead U.N. soldiers twenty feet away. Looking forward he saw what he hoped for—a platoon of U.S. soldiers double-timing it toward his position. He had seen them out the window of the building, just before falling to the ground.
Jonas felt a sudden and inescapable desire to close his eyes as he waited the final seconds to be either rescued by his brothers or shot by the sniper. He turned his head once more and placed his left cheek down on the warm dust of the street. As he started to close his eyes, and as the sounds of the city began trickling back in through his overwhelmed eardrums, Jonas saw the little black arm next to him. Palm faced upward. Intact fingers spread wide and bent to the sky, as if holding a gift, an offering, that no longer existed...
• • •
Jonas opened his eyes expecting Somali dirt, not a hospital room. He was alone, though in the distance he heard the muted sounds of administration. Someone paging a doctor. Creaky wheels squeaking on a linoleum floor. A rasping cough.
Jonas had been dreaming. Had to be, because his mind simply could not grasp the reality of where he was. It was too unfamiliar.
In his dream, he had been back in the Mog. The images so long ago repressed came back to him in a grainy but pure reality.
A nurse walked by his open door. She was heavyset with a slight limp, her body bowed heavily to the left side as she shuffled. She glanced into Jonas’s room and he stared at her.
She stared back and stopped walking.
“Oh my,” she said. She shuffled into the room, walking with more purpose now. “You’re awake.”
Jonas tried to nod but couldn’t. It was then he realized he had no power over his muscles. A massive thirst struck him.
“Let me get the doctor.”
• • •
“It’s a cliché, but you’re lucky to be alive.” The doctor spoke with a thick Indian accent and his smooth brown complexion was marred only by dark streaks under his eyes. Jonas guessed him in his late thirties—like himself—though hints of gray were already dotting his thick black hair. The doctor had introduced himself but the name had already flown from Jonas’s memory.
“In fact,” the doctor continued, “it’s amazing there isn’t more damage done.”
“What...” Jonas murmured.
“Car accident,” the doctor interrupted. “And don’t strain yourself trying to talk. You are going to be here for at least another day, so you’ll have plenty of time to ask questions.” The doctor looked down at the chart in his hand. “Long story short—you had a one-on-one with a Chevy Impala. You lost. Somehow you came out of it with a broken wrist, a concussion, and a canvas full of bruises. How you didn’t die, I can only attribute to you being a tough son of a bitch. Or just plain lucky.”
Jonas felt the words coming easier. “Army Rangers...don’t break,” he rasped. “Only dent.”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, I heard you were a Ranger in a former life. Well, maybe that’s the reason.” He paused. “Or maybe the Impala is just a real piece of shit car.”
Jonas smiled. A familiar figure appeared in the doorway. The doctor turned to see who Jonas was looking at.
“Hello, Senator.”
Senator Robert Sidams offered a thin but warm smile to the doctor. It was a smile Jonas had seen a thousand times before. It said: you’re not the person I’m here for.
“How’s he doing?”
If the doctor was surprised by the presence of the Senior Senator from Pennsylvania, he didn’t show it. “He woke up just an hour ago.”
“I know. I got the call. Can I talk to him?”
Jonas took another deep breath and spoke. “I’m right here, you know.”
They both looked at him, as if his statement was a matter for debate.
“He needs his rest,” the doctor said.
The Senator stared him down. “I need my rest, too.”
The doctor nodded. “Just a couple of minutes, okay?” Turning to Jonas: “How’s the pain?”
“Manageable. How long was I out?”
“Just over a day. Not a coma, but more than just a good sleep. We will need to run some tests just to make sure your brain didn’t get scrambled. That’s medical speak.”
“Yes, sir.”
The doctor walked out of the room.
Senator Sidams placed the palm of his right hand on Jonas’s shoulder. “Good Lord, Jonas. You scared the hell out of all of us.”
“Just trying to be selfish. You know how I need everyone to be thinking about me at all times.”
“I thought it was supposed to be all about me,” the Senator said.
“But you’re too fragile to get hit by a car.”
“You’re saying you’re more of a man than I am?” Jonas smirked. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Jonas had been Sidams’s senior aide before being promoted to Chief of Staff after the Senator’s most recent election win. He had known the man for eight years and Sidams was almost a father figure to him, though Jonas would never be ready to let go of his real father.
Jonas sipped on a plastic cup containing room-temperature water. The Senator placed a palm on Jonas’s chest, closed his eyes, and bowed his head.
Jonas understood, and closed his eyes as well.
“Bless you, O Lord, and in you we trust to keep your beloved from harm, so we thank you for protecting Jonas from greater injury.” He cleared his throat and paused a moment before adding, “And we seek your guidance as how to keep this dumb son of a bitch from being so reckless in the future. Amen.”
“Amen to that,” Jonas said.
“So what happened?”
“Juliette dumped me,” Jonas said. “Thought I would throw myself into traffic to ease the pain.”
