Expiration Date

by Eric Wilson

  “Russian men have a need for greatness. We are born with this.”

  “In Cuba”—the man puffed his chest and grabbed his crotch—“we are born with other needs.” He guffawed, dropping into the overstuffed couch. He tapped a cigarette from a pack on the cushion beside him, lit up with extravagant pleasure. “So, amigo, I have found the information you asked for. The man you are seeking, he lives in Fort Lauderdale. I’m sure, at his age, he wishes only to be left in peace.”

  “Peace. Everyone wants peace.”

  “It’s a noble thing. We have enough trouble in this world, sí?”

  “It’s a false peace if it comes without cost.”

  Juan’s chuckle turned into a cough. He waved through the cigarette smoke, as if this could cure his congestion. “Do you want the man’s information? Aquí … Here. Does this satisfy your request? If so, we have money to exchange.”

  Dmitri took the offered CD. At the corner table he made space for his laptop by shoving aside a stack of local newspapers and a half-eaten bag of Cheetos. He opened the only file on the disk, scanned the contents, felt a surge of triumph.

  “So,” Juan said from the couch, “I think you owe me another five thousand dollars. American greenbacks, of course. None of your Russian play money.”

  Play money? He mocks my motherland.

  Dmitri folded his laptop. “Da. You’ve done an excellent job. Speak to my partner to arrange the payment, and he’ll tell you where to go.” He pretended to place a call, then stretched his phone toward Juan. Aimed it toward his ear.

  “Hermano, I thought that you—”

  “You can go to your grave!”

  With a thumb pressed over the keypad and an index finger on the power button, Dmitri Derevenko triggered a hidden mechanism. At close range, a .22-caliber bullet exploded from its chamber, slammed through the Cuban’s shaved skull. His eyes went blank even as his head keeled to the side. A final burst of brain activity brought his arm to his mouth, thus crushing the cigarette against his lips. The burning object popped free from his fingers. Landed on the cushions.

  Beside the glowing ember, Dmitri set a copy of the Orlando Sentinel. When tongues of flame began licking at the corpse’s baggy black jeans, the Russian stepped into the hall to remove the smoke detector’s battery. He shook his head.

  Arson. A dead illegal alien. Another botched drug deal, or so it would seem.

  Nothing more than a footnote in Orlando’s unsolved case files.

  With the quiet of a passing ghost, Asgoth floated down the apartment stairway. Midnight was behind him, the cold morning hours moving in to oversee this undertaking.

  He crossed the empty street. Faced the fenced locomotive.

  Misfortune and grief to all but the innocent.

  The decades-old curse hissed in his thoughts, reminded him of the other times he’d tried without success to strip this train of its wealth. Concerns about any Brotherhood involvement fanned the fire of this latest endeavor. He was convinced the treasure should belong to him; by rights, it was his to possess.

  Rasputin in his travels had accumulated relics from the Holy Land, religious objects capable of stirring the Romanovs’ fervor. After the priest’s murder, whispers of a hidden chamber swelled and then faded as zealots and treasure seekers failed, one by one, to turn up any evidence that such a hoard existed.

  The lost chamber became known as Tmu Tarakan.

  In Russian the name referred to any place of desolation.

  “Which is where I am now,” Asgoth spoke to the silent park. “And the key to the chamber is on this train.”

  He took a step toward the mechanical monster. In the moonlight the antique Finnish headlamp was a glowing eye filled with malevolent warning; the front grate was an iron mouth set firmly against any intrusion.

  Asgoth circled to the back where the tender car hooked to the engine. He felt safer here, out of the headlamp’s line of vision. All around, the park was hushed and motionless, as though the trees had become spectators at a gladiator event.

  Don’t hesitate. Take advantage of this moment!

  Asgoth threw himself onto the bars, gripped the metal with desperate fingers. He slithered up and over, oblivious to any physical danger. Within a breath he was inside the fence.

  Engine 418 sat high upon a pair of displayed railroad tracks, glistening. Asgoth hated that an old man like Mr. Coates had been able to coat this beast lovingly in fresh paint; he despised those who touched her in wide-eyed ignorance and curiosity. And Summer Svenson had been no better than the other violators.

