Final Crossing: A Novel of Suspense by Carter Wilson Page B

a brief stop at a strip mall yields new license plates. Should be enough to get him to Virginia, long as he minds the laws.
    Virginia.
    He doesn’t know what’s waiting for him there. Doesn’t even know why he’s going. But after seeing a billboard ( Virginia Is For Lovers), Rudiger’s mind exploded with the possibilities:
    Virgin
    Sin
    Risen
    Revival
    Savior
    He can’t use all the letters to make one sensible clue. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t bother him neither that the phrase also has lots of bullshit words. Words like ravioli and airfoil . These are to be discarded from the deck, the low cards. His mind only clings to those words saturated in meaning. Makes things cleaner. Easier.
    He’d been able to make the letters dance ever since his time with the Preacherman and his whore. Maybe he even had the ability before then, but Rudiger remembers just about nothing of the time before. His childhood was gone, a twelve-year chunk of life that was only shown in photos and video but little of which dwelled inside Rudiger’s mind.
    Mom left when Rudiger was fifteen. She didn’t understand why Rudiger would never talk about what had happened to him, or how he escaped. Or what had happened to the person who stole her baby boy for two whole months. Or why Rudiger read the Bible every day, spouting quotes from Revelation at every opportunity. Or how he could rearrange letters so quick in his head. Rudiger was a freak, and Mom couldn’t take it no more. Maybe there was a little guilt there, too. She was the one who told him it was okay to ride his bike after dark, after all.
    Rudiger looks at the map on the seat next to him, searching for the closest chance to turn east. Virginia just feels right . He pictures long fingers of grass growing around the moss-covered trunks of black alder trees. The spotty winking of firefly light in the thick dusk. He smells air draped in moisture. Hears cicadas humming like power lines.
    Cars begin to pass him. A few drivers offer sidelong glances as their cars whisk by. Rudiger rolls down his window and spits into the world.
    He wonders how long it will be before he finds the One. And why, if God wants him to succeed, has he only found failure?
    How many people must he kill before his work is done? Rudiger doesn’t like to kill unless he has to. Seems odd, he thinks, considering some of the things he’s done. Considering how easy killing comes to him. Still, needless slaughter makes no sense. Why step on a spider when you can walk around it?
    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