Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense

by Carter Wilson

  “It’s not so much that I want to save people,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I feel like I’m supposed to save people.” He finally opened his eyes. “Does that make sense?”

  “Do you think you’re supposed to be the one to stop

  Sonman?”

  He looked down at her, as she looked up at him. In that moment, in that light, and in that blink of unguarded honesty, she seemed perfect to him. “Maybe I do. Does that sound stupid?”

  She smiled, genuine and inviting. “Yeah, you sound a little stupid.”

  Jonas laughed, louder than he expected, but it felt good. Everything was new with Anne. Everything was fresh, pure.

  “I’m okay with that,” he said.

  “Good, because I’ve always had a thing for dumb jocks.”

  “That I doubt. So what now?”

  She reached back with her right hand and brushed her fingertips against his pants leg before moving up and grabbing the bottom of his tie.

  She pulled on the tie.

  Jonas leaned and hovered over her face, their lips inches apart, reversed from each other.

  “You don’t have to be a mind-reader,” she said. He could smell the wine on her breath mixed with a trace of perfume that still sprinkled her long neck.

  His lips just brushed hers at first. Back and forth, not for fear of committing, but for savoring that very first contact, the headiness of nascent intimacy. Her hand moved from his tie and then slipped behind the back of his head. She pulled him against her, and they finally kissed, fully, their mouths pressing, their tongues tracing outlines on each other’s lips.

  Jonas set his wine glass on the floor as he broke from her. He kept his fingers on her shoulder and walked around the couch, wanting to share the space next to her.

  “No,” she said, holding a hand up.

  “What?”

  Rather than answering, she rose and came to him instead. She clasped his hand and brought herself toward him. Standing, he could feel all of her through the thin fabric of her dress. She draped both arms behind his neck and his hands instinctively slipped around her waist. As she leaned in to kiss him, he pulled her closer, feeling the curves of her waist and fullness of her breasts. She tasted like summer, he thought, not even knowing what that was supposed to taste like. It was the taste of sun on your face.

  “You’re thinking again,” she said, her words twisted by his lips.

  He moved his head and kissed her neck, tracing the curve up from her shoulder with his tongue. “But I’m thinking good things.”

  She tilted her head to give him more access, breathing out a long sigh as she did. “Then I suppose I’ll allow it.”

  He continued exploring her skin with his lips, wanting more with every taste. After a moment, Anne put her hand on his shoulder and took a step back from him. Then she reached up and hooked her thumbs under the straps of her dress, pulling them over her shoulders. She unzipped the back of the dress and shimmied out of it, revealing to Jonas a tight-fitting black chemise underneath.

  His urges told him to grab her and consume her, but his mind argued for allowing the vision of her to settle in just awhile longer. Several seconds passed as Jonas remained speechless in front of her.

  “What’s the matter?” she teased. “Scared?”

  “A little bit,” he said, drawing a laugh from her. “You always wear something like that under your dress?”

  She took the first step, draping a hand over his shoulder. Her smile glowed in the soft light of the room, and her kinked hair bounced off her naked skin, almost floating.

  “Let’s just say I get a sense about when I might need to.” His hand found the small of her back and his fingers pressed into her.

  “I think I’m becoming a believer,” he said.

  27

  WASHINGTON D.C. APRIL 20

  RUDIGER WALKS into the church, hoping for solitude. He wants to leave Washington. Not much time. Wants to be away from those who might now know who he is, who might be looking for him. They talked to Mary by now. The shelter worker. Her description of him would be in the hands of every cop out there.

  But he can’t leave. Not yet. He’s close to understanding. He can feel it. If he leaves now, his purpose will die.

  The feeling is strong here.

  The church is Catholic, which means nothing to Rudiger. It smells of books, he thinks, walking through the narthex and toward the nave. Old books, left to settle in collecting dust, unopened for years at a time. The church is vast but empty. Hole of solitude from the streets outside the heavy wooden doors.

