Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense

by Carter Wilson

  “I just—”

  “Shh,” Ogilvy cut him off. “Let me finish. And this same person, one Rudy Sonman, has come to Washington to do the same thing to you?”

  Jonas was silent.

  “OK, you can talk now.”

  “I don’t know,” Jonas finally conceded. “I have nothing to go on, I know. Nothing real. No actionable intel. But...”

  “Not true,” Ogilvy said. “You have the advice of a palm reader.”

  “Psychic criminologist.”

  Ogilvy rolled his eyes enough to see out the back of his head.

  “She’s well respected,” Jonas said. “She does work for the

  FBI.”

  Ogilvy leaned forward. “My kid works for the FBI, and he sucked on so many paint chips as a kid I’m surprised he can find his own dick.”

  “Wow. That’s kinda harsh.”

  “Doesn’t make it less true. My point is she’s grasping at straws, and she’s got you doing the same thing.”

  Jonas closed his eyes for a moment and hoped he would find the answers he wanted written in neon letters on the inside of his eyelids. He didn’t.

  “It just seems like...it’s just odd that I started remembering these things and she picked up on it. It makes me want to know more.”

  “More?”

  “About Sonman. I know you know something. You looked into it, didn’t you?”

  “Why didn’t you? It wouldn’t have been too difficult for you to research if you really wanted to.”

  Jonas thought about it. “I think I wanted to forget all about it. The injuries took me long enough to heal from. I just wanted to get healthy and move on.”

  “That’s not it,” Ogilvy said. “No?”

  “No. I read your debriefing from that day. I read word for word your detail of what happened in that building in Mogadishu.”

  “Yeah?” Jonas had never seen that file.

  “Yeah. Your problem wasn’t what happened to that family. Soldiers in hot zones see shit like that, even worse, all the time. You were mentally tough enough to be able to handle that. Your problem—”

  “Yeah, tell me my problem.”

  “Your problem was one of your own men deliberately tried to kill you. Not a mistake, no friendly-fire bullshit, but a deliberate attempt to kill a comrade. I don’t think your training allowed you to contemplate that, and your brain couldn’t reconcile it. I’m not sure any Ranger could.”

  Jonas sipped his drink but didn’t respond. “Shit, Chuck. I don’t know. Maybe...”

  “Maybe my ass. It’s exactly what happened.”

  “OK, then. That’s what happened. That was then. Now I want to know.”

  Ogilvy leaned back in his chair, his broad frame consuming every square inch of the leather. “What do you want to know, Jonas? What is it that’ll help you sleep at night?”

  “Is he alive?”

  Ogilvy sighed, the kind of sigh that a doctor might make before confirming a patient’s worst fears.

  “No remains were found in the vicinity of the incident. You know that.”

  “But...but remains were found.”

  “Yes. The girl. Her family. What was left of you. But no trace of Sonman.”

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “You didn’t ask me here to interpret the facts, Jonas. Just to report them.”

  “So, if he somehow lived, he never reported back to duty.”

  “Nope.”

  “How the hell would he get out of the country?”

  “No idea. Best guess is he was grievously injured in the explosion and crawled off somewhere to die. He was also wounded from your rifle round. Some Somalis probably found him and threw him into a garbage fire.”

  “Sounds like interpreting facts to me.” Ogilvy tipped his drink. “Touché.”

  “Or he lived,” Jonas said. “Somehow got himself out of country, and went AWOL.”

  Ogilvy nodded. “Not completely out of the realm of possibility. But pretty damn close.”

  Jonas felt the vodka just starting to kiss his brain. “But more importantly, why did he do what he did?”

  A shrug. “Why did Mark David Chapman kill Lennon? Who the fuck knows?”

  “You’re saying Sonman was mentally imbalanced.”

  “I think that’s a safe assumption.”

  “Then how did he get into the Army?”

  Ogilvy stifled a laugh then sucked down the last of his Wild Turkey. “Look, the kid was probably borderline bat-shit loony as it was. Probably just sane and ripped enough to look like a good specimen to the recruiting pukes. Does great in Basic and moves on. Looks good all around and now there’s real fucking action to deal with, so maybe the admission standards drop a little. Then he’s shipped to Somalia and gets assigned to you. He’s pumped up, excited, ready to lay down the shit, right? See it all the time. Maybe he’s a little jacked on ephedra, or, who the hell knows, even ‘roids. He’s excited. Wants to be alert. Impressive. Aggressive.”

  “That’s not what I remember,” Jonas said. “I remember him being detached. Quiet. Nothing at all pumped about him, except his physique. That, and he had a hell of a scar on his ear.”

  “Detached and quiet? Sounds like a real winner. So he’s out with you and what happens? Sniper. Real bullets. Two dead Pakistanis. Blood all over the place.”

  Jonas felt himself drifting back in time. “All over...”

  “And he isn’t a coward. A coward runs away. He’s the exact opposite, but maybe even more dangerous. He charges straight into the shit, throwing away every second of training he’s ever received. He goes Dresden on everyone’s ass—complete firebomb. Women, children. No matter. They’re all hostiles.”

