Expiration Date (62 page)

He realized the driver was not honking at him but at the logging truck coming down the hill in the other lane. The big rig was on the edge of control, hurtling along, swerving across the middle line. In a prolonged low tone, its air horn burped.

Clay took a step over but kept his basic position.

The rig slipped farther over, loaded with gigantic Douglas fir trees.

The logging truck was a medieval steed. Armored and trained for war, the truck relied on horsepower to make its charge at the enemy. Riding on its back upon a saddle of chains, Asgoth was a knight shrouded in ghoulish wisps and Bill Scott’s argyle vest, guiding the stripped tree trunks like deadly lances toward the oncoming vehicle.

Of course, the rig’s real driver was in the cab: Darnell Rigsby. According to the airbrushed name on the driver’s door.

Like most humans left alone for hours at a time, Darnell had latched on to a vice or two. This made it easy. Asgoth had hopped from Henna’s car onto this truck going the other direction and, within moments, devised a distraction. He’d harnessed his energy for a brief knock against the glove box, which released the hatch and dropped a stack of Darnell’s adult magazines onto the passenger seat and floorboards.

“Not again,” Darnell grumbled. “Somebody’s been messin’ with that latch.”

His eyes darted over. Swiveled down. Hovered over the splayed pages.

This is too easy
, Asgoth thought.

Darnell pulled his eyes back to the road, saw how far he’d veered off course. He shouted as he tried to bring his vehicle back under control on the wet descent.

Clay needed transportation, or his family might be gone forever. He waved and yelled. In the uphill lane, the smaller vehicle materialized, a white and glistening pickup with probing headlights and thrashing wipers. A face moved behind the glass, turned up toward the logging truck. With no room for escape along this narrow mountain road, a collision seemed inevitable.

The pickup fishtailed, and Clay heard brakes stuttering. He scrambled away, felt water whip his thigh as the vehicle slid diagonally, riding rain-slick asphalt.

Clay was on his knees. The logging rig plunged past.

Beside him, the smaller vehicle rammed its nose into the Duster’s back fender.

In one tortured movement, Clay’s old beater crunched into the guardrail, side panels scraping, glass and fluids spitting. The white pickup plowed it forward so that it climbed over twisted metal, then dipped down as if for a peek into the gorge. The back end flipped free, and the Duster somersaulted from the precipice.

In a slow uphill slide, the pickup also reached the edge. Three tires clung to road and rail, while one stretched over space in a farewell wave to the car. Across the steering wheel, the driver was sprawled in an awkward position.

Clay ran toward the driver. The logging truck had almost killed them both.

If it weren’t for my car sitting here, this guy would’ve gone over the edge!

Asgoth bellowed. How had Clay known to park his car at that spot?

Furious, he rose into the wind-swept mist, dashed forward along the rough spines of the fir trees. He dove over the top of Darnell Rigsby’s cab and clasped the driver’s side windshield wiper. Drawing on his last dregs of physical substance, Asgoth resisted the mechanical motion so that raindrops slathered over the glass.

Darnell was flicking at the wiper controls. Cursing.

His loaded trailer was jackknifing across the highway. Twisting over. Grinding onto its side. Chains snapping like rubber bands and logs bursting loose.

The cab also flipped onto its side. By the time the trailer piled into a mound of moist earth and gnarled roots, Darnell was curled into a protective ball. He would walk away with only bruises.

But the oncoming Nissan was no match for fourteen tons of rolling Douglas firs.

The female driver was killed instantly.

Although unplanned, the moment worked in Asgoth’s favor. From the car’s description, he realized the driver was none other than Kate Preston, which left her son, thirteen-year-old Kenny, all alone.

Asgoth watched the wreck for confirmation. Waited.

From the crushed car, a wisp of light ascended and fluttered heavenward. Repentant or otherwise, all souls made the same initial journey that would take them before the One who had sacrificed his Son for all. Would this woman find her name already inscribed there on the Son’s nail-scarred hands?

Kate Preston …

Barely a whisper in the wind.

