Lot of work. God’s work.
Sooner or later he’ll be caught. Rudiger’s not stupid. He can only hope he fulfills his mission before that happens. He has to trust in the guidance he’s been given.
The boy is now shaking. Convulsing. His head is bowed and a long rope of bile dangles from his lower lip.
Rudiger stands beneath him and touches the boy’s sweatstained thigh. “You feel it close now?”
No answer. The boy’s long black hair is matted, damp, stuck against the side of his face.
“It’ll come all of a sudden. You’ll feel cold one moment, but then it’s like someone covered you in the softest, warmest blanket you can imagine. I know. I’ve been there. Embrace it. Because when it’s seconds away you’ll be happy. Happier than you’ve ever known.” Rudiger touches the boy’s bare thigh and feels the heat of the skin. Hot like an infection.
The boy opens his eyes. Campfire shows them green. He looks down from his perch and sees Rudiger, and the green eyes are no longer accusing. Not forgiving, either. They only contain wonder. Wonder at all of it. He stares into the next world.
“I don’t know you,” the boy says. “No, you don’t.”
The boy ejects a small cough. Rudiger turns to the fire, where he sets about cooking his dinner. Can of beans and a can of peas. Two-liter bottle of water. He eats and waits, looking up every now and then to see if the boy is dead. Gonna take a while, he thinks. The fire tries to die over the next couple of hours, but he stokes it to life again and again. When the moon finally comes out over the nearest treetop, the boy dies. Rudiger waits thirty minutes before bringing the body to the ground. As he prepares it for burial, he unsheathes the knife hanging from his belt. Military-issue blade, full-tang, blade black and clean. He bends over and slowly slices off the left ear of the boy, places it in a napkin, and puts the appendage in his breast pocket.
Then Rudiger kicks out the fire and uses the light from his headlamp to help him finish his work.
10
WASHINGTON D.C. APRIL 16
SWEAT COVERED his face like a swarm of flies. Hot and sticky, tickling his cheeks and forehead. Jonas wiped his face along the linen and flipped the pillow over, hoping the other side would be cooler. The pillow wasn’t the problem. The problem was his own body temperature, which seemed to be approaching the temperature of the sun.
He rolled out of bed and stood. Gravity overwhelmed him and a wave of dizziness nearly felled him. He sat on the edge of the bed and held his head. Palms burned into his flesh.
Lingering effect from the Beltway accident? Jonas thought too much time had passed for that. Maybe bad Chinese take-out from last night.
It didn’t matter. Jonas stumbled to the toilet and bent over the bowl just in time. He felt better after the first volley of puke. He wiped his mouth, flushed, and remained in position for a bit longer, just in case.
The swirling water in the bowl settled and Jonas saw a ghostly reflection of himself in it. The translucence of the reflection did him good, he thought. He could only see his sharpest features: his tight jaw line, his close-cropped hair, his ears, which did their best not to appear too big. The face in the water was undeniably masculine, one comfortably accentuated by either a military-issue flak helmet or a clean shave and a thousand-dollar suit.
Jonas smiled at his own arrogance.
Only I could admire myself in vomit-tinged toilet water.
He felt safe enough to pry himself away and return to his bed, though his legs still shook and the sweat still beaded his forehead.
He pulled the comforter over him and closed his eyes, thinking about what Anne had said. That he had some kind of connection to one of her cases. Connection to what? Must have to do with the Calloway murder, since she was at the funeral. Nothing made sense, and all the nonsensical thoughts floated and swirled in his mind, trying to fit together into a coherent formulation that never came. For the briefest of moments he envied his father, whose mind was now unable to grapple with complicated thoughts and deeply rooted memories. He quickly dismissed the morbid thought and pulled the covers up a little higher.
Minutes later came sleep. Soon after that came the dreams.
• • •
“Mind over matter, Sonman. It’s all up here.” Second Lieutenant Jonas Osbourne tapped his helmet with his finger, rapping it twice. It was an important argument, he thought. One the enlisted soldier would do well to believe, regardless of veracity. Mental preparedness was critical, especially when needed to overcome fear. Fear could explode from any direction...
