Three months since the last killings.
He thinks of the last time he watched a person die. The woman. His sister. Rose.
He’d tracked her down after attaching a GPS tracking device to Jonas’s car. When he’d seen Rose through the window of the safe house back in D.C., he knew it was her. She’d looked right at him, and though she had only seen darkness, Rudiger saw his sister. She was older, weathered. She had none of the vitality he’d remembered from their youth. But her eyes, their family eyes, were exactly the same as they once had been, and though it had been over two decades, Rudiger could not have been more positive who she was. But he could neither believe nor understand it. There she was, sitting at a table with Jonas Osbourne. The last time he remembered seeing her was on his front porch as he left for the Army. She barely even said goodbye, barely looked up as he left. Bitch didn’t care, even though he’d told her about the Preacherman. He hadn’t told anyone about that except her, and she didn’t give two shits about it. She had just wanted his CD player.
Seeing her back in D.C. had been a sign, one that he hadn’t even needed his abilities to unscramble. Whatever Rose had meant to him in the past, her sudden presence was a threat. She was trying to stop Rudiger from doing what it was he needed to do. And he couldn’t let her do that.
Rose needed to die.
Used a knife on her and the two Feds. Next day, it was all the news people could talk about.
Rudiger takes a moment to rest from his work, straightens his body, and wipes the sweat away with a dirty forearm. The hangar is dark—he doubts electricity has flowed through the overhead lights in years—and only his head-mounted light allows him to see what he’s doing.
He’ll need to get a generator and proper lighting.
It’s a small hanger, probably never housing more than a Cessna or two. It decays in the open farmland ten miles east of downtown Denver. A hundred feet away an empty house rots.
Rudiger is lucky to have this place. A fortunate discovery. Nobody’ll bother him here, and by the time they do it’ll be too late.
He twists his neck and the beam of light atop his forehead sweeps along the rusted steel walls of the hangar. Pieces of chewed gum hold hand-torn strips of newspaper to the metal. Articles written about Rudiger. A lot of them. Rudiger’s become quite famous in the last few months. He’s collected them and made a shrine to a life he’s still only beginning to discover.
Ever since his sister died, the story of the serial killer has been all over the press. Rudiger read about his life.
The killer’s name is Rudiger Fitzgerald, the stories said. Grew up in western Virginia with two normal parents and a younger sister. When he was twelve years old, Rudiger disappeared coming home from his paper route. His bike was found on a dirt road on a wooded area of his town, but Rudiger had vanished. Two months later Rudiger returned home on his own, bloody and abused, but never spoke of what happened to him. The body of Thomas Wilcott, a 62-year-old drifter and self-anointed preacher originally from Kansas, was discovered two miles away in an abandoned house, with severe stab wounds to his mouth, neck, and side of his head (his ear had been removed). The murder weapon was never found, and it was never confirmed Rudiger was the killer, but Rudiger’s blood in the home’s basement did confirm this was where the boy had been kept—and abused—for two months. After returning home, Rudiger rarely spoke, except to shout passages from the Bible, an influence from his time in captivity. His trauma seemed to amplify a talent his parents noted since he was a young boy—the ability to hear or see words and almost instantly find anagrams of them. Rudiger excelled at complex problem solving but failed miserably at school. Had been an asocial teenager. Other kids referred to him as Rain Man. A Bible freak.
Dr. Sanjay Gupta on CNN said Rudiger might have
Asperger’s Syndrome.
When he was seventeen, Rudiger changed his last name to Sonman and joined the Army. Shipped off to Somalia.
There was an incident in Mogadishu, the press reported, though details seem hard to come by. A whole family had been killed. Rudiger Sonman swiftly disappeared.
Yeah, Rudiger thinks. I did disappear.
He scans the articles again, reading but knowing he won’t find a single one that says how he was able to get out of Somalia and back into the U.S. Not one reporter figured it out, but that’s only because they’d have to talk to two Somali men who gave him medical treatment for bullet and shrapnel wounds, then agreed to smuggle Rudiger onto a cargo ship in exchange for five thousand dollars. Rudiger hadn’t killed them. But they didn’t get their money.
He peers closer at an article in the New York Times, written just a week ago. The reporter is smart, having been the first person to pick up Rudiger’s trail after his time in the Army. Woman by the name of Gloria (“Liar go,” his mind reads)connected Rudy Sonman with a man named Rudiger Mortisin who worked as an independent building contractor in Salt Lake City as recently as two years ago. Interviews with co-workers said little except that Rudiger worked hard, kept to himself, and had an ugly scar on his left ear that he never spoke about. One day he was gone, not unusual in that field. His ex-boss remembered him once saying something about going on a trip.
Two years later people started getting nailed to crosses. He steps closer to the tattered newspaper and breaths slowly through his nose. He soaks in the words in front of him. Rose connected the Rudiger of the past with the serial killer of the present. She knew about the scar on his ear. She recognized him on the security tape.
The Jesus Killer.
That’s what they’re calling him. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to kill Jesus, after all. He wants to bring Him back.
