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.
12
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.”
“Listen, get yourself cleaned up and get in here. I need that brief on Denver by noon. Gonna float it to a couple of friendlies this afternoon.”
“Jackson?” Jonas asked.
“Yeah, him. And Montgomery.”
Jonas stifled a yawn. “You’re hoping they’ll pull in Wyatt, aren’t you?”
A heavy exhale. “Need support from the right on this one.”
“It’s not a bill. There’s no vote.”
“Need all sides on board, Jonas, you know that. If the Israelis or the Palestinians smell uncertainty, they’ll walk away from Denver with nothing. And the President will look stupid. Now get your ass in here.”
“Oui, mon capitain.”
“And cut the French.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jonas closed the phone and almost cracked a smile. Work was just what he needed.
The cell rang again. This time Jonas looked at the caller ID, expecting to see the Senator’s office number.
Private
It gave him pause. “Osbourne.”
“Wow, you sound like shit. Rough night?”
The woman’s voice was unmistakable. It wasn’t just the pitch. It was also the soft, smooth cadence, the kind that could hypnotize. Or lure ships toward jagged rocks.
Anne.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “It’s making me lose sleep.”
“Yeah, I have that effect on people.”
“How did you get my cell-phone number?”
“Remember who I work for?”
“Oh, yeah. Stupid question. What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you,” she said
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?”
“I want to interview you. Formally.”
“Formally?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“About Michael Calloway’s murder.” Jonas hesitated.
“I figured that’s what you were working on. You think I had something to do with it?”
“If I did, you wouldn’t have gotten a call from me. You would have received a visit from much stronger and more unseemly people.”
“So, what do you think I know?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think you have any clue. But I think
I can coax it out of you.”
Jonas looked at his pillow longingly. “What did you have in mind?”
“Hypnosis.”
“There are easier ways to get me into bed,” he said. “Like asking.”
He heard her exhale in frustration. “Look, Jonas, I’m just asking for a little bit of your time and cooperation. It’s...it’s hard to explain, but I can feel relationships between things.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I’m good enough at what I do to know when I get a strong sense about something and when I’m just bullshitting myself. I went to that funeral hoping the killer would turn up. If that happened, I think I would’ve known for sure who he was. He didn’t show up, but you did.”
“But I’m not the killer.”
“I know that, Jonas. But I still got some kind of sense from you that day, a trace of something. Think of a bloodhound given a piece of clothing to smell before he’s unleashed to find a victim. I can sense traces of connection, and the sense was stronger the second we shook hands. I can’t tell you what that sense means, but I haven’t gotten it from anyone else on this case.”
Jonas didn’t quite know how to respond.
“I realize what I do is unorthodox to you,” Anne continued. “But just ask around the Capitol about me. You’ll find out my reputation is solid. I think you can help me, and I’m hoping you will.” She told him her phone number. “Call me, okay? I don’t have a lot of time to burn on this one.”
Anne hung up before Jonas could say another word. He stared at the phone as if it would give him advice. It didn’t.
But it did ring again. Three times in as many minutes wasn’t unheard of, but it wasn’t how he wanted to start the morning. He looked at the screen.
Private.
Anne again, Jonas thought. Maybe she felt like she hadn’t sold herself enough and needed to give Jonas some references to call.
“What now?” Jonas asked.
But the voice wasn’t Anne’s, and it wasn’t even female. It was vaguely familiar, like the wispy memory of a decades-old nightmare, one without detail but still with an intangible sting of fear. The caller only spoke one word before hanging up.
“Hooah.”
13
A COOL breeze swept around Jonas’s legs as he climbed the southwest steps of the Russell Senate Office Building. He looked up and saw the building’s American flag whipping in the wind, its red and white stripes shimmering against a brilliant blue morning sky. Springtime in Washington, his favorite season. The misery of the frozen months was just distant enough behind him, and the misery of the sweltering summer was just far enough ahead. He pushed open the entrance door and felt the building’s staleness replace the fresher air just feet away.
“Morning, Mr. Osbourne.”
Jonas nodded at the security guard. “What’s happening, Roger?”
The man shrugged. “Nothing exciting.”
“Then you’re doing your job.”
“Yessir.”
Jonas pulled out his cell phone and put it in the white plastic tray, checking for any new calls before doing so. The earlier phone call had given him a jolt. He’d received strange phone calls before—even threatening ones—but those were always on his office line. Not many people had his cell number, but this morning two new people had called him on it. Anne, and whoever had said Hooah.
Hooah. It was the Army battle cry. It pretty much meant anything except “no.” Jonas hadn’t used the term in years.
Why someone would call him and simply say one word before hanging up was unknown to him. The voice had been monotone and threatening at the same time.
Most of the threatening calls were about Denver. Senator Sidams was to be a major player at the Denver Peace Accords, and even the most fragile of agreements would cap the already distinguished career of the Senator and Chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee. Could even be a springboard to a presidential run in seven years. But Sidams’s angle for the Accords was controversial, as were all things concerning a truce in the Middle East.
Truce, not peace.
Hatred was a learned thing, and elders in that region of the world would be teaching it to their children for endless generations to come. There would never be peace. Just fleeting moments of quiet while everyone reloaded.
Hooah.
Jonas passed through the marble rotunda and saw an Army Staff Sergeant walking with brisk purpose toward the elevator. The man’s posture was extreme enough to seem robotic, and Jonas could see discipline and strength chiseled into his face. In that moment, as in many
of his moments, Jonas missed the Army. He missed the camaraderie. The discipline. Even the fear. At least he was in as good as shape now as he ever was thanks to a fierce regimen of boxing and mixed martial arts. He sparred frequently, fought occasionally, and rarely found himself on the losing side of a decision. Once a Ranger, always a Ranger.
He pushed his shoulders back and walked a bit taller as he jogged up the stairs to office 301. He never took the elevator.
Jonas could feel the energy behind the door before he walked into the Senator’s offices. It was often like this, the kinetic pulse of politics. Once inside that office, there would be little time to relax. There were the endless meetings. There were the agendas to follow, then change, then abandon completely out of futility. There were the requests to see the Senator, the requests from the Senator to see others, and the requests from both sides to cancel for fear of actually seeing each other. There were the promises and the lies, often mixed together into a smooth cocktail of delusion and hope. And, once in awhile, if the country inched forward into the right direction, there was the satisfaction.
Those days were rare.
He opened the door and felt the energy wash over him, sweep him up, and beg him to get on the raft before the big rapids came up.
V whisked by and Jonas caught the soft wind of her perfume. She smelled like the right kind of morning.
“You look like shit,” she said, walking by, a coy smile on her face.
“Thanks. That’s what I was going for. Hang on a sec, V.” She turned and smiled. “Yes, boss?”
“You know anyone at the FBI?”
“I had a brief fling with a Special Agent last year. Verdict? Not so special.”
“You still in touch with him?”
“Did I say it was a ‘him’?”
The comment stopped Jonas for only a beat. “That’s hot.”
“Pig.”
“Listen, get a hold of her, or anyone of a decent rank over there. They use a contractor named Anne Deneuve. She’s a medium.”
V pulled a notepad out of nowhere and began writing. “Medium what?”
“Like a psychic. Psychic criminologist, I think it’s called.”
“The FBI uses psychics? I thought that was only on TV.” Jonas ignored the comment. “I need to know if she’s legit.”
Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense Page 6
