Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense (15 page)

He slowly resumed his forward progress, and as he moved the sounds of the evening returned. He heard his feet rising and falling against the cracked concrete beneath him. A car door closed in the distance, far enough away for Jonas to give it little thought. A dog barked three times inside a row home, then no more.

With each step closer to his home, Jonas felt a growing suspicion his intuition had atrophied over the years.

Then he smelled the cigarette smoke.

Faint at first, like a smell within a dream. Jonas stopped and tried to detect what direction it was coming from.

Doesn’t really matter. Cigarette smoke doesn’t travel far. Source must be close.

He clutched the handle of his briefcase, wishing it were the butt of a gun.

Then a thought occurred to him. Jonas pulled out his cell phone and dialed Anne. She answered on the first ring.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” His voice seemed to echo on the empty street. “That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you...” Jonas considered if someone was waiting for him, his words would belie his suspicions. Then he decided he didn’t care. “Do you get a sense about me right now?”

“Sense?”

“Can you...sense if...if something is about to happen?”

“What’s going on, Jonas?”

“I was just wondering if your...
intuition
...could work through cell phones.”

Her voice was calming but not calm. “It doesn’t work like that, Jonas. Are you in trouble?”

Jonas looked over at a dirty white van parked next to him, its back windows taped over with newspaper from the inside.

“I’m not sure.”

“What do your instincts tell you?” Jonas didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Her words were controlled but came quickly. “Listen to me, Jonas. What I have.
My ability
. We all have it. I just happen to be able to channel it better than most people. But I’m telling you right now, don’t ignore what your senses are telling you. Hang up and call the police.”

“I’d have nothing to tell them.”

“Where are you?”

“A block from home.”

“Are you in your car?”

“On foot.” Jonas thought he heard movement inside the van. Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it wasn’t.

The cigarette smoke became stronger. “Gotta go,” he said.

“
Jonas—
”

“I’m fine,” he said before disconnecting the call. Then he chanced a distraction. He deftly punched at the keys on his BlackBerry, sending Anne a text.

Calling now, but won’t talk. Keep the line open and listen. If you hear me yell, call police and tell them corner of Potomac and O St.

He sent the message, waited a few seconds, then dialed her number. Without listening for her answer, Jonas slid the phone back into his coat pocket.

A breeze swept the street. Something caught the corner of his eye on the sidewalk next to the van’s front tire.

A cigarette rolled in the breeze. It wasn’t even a butt. There was at least half of it left.

Jonas put his briefcase down and took a step forward, leaning slightly toward the cigarette.

The tip was still smoldering.

Then he looked up and noticed the car parked directly in front of the van.

Honda Accord. Shit-brown.

Jonas immediately shifted his footing, placing his left leg forward and putting most of his weight on his bent right leg.

A force from behind slammed into him. Jonas sprawled to the concrete.

“Fuck!” he yelled, thinking of no better signal to Anne. His assailant leapt on top of him, pinning Jonas’s face down on the rough concrete.

Jonas knew his attacker would go for the head. He remained still, playing possum.

Soft fingers reached beneath his chin. Leather gloves. Going to twist the neck.

Jonas reached up with his right hand and pushed the gloved fingers up toward his face. They moved a few inches, just enough to get an index finger next to his mouth.

Jonas bit as hard as he could.

It was like biting into a hot dog that was concealing a pencil. First leather, then flesh, then a solid and sickening crunch as his teeth approached bone.

A grunt but no scream. Jonas released and the hand was suddenly gone. The weight on him shifted, just enough for Jonas to free himself. He swung his elbow in a tight arc as he twisted his body, slamming it into his attacker’s ribs.

The weight rolled off him and Jonas sprang to his feet. The man stood in the streetlight. He wore all black, his

face only a ski mask. His clothes were tight and flexible, revealing a lean and muscular frame.

It could be anyone, but Jonas knew exactly who it was.

Sonman.

The man in black attacked with speed.

Jonas parried the first blow and sidestepped to his right. Sonman corrected and pivoted, but did not attack. Fists controlled. Balance perfect. Neither man moved, as if knowing intimately the training of the other.

Steady. No movement. Locked gazes.

Waiting.

Jonas crouched and attacked, sweeping his leg.

Sonman countered perfectly, punching the right kneecap.

Searing pain. Jonas pulled away before a second blow could land.

Jonas shifted more weight to his right leg and assessed the damage. Sore, but nothing critical.

Jonas stared at the man as he controlled his breathing. Sonman waited.

Jonas pushed off his back foot and reached with a jab at the same time.

Sonman swatted the fist away, countering with an upward thrust with the base of his palm. Jonas leaned back before contact and dipped beneath a second strike coming from Sonman’s left hand. Jonas wove, and as he came up on the other side, locked his left arm and slammed his fist into Sonman’s exposed side. Kidney punch.

Sonman staggered. Jonas couldn’t let him regain composure. He doubled on the left hook with a blow to Sonman’s head.

The impact was crushing to Jonas’s knuckles, softened only in the slightest by the thick cotton of Sonman’s ski mask.

Sonman sprawled to the ground, rolled, and then bounced to his feet almost as if nothing had happened. A quick shake of the head was the only indication to Jonas his punch even registered.

Attack, Jonas told himself. Don’t let up.

Jonas moved forward, crouching, looking for an opening.

His target would be the man’s throat or the nose. A singular crushing blow. He needed to end this.

