Expiration Date (45 page)

Clay tamped down thoughts of his own son.

Not much longer … 8.1.0.0.4

“Hannah just won’t let it go, I suppose,” Mrs. Dixon went on. “She was young, susceptible. After Bill’s accident, she changed. She still keeps some of his notes to her, but I think she fantasizes that they came from your pen, Clay.”

He shuddered. Did this explain it? Was Henna acting alone as his tormentor, punishing him from her twisted sense of loss and unrequited love? If so, her actions were even creepier than Mrs. Dixon’s willingness to reveal them.

“Why are you telling me these things?” he inquired.

“You could’ve been my son-in-law. The thought did pass through my mind years ago, and I even discussed it with your mother at one point. Those days are gone now, aren’t they? I hardly recognize my little girl anymore. Oh, she still calls this home, but she spends many of her nights elsewhere. I often wonder where I went wrong with that one. Hannah’s always been something of a troublemaker.”

Clay breathed deeply. “Try not to worry, Mrs. Dixon, and don’t say a word about my call. I’ll keep an eye out for her. I’m sure she’ll be all right.”

“Really? That means so much. I’ve always hoped to hear you say that.”

Clay hung up without saying good-bye.

On his lunch break Clay made the second call.

Detective Freeman …

“Sir, this is Clay Ryker. We talked the other—”

“I know who you are. I’m on duty, which means you’re interrupting me in the middle of writing reports.”

“Sounds like work.”

“You hit it on the head.”

“Uh. I’ve been thinking about what you said when I offered to pray for you. You can laugh, but I was serious about the numbers I told you. That’s only days away.”

“Five.”

“Yeah. So do you wanna figure out a plan? Maybe we can—”

“We can what? Tell me, Mr. Ryker. Do you have a way to stop the inevitable? When it’s your time, it’s your time. Not a dang thing you can do about it.”

“Maybe there is. I’ve already helped protect one kid.”

“Just as I thought. A superhero. Were you wearing your mask and cape?”

“All I did was get involved. It seemed to change things somehow.”

“Ah, even better. A modest superhero.”

“I know your circumstances are pretty grim, Detective Freeman. I’m not denying it. What can I do that a doctor can’t?” Clay drew in air. “Here’s the deal. I think maybe God’s given me this ability so he can be given a chance to step in.”

“You already tried to do your little prayer thing. Now what?”

Good question. Where am I going with this?

Clay covered the cell phone’s mouthpiece, lifted his eyes upward. The fast-approaching first of August caused his heart to pound. Death was nearing,
so impersonal, so inexorable. Was there a way to override another individual’s choice?

“Bye-bye, Mr. Ryker.” Freeman’s tone was snide.

“Wait! Hold on. I don’t expect you to buy what I’m saying, but what if God’s just waiting for you to give him a chance? Maybe I sensed the numbers so you could live a little longer. Like an early-warning system. The Bible says it’s ‘destined that each person dies only once.’ But it doesn’t say that date is written in stone. In fact, there are times God held death back. Times he seemed to change the plan.”

“And he’d do that for me?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Detective Freeman sniggered. “You’re a real nut case, you know that? I’ve lived my life, made my choices, and I don’t need some religious caped crusader swooping in to save the day. I became a detective to bring justice to this world, but you know what I’ve found? There’s no such thing. Life’s one huge septic tank, a godforsaken mess! And yes, Mr. Ryker, you can quote me on that.”

“Godforsaken, huh? Even though he’s trying to reach out to you?”

“You get more delusional by the minute.”

“August first, Detective Freeman.”

“Tell ’em to bury me with my eyes open. You can tell ’em I saw it coming.”

After conversations with the unnerving Mrs. Dixon and the irascible Detective Freeman, Clay was ready for a straightforward call.

The Holly Street apartment manager …

“Yeah, I’m wanting some information. Rates, move-in dates, and all that.”

“Don’t got any places available.” The voice was male, thin, and feeble.

“Popular place, huh?”

“We make do. I can give ya a number to call, place on the north end o’ town.”

“Actually, I had my eye on your second-floor apartment, the one on the corner.” Clay recited the number. “View of the park. Close to the video store. Private.”

“You know how to pick ’em, don’t ya?”

“Is it taken?”

“Did I say that?”

“If you give me the renters’ name or number, maybe I could talk to them about a roommate situation. Shared utilities, phone bill, whatever.” Clay realized the manager was no longer listening. To go along with the man’s muffled chuckles, Clay visualized an age-marked hand over colorless lips. “Did I say something funny? People make arrangements like that all the time.”

“It’s not that,” the manager said. “I take it you haven’t been in town long.”

“Grew up here actually. Just moved back from Wyoming.”

“You missed all the hubbub then. Still under investigation. You’re not one o’ them cops, are ya? They told me to keep my gums from flappin’ and let ’em know if I heard anything, anything at all.”

“About what?”

