Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense (17 page)

Rudiger looked up. The ladder was there, immovable, just as he knew it would be. Just as it had been for so long.

Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

It was known to many. Nothing more than a tourist site to some. Something holy to others. Something unique to Rudiger.

He stepped inside the Church.

Darker now. Quiet.

The sweat from his brow dribbled down his face.

To his right, a steep series of steps curved upwards, each step rounded, decreasing in width with ascension. It was not inviting, but all were welcome. Rudiger knew.

Golgotha

It was where he needed to go. The message was closer. The connection was here. As he climbed he shut his eyes.

At the top now. Soon.

and they brought Him to the place called Golgotha

The words came to him easily.

At the top of the steps an expanse led to a shrine, gleaming in the muted light. It could have been the altar of any church, glorious and reverent, but it was more. Rudiger knew exactly what it was, and his breaths came in shallow bursts. A statue of Christ was suspended from an arch. A glass floor revealed the untouched rock beneath. This was the earth above which the Church had been built. A small gold disc marked the exact location.

I thirst

Where it happened. Where the Roman centurions had driven the piece of wood deep into the ground, where two other crosses stood close by.

Dismas and Gestas

Criminals nailed to them. Here it stood.

it is finished

He breathed His last gasp. Even there, a small fissure in the naked rock showed proof of the quaking earth that rocked the land upon His death.

Rudiger knelt.

Despite the hour, despite the throngs of people streaming through the small streets of the Old City, despite the waves of pilgrims here to pay respect, for a moment, this moment, Rudiger was alone. This, this place where Christ the Holy died, Rudiger was the only one at Golgotha, an impossibility it would seem to most, but a miracle to Rudiger. It was a sign. He wanted him alone. To pray. To send a message. It would surely only last seconds, so there was little time. For it must happen, and it must be now. Rudiger, eyes closed, hand on his forehead, head bowed before God, did not pray. Did not speak. Did nothing but open his mind, offered a receptacle, hoping so desperately for a reason, for a purpose. Waiting. Waiting. He would not be alone long. He heard steps on the stairs, muted chatter in foreign tongues. Heat on his face. Not air. Breath. Breath of something there, but distant. Then it spoke.

Into your hands I commit my spirit.

Eyes open. The words were real. Spoken. Now. It was time to receive.

“Yes,” Rudiger said. “Tell me.”

Voice of Preacherman. Commandments of God.

Listen, my son.

“Yes.”

You know you are special.

“Yes.” Heat flashed through him. The universe disappeared. Only this moment existed.

You are not alone in your suffering, and for your pain you will forever understand Glory.

“I am yours.”

You must unveil Me. You must bring about what you have dreamed of for so long. For an end to the darkness.

“Anything.”

I am in another...I must be from them...and then I will be All.

Rudiger no longer knew if he spoke aloud. “Who?”

Use your gift. It will guide you.

“What if I’m wrong?”

Let Me guide you.

“How do they release You?”

They must be as I...suffer the Glory.

“Suffer.” Rudiger’s dirty fingernails dug into the palms of his hands. The pain was enlightening. Glorious.

Release Me from their death.

Dying is nothing. “Where do I start?”

Your mind will command you... you will find the One through your own abilities.

“I don’t understand...”

It will be your last act, my son. It will be your final crossing. And from that all will be righteous. All will be saved.

Final Crossing.

A sound behind Rudiger. Footsteps. At the top of the stairs, a priest appeared, hands folded behind his back, a long, ash-white beard dripping like candle wax from his chin. He nodded at Rudiger and gave him a quizzical stare, one asking:
How are you so fortunate to be up here alone?

Then pain ripped through Rudiger’s head, a kind of pain unknown to him. It tore through his skull like a spear, twisting a gnarled and barbed tip as it scorched from the front to the back. In its wake, something tore, and that tear brought with a blinding light.

You go get it all done now, Preacherman said. You get it done and then you ken be rid of me forever. That’s what you want, ain’t it? You want me in Hell? Well, boy, then I say it again. You go get it done.

He collapsed to the floor, his body thudding against the cool stone, just a few feet away from where the Cross had stood, where Christ’s lifeless form had been lowered from the instrument of His rebirth. The priest rushed to Rudiger, who barely noticed the man hovering above him, speaking to him in a language he did not understand or even care to.

His hands squeezed his head. The light grew brighter. He could shield himself from it no more easily than he could wring the pain from his skull.

The priest shook him.

Rudiger screamed. Howled. Tore against the pain and fear.

Then the light dimmed. The pain subsided, its waning traces as relieving as morphine. The light vanished.

When it was over, Rudiger opened his eyes. Sweat glazed him. A viscous tendril of saliva quivered from his lower lip as the priest continued to shake Rudiger’s shoulder.

The priest switched to heavily accented English. “Medical help is coming. You will be all right.”

Rudiger looked at him. “I don’t need help, Father. I’m more saved than even you.”

The priest blinked, then removed his hand from

Rudiger’s shoulder.

“Do not get up,” the priest said. “Rest.”

By now, other tourists had started to fill the small gallery, and many gathered around the fallen man and whispered in myriad languages and tones. The priest pushed them back with a flick of his hands and a gruff diatribe.

Rudiger rose. The priest stepped back. “Please wait. You need to be examined.”

Rudiger scanned the small crowd and let his gaze fall on the priest.

