Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense (5 page)

Yet there was something connecting both events. Jonas realized in both of his near-death moments, they were the only times Jonas felt truly and utterly
alive
. It was something beyond the adrenaline rush. Beyond the fear. His mere survival buttressed his ego, telling him he survived for a reason. That, despite all his success in life, he was meant for something
more
.

The Captain tried to say something, but it only came out as a long, anxious warble.

Time went at a different pace when you were the only side of a conversation. After an hour, Jonas had nothing else to say. If the Captain had any idea his son came to visit, the memory would soon be gone, and Jonas could only hope the time he was there gave his dad some level of comfort. Small slice of warmth. Maybe a flash of a happy memory. It all made Jonas want to live only in the moment, because sometimes it seemed that’s all there was.

He ended his visit as he always did, with a phrase that was alien to the father and son when Jonas was growing up.

“I love you, Dad.”

PHILADELPHIA

A BRISK
wind caught Jonas as he stepped off the rental car shuttle in Philadelphia. Jonas had been to Philly more times than he could remember—almost as many times as he’d been to Harrisburg, the state’s capital. Every time the

Eagles lost, a little part of him died. He should have become a Steelers fan, he knew, but he just couldn’t do it.

The trees on the side of the interstate whipped by in a flurry of barren branches. The drive took him just outside the city, and the rental car’s GPS system told him he’d arrive in twenty more minutes.

Gave him time to think.

His first thought was what the hell was he going to say at the funeral. The Senator had called just before Jonas boarded his plane, informing Jonas he was expected to say a few words at Calloway’s service, assuming, of course, he was agreeable to it.

Jonas agreed. He always agreed.

As the drive lulled him into a deepening ennui, Jonas thought about what he wanted,
really wanted
, with all of it. Jonas was on a trajectory, and that path was going to take him far in politics. He thought a House seat wouldn’t be too hard, and a Senate slot not beyond question in another ten years or so. And if Sidams kept ascending, Jonas could rise with him. Sidams could one day be President. Jonas could be his Chief of Staff.

But is that what he wanted?

He kept rising because he was good at what he did, and when you’re good at what you do, it’s easy never to question if it’s what you
want
to do. For all Jonas knew, he could have been a great software engineer, or police detective, or even a goddamn rodeo clown. But he always took the path that opened up before him, never bothering to look past the trees on the side of the road, never wondering if something a little different could be found by doing a little off-roading. Jonas’s life felt scripted, and even if that script led to success, it didn’t always make it fulfilling.

The accident had woken something inside of him. Something raw. That piece of him that was pure instinct, that could smell blood, that could feel danger before it presented itself. It was the piece of him that made him want more.

He hadn’t sensed those feelings in a long time. Not since the Mog.

Mogadishu, Somalia.

He’d been an Army Task Force Ranger back then. Nineteen ninety-three. Sent to a starving little country to see if something could be done about the warlords there. Jonas was twenty-three and had been with the Rangers for two years already, a young age for such an elite group. From the moment his transport had landed in-country, things had been both clear and blurry, like looking through a piece of rippled glass. There were days of boredom. There were days of humanitarian assistance. There were days of bullshit administrative duties.

And then there were days in the shit. The kind you trained for, days and weeks on end, just so you could convince yourself not to run in abject terror.

Jonas remembered most of it. Most he had seen though the clear part of the glass. But then something happened. Something very bad. Jonas only remembered streaks of it. He viewed the last days of his tour through the rippled part of the glass, the images vague and unreliable.

He’d shoved those images so far inside his head they hadn’t come within a stone’s throw of his consciousness in a long time. Until he was hit by a car, that is.

Since the accident, Jonas had started seeing again. Seeing flashes—clear flashes—from nearly two decades ago. They only came in short bursts, mere fragments, but they were real enough to have happened yesterday.

The flashes were during the time of the really bad shit. What he saw scared the hell out of him.

It also excited him.

THERE WAS
more press at the funeral than Jonas had wanted, but they had been limited to outside the church and were not allowed into the service. Michael Calloway had been more than just an important man. He was the victim of

a gruesome killing.
Crucifixion
. Nasty, brutal, symbolic,
personal
death.

Jonas sat in the second pew during the service, watching those around him without turning his head. Every pew was full and those not able to sit stood in the back of the church. Despite strict instructions by Calloway’s family, Jonas counted four people who surreptitiously took pictures at various points during the service. Three were men, and Jonas guessed they were all reporters who’d been able to sneak inside. When they weren’t taking pictures they were taking notes, or otherwise looking bored.

The fourth was a woman sitting across the aisle from him. A black woman who Jonas guessed was about his own age, maybe a couple of years younger. A long black dress spilled over shapely legs. She sat erect, as if trying to get the best view without standing up. Every now and then she would close her eyes, but not out of boredom. Out of concentration, Jonas thought, as if she might have to recite the words at a later point.

Jonas soon began to focus on her, because it was better than focusing on the headache slowly creeping up on him. He wondered who she was and what she was doing here.

He only had seconds to think about it before it was his turn to speak. Jonas wasn’t introduced, but his name was in the program, which meant the Senator had confirmed he would be speaking and that actually asking Jonas to do it was just a formality. Jonas smiled.
Bastard.

As he rose, the woman in the black dress turned and looked at him, and for a moment the two of them locked gazes. There was a mutual curiosity and interest, Jonas thought.

