Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense (8 page)

He is not the One.

There is meaning, Rudiger thinks. All death has its purpose. I am learning.

Preacherman speaks to him, and the voice makes Rudiger want to gag.
You jes keep fucking up, don’t you, boy? Can’t do nothin’ right.

Rudiger pushes the voice away, a skill he has improved upon but never perfected after all these years.

He drives the van over brittle ground, leaving the woods. In the rearview mirror he sees the cross, erect in the dirt, its arms soiled with the evidence of its use. It’s not a symbol. It’s a tool.

Won’t be long before he gets caught. He’s only as careful as he needs to be, and nothing more. Doesn’t matter. He has a purpose. What happens to him means nothing.

He drives to a decaying suburban mall. Parking lot mostly empty. No exterior security cameras. He wipes down the interior of the van with his dirty clothes. No way he can fully erase all traces of his DNA. Not possible.

Walks the parking lot, checking for unlocked vehicles. Only a matter of moments before he finds one. No keys. Not in the next one, either. On his third try, he finds a shit-colored Accord with the keys safely wedged in the passenger-side visor.

Gone.

Two miles on, a brief stop at a strip mall yields new license plates. Should be enough to get him to Virginia, long as he minds the laws.

Virginia.

He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him there. Doesn’t even know why he’s going. But after seeing a billboard (
Virginia Is For Lovers),
Rudiger’s mind exploded with the possibilities:

Virgin

Sin

Risen

Revival

Savior

He can’t use all the letters to make one sensible clue. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t bother him neither that the phrase also has lots of bullshit words. Words like
ravioli
and
airfoil
. These are to be discarded from the deck, the low cards. His mind only clings to those words saturated in meaning. Makes things cleaner. Easier.

He’d been able to make the letters dance ever since his time with the Preacherman and his whore. Maybe he even had the ability before then, but Rudiger remembers just about nothing of the time before. His childhood was gone, a twelve-year chunk of life that was only shown in photos and video but little of which dwelled inside Rudiger’s mind.

Mom left when Rudiger was fifteen. She didn’t understand why Rudiger would never talk about what had happened to him, or how he escaped. Or what had happened to the person who stole her baby boy for two whole months. Or why Rudiger read the Bible every day, spouting quotes from Revelation at every opportunity. Or how he could rearrange letters so quick in his head. Rudiger was a freak, and Mom couldn’t take it no more. Maybe there was a little guilt there, too. She was the one who told him it was okay to ride his bike after dark, after all.

Rudiger looks at the map on the seat next to him, searching for the closest chance to turn east. Virginia just feels
right
. He pictures long fingers of grass growing around the moss-covered trunks of black alder trees. The spotty winking of firefly light in the thick dusk. He smells air draped in moisture. Hears cicadas humming like power lines.

Cars begin to pass him. A few drivers offer sidelong glances as their cars whisk by. Rudiger rolls down his window and spits into the world.

He wonders how long it will be before he finds the One. And why, if God wants him to succeed, has he only found failure?

How many people must he kill before his work is done? Rudiger doesn’t like to kill unless he has to. Seems odd, he thinks, considering some of the things he’s done. Considering how easy killing comes to him. Still, needless slaughter makes no sense. Why step on a spider when you can walk around it?

Maybe God doesn’t think I’m ready, Rudiger thinks. Maybe all the killings are just practice, dry runs to make sure I don’t mess it up when it comes to the real thing. Maybe it’s not a question of my faith in God, he decides. Maybe it’s about God’s faith in
me
.

He squeezes harder onto the faded and peeling steering wheel.

Sees a sign for Interstate (
earnest tit
, his mind reads) 64. That’ll take him into northwestern Virginia. He stays firmly in the right lane of traffic and minds the speed limit.

An hour passes and Rudiger’s mind drifts to other things. Billboards get scarce. Soon Rudiger’s bracketed only by the trees that loom along the interstate. They seem proud and defiant, as if they serve as the first line of defense against the assault of concrete and asphalt. The air in the car grows warm as the sun continues to pour through the dirty windshield. He cracks the window again. Smells nothing.

Whoosh whoosh whoosh

Sounds lull him. The tires find the groves in his lane and the car rolls on by itself. He notices a red sedan in the lane next to him, passing him so slowly the cars seem to stay aligned. He looks up and sees a white pickup in his rearview mirror, coming fast behind him. Single occupant. White male. Rudiger keeps his speed steady as the truck hurls toward him.

The truck jerks to the left, its intent to pass. But the red sedan is in the way. The truck yanks itself back into Rudiger’s lane. The driver slams on his brakes to avoid careening into the back of Rudiger’s shit-colored Accord.

The truck’s horn blares behind him. Rudiger looks in the rearview. The driver is flipping him off with both hands, leaving none to steer. Rudiger doesn’t understand. He isn’t driving below the speed limit. Doing nothing wrong.

He releases his foot from the gas pedal. The Accord slows.

The pickup driver leans on the horn, letting it blare. Red sedan spooks and slows down at the same time. Pickup is stuck behind both cars. Through the dirt-streaked back window Rudiger sees the man’s face fill with red.

Man’s looking for blood.

Red sedan picks up speed and finally pulls ahead of Rudiger. The pickup swerves into the left lane and pulls alongside him. Rudiger chances a direct look. The man is screaming, his bushy moustache wriggling along his lip like a caged ferret. Fuck you, his lips say. Fuck you and fuck your mother.
Motherfucker
.

Rudiger wonders at the rage. What does
that
feel like? Red sedan gains more ground but stays in the left lane.

The pickup rides him hard, waiting for an opportunity to cut Rudiger off. When the driver makes his move there isn’t enough space, and the back of the pickup clips the front left quarter panel of the Accord. Rudiger hears his headlight shatter.