“I am chosen,” he said. “It is done.”

He stood straighter, he thought, than he had in years. He felt strong, but he knew he would need more strength for what he needed to do.

Two Israeli soldiers appeared before the paramedics did, and they spoke in very controlled and patient English. They had asked what had happened and Rudiger told them a fractured truth. They asked him who he was traveling with, and why he had left his group.

Rudiger stopped talking at that point.

One of the soldiers accompanied Rudiger to the hospital when the paramedics finally arrived.

He became a guest of the State of Israel for the next six days, housed in the psychiatric wing of a hospital just outside the city proper. A Jewish doctor with sad eyes and uncontrolled eyebrows asked him many questions before telling Rudiger he was suffering from
Jerusalem Syndrome
. The condition was rare, he said, but not singular. In fact, there had been several thousand cases through the years. The Syndrome was the only psychological explanation anyone had for those persons whose brain simply couldn’t handle the religious and historical significance of Jerusalem. Many patients had no background of mental instability. Their brains simply overloaded when visiting the sacred city. Most were Christians, and popular “breaking” points were along Via Dolorosa and within the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. Rudiger fit the profile perfectly.

“You’ll be fine soon,” the doctor told him. “By the time you get home, you will be back to normal.”

Rudiger smiled at the man.

WASHINGTON, D.C. APRIL 19

“YOU WANT
to talk about it?” The Senator’s gaze burrowed and wormed its way into Jonas.

Jonas felt his knees wanting to buckle as he stood in front of his boss’s desk. Despite the early morning hour, a heat rose in the Senator’s office. “Talk about what?”

“It’s not really a question. It’s an order.”

“That sounds more like you.”

“What the hell happened, son? First you end up in the hospital because you decided to take a stroll on the Beltway at rush hour—”

“I was helping someone.”

“—and now I get a call from a staffer in the middle of the night telling me the police were holding you after a street fight?”

Jonas held his breath for a moment.

“I’m a thrill-seeker, sir. It’s in my blood.”

“
Jonas
.”

His mind raced. It would be so easy to tell his boss everything, and the bond between the two men screamed for the truth. But his professional loyalty to Senator Sidams meant Jonas couldn’t yet have the senior lawmaker tied to anything this sensational.

“Guy wanted my wallet. I didn’t want to give it to him.”

“Yeah.” The Senator pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That’s what you told the police.”

“It is.”

“But I don’t buy it.”

“Sir?”

“I’ve been around liars for a long time, Jonas. Some of the best in the world, in fact. I’ve learned how to smell the shit beneath the roses.”

“Senator, I—”

Sidams raised his hand, silencing Jonas. “Whatever is going on with you, I presume it’s going to end. I also presume you’re protecting me from something, which I admire. But you’re my goddamn Chief of Staff and I expect you to use good judgment in all your decisions. There’s a very thin wall between you and me, and a thinner one between the public and me.”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“The Denver Peace Accords will be my legacy, good or bad. More importantly, these people deserve our full focus and effort. I need you
here
, Jonas.” Sidams rapped on his desk with his long index finger. “Mentally and physically. Once the Accords are over, I don’t give a shit to glory and God if you go naked base jumping off the Washington Monument in full daylight. Until then I need you to be a good boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No more thrill-seeking.”

“No, sir.”

The Senator pushed his chair back away from his desk and moved his gaze up and down Jonas.

“That your best suit?”

“No, sir. I have one just like it, but without the stains.”

“Good. You’ll need it for tomorrow.”

“What’s happening tomorrow?”

The Senator looked down at his desk and began editing the document in front of him.

“You’re briefing the President.”

THE CAPTAIN
was asleep in his wheelchair when Jonas found him, his chin touching his chest, wisps of long white hair falling forward over his forehead like a cheap Santa Claus wig. Jonas took a knee on the linoleum floor of the north wing and tried to tune out the muffled shouting from behind a nearby door.

“Hi, Dad.”

No reaction. The Captain could have been dead if not for the just-noticeable rise and fall of his sunken chest beneath a faded ruby sweatshirt. Jonas rubbed the man’s bony shoulder.

“It’s me, Dad. Jonas. Do you want to wake up?”

The Captain grustled and grumbled, mumbling something incoherent. His head slowly rose from his chest but his eyes remained closed, and for a moment Jonas was sure his father was going to go back to sleep. But then his eyes opened, not slowly, but sudden and wide, the crystal blue of his irises the color of glacial ice. There was fear in his stare, fear of the unknown, of the what and why of existence, and Jonas could read the questions in the Captain’s panicked gaze, questions like
Who am I
and
Where am I
and the always gnawing
What’s happening to me?

Then the Captain’s eyes seemed to finally focus on Jonas’s face, his expression softened, and the corners of the old man’s mouth slowly turned up into something that was almost a smile. It was enough for Jonas. It was enough for him to know that, for at least another day, the father recognized the son, for at least another moment.

“You look good, Dad. Real good.”

The Captain closed his eyes and began humming. The melody wasn’t anything Jonas recognized, though it rarely was, but it seemed to be from
something
.

Jonas broke off a piece of a chocolate-chip cookie he’d brought. The Captain was a sucker for Chips Ahoy, and even with closed eyes the old man knew when the piece was close, for his lips opened before Jonas touched the cookie to his father’s lips. Small crumbs fell onto the Captain’s creased trousers as he ate.