You wondering about me, too?

His knee had been tight and stiff since the car accident and Jonas limped as he walked toward the sanctuary of the church. The congregation was silent save the occasional stifled cough.

Jonas stood behind the pulpit and looked before him. He felt a tinge of nervousness, but was comforted by an ego that assured him he would be fine.

“Senator Sidams was a lifelong friend of Michael Calloway, and he regrets dearly that he couldn’t be here himself today.” Jonas was already comfortable in front of the church full of strangers. “I’m sure Michael would have appreciated the Senator staying in Washington for a vote, doing his job for the people of Pennsylvania.” He paused and scanned the crowd, then passed his gaze over the woman in the second pew. She had her full attention on him. “I only met Michael once,” he continued, “so I can’t say I’m the most qualified person to be standing here in front of you. But my one meeting with him was memorable.” Weird, he thought. Eulogizing a man he barely knew who was crucified after soliciting gay sex on the Internet.

Jonas spent a few minutes speaking about the meeting with Calloway. He scanned the crowd comfortably, making eye contact with every somber face. Once, as he rested his gaze on the woman in the second pew, she smiled. Just a little.

“As our meeting was ending, Michael focused his attention on me. I was warmed by his smile, and for the first time he directed his words at me and not the Senator. He said he had heard my father was ill and he asked about him.”

Jonas looked down and saw the woman had closed her eyes again. He shifted his weight and gripped the top of the podium tighter. He suddenly felt a little nervous.

“I don’t know how he knew about him—the Senator, I suppose—but my father was slipping deeper into the haze of Alzheimer’s. I thanked him and told him my father was steadily getting worse but that I appreciated his concern.”

Jonas looked down again at the woman. Her eyes still closed. Head tilted back at the slightest of angles. Jonas cleared his throat.

“Michael asked me if I ever prayed for him. The easy answer would have been yes, but it wouldn’t have been the truth. I’m not a religious man, I told him. He smiled even brighter and took my hands in his. He bowed his head and asked me to do the same. And then this man—this powerful businessman who had a reputation for being a fierce and ruthless competitor to his rivals—said the most beautiful and personal prayer I had ever heard. Thinking about it even now nearly brings tears to my eyes, something not easily done to an ex-Army Ranger.”

Smiles across the church. The woman finally opened her eyes and smiled broadly at him, showing perfect white teeth. “That night I visited my father. He looked the same. In no way did he show any signs he knew who I was. As always, I sat next to him and told him about my day. About my meeting with the famous Michael Calloway. Then, as I got up to leave, he grabbed my hand, something he hadn’t done in a long time. He lifted his head and stared at me, and in that moment he
knew
me. His eyes brightened and, if I let my imagination do a little work, I could have sworn he said my name.”

A soft murmur of approval across the church, the sound of satisfaction.

“I’m convinced our prayer together helped my father that day. Michael’s words and kindness touched
me
, a natural cynic, and though I only knew the man for a few hours, his life affected mine. I can only imagine the joy for those who knew him for years and even lifetimes. He will be missed, but his spirit will continue to affect us all.”

• • •

She approached Jonas after the service, gliding toward him in the reception hall. Jonas allowed himself a thin smile as she approached. She reciprocated.

The woman extended her hand. Jonas took it. She paused and held his hand for a moment before speaking.

“I’m Anne Deneuve.”

The shake was firm, but still feminine. “Pleased to meet you, Anne. I’m—”

“Full of shit,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Was I not clear?”

Jonas took his hand back. “No, not really.”

“Okay, then,” she said. “I said you’re full of shit.”

“In what way?”

“Are there multiple ways?”

“I hope so, because the way I know of would be an insult. And insults at funerals are a real downer.”

She tilted her head and studied him as if he were a math problem to be solved.

“The bit about your father. You made that up. Or at least exaggerated it.”

“Did I?”

“You did.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because I’m paid to know things.”

“Aren’t we all? And who pays you?”

She paused, seeming to decide whether to press on.

“The FBI,” she said.

Jonas felt a squint take over his eyes.

“The FBI sent you to the funeral of a corporate titan to see if anyone lied during his service?”

“Not exactly.”

“So you’re insulting me off the clock?”

“Exactly.”

He let the moment settle around them. “Intriguing.”

“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked. He smiled.

“Don’t flash those pretty teeth at me,” she added. “It’s not what you think.”

“How do you know what I think?”

“Meet me for a drink and I’ll tell you all about my special abilities.”

She didn’t wait for answer. She didn’t need to.

Jonas watched her walk away for about ten steps before following.

THE FOUR
Seasons Philadelphia rose like a grey monolith toward the equally grey sky. Jonas wondered if colorblind people sought comfort in this city. He valet-parked his car and headed inside toward the Swann Lounge, where he’d agreed to meet Anne. The bar was large yet still intimate, with spaces carved out by the studied placement of tables and chairs. You could be loud or quiet in a place like this, Jonas thought. A black baby grand sat unmanned near a wall, gleaming.

He found a chair offering a view of the entrance. A waitress wearing black slacks and an eager smile told him it was teatime and he told her that did him no good. He sent her away with an order for a Grey Goose gimlet. Up.

Anne came into the lounge ten minutes later. Jonas wondered if she was a slow driver or had diverted to her room first to freshen up.

“You made it,” she said.

“Were you worried I wouldn’t come?”