“Bullshit,” Sidams said. “You were helping a stranded motorist. Always trying to save the world, one dumbass at a time.”
“That’s beautiful. Think I’ll put that on my tombstone.” Sidams reached into his jacket pocket. “Brought you a present.” He handed the BlackBerry to Jonas. “It’s all that’s left of your car.”
“Thanks.” God only knew how many e-mails had gone unread since the accident, Jonas thought. Several hundred, probably.
“I figured you would want some form of communication while you’re here.”
“Thanks. I miss anything in the last twenty-four hours?” Sidams nodded. “There’s been a killing.”
“Figurative or literal?”
“Literal, Jonas. A well-known constituent.” Sidams’s gaze went to the floor for just a moment. “And a friend.”
Holy shit. Jonas tried to sit up. “Who?”
“Michael Calloway.”
Jonas felt the air leave his lungs. Michael Calloway was the CEO of Calloway Manufacturing, a huge distributor of auto parts and one of the largest private employers in Philadelphia. He was also a major financial contributor to and a personal friend of the Senator.
“My God. Killed? What happened?”
“Crucified? As in crucified crucified?”
Sidams nodded. “It’s unbelievable. Found his body in a cave in a state park outside of Philly. Holes in his wrists and feet. Cross was still standing nearby. Blood all over it. Moreover...” A lengthy pause.
“What?”
“It...it seems Calloway was soliciting...gay men on the
Internet.”
“Are you kidding me? He’s married.”
“I know, Jonas. I know. The media is just starting to sink its teeth into this, and it won’t be going away soon.”
Jonas had met Calloway once and had liked him. But the Senator had a long relationship with the man, and Jonas knew they had been close.
“Jesus, Robert, I’m so sorry.”
“Turn on the television if you want to know more details, because I don’t want to talk about it more. But I needed to tell you.”
Jonas didn’t know what more to say. Crucified?
“I have to stay in D.C. for a vote,” the Senator continued. “So I’ll miss the funeral. I was going to ask you to go, but you were too busy trying to arrange for your own funeral.”
“When is it?”
“Friday.”
Three days from now, Jonas thought. “I can go.”
“Can you?”
“No problem. I’ll be there.”
“Your doctor will let you?”
“Let that be my problem.”
Sidams nodded and squinted his eyes in appreciation. “Thank you, Jonas. That would mean a great deal to me to have you there.”
“It’s my job.”
The Senator stared blankly at Jonas’s bed, looking through it at something else, deep in his own mind. Jonas wasn’t used to seeing that face.
“I don’t want to distance myself from him,” the Senator said. “Whatever he was doing...whatever secret life he had... he was still a friend. You understand?”
“Absolutely.”
The Senator seemed lost in thought. “What is it?” Jonas asked.
The Senator remained silent for a long time. Jonas didn’t press him. Finally, Sidams responded.
“His ear was cut off.”
“What?”
“His ear. Whoever killed Michael cut his ear off. Postmortem, they think. It’s not in the news yet.”
Ear
The word stabbed at Jonas.
“I’ve actually seen that before, you know.” The Senator continued to look through Jonas. “In Vietnam. It happened to one of ours. No one I knew, but we found the body. Both ears cut off. VC used it as a scare tactic. Like the Indians did with scalping. Goddamn brutal practice, but effective. Scared the living shit out of me, tell you that. Makes me sick to think something like that happened to Michael.”
“You never told me that before.”
“There are a lot of things I don’t tell people about that time. I tell you more than most. You can understand.”
The horrors of men slaughtering men.
“You ever see that kind of thing? In Somalia?”
The Senator would occasionally bring up Jonas’s time in the service, and he knew Jonas received an honorable discharge after coming home wounded from Somalia in ninety-three. Jonas never told him exactly what had happened. Sidams had undoubtedly read his military record, but Jonas knew it could never capture the evil of what had really happened. He had thought he’d purged the memories of what he saw that day, but just an hour ago he was back there. Something about Jonas’s accident on the Beltway must have jarred loose the collection of horrors wedged in the depths of his mind.
“I don’t know,” Jonas answered. “There’s a lot I don’t remember.”
Sidams finally focused his gaze on Jonas’s face. “Well, you’re one of the lucky ones, then.”
4
CLEVELAND APRIL 6
RUDIGER STANDS outside the grocery store in the cold, smoking a butt. Frozen air on his freshly shaven face. There’s a cut on his chin. Doesn’t remember getting it. The sting of it makes him happy, makes him feel a little more alive. He wonders how much pain it takes before you start feeling less alive than more.
The wind jolts him, gets him thinking. Back, way back. Back to boyhood.
Thinks about the Preacherman, like he does every day. Remembers the dirty room. Sheets stained with blood and dirt, never saw a washing. Smell of air that never did nothing but sit in the same place, months on end. The three locks on the basement door. Preacherman would open those locks, one at a time, and Rudiger would press himself deeper into the saggy bed, hoping to disappear, knowing only bad things were comin’ through that door, bad things wrapped in promises of salvation. But salvation wasn’t real, not like that.