Rudiger leaves his wall of fame and goes to the door on the south end of the small structure, throwing it open and letting the daylight pierce the innards of the hangar. He feels like an insect whose rock shelter was just removed by a curious little boy. Exposed. Naked.
A breeze rustles through the high dry grass and licks his sweaty torso, cooling him. He thinks about the task before him.
He has all the supplies he needs. He has shelter and privacy. Tools. Food and water. Six wooden beams.
Peace, the priest in that D.C church had said. You need to find peace.
The Peace Accords start in three days. Rudiger was certain this time he had chosen correctly.
In a few days it’ll all be over. He’ll be done. People will remember him until the final days of existence.
He turns back inside to resume his work, letting the door blow closed behind him. The daylight disappears from inside the tomb once again, leaving Rudiger in a darkness he is growing more and more accustomed to.
35
WASHINGTON D.C. SUBURBS JULY 21
“THAT ONE? Really?”
Jonas looked at the couch on the floor of the showroom, considering it as he would someone else’s dog that wouldn’t stop licking itself.
Anne heaved out a sigh. “What’s wrong with it?”
Jonas ran his hand along the curved leather arm, letting his fingertips graze the large copper buttons attached to the seam.
“Kinda busy for my tastes.”
“White bread is busy for your tastes. Live a little, Jonas. Put some style in your life.”
“I thought that’s what you were for.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine, put some style in my life. Buy this beautiful couch so I have something nice to sit on when
I come over.”
“I thought that’s what I was for.”
“Christ, you’re exasperating.”
“I know.”
“Good thing I love you.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Jonas scanned the piece of furniture with his gaze, which then ended up resting on Anne’s legs. He raised his eyes and took her in fully into his mind, letting this woman swirl through his senses all at once. She did love him, and he loved her.
How the hell did that happen?
“Maybe this is ho
w it starts,” he said. “First you convince me to buy a couch because you tell me I need style. Then it’s a new kitchen table, new bed, maybe new car. Next thing I know you’re moving in.”
She swung her head around and a piece of her long black hair whipped like a horse’s tail.
“Is that what happened with the others?”
Jonas shook his head. “No one else ever wanted to bring more than an overnight bag to my place.”
She laughed quietly, closing her eyes as she did. Her next question came with her eyes still closed as if she didn’t want to read his reaction.
“Is it such a bad idea?” she asked. “It’s a horrendous couch.”
“No, stupid.” Her eyes squeezed tighter shut. “Us moving in together.”
He looked over at her.
“No, Anne, it’s not such a bad idea. Not at all.” She opened her eyes.
“Well, then.”
“Well, then.”
She smiled and leaned in to flip over a tag hanging from the left arm of the couch.
“It’s nearly four thousand dollars,” she said. “I can’t afford that.”
“Let me buy it. I want to give it to you.”
“That makes it sound like a venereal disease,” Jonas said. “Which I think would be more attractive than this couch.”
“Fine,” she said, spinning delicately on her toes. She began walking toward the door and he followed her. “Just don’t think my offer will stand once we walk out the door.”
He reached her and ran his fingertips down the back of her thin silk shirt. “We shouldn’t be inside on a day like this anyway.”
She turned around and kissed him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We don’t have to talk about this now. We have enough going on at the moment.”
It was an abnormal July day in Virginia. The sun had scurried away any trace of haze and humidity, and the air felt crisp, almost cool. Jonas breathed it in, knowing with certainty in another day or so the atmosphere would be back to its normal wet blanket of insufferable nastiness.
“I can’t believe you convinced me to go shopping when we leave for Denver in two days,” he said.
“I can’t believe I convinced you to go shopping at all.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “God, I have so much to do before I leave.” He liked to think he was playing an instrumental role in developing a potential lasting peace between two parties whose hatred ran long and deep. But he was still mired waist-deep in dinner-party seat assignments and speaking order.
The details are what kill you, he thought. “It’s not punishment, you know.”
He grabbed her hand as they walked. “What isn’t?”
“All the shit work you’ve been doing in preparation for the Accords. It has to be done. The Senator isn’t punishing you.”
“I know.” Jonas wasn’t sure he believed it, though.
With Rose Fitzgerald’s death had come a deluge of media attention, and within two days Jonas’s involvement in the case and connection to the suspect was widely circulated. The Senator wasn’t pleased with the distraction to his peace accord efforts, and Jonas had been told in blunt terms he was no longer to be involved in the investigation unless subpoenaed. So much for being a hero.
Jonas was happy to comply, but, even though three months had passed, the Senator remained chilly towards him. It didn’t help that the press loved Jonas. Jonas Osbourne had become a minor celebrity despite having really done nothing but narrowly escaping death from the hands of a serial killer. Twice.
“After next week it’ll be the Senator’s name on everyone’s lips and not yours.”
“It’s not fame he wants,” Jonas replied. “He just doesn’t want the focus shifted away from what’s important, which is making actual progress in Denver.” He squeezed her hand as they passed store after uninteresting store in the outdoor mall in the D.C. suburbs. “Besides, you’re a bigger name than I am.”
