Expiration Date (6 page)

“And I’ll be doing what exactly?”

“Like I said, you’ll have to ask him.”

Clay tried not to react. This was his parents’ house, so it was only natural they’d nose into his decisions. He folded the half-read newspaper and pushed it across the table to his father.

In handling the newsprint, he realized he’d smudged his fingers with ink. He gazed at the stains, felt a quiver of foreboding, the same sensation he’d had after last night’s encounter with Summer.

She’d taken hold of his hand, and he’d felt indentations throb beneath his skin. Cryptic numbers. Ephemeral, yet undeniable.

6.2.1.0.4 …

Just like the incident with his mother … 
1.2.2.5.2.1 …

He forced the sequences from his mind like a bad dream.

“So, Dad, Blomberg’s open to this idea? He’s expecting me?”

“This Monday morning, the twenty-first. Eight o’clock.”

“And you didn’t think to ask me about it?”

“Job’s a job, Son.”

“Guess you’ve got it all mapped out for me.”

“Man’s gotta go out and make things happen. The least I can do.”

“The least.” Clay crossed his arms. “You know, maybe next time you could run it by me first. I’m not a kid anymore.”

Gerald looked up over the newspaper. “This your way of saying thanks?”

“It’s my way of letting you know I’ll be making my own decisions.” Clay pushed away from the table, wishing Jenni could hear this newfound candor. She’d said he couldn’t verbalize his feelings? Well, try this on for size.

“Listen,” Gerald said. “For the time being, you’re under my roof.”

“I understand that, but—”

“Good! I don’t need you to come in and tell me how to live my life.”

“Funny thing, Dad. I was trying to make the same point.”

Gerald’s fingers, white at the knuckles, twisted around the travel mug with the strength of a man who worked daily to the point of exhaustion—though the exhaustion was nowhere to be found in his flashing eyes. He coughed, spit twice into a handkerchief, which he returned to his pocket, then opened the sports section.

End of discussion.

Flashbacks of adolescence clouded Clay’s view of his father’s immobile form. The man meant well. Clay could almost hear Dr. Gerringer expounding the need for maturity:
Ironically, self-preservation finds its greatest ally in the survival of the social unit. You become a whole individual by becoming part of something larger than yourself …
And blah-dee-blah.

Clay cleared his throat. “Early Monday morning, Dad? I’ll be there.”

“Good.”

“Thanks. For trying to help. For finding me a job.”

“Here.” Gerald slapped the paper down on the table. “Take your stuff.” Clay looked down. There between sports pages four and five, a generic white envelope bore his name in black block letters.

Mylisha was exhausted. She couldn’t believe she’d caved in again, staying at her sister’s place in Eugene. She’d done it for her niece and nephew. She’d slept fitfully on the couch, wondering about Clay, waiting for Shanique.

At five thirty in the morning, Shanique had plunked down on the cushions.

She reeked of smoke and perspiration. She sounded cheery, bragging about a group of businessmen who’d wandered over from the Hilton. “They’s in town for some convention.” A sharp laugh. “And some sightseeing. These boys was throwin’ down the benjamins, you know what I’m saying.”

Mylisha sat up, pulled on her shoes. “The kids fell asleep around midnight,”
she said, “and both got baths. Tyrone wouldn’t eat a bite of dinner though.”

“Yeah, he be like that sometimes. Never can tell wit’ dat one.”

“Shanique?”

“I know, I shoulda been home sooner.”

“Tyrone asked about you.”

“Me?”

“ ‘What kind of work does my mama do? Where she go?’ he wanted to know. ‘Ain’t no stores open in da middle of da night, not dat I seen.’ I couldn’t do it, couldn’t lie to him. I told him he’d have to talk to you.”

“Mylisha, baby, you don’t gotta cover for your li’l sister.”

“He’s six. He’s a smart kid.”

“Don’t you worry ’bout nothin’.”

“Why would I worry?” Mylisha gathered her college books and homework, tried to keep bitterness from seeping into her words. “Things’ll work out for you, Shanique. They always do.”

“I know
dat’s
right. The Good Lord takes care of his own.”

As Mylisha headed back to Junction City, she mulled over Summer’s words, Clay’s presence in town, Shanique’s situation. She turned onto Maple Street. Along the curb, between two police cars and an unmarked vehicle, a tow truck was hefting a red Honda Prelude with a missing door. Dark stains dotted the pavement underneath.

Missed. Missed again.

Man, what’s wrong with me? That stupid envelope’s throwing me off
.

Still wearing his boxers, Clay Ryker found his mark at the free throw line in the driveway. With exaggerated patience, he bounced the basketball once more, bent his knees and cradled the ball, felt its leathery surface on his fingertips. Fixing his eyes on the back of the rim, he let the energy climb through his legs and shoulders and hands, then propelled the ball in a graceful arc toward the red metal hoop.

Ka-lunk-ah-thunka-thunk …
Denied again.

