Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense

by Carter Wilson

  Jonas soon began to focus on her, because it was better than focusing on the headache slowly creeping up on him. He wondered who she was and what she was doing here.

  He only had seconds to think about it before it was his turn to speak. Jonas wasn’t introduced, but his name was in the program, which meant the Senator had confirmed he would be speaking and that actually asking Jonas to do it was just a formality. Jonas smiled. Bastard.

  As he rose, the woman in the black dress turned and looked at him, and for a moment the two of them locked gazes. There was a mutual curiosity and interest, Jonas thought.

  You wondering about me, too?

  His knee had been tight and stiff since the car accident and Jonas limped as he walked toward the sanctuary of the church. The congregation was silent save the occasional stifled cough.

  Jonas stood behind the pulpit and looked before him. He felt a tinge of nervousness, but was comforted by an ego that assured him he would be fine.

  “Senator Sidams was a lifelong friend of Michael Calloway, and he regrets dearly that he couldn’t be here himself today.” Jonas was already comfortable in front of the church full of strangers. “I’m sure Michael would have appreciated the Senator staying in Washington for a vote, doing his job for the people of Pennsylvania.” He paused and scanned the crowd, then passed his gaze over the woman in the second pew. She had her full attention on him. “I only met Michael once,” he continued, “so I can’t say I’m the most qualified person to be standing here in front of you. But my one meeting with him was memorable.” Weird, he thought. Eulogizing a man he barely knew who was crucified after soliciting gay sex on the Internet.

  Jonas spent a few minutes speaking about the meeting with Calloway. He scanned the crowd comfortably, making eye contact with every somber face. Once, as he rested his gaze on the woman in the second pew, she smiled. Just a little.

  “As our meeting was ending, Michael focused his attention on me. I was warmed by his smile, and for the first time he directed his words at me and not the Senator. He said he had heard my father was ill and he asked about him.”

  Jonas looked down and saw the woman had closed her eyes again. He shifted his weight and gripped the top of the podium tighter. He suddenly felt a little nervous.

  “I don’t know how he knew about him—the Senator, I suppose—but my father was slipping deeper into the haze of Alzheimer’s. I thanked him and told him my father was steadily getting worse but that I appreciated his concern.”

  Jonas looked down again at the woman. Her eyes still closed. Head tilted back at the slightest of angles. Jonas cleared his throat.

  “Michael asked me if I ever prayed for him. The easy answer would have been yes, but it wouldn’t have been the truth. I’m not a religious man, I told him. He smiled even brighter and took my hands in his. He bowed his head and asked me to do the same. And then this man—this powerful businessman who had a reputation for being a fierce and ruthless competitor to his rivals—said the most beautiful and personal prayer I had ever heard. Thinking about it even now nearly brings tears to my eyes, something not easily done to an ex-Army Ranger.”

  Smiles across the church. The woman finally opened her eyes and smiled broadly at him, showing perfect white teeth. “That night I visited my father. He looked the same. In no way did he show any signs he knew who I was. As always, I sat next to him and told him about my day. About my meeting with the famous Michael Calloway. Then, as I got up to leave, he grabbed my hand, something he hadn’t done in a long time. He lifted his head and stared at me, and in that moment he knew me. His eyes brightened and, if I let my imagination do a little work, I could have sworn he said my name.”

  A soft murmur of approval across the church, the sound of satisfaction.

  “I’m convinced our prayer together helped my father that day. Michael’s words and kindness touched me, a natural cynic, and though I only knew the man for a few hours, his life affected mine. I can only imagine the joy for those who knew him for years and even lifetimes. He will be missed, but his spirit will continue to affect us all.”

  • • •

  She approached Jonas after the service, gliding toward him in the reception hall. Jonas allowed himself a thin smile as she approached. She reciprocated.

  The woman extended her hand. Jonas took it. She paused and held his hand for a moment before speaking.

  “I’m Anne Deneuve.”

  The shake was firm, but still feminine. “Pleased to meet you, Anne. I’m—”

  “Full of shit,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Was I not clear?”

