Expiration Date (11 page)

His hands. They were the lone culprits.

Has Ryker Lost His Touch?

The irony of it all. If only those Wyoming sportswriters could see him now.

He poured himself a glass of pulpy Minute Maid, then brought the phone to his ear again. He had a dial tone. Seven little digits, that’s all it’d take.

Mylisha French had called a few night backs. For what reason? What’d they have to discuss? During his last year of high school he’d shuffled her aside as scholarship offers poured in; he’d let his hopes for the future relegate her to the past.

Don’t dwell on it, Clay. You’re the man
.

His hand turned damp as he began to dial.

What about Jenni? He loved her, no matter what her idiot lawyer assumed.
Plus, they were still married. Technically speaking. He dropped the concrete slab onto the counter, drained the rest of the juice, and felt the pulp stick in his throat.

All his relationships seemed to go down like the OJ.

Tasty at first?
Check
. Then lumpy and hard to swallow?
Check, check
.

“Gotta hand it to you, Ryker. You’re getting the hang of this.” Mr. Blomberg pounded a hand into Clay’s shoulder blade. “Didn’t think you’d amount to much, way you dragged your feet around the first couple of days, like you were afraid to touch death. It’s our job, though. You know that now, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Day in, day out, important business we do here, smoothing the details for bereaved loved ones. Can’t take that too lightly. Each stone’s a way of reaffirming that individuals do matter in the grand scheme of things.” A meaty finger poked Clay in the chest. “You know God’s up there, right? You think he’s got a master plan?”

Clay floundered, unaccustomed to this side of Mr. Blomberg.

From the other end of the warehouse runner, Digs and Wendy focused on their work orders. Brent twisted his mouth in scorn, threw Clay a look that said to shut his trap and let the bossman move on. These co-workers had warned him, and his father had told tales of Blomberg’s religious invective.

What do I care? Bring it on. I’m in the mood for a tussle
.

“God?” Clay said. “Yep, I think he exists. Not so sure about a master plan.”

With the pomposity of a man rarely challenged, Blomberg flattened back a lock of red hair. “Now tell me, how does that make an iota of sense? You take the safe route and agree there’s a God, but you won’t buy into the idea of a master plan. How can he be God if he can’t form a plan?”

“Beats me.” Clay’s thoughts raced to Jenni, to Jason. Were they part of the plan? Let the small-town boy find love, then let his family fall apart. Some plan. “I think we’re all gonna die, Mr. Blomberg.”

“And?”

“That’s my theory, start to finish. Birth. Pain. Suffering. Death.”

“And?”

“Oh, and sickness. Can’t forget that. Gotta keep the sickness from spreading.” Clay fingered his wedding ring. It wasn’t coming off, not until the divorce was official.

Till death do us part, Jenni. That was the deal
.

Blomberg inquired, “So the good things in life—they’re just accidents?”

“Accidents, mistakes. Call them what you like.”

“This theory of yours, you pick that up from your heathen professors in your secular college education? You dealing with facts here or personal experience?”

“You want facts?” Clay dropped his wood-handled pick and turned to confront his bulky antagonist. “Or you want me to work?”

Digs chipped in. “Hey, Mr. Blomberg, the kid’s goin’ through a divorce. Might wanna cut him some slack, let him work things out before you ride his case.”

“Is that true, Ryker? Hometown hero leaves his wife behind?”

“She filed,” Clay said through gritted teeth. “All part of the great master plan.”

“Oh, now I see. If things’re good, you take the credit and give yourself a pat on the back. But once things start to slide? Suddenly it’s all God’s fault. You slap him in the face with your failures and decide life’s just one huge cosmic joke.”

“Nobody’s laughin’,” Digs said. “Let him be, Mr. Blomberg.”

Brent cut in. “Bossman’s got a point. People use religion like some magic cure-all. My opinion? Greed—that’s the name of the game. All about the dinero.”

“Hey, can’t throw the baby out with the bathwater,” Wendy said. “Right, Digs?”

Digs tugged at his lip. “People won’t take the counterfeit ’less they think it’s the real thing. That’s the way I see it. Can’t have one without the other.”

“Hold on. What if we haven’t found the real thing yet?”

“Good question, Ryker,” said Blomberg. “That’s the bottom line. Because
if you go around saying you believe in a God, then you gotta believe in his plan.”

“Maybe he’s just dropped us here to fend for ourselves.”

“An unfeeling, distant God?”

“You nailed it.”

“What about the God of justice and righteousness?”

“Justice, huh? What about the woman hit by a stray bullet the day before her wedding? Or the innocent kid run over by a drunk driver?”

Blomberg’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t question God’s judgments.”

“His judgments?” Clay carved the tip of his pick into his maple workbench. “See, that’s what I mean. How can we be so sure that he’s a loving, personal God involved in every aspect of life?”

“You’ve tossed him aside. Is that it, Ryker?”

Digs, with his eyes on an order, was shaking his head as if to indicate he would not be an accomplice to Blomberg’s pious display. But Clay knew the boss was right; he was slipping away, losing his hold. Losing his religion—like the classic REM song.

