Expiration Date (49 page)

Would it matter? Death was inevitable. At some point it swallowed everyone.

Sure, he’d challenged God’s hand in the past. He’d even convinced himself that if he were in charge, if he were omniscient, he would step in at every point of personal tragedy to create a world of never-ending tranquillity. When laws were broken, when rights were violated, he would administer quick and fair punishment. Where inequality and greed abounded, he would scatter the wealth to be shared by all.

But of course, not everyone could have his or her way. It would become a mess.

Maybe it’s better not knowing. Walking blindly. By faith
.

In the Garden of Eden, yes, the knowledge of good and evil had seduced humanity’s mother and father. Their eyes had been opened—a backlash that continued to this day. They had succumbed to their desire to be like God.

Satan’s same pitfall.

Clay thought first of Detective Freeman’s refusal to receive help, then of his own prostrate form, vomiting into the dirt outside the tavern. He could see his hands shoving Bill from the bridge in rage and later pulling his own body down into the hellish depths of Crater Lake. How could he deny the results of mankind’s first seduction?

Good and evil—they’re on practically every corner. We each have a choice
.

He looked at Officer Kelso. “I’ll do it.”

Dmitri watched from across the street. He’d been told Josee would open the shop.

On Monday, he had found the art gallery closed. He’d passed the day at the Corvallis Public Library, pleased by the selection of Russian classics. He’d spent many similar hours in Ekaterinburg among Belinski Library’s fifteen million volumes.

Today, however, he was ready for action.

In the mirror he admired the way his morning shave seemed to brighten his blue eyes; his hair was combed back; he wore a belt with loose-fitting trousers and a white tank top beneath a light tan jacket.

On his hip the Maksalov VI cell phone was a comforting weight.

He took another bite of the bread from a local bakery. Nibbling, he saw a station wagon bearing the Tattered Feather’s logo pull into the driveway.

Out jumped Josee Walker, keys dangling from a wrist strap.

He’d seen her photos, watched her on the vault videotape, but in person she looked smaller. Baggy corduroys swirled around her legs, while a sweatshirt with cutaway seams disguised her shape. A silver hoop clung to her eyebrow.

He gave her a few minutes to settle into her routine, then moved across Southwest Second and up the gallery’s steps.

Clay was back on the roller coaster. He’d left a message yesterday at Jenni’s office in Cheyenne, but she hadn’t called back. Was she ignoring him? Should he wait? Try again?

Nope. He refused to come off looking desperate.

He swigged from a fruit juice bottle and settled into the break room’s sofa.

“Still no luck?” Digs plopped down beside him.

“She’s the one who called. But hey, I’m not lettin’ it get to me.”

“That so? Well, Ryker, I’ll buy that the same day I buy tickets to the moon.”

“Look who’s bugging me now,” Clay said, but without malice.

“You need a diversion, somethin’ to take your mind off the women in your life.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Next Tuesday,” Digs said. “C’mon down after work, shoot some pool with me. Place over in Harrisburg, they got a little tourney goin’ on. Think on it, and let me know.”

“I’ll do that.”

At the moment Clay was more concerned about letting Officer Kelso know. He’d agreed to collect information on August tenth’s potential victims, including their activities for a week from today, travel arrangements, companions, work schedules. Local detectives were making inquiries as well, establishing possible connections between those on Clay’s list.

“Ryker, you awake? Got a woman on hold for ya. Line four.” Digs wiggled his furry white eyebrows.

Clay dashed to the phone between the trailer’s drinking fountain and rest room.

“This is Clay.”

Jenni’s voice was warm, compliant. “Sorry I missed your call yesterday. Had to drive down to Denver. Is this a bad time? I was trying to catch you on your break, but it sounds like you just ran in from the shop.”

“It’s you, Jenni,” he said. “You always take my breath away.”

Extra cheesy. What am I thinking?

The distance stretched along the phone lines, but Jenni’s soft laugh erased it in a moment. “That was goofy, Clay.”

“Yeah, I thought so too.”

“I’m glad we’re speaking. That’s a good thing. For Jason’s sake especially.”

“And for our sakes too. Twelve years together. We can’t make that disappear.”

“Do I like your assertive new approach? I don’t know. What’re you aiming for, Clay? We’re only a few signatures from putting those years to rest once and for all.”

“That’s what you said a few months ago.”

“Your point being?”

“Maybe we’re not supposed to do this. I still think about you, about us.” Clay leaned his forehead into the wall. “I’ve been weighing a lot of things lately. I deserve most of the junk you wanna throw my way, the late hours and the loneliness, the …” He closed his eyes. “The things I couldn’t provide.”

“I don’t hold that against you. Didn’t I try to tell you that last time? You held it against yourself, then made Jason and me pay for it.”

“How?” he barked. “Tell me how Jason paid? I never did anything to—”

“Exactly. You were so busy trying to punish yourself, you had no time left for your son. Playing Xbox once a week doesn’t qualify in my book.”

“Ask Jason if it qualifies. He complains that you never play it with him.”