  Jonas took his hand back. “No, not really.”

  “Okay, then,” she said. “I said you’re full of shit.”

  “In what way?”

  “Are there multiple ways?”

  “I hope so, because the way I know of would be an insult. And insults at funerals are a real downer.”

  She tilted her head and studied him as if he were a math problem to be solved.

  “The bit about your father. You made that up. Or at least exaggerated it.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “Because I’m paid to know things.”

  “Aren’t we all? And who pays you?”

  She paused, seeming to decide whether to press on.

  “The FBI,” she said.

  Jonas felt a squint take over his eyes.

  “The FBI sent you to the funeral of a corporate titan to see if anyone lied during his service?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So you’re insulting me off the clock?”

  “Exactly.”

  He let the moment settle around them. “Intriguing.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” she asked. He smiled.

  “Don’t flash those pretty teeth at me,” she added. “It’s not what you think.”

  “How do you know what I think?”

  “Meet me for a drink and I’ll tell you all about my special abilities.”

  She didn’t wait for answer. She didn’t need to.

  Jonas watched her walk away for about ten steps before following.

  8

  THE FOUR Seasons Philadelphia rose like a grey monolith toward the equally grey sky. Jonas wondered if colorblind people sought comfort in this city. He valet-parked his car and headed inside toward the Swann Lounge, where he’d agreed to meet Anne. The bar was large yet still intimate, with spaces carved out by the studied placement of tables and chairs. You could be loud or quiet in a place like this, Jonas thought. A black baby grand sat unmanned near a wall, gleaming.

  He found a chair offering a view of the entrance. A waitress wearing black slacks and an eager smile told him it was teatime and he told her that did him no good. He sent her away with an order for a Grey Goose gimlet. Up.

  Anne came into the lounge ten minutes later. Jonas wondered if she was a slow driver or had diverted to her room first to freshen up.

  “You made it,” she said.

  “Were you worried I wouldn’t come?”

  “I didn’t give it a lot of thought.”

  “That means you gave it some thought.”

  “Yes,” she conceded. “I gave it some.”

  The waitress came, set the glass before Jonas, and offered Anne the same speech about it being teatime. Anne looked over at Jonas’s drink and ordered a gin and tonic.

  “Hard to sip tea after a funeral,” she said. “Hard to sip it anytime.”

  “It’s good for you.”

  “That doesn’t make it tasty.”

  “Are you always this argumentative?”

  Jonas picked up the drink with his good hand. “That’s the nicest way I’ve heard it described.”

  “And how is it usually described?”

  “Depends on who you ask. If you ask an ex-girlfriend, which the streets are littered with, they would call it being obstinate and unwilling to share in
my feelings. If you ask my boss, he’d call it being professionally cynical.”

  She shifted in her seat. “Did you just say the streets are littered with your ex-girlfriends?”

  “I did.”

  “That’s a repugnant phrase.”

  “I mean, not literally, of course. That would just be weird.” She sucked in a shallow breath. Jonas knew the face. It was mild disgust mixed with curiosity. He never knew how that mix would settle in a person’s stomach.

  “You’re wondering why I asked you out for a drink.”

  “It wasn’t my charm?”

  “I don’t charm easily.”

  “But you must charm some.”

  “You are far from discovering that.”

  He settled back in his chair, enjoying the parry. “In that case, yes, I am wondering why you asked me for a drink.”

  The waitress came by and placed the drink in front of Anne, where it sat untouched for a few minutes while she spoke.

  “You have a connection to what I’m working on. I don’t know what it is or if it’s even relevant, but I have to follow up on it. Anything can be important, even the slightest lead.”

  “A connection?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what are you working on?”

  “It’s confidential.”

  “And yet I have a connection to it.”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “And how have you established this?”

  It was the moment he saw her falter. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she considered her words. Not as confident as she had been just seconds before.

  “I’m a contract worker for the FBI, Mr. Osbourne. There are two reasons for this. First, they couldn’t possibly afford me on a full-time basis.”