He grips the wheel and steadies the car, slowing the Accord to a crawl. Pulls onto the shoulder. The pickup swerves over directly in front of him, skids to a stop. Rudiger wants to drive off, but that’s too risky. Need to avoid the cops. Gotta deal with this in the here and now.

Pickup driver screams as he heads toward Rudiger’s car. “Are you fucking
kidding
me?”

Rudiger takes a deep breath as he measures the man. He’s younger—maybe late twenties. Wears a tight grey t-shirt that shows little muscle and a preference for Skoal tobacco. Long, stringy hair curtains a skinny neck. Posture suggests little or no training in formal combat fighting. Weapon of choice is an aluminum baseball bat, clutched firmly in his right hand. Kid-sized bat.

Rudiger steps out of the car. The man storms towards him but slows down a few feet away.

“Hey, fuckstick,” the man says. “You fucked up my truck. Now what you gonna do about it?”

Rudiger thinks the man has the same accent as himself. He takes a step forward. The man doesn’t expect it. Man expects him to cower and submit, so Rudiger does the opposite.

“Put the bat down,” Rudiger says. Voice low and controlled. He struggles to make eye contact. “Then we can talk.”

The man raises his bat. “Oh, we’re gonna talk all right.

We’re gonna do a shitload of talking right now. You better have some fuckin’ cash to pay for this.”

Rudiger notices a rectangular impression in the man’s front pocket. Cell phone. Doesn’t want the man calling anyone.

“Get back in your truck and drive away,” Rudiger says. He glances up and down the highway. Only a couple of cars and a semi.

The man laughs. “Like hell I will.”

Man’s an idiot, Rudiger concludes. Temperamental and used to getting his way. But not smart. Rudiger tries another tactic. He removes his shirt.

“Look at me,” Rudiger says. He looks at his own body and sees the scar tissue from an old bullet wound rise like a crater rim over his muscled left shoulder. “I can kill you with my hands.” He takes a step forward. “Do you believe me?”

The man says nothing. He spits on the ground and takes a half-step back.

“You some kind of fuckin’ loon?”

“Yes,” Rudiger replies. “I am
exactly
that.”

The man walks back to his truck, never taking his eyes off Rudiger. As Rudiger watches him get inside, he puts his shirt back on and walks back to his damaged Accord. Damage is minimal. Crisis averted.

He sits back behind the wheel and starts his car. The man reemerges from the pickup.

Baseball bat is gone. Now there’s a gun. Idiot.

Rudiger retrieves his own handgun from under his seat and holds it in his lap. He waits for the man to approach.

Man will get close. Won’t shoot from a distance. He’ll want to scare and threaten Rudiger, empowered by his weapon. Wants to be the stronger one.

Rudiger waits. He looks forward down the highway and checks the rearview mirror. This time, no cars.

The man raises his gun and points it at Rudiger though the windshield.

“Get out of the fuckin’ car.” Rudiger waits.
Come closer
.

He does. Two steps forward. “I said
get out
of the car. We’re going to settle this the way I say so.”

Rudiger nods. As he opens his door, he checks the highway once more. Empty. God is smiling on him.

As he stands, he squeezes off two rounds from his hip. Not his shooting position of choice. Aim is faulty. One round misses completely and the other catches the man in his left arm, spinning him around.

It’s enough.

Rudiger raises his gun and fires again. The nine-millimeter round catches the top of his skull, slamming the man onto the ground. Body crumples a few feet behind the back of his truck. Blood creeps from his head and mixes with bits of gravel and dirt.

Rudiger lifts the corpse. The dead man is light. He heaves it into the bed of the pickup. Blood from the head wound spills against the side of the pickup—red blossoms on dirty white paint. No time to clean it. A plastic painter’s tarp sits crumpled beneath a cinder block. He uses it to cover the body. That’ll buy him a few extra minutes. He considers the prints he may have left on the tarp. Doesn’t have the time to do anything about it.

He wonders if this was all supposed to happen. Maybe this is his next clue.

He walks around to the front of the pickup and stares though the open door. The cab is an explosion of American filth: discarded candy wrappers and potato chip bags on the seat and floor. Open beer can wedged in a broken cup holder. Porn mag open to a centerfold on the passenger seat. He smells pot, heavy and sweet, the scent embedded in the frayed cloth of the seats.

He looks up briefly as a white Dodge speeds by. Driver barely turns his head.

Rudiger sticks his head inside the cab.

Something’s gotta be here, he thinks. This must
mean
something.

Then he sees it. This time, he doesn’t even need his gift. The words he needs are
right there
, clear and crisp on the front of a
Soldier of Fortune
magazine. The cover shows two eyes glowing bright and green through the canvas of a face covered in moss-colored camouflage paint. Heavy typeface paints the bottom quarter of the cover:

Rangers 400 Years of Pride

His mind flashes back. He knew a Ranger once, so many years ago. A Ranger who had tried to stop him from doing what he had to do. A Ranger who had shot him.

It all makes sense. Virginia isn’t supposed to be his destination. Supposed to be Washington D.C.
That’s where the Ranger lives
. The Ranger is the one person Rudiger’s mind draws to, now and then, sticking to his memory like the traces of a vivid dream. Rudiger had followed the man’s career over the years, always sensing there would be a time when the two of them might need to meet once again.

Rudiger believes that time is now.

WASHINGTON D.C. APRIL 18

THE SHRILL
ring of his cell phone angered him. He closed his eyes as he reached for it. “Osbourne.”

“Hell, son, it’s almost seven. Thought you would be in the office by now.”

The Senator. Shit. Jonas realized he forgot to set his alarm. “Rough night, sir. I’m heading in soon.”

“You tie one on last night?”

“Feel like I tied an anvil on.”

“You should know better.”

“Yeah, you would think so.”