Expiration Date (7 page)

“Don’t look so shocked. For quite some time, I’ve known of her link to our past, but I’ve kept the information to myself. Here and there, I’ve heard whispers that ancient forces stand watch over her secrets.”

“Misfortune and grief to all but the innocent.”

Monde seemed riveted by the recitation of the curse.

“More than a few times I’ve tried to go on board,” Asgoth said.

“The result being?”

“It’s impossible, as if it reads your intentions. It’s like being impaled on a fence crafted from spears of fire. But listen, Monde, take a crack at it. If pain’s your thing, you’ll enjoy every second.”

“I tried this morning,” Monde confessed. “It hurt like hell.”

“Which means we have to find someone innocent enough to help.”

“Innocence is a misnomer. It doesn’t exist.”

“Not in the way most think, but I may’ve found a young boy who fits the bill.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t meet the fate of your earlier failures.”

“I … I don’t know what you mean, Monde.”

“Oh, but you have no reason to hide it. We’ve all lost a friend or two.”

“You mean William? He was my best friend. My only friend at the time.”

“And you let him die a premature death.”

“Are you implying I was at fault?”

“Merely stating the obvious.”

A waitress approached the table with place settings in hand.

Asgoth erupted. “What does it take to get some privacy here?”

She never even looked at him. The dishes clattered in her hands, and she hurried off, spooked by the outburst.

Monde crossed one leg over the other, then rested his wrists together on his knee. “Are you trying to convince me you shared no blame in William’s death? Are you going to tell me you were the victim? In fact, you should’ve prevented it.”

This was absurd. Why should he, Asgoth, need to explain himself? Yes, he was the victim; even the Consortium had acknowledged so after their investigation.

In a rush the memories came back …

Twelve years ago along the riverbank. A face with sightless eyes.

Only one other person knew all that had transpired that day, and once Clay Ryker understood the weight of his obligation, once his darkest sin was exposed, he would have no choice but to offer himself as a sacrifice.

“Listen, Monde, let’s stay focused on what’s ahead.”

The black-haired agent tilted his head in agreement. “I’m listening.”

“Here it is, a list of my most promising contacts. This is where you fit in, with your ability to uncover the human psyche’s frailties. Your job will be to identity their most exploitable faults.”

“A rewarding task.” Monde perused the list. “Let’s see, this first name here … Mitchell Coates. Is this correct, that he’s sixty-eight years old?”

“Is that a problem?”

“A problem? No. A challenge? Certainly. It’s quite the paradox, isn’t it, that the elderly ones often show the least weakness of all.”

Asgoth smirked. “His wife’s still alive. I’m sure she could play a role.”

The bin of Molly bolts was depleted. Just his luck. Done with his first week on the job, Clay meant to grab a few supplies at the hardware store on his way home. Rather than compete with his old man for the remote, he’d wall-mount a TV in his old bedroom. A little weekend entertainment. First, he needed the items to secure the set.

“Can I help you find anything?”

Clay shook his head.

The lady in the Ace Hardware uniform informed him the store would be closing in five minutes. “I’ll be able to ring you up at the front register.”

“Ready to call it a day?”

“Definitely. My feet’re aching.”

“I’ll make it quick.”

Clay turned to scan another row of fasteners, stumbled, and almost ran into a portly man in a buttoned shirt and sagging canvas pants. In an effort to catch himself, he grabbed at the man’s hairy forearm while uttering an apology. Then, as he withdrew his fingers, he felt it again.

Numbers.
7.2.0.4 …

Defined and burned into his palm.

The sensation’s clarity was startling, like a branding iron seared into his nerve endings. He wanted to quiz the man for information, wanted to study the guy’s skin so he could put the questions to rest, but he knew he’d only look like some head case. The numbers were real—he was sure of it—yet invisible, numinous. Beyond proof.

Proved one thing only, that he was losing his mind.

“Might wanna watch where you’re going, big fella,” the gentleman said. Above his chest pocket his name was stitched in white thread:
Mitchell Coates
.

“Should pay better attention,” Clay agreed. “You okay, uh, Mr. Coates?”

“Think I’ll survive.” The man gave a sage nod. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“A couple of Molly bolts, that’s all I need.”

“Tried goin’ down to Jerry’s yet?”

“Not yet. Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Glad to help.”

Clay rubbed his hand against his shirt and continued browsing. He
nudged up to the register a few minutes later, but as he set down brackets and a laminated shelf, he noted that the numbers continued to linger on his skin. He ran a brief self-exam and found nothing obvious to the eye, but they persisted, hardwired directly to his brain.

7.2.0.4 …
What was their meaning?

“You find whatcha needed?” The woman was back in her retail rhythm.

“For now,” Clay said.

The bell rang over the door. He turned to see Mr. Coates heading out to a van at the curb. The man heaved a yellow container through the side door, swiped his hands against his overalls, then let the rust-pocked vehicle carry him away.