The two soldiers patrolled a neighborhood in western Mogadishu. The unit had split into smaller teams for reconnaissance patrols disguised as humanitarian “meet and greets.” Let the locals know of their presence and remind them the Americans were there for relief purposes only. The neighborhood was an Aidid stronghold, however, and the warlord had many supporters, some of whom had weapons. And some knew how to use them.
Jonas eyed the buildings for snipers.
“Yessir.” PFC Sonman’s eyes darted back and forth. Sonman was regular Army, a grunt, little more than a redneck with a few weeks of training and a vacant stare. “Mind over matter.”
“It’s true, Private.” Jonas wanted to keep the soldier engaged in light conversation while keeping him focused on the task at hand. He would rather have been touring with a Ranger brother and not a grunt, but those weren’t his orders. He barely knew Sonman.
“Not that you can necessarily shape all your destiny with your mind,” Jonas continued, “but you can control more than you think. If you think negative thoughts, bad things will keep happening to you. Think good thoughts, though, and, well, good things. You know?”
Their boots crunched the pebbles on the dirt road beneath them. “Yessir.”
“Focus your mind on the good we’re doing. The relief efforts. The fact that we’re going to skull-fuck Aidid so some of the mercy food can actually go to the people.”
“Skull-fuck. Yessir.”
He looked over at Private Sonman. “Why’d you join the Army, Private?”
A pause. “Needed something to focus on.”
“Rough childhood?”
“No real childhood at all.”
“Want to elaborate?”
“No, sir.”
That wasn’t unusual. Many soldiers in the regular Army were looking for an escape. This Sonman was clearly one of them. That was okay by Jonas, who found his own way here via West Point and the desire to emulate a father who was a hero to many in the military. Truth be told, Jonas loved the service. He loved where he was. Helping through strength. Being a presence. Protecting and defending. He loved the excitement and didn’t hate the boredom. And, goddamnit, he was a good soldier.
Jonas turned and saw Sonman had stopped walking. A hollow stare ghosted his face, as if someone had simply turned him off.
“Private?”
Sonman didn’t respond. Jonas followed the soldier’s gaze to a rusted tin sign hanging crooked on the building across the street.
Jonas reached out and touched Sonman on his shoulder. “What is it, Sonman?”
Then Sonman slowly came back to life, turning to Jonas. Jonas could barely hear his words.
“Nothing, sir.”
“You read Somali?”
“No, sir.”
Jonas wanted to ask another question, but then he felt something. Maybe it was a change in the air pressure. Maybe the noise on the busy street abated for just a second, as if a rift in time rolled through the urban market. Whatever it was, it caused Jonas to turn his head. The street teemed with locals darting in and out of buildings. No one strolled. No one seemed eager to spend too much time out in the open.
A dirty white taxi rolled by, its wheels kicking dust off the unpaved road. No passenger.
“Heads up,” Jonas said. He took a step forward, allowing separation between the two men.
“It’s here,” Sonman said, quiet enough Jonas barely heard. “What’s here?”
“I don’t know,” Sonman said. “But it’s gonna change things.” Jonas looked over at him and wondered what the hell the soldier was talking about. He decided not to dig deeper at the moment.
Across the street, two Pakistani soldiers looked over. They were part of the United Task Force, who, along with U.S. Forces, were all part of Operation Restore Hope. They were there to secure an environment the U.N. could no longer contain. It was the Wild West out here, Jonas thought. With automatic weapons.
Jonas had seen the Pakistanis earlier, walking through the heart of the market. They were professionals. Well trained. They kept their space between them and treated the locals with respect. The larger one gave Jonas a slight nod. Brothers in arms.
That single nod took away Jonas’s momentary apprehension. Whatever had raised his hackles was soothed by the sight of the other soldiers.
Sit norm.
Jonas nodded back.
As the Pakistani turned to his comrade, a shot cracked through the air.
The Pakistani crumbled, and Jonas saw the reason. Clean shot through the front of the throat. Blood sprayed from the wound as the soldier collapsed onto the dirt of the street.
Sniper.
“Take cover!” Jonas shouted.
Sonman fell back and secured a position against the chipped wall of the building adjacent to their position. He called in for support as Jonas raced across the street.