  He doesn’t know what to do. He thinks about sitting in a pew. Would the message come to him then? The answers he needs, would they transmit like some kind of holy radio wave from the statue of Christ that hangs above the altar? Or would they be written in a puzzle he could solve by rearranging the letters in his mind?

  Vibrant colors. Red and green and blue. Light bursting through stained glass. Haze of dust.

  Then he sees them to his right, three in a row. Confessional booths. Never been in one, he thinks.

  He hears a cough, faint and brief, muffled behind more than just a hand. In one of the booths. It’s the first sign. First directional arrow.

  Rudiger walks over, his footsteps soundless despite the vacuum of noise. He opens up the first door and peers through the wooden slats separating the chambers of the booth. He sees a silhouette.

  Good.

  Rudiger closes the door behind him and sits on the wooden bench. Cold and hard.

  “Hello, my son.”

  Rudiger feels uncertain. “Hello.”

  “And how long has it been since your last confession?” The priest’s voice suggests a young man, certainly too young to address Rudiger as my son. The tone of it suggests eagerness. Perhaps someone new to the business. Someone thankful to help.

  “Never been.”

  A silence settles between the two men.

  “Very well. Are you familiar with confession?”

  “No.”

  “It...it is a process by which you can heal your soul and regain the grace of God.”

  Rudiger considers this. “I do believe I’ve never lost God’s grace.”

  A pause. “Are you Catholic?”

  “I don’t know what I am. Christian.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Christ commands me.”

  A longer pause. “As He should, my son. He commands all true believers.”

  Rudiger doesn’t believe this.

  The silence becomes thick and the priest adds: “Are you unwell?”

  “Unwell?”

  The response is carefully measured. “Confession is...not to be taken lightly. It is important the penitent be of sound faith and...mind.”

  Rudiger digests the words. “You think I’m crazy?”

  “No...just concerned. You’re unsure of your own religious history, and that is somewhat unusual.”

  Rudiger slowly scratches his pant leg with a long fingernail. “For our purposes here, Father, let’s jes assume I’m suited.”

  The priest coughs. “Very well, then. Let us continue.” Rudiger hears the man’s voice crack on the last words. “Do you have mortal or venial sins to confess?”

  Rudiger understands the words. “Mortal, Father, but I don’t come seeking absolution. I jes need advice.”

  “Advice will come after confession, my son. Mortal sins need to be confessed in order to save your soul.”

  “My soul ain’t in jeopardy.”

  “I don’t believe that’s for you to decide.” Rudiger could hear the impatience creeping into the priest’s voice. “Please confess so that we may continue.”

  Rudiger’s scratching is audible and small frays from the denim of his pant leg are now visible. He wonders if this is a test—would God make him confess out loud what he has done in order to receive his next instructions?

  “If my sins involved a crime, do you have to tell the pol
ice?”

  Rudiger sees the silhouette lengthen, as if the man just sat up a little. “No,” the priest says. “The veil of the confessional disallows it. But I would likely encourage the penitent to turn himself in.”

  Rudiger feels a sense of freedom creep over him, the shackles of discourse removed. “My crimes are done for God, for He has directed me so. Man cannot punish me.”

  The priest leans closer to the wooden slats. “Tell me your sins.”

  “Where do I even begin?”

  “The most grievous.”

  Rudiger sits back and thinks, for “grievous” is certainly a matter of opinion. He feels the stones in his throat as the words roll out in a slow, gravely tone. “I killed a family. Shot a man and a woman, then, with my knife, removed the head of a baby. I held a young girl down and bit her ear off. I was going to stab her, but I wanted her ear first. Don’t know why. I think it’s because of the Preacherman, and what he did to my ear.” Rudiger reached up and feels the rough scarring of his left ear. “I remember the taste of her blood. The texture. Thin, almost like water. Sickly.”

  Rudiger stops speaking. There is silence on the other side of the booth.