  “And the second?”

  She hesitated. “What I do would be hard to justify to the taxpayers as a legitimate government position.”

  “It’s sounding like you’re some kind of escort.”

  Anne finally reached for her drink. “You’re getting closer to charming me, Mr. Osbourne. I can’t imagine why any of your exes let go of you.”

  “How do you know I’m the one who gets dumped?”

  She ignored his question. “I’m not an escort, Mr. Osbourne. I’m a psychic criminologist.”

  “Like a medium?”

  “No. Not a medium. A medium channels the dead. I’m a psychic criminologist.”

  “Like a fortune teller?”

  She put her drink down. “Okay, I’m assuming you’re a hell of a lot smarter than you’re pretending to be right now. So let’s lift this veil of bullshit and get to the point.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. The vodka settled in him nicely. “Veil lifted. Here’s my perspective. You’re a beautiful woman who approached me at a funeral. You have a sharp wit, a sharper mind, and a massive amount of confidence. You come at me with a story that I’m sure has several layers to come. It’ll be all thought out to the last detail. Maybe your story’s true, maybe it isn’t. I don’t know, and honestly I don’t really care. What I do know is I’m the Chief of Staff for one of the most powerful Senators in the government, and the line of people who approach me with well-crafted stories could easily cover the litter of all my ex-girlfriends.” He leaned over the table toward her. “Ninety-nine percent of the time, these people want something from the Senator. Something that wouldn’t be in his best interests, and in many cases, illegal. It’s my primary job to protect him, so when I act a little stupid, it’s a cover for blowing you off.”

  She blinked a few times. “Yet you still met with me.”

  “Well, you are gorgeous.”

  “You’re that shallow?”

  He picked up his gimlet. “Like a kiddie pool left out in the summer sun.” A sudden pain rushed through his head but he was careful not to wince or massage his temples, as much as he was tempted to.

  “Your head,” she said. “It hurts.”

  “Sometimes I think too much.”

  “You were recently in an accident,” she said. “You were knocked unconscious. You still hurt from it.”

  Jonas held up his cast. “Wow, I’m drinking with Nostradamus. It doesn’t take a medium to read the newspapers, Ms. Deneuve. Or see the bruises on my face.”

  She looked at him and half-tilted her head. A dog hearing a high-pitched noise. “I’m not a medium. Something happened to you after the accident.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I stopped getting out of my car on the

  Beltway.”

  Monotone voice. “You’re having memories.”

  Jonas was bringing his drink to his lips when she made the pronouncement. He was glad, because he was looking down and she couldn’t see the surprise that must have been obvious on his face. He composed himself and looked up.

  “We all have memories.”

  She leaned forward. “But these memories scare you,” she said.

  He gulped down the last of his gimlet and dropped his business card on the table in front of her. “Thanks for the drink.”

  He figured she would contact him again if she were for real.

  And even if she wasn’t, part of him still hoped she would call.

  9

  MONONGAHELA NATIONAL FOREST WEST VIRGINIA APRIL 15

  RUDIGER DOESN’T like a mess.

  Sometimes there’s gotta be a mess. Can’t be helped. But he doesn’t like it. Nice and tidy. That’s how he likes it. Everything in its place.

  There’s a mess now. The boy’s just shit himself, and Rudiger wonders if it’s something he should deal with. Blood is one thing. Blood is messy, but pure. And it’s all over the place.

  Shit is another thing. It’s dirty. Foul. Unclean. It causes Rudiger discomfort.

  The boy keeps screaming.

  Rudiger thinks of him as a boy, though surely he’s at least eighteen. Name is Dylan. Freshman at West Virginia University. Rudiger had been traveling south, looking for some clue as to who the One could really be. He read every sign along the highway, every personal ad in every local paper, every bumper sticker on every car in front of him. Rearranged the letters, twisting and turning them, keeping some letters and discarding others, looking for clues. There had been many clues, but none of them had felt quite right. Passing near the university, Rudiger picked up a free copy of the campus newspaper. He’d spied an article about campus recycling, written by the boy. Rudiger had quickly rearranged the letters of the article’s title.