  Of course, those who knew of the train’s contents became susceptible to the curse’s scourge.

  Misfortune and grief …

  Asgoth planted his foot on the engine car. He was nearly on board.

  Before him, fiery sentinels of dark orange and blue seemed to spring into position. Heat raced through rivets and metal to engulf his trespassing limb. Pain blossomed around him. Blinding. Disorienting.

  It’s only superstition, he tried to convince himself. Nothing more.

  An explosion of light lofted him through the air so that he found himself skidding across grass and gravel outside the fence’s perimeter. Flames whipped through the bars, crackled at his feet. He scrambled upright and dashed to the refuge of his apartment across the street.

  Why had he thought this night would be different from any other?

  Asgoth sputtered in rage. He felt like a child. He barely knew his own father, and as one of a number of illegitimate offspring, he’d always felt driven to validate himself. To gain respect. And honor.

  The Consortium had become his surrogate parent.

  He vowed that at any cost he would win back their approval.

  8

  A Basic Slab

  “Baby, you ’bout done in there?”

  Mylisha downed a pill with a glass of water. “Don’t you ever sleep, Shanique? You been up all night.”

  “It’s mornin’. Best start hoppin’, or you’ll be late for work.”

  Mylisha had forty minutes to be at Safeway. After another late night here at her sister’s, she could find little to inspire her in the bathroom mirror. Her hair needed another perm; her bright brown eyes had turned dark and brooding; her full lips were dry, devoid of sensual appeal.

  As a woman of faith, was she wrong to rely on antidepressants?

  Summer Svenson’s death had shaken her to the core. She was still trying to wrap her thoughts around this new reality. Soon, very soon, Summer would call or ring the doorbell or visit during a lunch break, and things would return to normal.

  Where was God’s hand in the accident that had killed her friend of thirteen years? Mylisha had heard the pat answers, the clichés: “At least she felt no pain.” “Must’ve been her time to go.” “She’s in a better place.” Yet none of them eased her loss. Summer, at the age of twenty-seven, was gone for good.

  Even worse, Mylisha had no assurance her friend would be waiting inside heaven’s gates. Not that Mylisha deserved any better; her only hope was in the Bible’s promises. She believed that faith, not good works, would lead her through that narrow gate. Jesus was the door, the only way to God.

  What about my friend then?

  The Friday newspaper scudded beneath the bathroom door. “You gotta read dis,” Shanique urged. “For real. You see it? Your horoscope, there in da middle.”

  Wonderful. Some head-wrapped floozy telling me how to live my life.

  “Says to expand your boundaries. If you don’t, dey become your barriers.”

  Mylisha snatched up the paper, rolled her eyes, found herself matching her birth date with the zodiac signs. She was a Pisces? This tidbit piqued her interest. Shanique always said if God was the maker of the moon and stars, then he surely could guide his children in this manner. Maybe the girl had a point. Despite her years of shaky decision making, Shanique was still full of smiles, with cash in her pockets and two beautiful children.

  Mylisha spread the newspap
er on the sink’s edge, massaged hand cream into her skin as she weighed the words for the day. Curiosity skirted her faith, flitting through her head and poking at her fears.

  “It’s good advice, that’s all,” she whispered. “Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Gotta think about yourself,” Shanique cajoled. “You help plenty with the kids, sure ’nuff. And I’m grateful. But look at you, Mylisha. You ain’t gettin’ any younger. You think I don’t know whatcha done for me? In high school? At the district meet?”

  A twitch tugged at Mylisha’s lower eyelid.

  “You was the sports goddess,” cooed Shanique. “Basketball, softball, high hurdles—you did it all. But you gave me dat last race. You let me win.”

  “Shanique! Why would you say such a thing?”

  “You know it’s da truth. Mama’s tried awful hard to teach me, but I never was no good at no schoolwork. You was just tryin’ to help, givin’ your li’l sister a chance.”

  “Why do you insist on sounded uneducated? You’re not stupid.”

  “Maybe no, maybe so.”