After dinner Clay nabbed a cold can of Coke and followed his father into the living room. He settled into the couch, glad to take the pressure off his feet. He felt drowsy. His muscles were tight from lifting gravestones, proof that he needed to chisel his body back into shape. Tomorrow he’d take a solo day hike along Alsea Falls.

“Blomberg says you’re slow.”

Clay sighed. “Good to see you too, Dad.”

“You’re unmotivated. Those’re his words.”

“Since when?” Clay took a gulp.

“Just relaying the message.”

Armed with travel mug and remote control, Gerald was facing the TV. Draped over his recliner like a hero’s cape, a throw blanket declared the supremacy of the New York Jets. From this spot, Gerald had harangued his son about those mythical football greats:
Look at Joe Namath. He’d stand in the pocket till the last second, then launch that pigskin. There’s a guy who could teach you something, Son. Man’s man, lady’s man … the guy had it all. Just don’t make ’em like they used to, do they?

Amazing how a father’s words stuck in a kid’s head. Like flaming darts.

“Got something to say?” Gerald demanded. “Or you gonna just sit there?”

A defensive tone clogged Clay’s throat. “I just started the job, Dad.”

“First impressions, Clay. First impressions.”

“Don’t worry. A couple more days and I’ll have Mr. Blomberg converted.”

“Converted? If you mean religion, you’ll be preaching to the choir.”

“Do I look like a preacher?”

“Blomberg’s already got religion up the wazoo. You just remember, Son, your beliefs are a personal matter. You leave it at that. Your mother told me how you and Jenni got real involved in that church in Cheyenne. Well, look at how things turned out. Not quite the miracle cure you thought it’d be, was it?”

Anger tightened like a cinch around his ribs at the memories. The obscenities and denials that rushed to his lips remained unspoken as sitcom laughter filled the room. He went to the kitchen and yanked open the cupboard over the hooded stove. Into his Coke, he splashed some rum from a bottle his mom stored for cooking.

A long swallow. Fortification.

“Jenni,” Clay said, returning to the living room. “Is she what this is about?”

“You still yakking? I’m trying to look at some TV.”

“You never did like her. You wanted me and Jenni to fail so that you’d come out looking like the successful family man.”

Gerald changed the channel, changed it back.

“Admit it,” Clay insisted. “You never liked her. Am I right?”

“Never liked any of your girlfriends,” Gerald corrected. His finger flicked the lid of his mug. “Never could figure you out. Blond bimbos, punk rockers, that black girl …”

“Mylisha.”

“My-leee-sha. Sounds like a cough medicine. I mean, who names these kids?”

The cinch grew tighter. Clay’s head was pounding, his blood pumping.

“Truth is,” said Gerald, “Jenni’s your wife and none of my business. I can’t take the blame for your mistakes. You gotta own up to them on your own. Be a man.”

“Least I didn’t let her run our household,” Clay reacted. Jenni had avoided control actually, even begging Clay to be more assertive in his role. Still, this was perfect ammo for fighting back against his father.

“Son, I’m going to pretend you never said that.”

“Well, let’s face it. You let Mom call all the shots. What she says, goes.”

“I keep the peace! That’s a secret you should’ve learned.”

“Oh, you think? Maybe Jenni wanted more than just peace.”

“This oughta be good.”

“Yeah, maybe she wanted an actual friend, someone to talk with. Maybe that’s all Mom’s ever wanted!”

Gerald clenched the remote. Inadvertently he pressed the mute button, and the TV fell silent as though Clay’s statement had shocked it into submission. Clay had to ask himself, though: What kind of friend had he been to Jenni? A meager provider, a distracted lover, certainly not much of one for communication. Jokes and shoptalk, sure. Deeper connection? Nope, too vulnerable.

He could still see the tears in her eyes that he wished he had wiped away.

The TV blared back to life, yet in that moment of shared stillness Clay sensed comprehension pass between father and son. They were two of a kind, more than either dared admit.

As quickly as the moment came, it passed.

Gerald lost himself in the sordid details of a prime-time exposé, and Clay retreated to his bedroom.

Clay anchored the TV stand in the upper corner. As he tightened the brackets with a screw gun, his mind played over the past few days. Things had turned strange. He tried to shake the sets of numbers from his head.

1.2.2.5.2.1 … 6.2.1.0.4 … 7.2.0.4
.

Was there a pattern? A purpose?

Six numbers, then five, then four. Each set incorporated the numeral 2.

He connected the TV plug, flopped on the bed, hit the remote. He was midway into his second hour of mindless entertainment when an idea crawled its way out of his vegetating gray matter. It clung there, like a stubborn leech waiting to be recognized.

Clay snapped alert, suddenly aware of the leech’s presence. His peripheral
logic plucked at the idea and examined it. Could this theory be true? Could it explain the pattern behind the numbers?

Come on, Claymeister, do your math. Okay, this is creepy!

Counting on his fingers, he confirmed that each set of numbers totaled unlucky thirteen.