“Get back! Get back!” Jonas shouted at screaming pedestrians. The Somalis scattered everywhere, disappearing into buildings in seconds. The cab driver spun the wheels of his car, which took a few rotations before gripping firmly and shooting the car in a spray of dust and dirt down the street.
The second Pakistani soldier froze. He stared at his fallen comrade with wide, panic-laden eyes.
Bad place to freeze.
The second shot cracked through the air just as Jonas reached to pull the soldier to the ground. The bullet smashed into the Pakistani’s face, exploding skin and bone into a spray of pulpy mist. The impact snapped his head back violently before the rest of his body collapsed only feet from his comrade’s own pool of blood.
There was nothing he could do for the men, and Jonas questioned his decision to run into the line of fire. He crouched, spun, and used his M16 to quickly scope the windows in the three-story building across the street.
Nothing.
He looked at building’s entrance and motioned to Sonman, who leaned against it, shielded from above by a rusted tin awning. He pointed up and gave him the signal to wait.
They could do a room-by-room search, covering each other along the way. More troops would be on scene to assist in moments, but they couldn’t afford to waste any time. Jonas prepared to burst to his feet and sprint across the street.
Then Sonman ran.
He didn’t run away. He ran into the building. Without waiting for his commanding officer. Directly against protocol and any sense of logic.
He just fucking ran.
“Wait!” Jonas shouted as he leapt to his feet.
An enormous lead fist punched him in the chest.
He’d been hurt before, but this was different. This was like a car hitting him, slamming him into the ground. His mind spun but his training took over, and he knew exactly what had just happened.
The sniper had just shot him in the chest.
Jonas knew enough to roll away from his position and hurl himself through the open doorway of the bullet-pocked building next to him. He could still move, and that was a good sign. With luck, his Kevlar stopped the bullet, though a sharp pain when he tried to breathe told him he wasn’t unscathed.
Before he assessed his own injury, Jonas grabbed his radio. “Two-five this is two-six. Two-five this is two-six. Over.” Painful seconds passed until a static-laced voice crackled through.
“Two-six this is two-five. Over.”
“Two-five I have sniper fire in the Huriwaa market. We are three blocks east of the Nafari Hotel. Two U.N. troops DOA, and
I’ve been hit. Over.” He struggled to catch his breath.
“Roger that, two-six. Assessment of your condition. Over.” Jonas wondered the same thing. He ripped the Velcro straps of the flak jacket open, giving just enough space to run his hand inside and feel for blood. More sharp pain, but no liquid.
“Think the flak stopped the round. Maybe a broken rib. I’m fine. Over.”
“Roger that, two-six. Sending in additional response. Can you sit tight? Over.”
Jonas took a deep breath, winced away the pain in his chest, and raised himself enough to peer through a dirty window. Except for the two dead Pakistanis, the crooked street was empty.
“Negative, two-five. PFC Sonman went after the sniper. Solo. I need to provide backup. Over.”
“Are you mobile-ready? Over.”
Jonas stood and leaned against the wall, the pain from his chest searing. But he could move.
“Roger that, two-six. Leaving my position now. Send support
ASAP. Guessing one sniper but could be more. Two-five out.”
“Copy two-five. Two-six out.”
No time to waste. He had to run across the street, hoping the sniper wasn’t waiting to take another shot. In all likelihood, the shooter was long gone, having secured three hits, two successful. Private Sonman would likely break into an empty room. Fucking regular Army piece of shit, Jonas thought. It would be a shame not to kill the sniper, but it was better than a green PFC trying to play Rambo and getting his skull separated from his body.
Jonas moved to the open doorway and readied himself for the sprint, hoping he could still run in his condition. He began counting in his head, preparing to run on three.
One.
Squeezed his eyes shut.
Calm yourself. You can do this.
When he got to two he heard the screams.
11
WEST VIRGINIA APRIL 17
RUDIGER CHANGES clothes inside the van. Turns and takes one last look out the open back doors at the body. The boy is naked, nearly folded into a ball. Body wedged into a hole in the ground. Face staring up at pine needles and slices of sky.
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. T
hese 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?
Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense Page 5