Jenni heaved a sigh into the phone. “Now we’re exchanging insults.”

“You just don’t wanna hear it, do you?”

“Clay. Listen. I still care for you.”

“And vice versa,” he growled.

“We’re two wounded people. It’s normal to strike out in self-protection.”

“Is that so? Boy, you’re good at this psychoanalysis. Where were you when I was paying for visits to Dr. Gerringer? You could’ve saved me a bundle.”

“You’re underlining my point.”

“What is the point again?” Clay painted the picture in his mind: Jenni’s soft freckles scrunched together beneath green eyes, her left cheek puckered as she chewed on her mouth in thought.

“I’m bringing the settlement papers. I know I could send them, but honestly, I’m not sure I’d get them back in an expedient fashion. And”—she gathered her breath—“I’m going to be a little later than planned. Jason and I won’t be leaving until the tenth, which means we’ll arrive on the twelfth.”

“Here a number, there a number. What do I care?”

“I knew you’d be upset.”

“Please, just promise me you won’t drive on the tenth. You know I’m not
usually superstitious, but it’s a bad feeling I have. Maybe you could lock yourselves in a bed-and-breakfast somewhere. Relax, stay inside. But don’t go swimming, I beg you.”

“Clay, I need to run.”

“Yeah, same here.”

“If you’d like to call Jason, we’ll be home the next few nights.”

“And you’ll let him pick up?”

“He needs to hear from his daddy.”

Clay gave a tight-throated affirmative.

As Dmitri walked through the gallery’s door, Josee Walker glanced up. Her greeting was dispassionate, but he could feel her earnest scrutiny, the way she took him apart and put him back together again.

Damaged idealists were good at this, he thought. Cynically intuitive.

I, too, use high ideals to purify my actions
.

He made a circuitous approach, from one art display to the next. Her feline presence demanded that he give her time to adjust. At the counter he kept his head down and asked if the gallery carried any Russian artifacts.

“Got anything specific in mind?”

“Fabergé. You know this name?” Dmitri turned his eyes upward, intending to weaken Josee. He faltered instead as her eyes absorbed the sparkle in his own, taking on a deep shade of turquoise.

“Heard of it,” she said.

“The store owner said you have studied the Fabergé eggs.”

“Suzette said what? Okay, yeah, they intrigue me. Not that it’s an obsession or anything.”

Dmitri had to break away his gaze. “Perhaps I misunderstood. Suzette insisted that you could help me find information on the imperial treasures. I was born in Ekaterinburg, the city where the Tsars were murdered, so this is also intriguing to me.”

“You grew up there?”

“Da. It was a lot of history for a young boy.”

“Have you been to the Cathedral-of-the-Blood?”

Dmitri gave a knowing nod. “You are a history buff, I see. As a child I also saw the House of Fabergé in Moscow, with granite pillars and much—what is the word?—opulence. Do you know this? There are still twelve eggs missing from the collection. Some of the creations no longer have hidden treasures inside. They’ve disappeared over the years, stolen or lost.”

“You seem to know a lot about them.”

“It is Mother Russia’s pride and joy. My heritage.”

“Well. Maybe you can help me. You can read Russian, right?”

“But of course. What is this help you seek?”

Josee folded her arms on the counter’s wood molding, her eyebrow ring shifting as she leaned toward him. “I’ll tell you a secret, but I swear, if you whisper a word of it, I’ll have to hurt you.”

Dmitri waited. His pulse throbbed in his temples.

“I think I might have an original,” she said. “Dated 1917.”

“A Fabergé? Here?” His eyes darted around the showroom.

“No! Do you think I’m whacked in the head? Not here, but not far. I have questions about it, things that aren’t recorded in any of the official records. Maybe you could fill in some of the blanks. Do you think you could take a look?”

He shrugged in a show of mild interest. “If you’d like, da. I can look.”

“That’d be cool.”

“Where is it?”

“You think I’d tell you? We’re talking about a stinkin’ gold mine.”

“Very valuable,” he agreed. “We can do it now if you’d like. I am free.”

“Hmm. I’m on shift. Fridays, though, I don’t have to be here till two.”

They made arrangements to meet, with Josee warning Dmitri to keep it between the two of them. On the way to the car, he touched his hip and whispered thanks to his angel for directing his steps so favorably.

I should’ve checked this out earlier
, Clay scolded himself.

After a long day at Glenleaf and a short phone conversation with Jason—
it was bedtime in Wyoming—Clay changed into dark clothes and grabbed a flashlight. He parked his Duster in the Dari Mart parking lot, jogged across Ivy, and cut over to the bank on Sixth and Holly.

From the back corner he spied the apartment Henna had visited a few nights ago. The windows were dark this evening.

Was Henna Dixon up there? With her unidentified partner?

Clay decided he should stroll up the stairs to the dilapidated walkway. He could listen at the door. If it opened, he’d move on quickly as though headed for a friend’s place down the way. Better than sitting out here as a mosquito snack.