Expiration Date (48 page)

“Piles of bills. Mr. Clay Ryker’s in a financial bind.”

An idea stirred Asgoth’s zeal. “So far Clay’s choices have caused us delays. What does history tell us, though? Money, or the lack thereof, can be as dangerous as a loaded gun. The fall of the stock market, Japanese business failures, the era of the Great Depression—they’ve all provoked suicides in high numbers.”

“Self-sacrifice,” Henna said.

“We can’t wait for Monde any longer. I say we channel our energies to this situation. Clay’s proven he’s no fool. But didn’t your mother say that his
wife and son will be heading this way for the festival? He’ll be more prone to depression.”

“Let Jenni die, for all I care.”

“Exactly. We’ll tighten the screws, and I’m sure Clay’ll see what must be done.”

Gerald’s Miller Lite called out from the refrigerator. Clay stood in the kitchen doorway, eyeballing his options while refusing to dwell on Mylisha’s spilled secrets. As a means of reciprocal healing, he’d shared with her most of his own recent quandaries.

Hoping to expel the junk. To cleanse his system.

Mostly he wanted to forget.

After walking Mylisha to her door, he had found a voice message on his phone in the Duster. Local police. Could he stop by at ten in the morning to discuss Detective Freeman’s death? The man had been found floating in his boat on the McKenzie.

A random accident? A sovereign act?

With taste buds anticipating his first cold swig, Clay set his hand on the fridge’s handle, but a swish of cloth turned him back toward the hallway.

“Dear?”

“Mom, you’re still up.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yep. A-Okay.”

“You’ve been out most the day. I was beginning to worry.”

“I’m a big boy, remember?”

“But you’re my big boy.” Della’s hand stroked his upper arm. “And you’ve given us a few scares of late.”

He rolled his eyes, turned back toward the fridge. Pretenses were pointless. He snapped a beer can from the little plastic thingamajig, ready to weather his mother’s protests. In the morning it would all be but a dream.

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream …

Della clasped her arms around her waist. “You’re acting just like your father, Clay. You clam up, then shut out the women who truly love you.”

He went through the motions of pouring himself a drink.

“By the way, Jenni called for you again.”

Clay’s longed-for inebriation crashed to a halt. “Today?”

“While you were out, yes. I hope you don’t squander these last chances to set things right.”

“It takes two, Mom.”

“Precisely my point.”

Clay tossed the empty can into the recycling bin under the sink.

“You also missed our afternoon visitors,” Della said. “Mrs. Dixon and her daughter stopped by to say hello. Henna says you need a woman around. She thought your room was a horrifying mess.”

“You let her go in there? Mom!”

“No, not exactly. Her mother and I were looking through the new Avon catalog, and I believe Henna just poked her head in on her way back from the ladies’ room.”

Revulsion welled in Clay’s throat. He swallowed against it.

“Eat, drink, and be merry,” he said with a caustic chuckle. He sipped at the foam in his glass. “For tomorrow we die.”

“Please get some sleep, doll. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind.” Without waiting for a reply, Della strode back to the room at the end of the hall.

Clay’s cell phone vibrated on the counter.

“Mylisha, whassup?”

“You’ll think I’m a pest soon enough, but I had to share this with you. Actually, I got a sense—from the Lord, I think—that you should hear this right away.”

He swirled the glass, creating a frothy whirlpool.

“I told you about the Langston Hughes poems I like to read. Listen here. This is from one called ‘Little Old Letter.’ Made me think of those notes you’ve been getting.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Says that you don’t need traditional weapons when you’ve got the power
of pencil and paper to issue threats. As a whole, I know the poem refers to my people’s history, full of racial threats and violence, but I think it applies to your situation too.”

“Go on.”

“Don’t you see, Clay? If Henna is the writer of those notes, she’s using fear as a tactic. Using pencil and paper to goad you on. You were the man she always wanted for her own, but she lost out. So now she’s pushing you to the edge, hoping you’ll make that final jump. The incident at Crater Lake? That was by design.”

“Almost worked.”

“Since she can’t have you, she’s trying to make sure no one else can.”

“Jenni.” Clay’s throat squeezed tight. “She’ll be coming in a week or so.”

“I’d keep an eye on her, if I were you. You’re still here for a reason, boy. I suggest you don’t waste it.”

“I’m so tired of this.”

“Nobody finishes a race without getting weary, Mr. Ryker. Sound familiar?”

“Okay, okay. I deserved that one.”

They ended the call. He stared at his drink and slurped once more at the foam.

Like you have time to drink, Claymeister. You’ve got people’s lives to consider
.

He tipped the glass into the sink and watched amber liquid spiral down the drain.

As a habit, Dmitri did not remember his dreams; when he did, however, they flowed with symbolic and prophetic meaning.

He tossed one leg from the Best Western bed and pushed himself into a seated position. Other than the air conditioner’s purr, the morning was still. He considered his dream’s images. Horses. Snakes and skulls. Monochromatic charcoal gray panels.