Joining the whisper, sounds of a far-off, joyous celebration gave Asgoth the answer he’d feared.

The rain clouds were moving away. Through thinning sheets of moisture, the white truck’s driver was groggy, half-conscious, yet easily identifiable through the side window.

“Dad?” Clay tried the handle, but it was jammed. “Dad, can you hear me?”

From the Dodge pickup’s deployed airbag, Gerald Ryker lifted his face. Dazed. Still breathing. His stern jaw could not hide his expression of relief.

Clay tried the ignition. The Dodge rumbled, hissed, and fumed. Came to life. With his dad’s pocketknife, he cut away the spent airbag. With a hand on the emergency brake, he shifted into reverse. The guardrail tried to hold its captive, but the four-wheel drive kicked in, yanking the truck back until the suspended tire was on solid ground once again.

“Front end’s a mess,” Gerald said. “Radiator’s leaking.”

“Think we’re good to go? For a couple of miles at least?”

“Hard to say. You’ll have to drive, Son.”

“I should take you somewhere, to a hospital or a clinic.”

“We’re already late, Clay. And your son’s safety is at stake. My grandson.”

Minutes earlier Gerald had hobbled from the truck, braced his arms against the side to gather his bearings, refused to give voice to his obvious pain. Traffic had continued in both directions, with drivers slowing to gawk. Two had offered assistance, but Gerald had declined after hearing of Clay’s dilemma. Years ago, through Mr. Blomberg, Gerald had become aware of Henna’s behavioral aberrations, and he knew this situation was no joking matter.

“This yours?” Gerald rounded the truck’s nose, set a green ammo box on the passenger seat. “Found it on the ground between the tires.”

“Yes!”

Clay flipped open the lid, saw the cash was still inside. He moved his GPS from his pocket into the box. With these items, he’d make the exchange at Belknap Springs.

The dash clock told him he was already twelve minutes late.

“They’d better be here,” Clay said.

Steam hissed from the truck’s overheated engine as they coasted into the
lodge’s parking area. He spotted a Subaru in a parking lane. Was it Henna’s?

“Twenty-six minutes late.”

“Thanks, Dad. As if I don’t know that.”

Clay was familiar with Belknap Springs Lodge. As a kid, he’d been here with his family on a number of occasions, as well as on a high school senior skip day. The property included a number of campsites and cabins clinging to a hillside, a beautifully renovated lodge with animal carvings guarding the perimeter, and an assortment of tended gardens. The chief attraction, however, had always been the natural hot springs, which were piped into a fenced, man-made pool facing the river.

Early Friday morning … 
8.1.3.0.4
.

Aside from thick vapor floating above the pool, the place was still.

“I’m supposed to meet her in there. By the pool.”

“It’s closed, Son. Locked. We’ll have to check at the front desk.”

“No. They’ll make us wait until it opens.”

“I’ll see what they say.”

“Sure. Fine.” Clay watched his father shuffle toward the grand front entrance, shook his head. His old man could be so stubborn, so unfeeling.

Clay clipped his cell phone to his belt. He grabbed the ammo box and circumvented the lodge. He could see a footbridge spanning the McKenzie River, casting a deep green shadow upon white-capped currents. Through a wire gate around the pool, mist seeped outward and blocked any view of the heated surface. One hard rattle proved the gate was locked.

“Henna?”

The clouds were dispersing before the rising sun. Warm rays slipped over the hilltops, between the tree branches.

“Henna, are you here?”

A bird chirped from the opposing bank.

“Jenni? Jason?”

A breeze coursed down from the mountains, tracing the river’s path, churning the steam above the pool. Clay peered through the mist. Saw two gray garbage bags floating in the water. Tied off at the ends, cumbersome and misshapen, they looked as if they contained human bodies—one medium sized and one small.

He screamed out the names of his wife and son. He dropped the ammunition box, clawed his way over the wire fence, and barely noticed the metal end that gouged at his thigh and tore away his cell phone. Adrenaline, keeping pace with his fear and anger, raced through his limbs. He dropped to the concrete. Fully clothed, he dove into the pool.