Expiration Date (42 page)

Later, in class, she’d read her lucky numbers for the day.

Eighteen was one of them.

Any fool could connect the dots and see the dollar signs.

Somebody has to win. Why not me?

Mylisha vacillated. She didn’t believe in paying the “poor tax.” Daily she watched Safeway patrons dish out money for scratch-off tickets and reminded herself to stick to her budget—like every good business student should. She laughed at those who rushed to buy tickets when the jackpot bulged into eight figures, as though a measly three or four million wasn’t worth the effort.

Eighteen dollars, girl. It’s a small investment
.

The money was in her hand now.

What was she thinking? If she mentioned this to her instructor as an investment opportunity, he would flunk her on the spot. He would say it was
no different than holding a match to the money and watching it go up in smoke.

Eighteen million … eighteen dollars … lucky eighteen.

The machine sucked in the bills and spit out paper tickets in exchange. Mylisha folded them once, tucked them into the front pocket of her jeans. She had a good feeling about this.

The good feeling vanished as numbers ticker taped across the TV screen.

Mylisha fell forward onto her lime green beanbag. Groaned. She folded her hands over the back of her neck, embarrassed by her own silliness. Almost twenty dollars. Gone. Consumed by that greedy ticket machine.

She pulled herself up. Turned off the TV.

On a black lacquer shelf, her book of Langston Hughes poems offered distraction. She’d always loved his words, so earthy and empathetic. Mud-covered jewels.

She let the book fall open in her lap. She used to do this with her Bible, seeking the Lord’s direction through whichever passage appeared before her. It had even worked on occasion. Overall, though, she had to admit it smacked of desperation. Like plucking at spiritual flower petals: “he loves me, he loves me not.”

Mylisha’s lips twitched; her eyelids closed.

She knew God’s love for her. But what about his plans? Why the silence?

She took her finger and dropped it blindly on a section of the page. Through squinting eyes, she read a poem titled “Acceptance.” It spoke of God’s infinite wisdom, which foresaw his creation’s imminent folly.

She smiled weakly. Leave it to Mr. Hughes to strike the nail on the head.

Gerald Ryker clomped in from the garage. “Son.”

“Morning, Dad.”

“Garage’s looking mighty bare.”

Clay sighed. “Already told you, I’ll try to replace what I lost.”

“Darn right you will.”

Clay opened the Sunday sports section and thought about Kenny Preston. He’d called the kid last night, chatted, drawn encouragement from the high-energy voice.

No doubt Kenny had been out this morning delivering papers in town, and this afternoon he said he was heading to the McKenzie River for some inner-tubing. His mom’s idea. Life was looking up at the Preston household.

8.1.0.0.4 …

What about Jason, though? In two and half weeks, Jason and Jenni would be traveling this way. Could Clay offer any protection? He could pray, but that sounded hollow in the face of death—especially after Detective Freeman’s reaction.

Was there any truth to Freeman’s accusations that Clay was fabricating all this nonsense to restore meaning to his life? Setting himself up as an urban hero?

No. Too many had died already—Summer, Eve and Mitchell, Mako and Rhea.

“ ’Bout done there, Son?”

Gerald topped off the coffee in his blue travel mug and took his seat at the dining nook. Beckoning fingers indicated it was his turn for the newspaper. Clay complied. He placed the other sections back in their original order; with eyes still flitting over the box scores, he folded up the sports pages.

That’s when he spotted the envelope poking from the bottom.

“You and Mom have a good time at Mass.” Clay slipped the note into his
robe. “I’ll probably be gone when you get back. Gonna head out for some fresh air.”

“We got room in the truck.”

“You mean come to Mass with you?”

“Don’t have to if you don’t want.” The blue lid clicked up, down, up, down. Some rain with a chance of clear skies.

“No, I’ll come.”

“Leavin’ right after breakfast. No stragglers.”

In his bedroom Clay slipped from his bathrobe. He couldn’t remember the last time his father had invited him to anything. He shaved, slapped on some cologne Jenni had bought him ages ago, gelled his hair. From the kitchen the smell of his mother’s hash browns and eggs beckoned.

Okay. Let’s see what we’ve got
.

He peeled open the latest envelope. Read over the note. Deep in the belly of his nightmares, a theory bubbled up. Far-fetched, yes. But did anything else make sense? How had Detective Freeman phrased it?

 … a sociopath roaming our streets, as if there’s some scheme behind this
.

Clay decided to give Sarge a quick call before breakfast.

“Why’d you up and run, Son?”

“Wasn’t ready to go through the meet-and-greet line. Nothing personal. These are your friends, not mine.”