“I just can’t accept,” Clay said, “that he’s an uncaring God. That’s not the God I knew, not the one I grew up believing in.”

“Then what do you believe, if you can tell us that much?”

“Mr. Blomberg, I don’t think this is the time or the place.”

“You’re on my time, at my place.” Blomberg spread his hands. “Let’s hear it.”

“I believe …”

“That’s a start.”

“I’d rather believe God doesn’t exist than believe he doesn’t care!”

“Ah! The prodigal shows his true colors.” The big man gesticulated as though victory had been won. “Well, good, that settles that. World’s full of fence-riders, and we certainly don’t need another one.”

Clay clenched his jaw, gave extra attention to the job at his fingertips.

Wearing a self-congratulatory expression, Blomberg stood in the center of the warehouse. He clapped his hands once, told everyone to get back to work, then spun his wide frame toward the exit.

Crammed into a rental car en route to Fort Lauderdale, Dmitri felt his short hair grate against the roof. Never mind. His car in Ekaterinburg was smaller still. Three weeks ago, he had squashed into the dusty Prada on his way from the Ural Mountains to Moscow. He had stood outside the Kremlin, in Red Square, where throngs once paid homage at Lenin’s Tomb.

Vladimir Lenin. Marx and Stalin.

Their ideas had crushed a nation’s spirit; their methods had scarred bodies and countless souls.

Dmitri believed the land could be restored. Reared in the warm glow of glasnost, he and his comrades had been convinced their country would be free at last, ready to regain her place of honor. Instead, Mother Russia had foundered, falling prey to organized crime and freewheeling religious pretenders. She had thrown morals aside and become a patchwork of ideologies and revolt.

Now it was every man for himself, as it was in the West. What a sham.

Recently Chechen rebels had thumbed their noses again at President Putin when an explosion in a Grozny stadium killed the Kremlin’s puppet ruler. And why not? When leaders were less than honorable, less honor was deserved.

Still an hour from his destination, Dmitri Derevenko pulled into a rest area. These thoughts tired him, and Florida’s humidity drained his energy.

He stretched, relieved himself in the men’s room. He dug through an ice chest in the car’s trunk to retrieve a container of cucumber-tomato salad. Sour cream and dill sauce played along his taste buds, nourishing his body, reviving his mind.

He snapped the container’s lid shut and shoved himself back in the driver’s seat.

For decades, the coals of the Brotherhood had smoldered beneath the ashes of Imperial ruin. Feeble. Flickering. Forgotten. Like all good Russian stock, the Brothers had faced tragedy but refused defeat. Recent discoveries had rekindled the flames, and a new gathering of Brothers had formed an eternal pact.

They would not rest until a Tsar regained the helm of their great land.

No easy task. It would require vast wealth and irrefutable proof of an heir’s identity. The rest, as always, would remain in God’s hands.

May our destiny be realized. May the Brotherhood succeed!

He merged the car back onto Interstate 95. In Fort Lauderdale he would find an old man basking in anonymity on a government pension, a man with a time-softened German accent and a head full of secrets from Hitler’s regime.

Dmitri secured his cell phone to his belt.

Modified in Croatia with Maksalov VI components, loaded with four small-caliber bullets, the device was armed and ready to place another call.

Clay did not look up, did not acknowledge his fellow workers. He closed his mind to Blomberg’s sanctimonious display, slid a finished headstone down the line, and drew the next project closer. Best thing to do now was let the job take over.

He smoothed the printed order and read the headstone’s specifications—name, date, and epitaph. A basic slab. He’d whip through this one and move on to the next, squeezing solace from routine.

June 21, 2004
.

Like a fist in his gut, the date stole away his breath. He knew these numbers.

6.2.1.0.4 …

His vision turned fuzzy. He refocused. Stenciled there on gray stone, the letters spelled the name of his visitor from a few weeks ago.

Summer Lee Svenson.

Time to deliver the papers. Kenny Preston loved this part of the morning. His clothes were right where he’d left them, so that he didn’t even have to turn on the lights to get dressed.

He moved through his basement room with a working man’s sense of responsibility. He was thirteen now. This newspaper courier job put extra cash in his pockets, which lightened his mom’s load. She was a good mother, doing it on her own, deserving every penny he could give to help out. Recently she’d even gone so far as to find him a pet.

On the stairs Kenny felt warmth brush against his leg. A creature stirred, roused by his alarm clock and fumbling preparation.

“Hey, girl.” He reached down to pet soft fur. “How’d you get all the way down here, huh? Missed me already? Missed you too.”

The puppy’s firm, small body wagged beneath his affection.

“So what’m I gonna name you? Mom says it’s up to me.”

The puppy’s nose pressed against his hand, tiny teeth nipping at his pinky. She was the cuddliest little thing. Kenny tugged at her ear, eliciting an amateur snarl that sounded like Mr. Gustafson’s car trying to start up on a cold morning.

“Gussy,” he said. “That’s what I’ll call you. Gussy. You like it?”