Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense
CROSSING
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Vantage Point Books and the Vantage Point Books colophon are registered trademarks of Vantage Press, Inc.
FIRST EDITION: June 2012
Copyright © Carter Wilson, 2012
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Published by Vantage Point Books
Vantage Press, Inc.
419 Park Avenue South New York, NY 10016
Manufactured in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-936467-33-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data are on file.
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Cover design by Victor Mingovits
For Dad
“The sun will be darkened, the moon will not give its light, the stars will fall from the sky, and the powers of heaven will be shaken loose.”
—Matthew 24:29
1
SUBURBAN PHILADELPHIA MARCH 31
RUDIGER WATCHES
the man who watches him. Dark eyes. Flecks of amber. Eye contact is difficult. His gaze wants to pull toward the ground, but Rudiger forces it to stay level. The man smiles. Rudiger tries.
The man’s not too big. Good, Rudiger thinks. About fiveten, maybe a hundred and seventy pounds. Two hundred or more would’ve been a problem. He knows he’s strong, but there’s a limit. Hard work ahead.
“You’re quiet,” the man says. His upper lip twitches. Nervous. He wears a pressed blue Oxford; the monogram on the breast pocket reads MLC.
“My first time,” Rudiger says. Appalachian accent coats the words in a glaze.
“Mine too,” the man says.
Liar.
A cell phone rings in the corner of the bar and a woman answers. She’s drunk, she tells the caller. A Neil Diamond song dribbles from an aging jukebox. The chrome sides of the machine are tarnished. Glass case covered in dried spit.
“So,” the man continues. “What made you respond to my ad? Was...was it the photo?”
The photo showed an erect cock that Rudiger doubts belongs to the man sitting across the booth from him. Who knows? Doesn’t much matter. Preacherman would’ve had a mouthful to say about
homasechuals
, but Rudiger doesn’t care. He didn’t choose this man because of who he fucks. He chose him based on his words.
“Liked your wording, I suppose.”
“That so?” Eyebrows raised in confusion. “Yeah.”
Internet personal ads. All the words, the arrangements. They seem random, but they’re not. Random doesn’t happen. Random is only for those without the ability to see all the patterns.
Rudiger sees the patterns.
The man sitting in front of Rudiger had written an ad on a local website, looking for a discreet encounter. Rudiger had found it. He didn’t give a toad’s left nut about what kind of deviant had written the message; the ad he needed to find could have been in any of the categories on the site. Rudiger hadn’t been trolling the Internet to seek pleasure. He’d been there because the website was a wealth of words, and Rudiger appreciated nothing more than words. They were his playthings. He could do things with words no other person could, at least no one he had ever met.
He looks closely at the man to see if there’s something special about him. Some kind of sign.
Man doesn’t even know what he wrote
, Rudiger thinks. But he wrote it all the same, so that’s just about the sum of that.
Rudiger sees the black letters of the computer ad float before him, as though he was still staring at the smudged screen of the library computer.
HOT ** LONELY ** BORED **** m4m
He looks at them in his mind once again, one by one, rearranging, reinterpreting. The letters dance in his mind, switching places, twisting and tumbling, falling into new words and phrases.
Holy Blood Enter.
“Nothing special about the wording,” the man says. He drinks Scotch, holding the glass with a delicate hand that quivers just a little. Manicured nails. His name is Michael, he says. Not Mike. Michael. “My God, I hardly knew what to write.”
“Caught my eye,” Rudiger says. “What’s your name?”
“Gabriel.” Rudiger orders a Coke. “Not Gabe,” he adds. “Gabriel.” He scans the tabletop and focuses on a half-filled ketchup bottle, its insides streaked from use.
“Where are you from?”
He glances around the bar, sees more people than he wants but fewer than he expected. “Not here,” he says.
Michael smiles, then reaches across the table to brush fingertips. Rudiger retracts his, a spider in retreat.
“Shy?”
“Jes want to make sure you’re the one,” Rudiger mumbles. The man leans forward, his salt and pepper hair coiffed
just so. “I know I’m a little older but I’m in great shape and
I’m totally disease-free.”
Michael is funny, but Rudiger doesn’t think he knows it. “Everyone has a disease, Michael. Some jes have it more than others.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothin’.”
Michael studies him. “My God, you have great arms. You must work out all the time.”
“Body is a temple.”
Michael looks ready to worship.
“What happened to your ear? I mean, if I can ask.”
He’s not surprised by the question. The scar is obvious and he makes no effort to hide it. His blond hair is no more than a sprinkling of dust on his head. “Childhood accident.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? You didn’t do it.”
Michael takes a sip from his drink and looks downward. “Maybe...maybe this isn’t right after all. You don’t seem into this whole thing.”
“No,” Rudiger says. His powder blue eyes blaze against his alabaster face. “You jes don’t know me. Trust me, I am very happy we met tonight.”