  “We both know better.”

  “I done learned to survive my own way, okay?”

  “There’s so much more you could do if you’d set your mind to it.”

  “Ain’t got it in me, baby. I wasted my scholarship, your scholarship. I let you down. You think I don’t know dat? Was I s’posta keep turnin’ to you for handouts? No, I had to figure things out myself. Day I got back from UCLA I thought you was gonna kill me for sure. I woulda deserved it, for real, for real.”

  “I didn’t let you win.”

  “Deny it all you want, but I know whatcha did. Guess I owe you a thanks.”

  Protected by the locked bathroom door, Mylisha faced her reflection in the glass. When she blinked, tears streaked her cheeks like raindrops on tilled earth, silver droplets spilling from her lips, from her chin.

  “I didn’t let you win,” she repeated. This time she was speaking to herself.

  The phone was a concrete slab in his hand. Clay had sped home on his lunch break, hoping to save a few bucks on lunch, hoping to get through to Jenni who worked from her condo on Fridays, billing clients. When she failed to answer, he listened to her message machine and issued a quick hello.

  “Hope things’re going good for you guys. Love you, Jason, little buddy. Can’t wait for you to come visit. Give me a call if either of you feel like it, okay? Have a good weekend.”

  The one-sided exchange left him empty.

  He stood holding the phone in one hand, the refrigerator door in the other. Longnecks called to him from the lower shelf, but the condenser kicked in, interrupting, and he settled for bean and cheese burritos. Anything else required kitchen skills.

  While the microwave hummed, he wondered if his son had been listening at the phone? Had Jenni been standing there, insisting he ignore the call?

  Or was she somewhere else? With someone else?

  If only I could go back and …

  “Stop beating yourself up,” a church deacon had told him a month ago.

  “It’s my fault though, a good majority of it. The stuff between Jenni and me, that’s bad enough, but now Jason has to pay for my mistakes.”

  “God’s sovereign,” came the flat reply.

  “You mean God wants this to happen? He doesn’t mind if my family falls apart?”

  The deacon spread his arms over two of the chairs lining the Cheyenne chapel. “He has a reason for these things. It’s not our place to ask why. I hear you’re going back to Oregon, is that true? Well, it’s the right decision, Clay, and it keeps the sickness from touching others in the congregation. Trust God’s plan, and move on.”

  “The sickness?”

  “God hates divorce. You know what I’m saying.”

  No, Clay didn’t know. Was he the sickness? Didn’t God cure sickness? The memory of the interaction stoked his fury. So what was the plan? If anyone was listening up there, it’d sure be nice to get an answer.

  Ding! Vittles for the ex-husband.

  He peeled the tortillas open to let them cool. The first bite filled his mouth with steam-laced cheese, gave way to still-frozen bean paste.

  Oh, wasn’t this fun? The bland ingredients went limp in his hand. Was this what Bachelor Boy had to look forward to? Years of nuked nutrition?

  He dropped the burritos into the garbage.

  Clay had been back in JC for less than two weeks, and he’d done little more than work, eat, sleep. Besides the sports section, he avoided the depressing content of the newspaper. As for Summer Svenson, she’d never called again—surprise, surprise—and he had been avoiding contact with old friends for the simple reason that he didn’t feel like rehashing his marital flaws for every busybody in town.

  He’d also been skipping church. Didn’t want to spread the sickness.

  Of course, there was also that issue of the numbers.

  The less skin-to-skin contact the better. At the grocery market, the gas station, the video store, he kept his hands to himself. At least the bare skin of his elbows and shoulders had conjured nothing out of the ordinary.

  His hands. They were the lone culprits.

  Has Ryker Lost His Touch?

  The irony of it all. If only those Wyoming sportswriters could see him now.

  He poured himself a glass of pulpy Minute Maid, then brought the phone to his ear again. He had a dial tone. Seven little digits, that’s all it’d take.

  Mylisha French had called a few night backs. For what reason? What’d they have to discuss? During his last year of high school he’d shuffled her aside as scholarship offers poured in; he’d let his hopes for the future relegate her to the past.