  BRING ME REVEAL CHRIST

  Took Rudiger four days for the preparation. Secured the wood to make the cross and found a good location for the crucifixion, a remote area of the Monongahela National Forest. Dug a hole in the moist earth for the cross and a larger one to make what he considered an appropriate cave. Then tracked the boy down.

  “What are you doing to me?” the boy screams in disbelief. It’s dark but Rudiger’s headlamp spotlights the sweat dripping down the boy’s belly. A campfire scatters softer light across the naked torso, painting his agony with an orange hue. Blood flows freely from the holes in his wrists. The shit falls onto the ground in snaky trails. Lakeside breeze carries the stench away.

  Rudiger doesn’t know how to answer, so he just tells the truth.

  “I’m killing you.” Then come the sobs.

  Rudiger wonders if the boy is the One. He hopes so. He won’t know for another two days.

  “No use cryin’,” Rudiger says. “If you’re the One, then it’ll be all right. Little pain now. Glory forever.”

  “Oh God oh God it fucking hurts...” The boy speaks in stutters and stumbles, fragments and spit. There is life still in him, much of it, but the boy doesn’t believe it. He thinks he’ll die in minutes because he’s never felt real pain before. The human body is quite resilient. It doesn’t want to give up. But sometimes it has to.

  The next part comes with effort. Rudiger’s ready. He’s strong and powerful. He touches his own left arm and his skin feels like cool stone, hard and unmoving, stretched taut over b
ulging muscle. Using a rope and a pulley attached to a tree, he hoists the crucifix fully upright. The boy is much lighter than the businessman. Maybe a hundred and fifty pounds total.

  The boy vomits as his weight stretches his lungs and restricts his breathing. Howls as legs buckle. The weight pulls him down, but the spikes in his wrists keep him firmly in place.

  It’s nice here, Rudiger thinks, poking at the fire with a stick. Next to this lake. Peaceful. As the screams fade he hears an owl call to another without any sense of alarm.

  “Please...” Bile drips off the boy’s chin. “Please.” His breathing is tight and shallow.

  “There ain’t no please,” Rudiger says, surveying his work with the beam from his headlamp. “How can you say please? You know you will die. Jes accept it as did your Savior. With humility and joy.”

  Rudiger steps back and considers. Both of the boy’s shoulders are clearly dislocated. His lungs have hyper-expanded and he’ll probably die from asphyxiation. Or succumb to hypovolemic shock. But not for a while.

  Preacherman would’ve been proud, Rudiger thinks. Would’ve said the boy was a sinner of one sort or another, and done got what he deserved.

  Preacherman’s face comes into Rudiger’s mind, sharp and tight. The crooked teeth. One eye always open wider than the other. The corpse smile. In Rudiger’s vision-flash, Preacherman is holding the Book, telling Rudiger he best read the whole fucking thing if he wants some kind of outside shot at salvation.

  Preacherman taught him all about the Book in those two months. Preacherman was the one who told him Jesus would come back one day. Sure enough, inside that book, within those torn and greasy pages, in the cold basement, with the smell and the pain and the solitary dirty light bulb that barely gave enough light to read, Rudiger did indeed find the bit about the Rapture. The return. Salvation. In that moment, as he disappeared inside the words of promise and rescue, little twelve-year-old Rudiger thought God’s full glory surely must be the sweetest sight in the world, and ever since that day he’s been waiting for it to come.

  Wasn’t long ago Rudiger decided to take matters into his own hands.

  He studies the dying boy.

  The boy doesn’t seem to be the One, though there’s no way of knowing now. If he isn’t, Rudiger will have to set to work again. Have to find the next clue. Build another crucifix. Sharpen more spikes. Select a remote location. Find, catch, and move the target. Crucify him. Bury him in a makeshift cave or tomb. Wait for the third day to see if He has arisen. If not, then Rudiger will repeat the process.