Dmitri recognized certain elements …

In Russian folklore, a soothsayer had once told a man named Oleg that his horse would be the cause of his demise. Thus warned, Oleg never rode the
horse again. When at last his horse died, he stamped scornfully on its skull, but a snake that nested within struck back with poisonous fangs. Oleg died as had been foretold.

Here in the present, Dmitri’s partner from the Brotherhood bore the same name.

What did this mean? Was the cherub-cheeked man courting death?

At the bathroom sink, he splashed water over his face and rubbed away thoughts of the dream with a towel. On his hips, his angel hovered with spread wings, ready to guide and protect. Assuring him of preordained success.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Ryker.”

“My boss wasn’t too thrilled,” Clay said, “but he’ll survive.”

Oops. Better leave the dark humor back at the job
.

The blue-uniformed man said, “I’m Officer Kelso.”

They shook hands, then both men let their arms drop with looks of sudden comprehension. Kelso’s eyes slid past Clay’s shoulder, his unspoken question hanging over the interview room.

“Don’t worry,” Clay reassured the man, “it’s not anytime soon.”

“I wouldn’t want to know. So it’s true? With just one touch, you can tell?”

“Yep, seems that way.”

“We have it on tape, your conversation with Detective Freeman.” Kelso whistled. “Especially eerie the way you predicted that one.”

“Not sure I’d call it a prediction.”

“Call it what you will, but all of us here at the station sat up straight after watching that clip. Not one of us knew about the detective’s condition. He was a straight shooter—no bull, just the facts—so most of us are convinced there was no trickery in the exchange between you two. A few don’t know what to think.”

“Put me in that second group.”

“But you were on the money. On top of that, we have signed affidavits from people down at the Raven who heard you foretell Rhea Deering’s and Mako’s deaths.” Kelso propped himself on the edge of the interview table.
“Which means we have a dilemma. Understand this, if we try to use your … psychic powers—”

“No, not psychic. I’m not into that stuff.”

“Alien telepathy, Nostradamus channeling—whatever term you use, it’s categorically spooky. We’d cause a panic if we unleashed you on the townspeople. Some would want to hang you, while others’d want to bronze you and kiss your feet.”

Clay pointed. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Sure thing.” Kelso rubbed his hands against his uniform. “Do you see my point? If we don’t say a word and we let someone die, we might be held responsible. On the other hand, if we do say something and it provokes extreme or negligent behavior, then we’ll face another sort of liability.”

“These things’ve been running constantly through my mind.”

“I’m sure they have, Mr. Ryker. You a religious man at all? Maybe the higher power’s got his hands full, and now he’s doing a bit of micromanaging, using you to spread the load. Or maybe there is no such power.”

Clay squirmed in the wooden chair. “If there’s no God, how do we explain this?”

“Chance. Sheer dumb luck. Chaos theory.”

“And if there’s no such thing as good or evil, what does it matter? A negotiable moral code, based on the needs of the moment and the individual?”

“Hey, let’s not get too deep with this.”

“Deep? You have no idea, Officer. My mind’s been racked with this stuff for weeks now. We’re barely scratching the surface.”

“Not my cross to bear, buddy.”

“Try this on,” Clay snapped. “I know at least a half-dozen people who are going to die a week from Tuesday. I don’t know how, when, why, where—nothing. Just that their dates have come up. Time to kick the ol’ bucket.”

Officer Kelso pushed a legal pad across the table.

“What’s this for?” Clay said.

“Give us names and dates. We’ll make a concerted effort to intervene.”

“I hope you’re not just messin’ with me. I took off work to come—”

“Not at all, Mr. Ryker. We’re taking this seriously. Although we don’t like
to make a fuss of such things, the department’s used clairvoyants in the past.”

“Clairvoyants? Do you see me wearing a turban or swami robes?”

Kelso forced a smile. “You’d be surprised. Some of them dress much nicer than you. And believe me, when it comes to missing children, we’re willing to resort to such measures. In the world of law enforcement, we rub shoulders with the paranormal quite frequently, good and bad. If pushed, most of us will admit we’ve seen inexplicable things. Blame it on what you will—the occult or the divine, drugs or faith healing—but the stuff’s out there. An unsettling reality.”

“I can’t argue. The Bible describes a struggle between darkness and light.”

“If it works for you, stick with it. In this case, Mr. Ryker, we have the chance to effect a positive change. That’s not always so. We’re willing to give it a shot this one time if you’re willing to work with us and keep it strictly confidential.”

For a moment Clay felt possessive. This was his gift, his obligation. Could he risk involving others? What if they failed?

August 10, 2004 … Jason, Digs, Wendy, Father Patrick, Mylisha—who else?

“We’re as nervous as you are,” Kelso confessed. “If this doesn’t work, the department’ll wash their hands of the deal. Bad press? We can do without it. This town’s been under enough scrutiny already.”

Clay stared at the blank legal pad. The rows of lines begged to be filled, and he wondered what would happen if he strolled the streets—touching, detecting, recording.