Then Sonman reached into his waistband and pulled something out. Something black. After a flick of the wrist and push with his thumb, Jonas saw it was a knife.

Not a small one.

“I don’t mean to kill you. I just need you close to me. But dead ain’t good.”

Jonas knew it was true. If Sonman had wanted him dead, Jonas would be dead. Sonman would’ve taken him out immediately rather than risk a fistfight. But being “close” to Sonman—whatever the hell that meant—didn’t sound much better.

Jonas moved back. The situation had changed. The knife would restrict Sonman’s ability to fight, but a single connected blow could be lethal.

He continued increasing the distance between them and scanned the ground, looking for something—anything—that could serve as a weapon. Even a stray rock would work, but there was none.

Sonman advanced, knife in front, held tightly, daggerstyle. Steps small and fast, a scorpion descending upon its prey.

The distance between them was closing.

Jonas considered his options. To his left was Sonman’s car, parked alongside the curb. The waist-high brick wall was to his immediate right.

He might be able to turn and run away before Sonman reached him. But he didn’t want to.

Then he remembered the BlackBerry in his pocket. It was an older model. Older, larger, bulkier. Jonas grabbed it.

When Sonman was less than ten feet away Jonas threw the BlackBerry at him, hurling it as hard as he could, spinning it with his forefinger like he would a skipping stone.

His aim was perfect.

The BlackBerry slammed into the dead center of Sonman’s forehead, hard enough that Jonas could hear the shattering of its plastic case before the pieces scattered on the sidewalk.

Sonman grunted and dropped to one knee. He quickly got back to his feet, but Jonas could see the man’s balance was off.

Jonas pounced.

He lowered his head and charged into his attacker, slamming the top of his head into Sonman’s breastbone. Sonman flew backwards and sprawled onto the sidewalk, losing his grip on the knife.

Cold steel skimmed the concrete.

Jonas pushed backwards and lunged toward the knife. He grabbed it and turned back to Sonman, who was now back to his feet, standing motionless fifteen feet away.

Jonas advanced, his arm raised and locked in a tight L in front of him, the knife blade now a part of him. He didn’t have to remember his hand-to-hand combat training. It had never left him.

Sonman took a step back, but did not run.

Then the sirens came. Distant at first. In seconds the flashing red and blue lights were visible, bursting down the street behind Sonman, backlighting his silhouette. Jonas cursed the timing. He knew the police were responding to

Anne’s call, and when Sonman had the knife he would have been far happier to see them arrive. But this would be a confusing scene to the cops, and Jonas would soon have to drop his knife. And he didn’t think Sonman would be the type to stay put.

Sonman risked a momentary glance behind his back before leaping up the brick wall to his left. Jonas pivoted and cursed as he saw Sonman propel himself past Jonas and back down onto the sidewalk. He didn’t look back—Sonman tore down the street with a speed that amazed Jonas.

Jonas dropped the knife and started pursuit. “Stop! Metro police!”

The shout came from behind him. Jonas spun and held up his hands, not at all surprised by the sight of a cop with a nine-millimeter aimed directly at his chest.

“He’s the one you want,” Jonas said. He tried to keep his voice firm but calm. “Don’t let him get away.”

“Shut up and get on the ground. Now!”

Jonas did as he was told, except for the part about shutting up. “I work for Senator Sidams and I’m telling you right now letting that man escape will be the worst mistake of your career.”

It was only seconds before he felt a knee in his back and his arms pulled behind him. It didn’t escape Jonas he had been in almost the exact same position just a few minutes before with Sonman.

As he felt the cool steel of the handcuffs strangle his wrists, the cop breathed in his ear.

“I don’t see no one else here, buddy. Just you and a knife.”

THE CONCRETE
feels good to Rudiger, and his feet bound off it as he sprints down the darkened street. The sprint turns into a run. No one behind him. He’s careful. Crosses the street, scales the wrought-iron fence of a small urban cemetery, and dodges tombstones as he makes his way to the other side. Cemetery lights soften the granite of the grave markers, making them look like giant teeth. Crooked smile.

Rudiger weaves through them. Climbs the fence on the far end and finds himself on a busier street. Some late night strollers. A couple far ahead, one on the other side of the street, a man with his poodle. No one pays attention to him.

Good.

His run trickles to a walk as he removes his ski mask and gloves. Buries them in a nearby trashcan.

Checks his finger. Already swollen with two bite marks just above the second knuckle. Skin is broken but he doesn’t think the bone is. Hurts though. Face hurts, too.

His forehead throbs.

Think. Don’t feel. Just think.

Won’t be going back to the car. Doesn’t matter. He can steal a car anytime. Nothing in the car to find neither. The gun they’ll find won’t trace.

Can’t walk the streets all night. Wishes he had his gun and cash. He can get more, but not tonight. Gotta stay quiet tonight. Down the street he finds a homeless shelter. No one waiting outside. Rudiger tries the door and it swings open.

Steps inside. Rudiger sees no one. The lights are bright. He wants to shrink inside himself. A woman turns the corner of the short hallway and approaches him. Pretty young thing. Not too young to be unsure of herself. Not too old to have given up hope. She exists in that narrow slip between promise and disappointment.

“Do you need a bed tonight, sir?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rudiger says, his voice softened by her politeness.

“You’re new here,” she says.

“Yes.”

“Are you hungry?”

Rudiger shakes his head. He doesn’t want her to look at him.

“You’re hurt.” She moves to touch his face but he pulls away. “Your face.”