  Jonas was seeing it all again, though this time the colors were different. It was like watching an old movie of the events, the film faded by light and time.

  “He cut the baby’s head off,” he whispered. “With his field blade.”

  Ogilvy lost some of his momentum. “I know, Jonas. I know. I can’t imagine what you saw.”

  “He bit the girl’s ear off.”

  “He what?”

  “The...little girl. He bit her ear off. I saw him spit it out on the floor.”

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It wasn’t in the report. Which means you didn’t tell them that during debriefing.”

  “I don’t remember any of the debriefing. But I’m telling you that’s what happened.”

  Ogilvy did the closest thing to furrowing his brow. “Which, in the mind of your palm reader, ties him theoretically to the two crucifixion victims, both sans one ear.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s better than having nothing. I’ll concede you the point.”

  “Much appreciated.”

  Ogilvy signaled the waitress, and with the deft hand gestures of a third-base coach, ordered each of them another round.

  “Look, Jonas, I came here to get out of debt and give you some peace of mind. Not sure if I gave you that, but I promised to tell you what I knew. Truth is, I pretty much know jack shit except for the fact that, as far that the United States

  Army is concerned, Private Rudy Sonman disappeared off the face of the earth. Which, I might add, is not unheard of in the military. But...”

  “But?”

  “I know one other thing. Something else was in his file. Something recent. Came to my attention last year.”

  “What?”

  Ogilvy seemed uncomfortable, as if bringing it up would only cause harm. “I don’t even know how verifiable it is. Personnel files get full of rumor and innuendo. Happens all the time.”

  Jonas felt his jaw tense. “What is it?”

  Ogilvy let out a long breath and looked longingly toward the waitress, who wasn’t there in time to rescue him with more bourbon. “There was another person. You remember a man named Cohen? Isaac Cohen? He was in your unit at deployment. He was one
of the first on-scene after your attack.”

  Jonas hadn’t thought of that name in years, but hearing it now brought back good memories. “Cohen? Hell, yeah. Good guy.”

  “That’s right. Honorably discharged nineteen ninetyfive. Became a school teacher in SoCal.”

  “What about him?”

  “Cohen was in touch with the Army less than a year ago.”

  “That so?”

  “Indeed. Seems he contacted some lifers he knew. He said he had something to report.”

  “Which was?”

  The waitress arrived and Ogilvy settled back into the chair, the fresh drink nestled between his hands. “Cohen told his lifer friends an interesting story. Said he was on vacation and he spotted Sonman. Said he recognized him by the scar on his face.”

  Jonas sat up straight. “Jesus.”

  “You got that right. More right than you know.”

  “Even after all these years? He recognized him?”

  “According to his report, Cohen never forgets a face. He even approached Sonman and repeated his name over and over.”

  “And?”

  “And he said Sonman denied knowing him.”

  Jonas didn’t know what question to ask next. But, against his normal backdrop of skepticism, he was willing to believe. He wanted to believe.

  “Where...where were they?”

  Ogilvy sipped his drink, letting it settle before speaking again. When he did, his voice was raspy with the tendrils of alcohol.

  “Jerusalem.”

  “Jerusalem?”

  “More specifically, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.” Jonas was suddenly frustrated by his own ignorance.

  “What is that place?”

  Ogilvy polished off the rest of his drink, about twice as fast as it took him to down the first one. “That place, according to all good Christians, is where Jesus-fucking-Christ was crucified.”

  21

  JONAS’S GAZE flicked back and forth between his BlackBerry and the road as he pulled up Anne’s cell number. He swerved back into his lane as the phone rang.

  Despite the hour, her voice sounded alert. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why do you think something’s wrong?”

  “It’s late.”

  “But you’re awake.”

  “What is it, Jonas?”

  “They think he might be alive,” Jonas said. “Who?”

  “Sonman?”

  “Who thinks so?”

  “A contact from the military. High up. He’s read

  Sonman’s official file.”

  “The file said he’s alive?”

  “No. But his remains were never found, and a reliable witness claims to have seen Sonman in Jerusalem last year?”

  “Jerusalem?”

  “Yeah, the Church of the Holy...something or other.”

  “Sepulcher.”

  “That’s it. You know it?”

  “Yes, Jonas, I know of it.”

  Jonas swerved around a jet-black BMW. “You know that’s where—”

  “Yes. I know exactly what happened there. And what that means about Sonman.”

  “You think he’s the one, then?”

  Anne was silent so long Jonas thought the call had dropped.

  Finally: “I don’t like assuming too much, Jonas. But I think it behooves me to involve some people I know. First thing we need to do is get a hold of your witness and try to get a sketch out of him. Do you know where to find this witness?”

  “I can find out. No problem. Call you tomorrow when I get that info.”

  “Okay, Jonas.” Her words were coated in a tinge of nighttime rasp. “Be careful.”

  Jonas hung up before responding. “Hooah,” he said to the windshield.

  Ten minutes later he was in Georgetown. His was a quiet neighborhood where most of the residents arrived home at a reasonable hour, and Jonas had to circle around before finding a spot a block and a half away from his apartment.