“You are a cop, I can tell. Well, good try there. Guess we’re done talkin’.”

Clay stared at the disconnected phone in his hand. By degrees, his day had gone from abnormal to bizarre. Welcome to his world.

At home that night he found two new bills and a phone message from Mylisha. For dinner his mother served a homemade Bartlett pear and Gorgonzola cheese pizza—not bad at all. Della explained her baking stone’s benefits while Clay thought about the coming days. The coming deaths.

Gerald rescued them both by demanding Clay’s help in clearing leaves from the gutters. They worked together, their words never moving beyond the chore’s logistics.

After a shower Clay called Mylisha back. He told her he was ready for real conversation and feedback, and she agreed to join him for a hike on his next day off.

Sunday. August first.

Even a freeman cannot run from the fate he deserves
.

Clay shoved aside his frustration with the detective. Although he remained concerned, he could not take on the responsibility of those who refused to listen; he must keep up a buffer, dulling his emotions for what lay ahead.

The Tattered Feather Gallery had aged with dignity. Situated on Southwest Second in Corvallis, the old two-story home featured local artists, and it appeared that the curator took oil paintings and sculptures on consignment. Myrtlewood clocks and carvings filled one wall; genuine Indian art pieces graced another, with a selection of dream catchers dangling in the front windows.

Dmitri filed these observations within seconds of crossing the threshold.

As a Russian, I appreciate fine works of the imagination. We lead the world in classic literature. We boast the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg
.

The strident cry of the front door’s electric eye did not surprise him. Art was worth protecting. He smiled at the lady behind the long glass counter, let his eyes linger on hers. He was here to find Josee Walker.

“I’m looking for the last Tsar,” he could say. “Please point way to the treasure.”

But of course that would never do. Americans were too self-absorbed to believe such a statement, and even if they did, they were too self-seeking to offer advice without reward.

He let his hand brush against the cell phone on his belt.

Cleaned, checked, loaded. He might have to do today’s work the hard way.

“Come on in, come on in,” said the lady at the counter. “I’m Suzette Bishop. Feel free to look around.”

“Spahseebah … Thank you.”

“You’re Russian? Oh, I do love the accent, love it. Are you a fan of Kandinsky, per chance?”

Dmitri Derevenko let his smile widen. This might not be so hard after all.

“I’m a fan of the Fabergé eggs. Do you have anything like this? Any replicas?”

“How odd that you should ask that. My assistant’s been engrossed with the same thing of late. Have you met Josee yet?”

Clay peeled off his gloves. His skin was damp with sweat. He ran his wrist down his cheekbone, swiped it across his blue canvas pants, looked both ways along the workbench. Digs was rolling a new stone toward the sandblasting area; Wendy was etching out a line of letters; Brent was loading blank slabs onto the hand truck.

Why worry? They would have no idea what he was doing.

Still, he felt the need for secrecy. As though he were about to peer into the crypts of the tombstones laid out before him.

He had to know. His fingers hovered over the first. Dropped down.

Clay recoiled from the distinct row of numbers, but they clung to touch receptors beneath his skin, shot off messages to his brain. He blinked once, reached for the next stone. More numerals. He checked his palm, but there was nothing to see. Cut by an invisible blade, each number throbbed below the surface. Who would believe him? Why should anyone listen?

He touched another slab. Another and another.

The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth—they were all the same.

A coming Tuesday … 
8.1.0.0.4

That was impossible. The date was already taken by Jason, Wendy, and Father Patrick. In a town this small, what were the odds of so many people dying in one day? There must be some mistake.

Clay pushed his fingers back into the gloves, continued his work.

Lunch break brought Wendy and him together at the time clock.

“Hi,” he said. “I don’t blame you for avoiding me the past few days, but I want you know I’m sorry for the way I acted in the Raven.”

“Just two adults sharing drinks.”

“I was rude, Wendy.”

“And I was a flirt, but it didn’t mean anything. Liquor can make a person do silly things.”

“Do you remember what I said to you?”

“Oh, I see. Gonna act like you forgot, Ryker? It’s the oldest trick in the book.”

“No tricks. I just want you to … be careful. Take it easy. Watch your step.”

“You’re making no sense.”

“On August tenth. Isn’t that the day I mentioned? I’m trying to protect you.”

“Stay away from me.” Wendy elbowed past him. “I heard what you said to Rhea and Mako that night, and look what happened to them. I don’t know what your trip is, but I’d feel more comfortable if you kept your distance. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

Digs caught a ride with Clay to the corner market.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “You got Wendy rattled.”

Clay shook his head, said nothing.

“You like drivin’ with those gloves on, Ryker? Can’t say that I’ve ever seen them come off. Must be a fixation with canvas, eh?”

Clay ripped them free, dropped them on the Duster’s seat.

“Okay, I might be a white-haired fool, but I can tell when a man’s all twisted up. You don’t hafta carry your burdens alone.” Digs shook his head. “Life ain’t a one-man show, you know?”