  “That, Father, is my only grievous sin I can remember, for I committed it without any reason I can speak of. But I think it was a test. A test to see if I could do what was required of me next.”

  Rudiger stops talking. He stops scratching. All he can hear is breathing through the wooden slats. The breaths are more rapid than before.

  “What you have told me is indeed a mortal sin, my son. I must ask you: is it true?”

  “You think I’m lyin’?”

  “Is it true?”

  “It’s only the beginning.”

  The man’s voice begins to shake. “You need more than help from God, my son. We will finish here, and then let me take you to some people that can help you.”

  “The police?”

  “You need help.”

  “I need answers. I’m not crazy. There is a reason for what

  I do, and I can stop doing it all if I just find the One.”

  “I want to help you. Do you want to tell me your name?” Rudiger doesn’t want to give a name, even a false one.

  His fingers instinctively reach under his shirt and find the knife sheathed against his skin.

  “He told me to. In Jerusalem. He told me to release Him.”

  “Who did? Who told you?”

  Rudiger looks at the rosary hanging from a dull metal hook inside the booth. “The only One who could give such an instruction.”

  The priest’s voice lowers to a near whisper. “I don’t understand.”

  “Then I guess you can’t help me.” Rudiger begins to stand.

  “Wait. Don’t go.”

  Rudiger flicks the snap of his sheath open with his thumb. His fingers caress the handle of the blade.

  “I want to hear more,” the priest adds. “I can help you.” His voice continues to shake and Rudiger can hear the priest breathing faster.

  Rudiger sits and considers. The conversation can only go so many ways, and one way ends with the priest bleeding silently to death, waiting for the next parishioner to discover him. Rudiger doesn’t want that. He wants answers. He considers the options and decides he has little to lose.

  He leans back and pulls air through his nose.

  “First man I killed was the Preacherman,” he says. “I was twelve, ‘bout a month shy of thirteen. He nearly had me, too. Nearly captured my soul and tucked it away in his pocket, forever his to keep. Preacherman raped me. His whore raped me. Beat me. Starved me. Not that I’m looking for pity here, jes telling you what happened is all.”

  He pauses. The priest says nothing.

  “The third day he had me, after he fucked me, he beat me in the face with an old Bible. Smelled like sweat, that book.

  Sweat and use. Pages wet with my tears. He threw it in my face. Told me to read it, to believe it, that it was the only thing gonna save me. Belief in something better coming. Told me I best read that book if I want to understand the difference between good and bad. So I laid there on those dirty sheets and I read it, interrupted only by the two of them comin’ in the room when they felt their urges comin’ on.”

  He never even told his parents what happened to him. But now he has to tell the story. It’s what’s required.

  “So I read. I read the whole thing. And it was the best thing that ever could have happened to me, because I knew the Rapture would save me. No matter what happened to my body, the Rapture would free my soul, so it didn’t matter what Preacherman or his woman did to me. Earthly pain. Eternal salvation. Goddamn. Preacherman destroyed me and saved me at the same time, is what he did. You believe me, Priest?”

  The priest was quiet for a moment. “Yes. I believe you.”

  “In the first month I tried to escape, but didn’t make it.

  Preacherman sliced my ear open for that one, nearly taking it off. Then he stitched me back up, kissing my head the whole time. Kissing my bloody hair. Tellin’ me he was sorry and whatnot. His whore even gave me a little extra food for three days after, told me I needed to get my strength back.” Rudiger laughs. He doesn’t remember the last time he did that.

  “She gave me strength all right. Strength of resolution. Strength of belief. Because that day I knew it, jes knew it. Knew no one was coming for me. Knew I had to do it all myself. Bring it all about myself. And then I finally got around to doin’ it.”

  “Doing what?” the priest asks.