As if on cue, Jonas noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Something pointed at them. Instinctively, he stepped in front of Anne in the direction of the movement, shielding her.
A man with a camera tracked them for a few seconds before getting back in his car and slowly driving away. More media, Jonas thought.
“They like me because I have a wacky job,” she said. “And you’re hot as hell,” he added.
“Yeah, that doesn’t hurt.”
They were a known couple, Jonas and Anne. The ex-Ranger Chief of Staff and the exotic psychic criminologist. It was too much not to attract attention during a slow news cycle, particularly when the commonality between the characters in the story was a serial killer.
He slowed and pretended to look interested in a cargoshorts display at an Eddie Bauer storefront.
“So, any leads?” he asked. “Leads? Leads on what?”
He shoved his right hand into his pocket and looked at her sideways. “You know...the case.”
“Jonas, you know you can’t be asking me that.”
“It’s not like you can’t discuss it with me.”
“First, it’s exactly like that. Second, you are under strict orders from your boss—a U.S. Senator—not to involve yourself to any degree with the Rudiger case. You might want to be a hero, but you don’t get to be one this time.”
He turned and felt his face warm with frustration.
“Look, it’s been three months. Three months since we spoke to Rose together. Three months since he’s killed.” The guilt still gnawed at him daily, as he knew it did to Anne. If Rose had gone straight to the FBI offices, she would still be alive. As would the two agents. “Three months since my hand was slapped and I’ve been forced away from the case. And since that time, I have not once asked you about it, even though we’ve seen each other nearly every day.”
“And night,” she added. “Exactly.”
“Yes,” she said. “I have to admit you’ve surprised me. You’ve had to rely on the tabloids to get your information.” He took a step closer to her. “Look, I know I can’t help.
I realize that. I know there’s a whole taskforce set up to find him, and you’re working with them.”
Her words came playfully. “I can neither confirm nor deny that.”
He pressed on. “I know you think something might happen in Denver. That’s why you’re going with me.”
“It’s not because I can’t stand to be without you?”
“Maybe there’s some kind of connection. Something to do with the Middle East and his time in Jerusalem? What are you guys looking for in Denver?”
“Jonas...”
“Anne, c’mon.”
“And what would you do with the information I told you?”
“Nothing. I swear. Look, we leave in two days. My mind is exploding with all the shit I need to remember to do before we leave. But I’ll be honest with you, I can’t stop thinking about...”
“Him?”
“Yes, him.”
“What do you think about?”
Jonas started walking again, slowly, with no real destination. Anne walked along his side.
“I know him. I know him. I’m the only person he’s tried to kill twice and lived through it. I...I don’t know. It’s almost like—”
“Like you have a bond?”
He looked at her. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“You do have a bond, Jonas. You have a deep and intimate bond. And a horrifying one. Rudiger places some degree of importance on you, perhaps because you were there when he first...”
“First what?”
She looked around and saw only the typical complement of milling shoppers. She pulled him into a Starbucks.
“Get me a coffee,” she said. “And then what?”
“And then we’ll talk.”
36
HE ORDERED two espressos and they walked to a small outdoor courtyard where a collection of empty park benches stood in formation. They chose the one farthest from the shops and sat.
“Let’s be clear—we’re
only doing this once. Right?” He nodded.
She took a sip of her coffee and considered her words. “Rudy Fitzgerald, aka Rudy Sonman, aka Rudiger Mortisin definitely seems to have some form of developmental impairment.”
“Wow,” he said. “Breaking news.”
“Look, if you’re going to be an ass—”
He held up his hands. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Please. Continue.”
She studied him for a moment, as if waiting to see if any more quips were forthcoming. Then she continued.
“Best guess is Asperger’s Syndrome.”
“That’s what CNN said.”
“Someone in the task force leaked that to CNN—that’s the only reason they mentioned it. Be that as it may, it makes sense given what we know about his mental capabilities, his intense focus on certain subjects. Like religion. And his asocial behavior. Asperger’s is basically a high-functioning form of autism.”
“But he held jobs. He was in the Army.”
“Like I said. High functioning. There’s been strong anecdotal evidence that Jeffrey Dahmer had Asperger’s. Maybe Ted Kaczynski. Most people with Asperger’s have similar characteristics—lack of eye contact, socially inept, emotionally disconnected. Usually brilliant in one form or another.”
“Like an idiot savant?”
“In a way. Or just able to process things much faster. Apply greater focus. Rudiger has been able to find private cell phone numbers, put something on your desk at work undetected, not to mention his ability to rearrange words in his own head. He is incredibly resourceful. He can’t be underestimated. The man’s not just psychopathic—he’s likely a genius.”
“And he’s a physical threat. Guy is built like an Olympic athlete.”
“One trait he doesn’t seem to share with most who have Asperger’s is the ability to handle change. He handles it quite well, which isn’t common. But aside from all of this, which alone might have been enough to allow him the homicidal tendencies we know he has, there’s the matter of his abduction.”
Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense Page 17