Just a twelve year-old boy at the time. Hadn’t done nothing but take the long way home on his bike that one day. That was the day he met the Preacherman. The day after which he didn’t see his family for nearly two months.
Rudiger pushes the memories from his mind, knowing they will hover close by, just like they always do. Preacherman is dead now, but never far away.
Rudiger drops the butt in the dirty snow of the parking lot and watches it die. He’s in a Cleveland suburb. Long drive from Philly.
Philly was a mistake.
The man—Michael, not Mike—was the wrong person. He was not the One. All that work done for nothing. Rudiger had watched as the man, naked and bleeding in the nearfreezing night air, asphyxiated to death, his body going limp and straining under its own weight. Another hour getting him down and burying him in the makeshift cave.
Then came the day and a half of waiting, with Rudiger sitting next to the body. In the cold. Watching. Wondering. Rudiger, at first so convinced it would happen, finally understood it would not. Not with that one. Not with Michael.
Had to keep looking.
Before Rudiger left the body to the animals, before he covered up the tracks he cared about covering, he’d done one last thing. Cut off Michael’s ear.
Rudiger lifts his hand and feels the hardened scar tissue circling his own left ear. Another gift from the Preacherman.
He walks inside the grocery store and grabs a cart, then slowly trolls the aisles. The items he places in the cart are simple and healthy. Enough to last a few days. Nothing that needs cooking. Rudiger only stays in anonymous mom-andpop motels, and those never have kitchens in the rooms.
God told him to come to Cleveland, just as he told him to go to Philly. Clean in Cleveland. That’s what the magazine cover told him. Least that’s what the letters spelled to Rudiger. Rudiger has a gift, gift of interpretation. God gave him the gift. So God talks to him. All makes sense.
He wonders what he’s gonna find in Cleveland.
“’scuse me,” he mutters to a woman standing in front of a sea of canned vegetables. She shifts to the left. Then turns and looks at him as she apologizes.
Rudiger freezes.
She looks just like her. Long, stringy hair. Skinny like a dope fiend. Bright eyes that once probably looked hopeful but now convey a touch of crazy.
Preacherman’s whore.
The bitch who had laughed when Preacherman had his way with him. When Preacherman was done, the whore had her turn with Rudiger next. She’d been the one who thought the slice around his ear was well-deserved punishment for Rudiger trying to escape that basement. The image of that beast’s face was burned into everything that Rudiger was made of, and here was the same face, twenty-five years later, not a day aged, browsing the canned veggies.
Rudiger knows it can’t be. He can’t look away.
She catches his gaze, then offers a weak smile that quickly evaporates.
The resemblance continues to digs its nails into Rudiger’s skin.
Maybe this is what he’s here for. Maybe it’s all a part of what he’s supposed to do. Through her, he can help rid himself of his past. Exorcise his demons, so
me would call it.
He keeps staring. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help it. She is scared. Rudiger knows what fear looks like in the faces of others.
Without taking anything from the shelf, the woman turns away and pushes her cart down the aisle. She doesn’t look back. Rudiger looks at her backpack. It’s a cheap kind. The kind a company would give away for free. It’s purple, and the image of a steaming cup of coffee is plastered smack in the middle. Beneath, in big, bold letters, is the name of a coffee shop.
Café Rave Niche.
His mind seizes the words in the air and tears them apart, spreading them before him like playing cards. He grabs the letters he needs and stitches them back together, looking for meaning. Then it’s there. The anagram is perfect. No wasted letters. What are the odds?
Cave her face in.
Rudiger turns and follows her, leaving his cart at an angle in the canned vegetables aisle.
• • •
He sits in his car and waits. White Buick, decade old, jacked just west of Philly. Stole fresh plates minutes after arriving in Ohio. Anonymous car for an anonymous man.
He watches as she loads her bags into a dated Camry, its paint dulled under several layers of street grime. No child seats.
She pulls out and Rudiger follows her. He keeps a distance. She takes him from busy boulevards into quieter residential streets. He sees her pull into a driveway and he drives past, knowing she can’t see him as she pulls into a garage.
He drives another block and parks his car next to a small expanse of dead grass with a play structure on it. Paint faded from age. Too cold for kids to be out.
He walks back toward her house, keeping his head bowed while his gaze remains fixed before him. No one else outside. He checks his watch.
Rudiger looks in the window next to the door and sees a messy house. The woman is unclean. Unclean people suit him not at all. He continues looking and sees no movement. No indication anyone is home except her. No car in the driveway. None on the street in front of the house. Her onecar garage was empty before she pulled in.
She’s alone. Rudiger knocks. No one comes.
He waits a moment longer. He starts humming. Rings the doorbell.