Introduction

Rudiger doesn't kill because he wants to.  He kills because he needs to.

When the sadistic Preacherman stole the last bit of Rudiger's already troubled childhood soul, Rudiger lost himself forever. As an adult, Rudiger has committed atrocities even he cannot explain and he yearns for the End of Days to release him from his pain. God has told him he must crucify The One to bring about the Final Judgment, but Rudiger is left to his own special abilities to figure out who The One is. Thus sets off Rudiger's horrifying journey across continents in hopes of bringing an end to the world, one nail at a time.

One man remembers what Rudiger is capable of.  Jonas Osborne, an Army Ranger and Senatorial Chief of Staff, saw first-hand what Rudiger is capable of during a terrifying firefight in Somalia almost two decades earlier. Now Jonas himself could be a target on Rudiger's quest, and he enlists the help of a beautiful psychic criminologist to understand where Rudiger will erect his next cross. And only on the biggest international stage--a summit for Middle East peace talks--will Jonas and Rudiger meet again for one final confrontation.

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Excerpt

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 five- ten, 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.

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“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 be- longs 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 hap- pen. 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.

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“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.”

“So...so what next?”

Rudiger pulls out a small roll of bills and drops a twenty on the table. “Figured on goin’ to my car.”

Outside, cold night air stings Rudiger’s face, making him

even more alert. Michael follows behind him. Well-trained dog. He pictures Michael as a boss of many during the day, a powerful man. By night, his weakness builds by the hour, straining for release. Dog needs to shed his collar.

Rudiger leads him to a white van, front windows dirty and back windows non-existent. Michael hesitates. Rudiger smiles and nods. It’ll be okay, the smile says. It’s all good. Get in. Michael smiles back after a bit then climbs in the pas- senger seat, his movements delicate, a cat walking around puddles. Inside Michael fidgets. Doesn’t know what to do next.

“Buckle up,” Rudiger says. He presses a button and both doors lock. Michael slowly pulls the strap across his chest and clicks the belt into place.

“Where are we going?”

“’Bout twenty miles from here.” Hesitation. “Is that where you live?”

“No.” Rudiger leans down and picks up the bottle of ether on the floorboard. He unscrews the cap and dabs the top of the bottle against a black piece of cloth until it’s satu- rated. The smell is strong, so he cracks just his window a few inches. Screws the cap back on. Bottle falls to the floor. “Not close to anything, that’s the whole point there, Mike. Only thing waitin’ out there is a big cross I built. That’s where we’re goin’.”

It takes a few seconds, which is about five minutes longer than logic says it should have taken. The fear hits Michael. Rudiger glances sideways at him and sees in one second a lifetime worth of second-guessing on his face. All those times before. All those strangers. Never had a problem, though it

16 CARTER WILSON

was always a chance, wasn’t it? Always a risk. But the reward was worth it, each and every time. Probably swore to never do it again. But couldn’t. Just couldn’t stop. Now he’ll never do it again, but not by his own choosing.

Michael’s frantic fingers scramble for the release button on his seat belt. Rudiger begins to hum. Scraps of some- thing he heard on the radio, little bit of country.

Michael can’t find the button because there isn’t one. Seatbelt locked tight, strap holding him down like he’s on a roller coaster.

Rudiger lunges, his speed preternatural, a monster at- tacking in a child’s night terror. His hand with the rag covers Michael’s mouth and nose while his other hand squeezes his throat. Just enough pressure. Michael shouts but his voice is muffled and weak. He thrashes but it doesn’t mean any- thing. Not a thing. Rudiger stops humming.

“You’re not dyin’,” he says, for no real reason. Not to placate. He doesn’t care about what Michael thinks or about his feelings. “Need to stay alive a little longer. Can’t be dead when we start. Doesn’t work that way.”

Michael’s body begins to go limp. Rudiger barely feels warm from the struggle, but he knows the real work is just ahead of him. It’ll take all his strength to drag Michael far from the road and lift the cross with the man’s body nailed to it. He’s never done it with a real person before, though he practiced three days earlier with a two-hundred pound dummy.

Took him nearly an hour.

And the dummy hadn’t been screaming. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

-Do you consider Rudiger truly evil or merely a byproduct of all that has happened to him?

-Why facets of Jonas’s character do you feel overlaps with those of Rudiger’s?

-What do you feel is Rudiger’s true motivation for his killings – his nature or his desire to escape from his past?


From the author

Weblinks

»	Author Carter Wilson's web site

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