He was out of practice, true, but he never missed free throws. Certainly not three in a row.

Where had the envelope come from? Who had sent it? The Rykers’ property was on the outskirts of town, but the sender must’ve been on the premises this very morning, slipping the note between the newspaper’s pages. Gerald had been up and about, but maybe it’d happened while he was mowing.

Regardless, someone had been out here. Someone who knew Clay’s secret.

How was that possible?

Clay tore the envelope from the elastic at the back of his shorts and once more read the hand-scrawled message.

Fear punched Clay in the chest. He wanted to discount the handwritten words, but they touched on the truth. Someone
knew
. He
had
pushed down his “secrets”—literally. He
had
run from that “one bill”—all the way to Wyoming.

Here he was back in JC, and the past had resurrected.

Or maybe it had never really died.

Moving to the side of the garage, he shredded the note and then shoved it deep into the garbage can full of lawn clippings. Burying his sins. It was what he did best.

Clay watched a man with a hand truck browse through blank headstones. Monday morning at Glenleaf Monument Company. Compared to Clay’s satellite mapping business in Cheyenne, this place was hopping. If the gravel lot was a desk, the stacks of stones were reams of paper, ready for appropriate data, waiting to be filed into the graveyard for safekeeping.

Another life. Another death. Sinners and saints.

“You catching all this?” Stan Blomberg asked. “Think you can handle the job?”

“Yes, Mr. Blomberg.”

He followed his new boss into a corrugated metal building where black marble slabs and white crosses rolled over chest-high runners toward a sandblasting chamber. Annoyed by the interruption, two men and a woman looked up, steel hooks and rollers poised in canvas-gloved hands.

When Blomberg explained that Clay would be joining the team, the woman’s look changed into a shy smile. Clay shook hands with the male workers, then gave a sharp nod.

He issued a softer nod to the lady. She could read into it what she wanted.

“Then after the lettering’s been etched,” Blomberg was explaining, “and the stones’ve been sent through the sandblaster, they come here to be brushed and sealed. It’s vital that we get the lettering peeled correctly. Our work around here is as unto the Lord. A sacred task. Now see this right here? This is what happens when we get rushed. Are you guys getting paid to cost me money?” he barked. “You gonna show Ryker here how it’s done, or do I have to come back and show him myself? For the life of me! See that nick? That’s where the blaster found their mistake. You think the grieving parents want that on their little one’s stone?”

The words tugged at Clay. Jason’s face swam into focus.

“You with me, Ryker? You grasping the nature of this job?”

“More than you know.”

“Glad to hear it. Because,” Blomberg prattled on, “when mistakes like this happen, we gotta start all over again. A stone wasted. Money dribbled down the drain. And if that happens too often that means less for me. And when there’s less for me, I become a real bear … which is no picnic, let me warn you now. Instead of smiling and throwing you a bone for a job well done, I start breathing down your neck. If that doesn’t do the trick, I kick your can through the front gate, and you find yourself hoping and praying you don’t stumble into me in the Bi-Mart parking lot anytime soon.”

Clay gave a laugh, recognizing humor’s ability to communicate a point.

Blomberg stared at him.

“I get your meaning, sir.”

“I hope so. You’re Gerald Ryker’s son, and I’m bringing you on ’cause I owe him a favor. Your qualifications have diddly to do with it. Warning you now that if you let me down, you’ll let your old man down. I’ll show no mercy. You gonna laugh again?”

“No sir.”

“Good thing, because I’m serious as a heart attack.”

“I’m here to work. Show me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

Blomberg weighed this riposte, pursed his lips, then clapped a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Get to it. What’re you standing around for?” He pointed back along the runners. “Digs … he’s the guy with the fuzzy ears. He’ll show you the way we do things around here.”

“Digs?”

“He’s been called that as long as I can remember. He can tell you the story if he wants. No loitering though, not on my clock, not on my payroll. You got that?”

“Your time is precious. Got it, Mr. Blomberg.”

“Please, A.G., be seated.”

“You first.”

Exerting his authority, Asgoth placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder and
guided him through the Burlington Depot toward a corner table. All around, townsfolk conversed over hotcakes and sausage links. Monde slid into a seat, craned his neck for a view through the window. On the opposite street corner, the Finnish locomotive stood on display, freshly painted yet largely overlooked.

“Engine 418.” Monde whistled. “Quite a specimen, I must say.”

Asgoth nodded, afraid his voice would betray his obsession with the train. The fact he had stumbled upon it here, halfway around the world, suggested an appointment with destiny.

The Consortium demanded of him a hundred thousand dollars. Based on time-tested formulas, this meant two thousand per citizen or ten percent of Junction City’s average annual income.

Seed money for turned eyes and deaf ears.

If the tales were true, this train held the key to riches far beyond that. Enough to sow corruption throughout the entire county—perhaps the entire state.

“Is it true, A.G., that the train is cursed?”

Asgoth snapped his head around. “How do you—”