  He slid out into the cold night, grabbing his wool coat and black leather briefcase from the back seat before crossing the cobblestone street.

  Streetlights lined the sidewalks like sentries, their beams overlapping into a continuous pool of orange and yellow haze. The row homes loomed three stories high to his left, each a different color and set back behind waist-high brick walls, over which ivy spilled toward the ground. Jonas listened to his footsteps and his own breathing.

  In the far distance, cars hummed.

  A child yelped from inside a home. Doesn’t want to go to bed, Jonas thought. Then he looked at his watch.

  Almost midnight.

  Maybe a nightmare.

  He felt his pace slow, his normal reaction when he wanted to better sense his space. Walk too fast and you miss too much. Maybe you don’t hear something you’re supposed to hear.

  Then time seemed to stop.

  It had happened to him before, but not very often. When it happened, it was almost always bad. The air would go still and all sound was sucked away by some invisible force.

  Everything just stopped.

  It hadn’t happened in a long time. The last time was in the Mog, right before the face of the Pakistani soldier disappeared in a red haze of blood and bone.

  Jonas immediately crouched and pretended to tie the laces of his shoe, which didn’t have any. He looked down and then behind him, sensing no movement. An SUV was parked to his immediate right and the ivy-choked brick wall to his left. Strategically, Jonas was in a very vulnerable position. Not the kind of thought he would normally have walking down the street to his home, but considering the circumstances of the day...

  Stop it, he told himself. You’re overreacting. Your adrenaline is flowing from what Chuck told you at the bar, because, let’s face it, you don’t live in a world of excitement, do you? You have a great job, but you’re not in the shit shooting things up anymore, and you miss it. Getting hit by a car was the most exciting thing to happen to you in years, and now your brain is trying to keep the adrenaline high going.

  So you make ghosts out of night air. Goblins out of ivy. Jonas stood and squared his shoulders. He then turned in a full circle, letting anyone who might be watching him know he was aware. Because, despite his common sense trying to get the better of his intuition, time had stopped for a reason.

  He slowly resumed his forward progress, and as he moved the sounds of the evening returned. He heard his feet rising and falling against the cracked concrete beneath him. A car door closed in the distance, far enough away for Jonas to give it little thought. A dog barked three times inside a row home, then no more.

  With each step closer to his home, Jonas felt a growing suspicion his intuition had atrophied over the years.

  Then he smelled the cigarette smoke.

  Faint at first, like a smell within a dream. Jonas stopped and tried to detect what direction it was coming from.

  Doesn’t really matter. Cigarette smoke doesn’t travel far. Source must be close.

  He clutched the handle of his briefcase, wishing it were the butt of a gun.

  Then a thought occurred to him. Jonas pulled out his cell phone and dialed Anne. She answered on the first ring.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” His voice seemed to echo on the empty street. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you...” Jonas considered if someone was waiting for him, his words would belie his suspicions. Then he decided he didn’t care. “Do you get a sense about me right now?”

  “Sense?”

  “Can you...sense if...if something is about to happen?”

  “What’s going on, Jonas?”

  “I was just wondering if your...intuition...could work through cell phones.”

  Her voice was calming but not calm. “It doesn’t work like that, Jonas. Are you in trouble?”

  Jonas looked over at a dirty white van parked next to him, its back windows taped
over with newspaper from the inside.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What do your instincts tell you?” Jonas didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  Her words were controlled but came quickly. “Listen to me, Jonas. What I have. My ability. We all have it. I just happen to be able to channel it better than most people. But I’m telling you right now, don’t ignore what your senses are telling you. Hang up and call the police.”

  “I’d have nothing to tell them.”

  “Where are you?”

  “A block from home.”

  “Are you in your car?”

  “On foot.” Jonas thought he heard movement inside the van. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it wasn’t.

  The cigarette smoke became stronger. “Gotta go,” he said.

  “Jonas—”

  “I’m fine,” he said before disconnecting the call. Then he chanced a distraction. He deftly punched at the keys on his BlackBerry, sending Anne a text.

  Calling now, but won’t talk. Keep the line open and listen. If you hear me yell, call police and tell them corner of Potomac and O St.

  He sent the message, waited a few seconds, then dialed her number. Without listening for her answer, Jonas slid the phone back into his coat pocket.

  A breeze swept the street. Something caught the corner of his eye on the sidewalk next to the van’s front tire.

  A cigarette rolled in the breeze. It wasn’t even a butt. There was at least half of it left.

  Jonas put his briefcase down and took a step forward, leaning slightly toward the cigarette.

  The tip was still smoldering.

  Then he looked up and noticed the car parked directly in front of the van.

  Honda Accord. Shit-brown.

  Jonas immediately shifted his footing, placing his left leg forward and putting most of his weight on his bent right leg.

  A force from behind slammed into him. Jonas sprawled to the concrete.

  “Fuck!” he yelled, thinking of no better signal to Anne. His assailant leapt on top of him, pinning Jonas’s face down on the rough concrete.

  Jonas knew his attacker would go for the head. He remained still, playing possum.

  Soft fingers reached beneath his chin. Leather gloves. Going to twist the neck.