  Don’t dwell on it, Clay. You’re the man.

  His hand turned damp as he began to dial.

  What about Jenni? He loved her, no matter what her idiot lawyer assumed. Plus, they were still married. Technically speaking. He dropped the concrete slab onto the counter, drained the rest of the juice, and felt the pulp stick in his throat.

  All his relationships seemed to go down like the OJ.

  Tasty at first? Check. Then lumpy and hard to swallow? Check, check.

  “Gotta hand it to you, Ryker. You’re getting the hang of this.” Mr. Blomberg pounded a hand into Clay’s shoulder blade. “Didn’t think you’d amount to much, way you dragged your feet around the first couple of days, like you were afraid to touch death. It’s our job, though. You know that now, don’t you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Day in, day out, important business we do here, smoothing the details for bereaved loved ones. Can’t take that too lightly. Each stone’s a way of reaffirming that individuals do matter in the grand scheme of things.” A meaty finger poked Clay in the chest. “You know God’s up there, right? You think he’s got a master plan?”

  Clay floundered, unaccustomed to this side of Mr. Blomberg.

  From the other end of the warehouse runner, Digs and Wendy focused on their work orders. Brent twisted his mouth in scorn, threw Clay a look that said to shut his trap and let the bossman move on. These co-workers had warned him, and his father had told tales of Blomberg’s religious invective.

  What do I care? Bring it on. I’m in the mood for a tussle.

  “God?” Clay said. “Yep, I think he exists. Not so sure about a master plan.”

  With the pomposity of a man rarely challenged, Blomberg flattened back a lock of red hair. “Now tell me, how does that make an iota of sense? You take the safe route and agree there’s a God, but you won’t buy into the idea of a master plan. How can he be God if he can’t form a plan?”

  “Beats me.” Clay’s thoughts raced to Jenni, to Jason. Were they part of the plan? Let the small-town boy find love, then let his family fall apart. Some plan. “I think we’re all gonna die, Mr. Blomberg.”

  “And?”

  “That’s my theory, start to finish. Birth. Pain. Suffering. Death.”

  “And?”

  “
Oh, and sickness. Can’t forget that. Gotta keep the sickness from spreading.” Clay fingered his wedding ring. It wasn’t coming off, not until the divorce was official.

  Till death do us part, Jenni. That was the deal.

  Blomberg inquired, “So the good things in life—they’re just accidents?”

  “Accidents, mistakes. Call them what you like.”

  “This theory of yours, you pick that up from your heathen professors in your secular college education? You dealing with facts here or personal experience?”

  “You want facts?” Clay dropped his wood-handled pick and turned to confront his bulky antagonist. “Or you want me to work?”

  Digs chipped in. “Hey, Mr. Blomberg, the kid’s goin’ through a divorce. Might wanna cut him some slack, let him work things out before you ride his case.”

  “Is that true, Ryker? Hometown hero leaves his wife behind?”

  “She filed,” Clay said through gritted teeth. “All part of the great master plan.”

  “Oh, now I see. If things’re good, you take the credit and give yourself a pat on the back. But once things start to slide? Suddenly it’s all God’s fault. You slap him in the face with your failures and decide life’s just one huge cosmic joke.”

  “Nobody’s laughin’,” Digs said. “Let him be, Mr. Blomberg.”

  Brent cut in. “Bossman’s got a point. People use religion like some magic cure-all. My opinion? Greed—that’s the name of the game. All about the dinero.”

  “Hey, can’t throw the baby out with the bathwater,” Wendy said. “Right, Digs?”

  Digs tugged at his lip. “People won’t take the counterfeit ’less they think it’s the real thing. That’s the way I see it. Can’t have one without the other.”

  “Hold on. What if we haven’t found the real thing yet?”

  “Good question, Ryker,” said Blomberg. “That’s the bottom line. Because if you go around saying you believe in a God, then you gotta believe in his plan.”

  “Maybe he’s just dropped us here to fend for ourselves.”

  “An unfeeling, distant God?”

  “You nailed it.”

  “What about the God of justice and righteousness?”