Clay was standing by the Dodge truck in the parking lot at St. Helen. Although he wasn’t much for rituals and liturgy, he had found serenity in the organ’s reverential tones and in the sacrament of Holy Communion. He’d reflected on Christ’s sacrifice for humanity’s sin, and the wine had sent a brief shiver through him.

A moment of cleansing. He knew his price had been paid.

“Doll.” Della squeezed Clay’s arm. “Please come. Father Patrick’s only been with us seven years, and he hasn’t yet met you.”

“The only polite thing,” Gerald mumbled.

Clay tried not to drag his polished dress shoes across the pavement.

Father Patrick was setting things into the trunk of an older Nissan Sentra. Clay felt a tinge of shame. Would the priest see “the sickness” of divorce on him? With a nod and a handshake, they introduced themselves. Father Patrick’s voice was rich and clear, his words even and unhurried. Deep grooves in his tanned skin framed a pair of gentle eyes. Everything about the man implied a relaxed demeanor, an uncluttered life, years of ongoing health.

None of which matched the date on his skin.

8.1.0.0.4 …

The same as Jason. Same as Wendy.

Clay managed not to flinch as their hands stayed locked in greeting, as the numerals hummed with insistence along his nerve endings.

Stretched on a towel at Fern Ridge Reservoir, Henna adjusted her yellow bathing suit. Blond hair cascaded over bronzed shoulders. Sunscreen glistened along her body and gave off a coconut scent. She rolled onto her stomach and tucked her face into folded arms.

“My little sun worshiper, are you deep in meditation?”

“A.G., it’s been ages since we were out in public together.”

“Have you gone in the water yet?”

“It’s so scummy, I’d rather not. I’ll look but not touch.”

Asgoth’s eyes moved over her, producing a wry chuckle. “I understand.”

“Anyway, the water scares me. A split second and you can be gone for good.”

Asgoth recoiled at the truth of her words …

Shoved. Falling, flailing. Cold depths and deep wounds. Blackness.

He scanned the Orchard Point Marina, where boat masts bobbed like toothpicks thrust into Jell-O. Near the walking bridge, toddlers splashed with their parents, while teens roamed the walkways, scoping out possibilities from behind tinted sunglasses.

The place was pregnant with hazards.
If only they knew
.

“Henna, the Scandi-Fest is coming up. I’m going to need your assistance.”

“You know I’m willing. What about the others?”

“They’ll get their own sets of instructions. We’ve had some setbacks, but Monde is revising his strategy. Right now he’s tracking a Russian man who might possess the knowledge we need to succeed, but I’d be a fool to trust entirely in his plans. I have an alternative, just in case. It involves Mr. Ryker. Can I count on you being available?”

“Clay Ryker? You’ve said the magic words.”

“Had a feeling that might arouse you.”

“Is that a hint of jealousy?”

“He’s a physically pleasing specimen, it’s true. How can I compete?” A breeze fluttered over the lake as Asgoth touched Henna’s hair.

She repositioned her face in her arms, purred with approval. “I’m over him.”

“I’ll take your word.” Asgoth switched to practicalities. “With your connections in JC, do you think you could get a position in one of the festival’s food booths? It’d give you access to the backstage areas.”

“I’m a vegetarian, so if there’s animal flesh involved, I can’t do it.”

“But it is possible, Henna? You could find a position?”

He knew his own candidacy was out of the question. For the past twelve years, he’d attended the annual event in disguise, unnoticed amid the crowded streets. If his true identity were revealed, it could cause unpredictable reactions, and the Consortium insisted that he avoid such histrionics.

In time, I’ll be able finally to show myself
.

“Sure,” Henna said. “My daughter’s working in one of the booths, serving Fri-Jos. I’ll speak with her, see if she can put me in contact with the right people. Considering the thousands of attendees, the organizers are always looking for warm bodies to put to work.”

Warm bodies? Asgoth liked the sound of that.

“I face the same challenge,” he said.

Clay gripped the metal bars, dwarfed by the pre-WWI locomotive. One century old, she was a thing of beauty, both fierce and quaint. He knew her history well.

From a Finnish port, Engine 418 had traversed the Atlantic by steamship, then piggybacked across the United States on a Union Pacific flatcar. Twenty-five major cities welcomed her passage. At last the sixty-ton engine reached Portland, Oregon, where she sat neglected for two decades, a target for vandals and thieves. In early 1980 Finnish authorities had intervened so that this historic and valuable relic would be relocated to the Scandinavian-minded haven of Junction City.