  “Waiting for the moment he finally let up his guard. Then shovin’ that knife down Preacherman’s mouth, splitting his throat open. Taking his ear off, as he had nearly done with mine. He wasn’t expecting that. No, sir. Not at all. He got relaxed. Thought I was forever weak. He got lazy. Got careless. And you know what, Priest? If he hadn’t given me that book, well, maybe that’s just what woulda happened. Maybe I woulda been his forever. But that book told me better things would come, so I made it happen. He bled all over that concrete floor, and his body shook like a million volts were going through it as he died. Fishlike. Eyes wide open, staring to nothing. Would’ve killed the whore, too, but she wasn’t there. And that day I upped and walked out of that little house and found my way back home, slow but sure. Resolute.”

  Another laugh. Feels good.

  “I never told nobody, ‘cept my sister. They found him, of course. I buried his ear and the knife I killed him with, but everyone just about knew I did it. But no one ever made me talk. They tried. They all tried. But I never told. My parents couldn’t understand, so they took it out on each other, which is what I suppose married people do. Never found the whore-woman. She just disappeared like those kind of people do. Back into the ashes and some such.” Though I swear I killed the ghost of her in Cleveland, he didn’t add. “But I tell you this, Priest. From that day on I had purpose. Rapture is coming, and I am ready. Ready for the end. So close. So close. Which is why you have to help.”

  The church grows old as the two men sit in silence.

  Rudiger then tells the priest of Jerusalem, and the words

  Christ spoke to him.

  “You say you were institutionalized in Jerusalem?”

  “I was held for...observation.”

  “Is it conceivable that...forgive me...is it conceivable that you are one of many who have been merely overwhelmed by the spiritual significance of the Holy Land? That what you thought you heard was nothing more than your own faith transcending logic?”

  Rudiger slips the knife from the sheath and turns it over in his hand.

  “Don’t matter,” Rudiger says. “You can choose to believe or not believe. What matters is my purpose, and how you can direct me in it.”

  “What is your purpose?”

  “To find the One.”

  “Why hasn’t Christ told this to you?”

  It’s one answer Rudiger doesn’t know. The source of his love and his frustration. It is the reason he’s here. “I...
think He wants me to grow in this journey,” Rudiger answers. “Wants my faith to grow by finding my own answers, and only in doing so will I be successful. I’ve killed three people in my mission. They were all wrong.”

  “You’ve killed three other people?”

  “Killed two men because I thought they were the One.” He pauses. Looks at his knife. “And a woman. Jes...because I was supposed to.”

  “The...the men.” The priest’s words were slow and controlled. “Did...did they die the same way Christ died?”

  “Yes they did.”

  Rudiger realizes his error. His killings have made national news. The priest now knows he’s sitting inches away from a man hunted across the country. Rudiger squeezes the grip of his blade and wills himself not to be impulsive.

  “Have to leave now,” Rudiger says. “Need to finish up my work.”

  “No. Don’t go. Let me help you.”

  “If you could help me you would’ve done it by now.”

  The priest’s silhouette shakes slightly, a quiet tremble. His words strain to reach Rudiger’s ears.

  “Please. Not yet.”

  Rudiger leans toward the slats. “You want to help me? Tell me why God doesn’t let me succeed. He told me to do these things. I didn’t want to. It’s all because of Him. But now He won’t let me finish.”

  The priest remains silent.

  Rudiger’s voice becomes harsh, the frustration and suppressed rage leaking out in a hiss. “That’s what I thought. I’m running out of time. Don’t you see that? Here. Here. In this city. I’m close. Jes need more guidance. Tell me. Who is it? Who’s next?”

  The priest is silent for so long Rudiger wonders if he’ll ever speak again. Finally: “I can’t tell you who to kill next. You and I need to go to the police together, son. You can be helped. It’s the only way you can save yourself.”

  Rudiger spits on the floor in anger. His knuckles strain from the grip on the blade. “Don’t need help. I need direction.”

  “You need to find peace. And you need help to find it.” Rudiger is struck by the words.

  Find peace.

  Something so familiar about the words, and he senses of all the words exchanged in this shanty of wood and hope, these are the ones he’s supposed to hear.