by Eric Wilson
With a finger he wrote in the dust on the back windshield: Steal this car!
Come on, he dared the man on the tracks. Search the car. Steal it, for all I care. But you’re not getting this! It belongs … uh, it belonged to Kenny.
He walked back along the street. Avoided the crossing arm. Stepped gingerly over the rails, eyes fixed on a lighted sign a block ahead. His foot stumbled against uneven concrete. He tripped. Laughed out loud.
Okaaay now, Claymeister. Get a grip.
A pay phone caught his eye. Not that it’d do any good, but he dialed 911.
With that superfluous little formality aside, he plugged on to his destination. Just a bit further. He could make it. He’d done his duty, done his best. He was done.
Down for the count … Over and out … Never again … Enough is enough …
A simple little word, so rich with meaning and devoid of confusion.
“I’m done,” he called out into the night, convinced for the first time in his life that no one was listening.
Ahead, a sign with a blackbird indicated he had arrived at his destination.
“Ryker? Well, of all people.”
“Figured I’d drop by.”
“What brings you here? You don’t look so hot.”
“There a rule somewhere says I can’t stop for a drink?”
Wendy’s laugh was carefree. “Of course not, silly guy. Just didn’t expect to see you in this place. Thought you steered clear of the Raven.” Free of her Glenleaf Monument garb, Wendy was a different person. Beneath the tavern’s haze of smoke, her teeth were radiant, and her hair was pulled up into a bouquet of feminine curls.
“Hey,” he said, “I do have a life, you know?”
She cupped a hand to her ear. “What?”
“I said, I do have a life.”
“Relax, stud muffin. Wife or no wife, we’re just two adults talking at the bar.”
“A life!” he corrected.
She winked. “Heard you the first time. Here, belly up.”
He threw a leg over a stool. On the Raven’s karaoke stage, an overweight woman in skintight jeans and a red Aerosmith shirt belted out a tune. He wasn’t sure if her voice was off key or if the low ceiling’s acoustics were bad.
Either way, he needed help. He ordered Jack on the rocks.
“Nicely done.” Wendy nudged his shoulder with glossy fingernails.
He looked down, worried by the thought of skin-to-skin contact. But, hey, what was one more expiration date? Here a death, there a death, everywhere a …
He accepted the first drink and tossed it back like an alky falling off the wagon. Not that he’d know. The trick, he told himself, was to drink lots of water with a couple of Tylenol before he collapsed into bed tonight. Least that way he’d wake up half alive. Half human.
“Another one just like it,” he told the bartender.
The man complied without a glance and left out the whiskey bottle. Clay sipped once, swirled the ice, then swigged down another fiery jolt, courtesy of Mr. Daniel. His throat burned, his insides warmed up, and his tongue probed the space around his teeth.
“Want nachos to go with it?” the bartender offered. “Jalapeño cheese sticks?”
Clay declined. He spotted gray strands woven through the man’s slicked-back hair, guessed that each one represented a sob story he’d endured while behind the counter. Clay had no plan of dumping his own woes—not here, not now. He needed sleep. An alcohol-assisted, no-tossing-no-turning, twelve-hour shot of nighty-night.
“Listen, Ryker,” Wendy said. “I’ve worked with you, what, two or three weeks? You’re standoffish. That’s your business. Got a lot on your mind—that’s clear to see. But I can tell there’s something else bugging you tonight.”
He tapped the bar for another drink. He looked at the lights above the mirrored shelves. Man, was it just him, or was it warm in here?
“Is it just me?”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.” He snickered. “I interrupted you.”
“No, go ahead. Seems like something’s worrying you, that’s all.”
“Me?” A choking laugh. “I got nothing left to worry about.”
“What?” Wendy tipped her ear closer, and her hair tickled his cheek.
He said, “There’s nothing left to—”
A fist of grief clamped around his neck. He swiveled away toward the stage.
At a pool table, a tattooed man in a dazzling white cowboy hat threw his hands together as his girlfriend took her turn in front of the karaoke monitor. She curtsied, blew him a sassy kiss, then swayed her hips to a Shania Twain hit.
Clay swallowed the remainder of his third drink. Like liquid Drano, it burned a hole through the clogged emotion in his throat. He liked that. He wanted nothing more than a reprieve from his guilt. It’d haunted him all these years, eaten away at his personal confidence and business intuition. In this last hour an even more heart-stopping scenario had flooded over his memories of the river.
See how easy that was? Out with the old, in with the new.
He was d-o-n-e. Time for someone else to shoulder this awful gift.
You hear me, God? Don’t need it, don’t want it, gonna make a mess of it anyway. Why give me something I can’t control?
No answer.
“Whaddya think, Wendy? You think I can control it?” He turned on the stool, and the room stutter stepped to keep up. “Whoa.” He snickered again.
“Take it slow,” she said. “We’ve got the whole night ahead of us.”
He waggled his finger. “Naughty, naughty. I know what you’re thinking.”
The bartender caught his eyes, hefted the whiskey. Clay nodded. This guy was good, right on top of it. See, that was how the best ones made their tips. Clay gave the guy a wink of thanks before emptying his tumbler.
“Lookin’ nice,” he heard himself tell Wendy.
“What?”
“Nice. You. The little skirt and, you know”—he waved a hand over his head—“the hair.”
“Really? You like it?”
“Mmm. Definitely.”
Was he the only one who thought these lights were turned up too high? Wasn’t there a dimmer switch? The music thumped through the countertop beneath his elbows. He held the tumbler to his cheek, relished the condensation’s cool drops, and wondered where this encounter with Wendy was leading. He wrapped his right hand around his ring finger.
Why? Was he clinging to, or hiding, this token of marriage?
Wendy crossed her legs and leaned into him.
His first thought was to withdraw. He slipped his hand onto her shoulder, wanting to push her away. Wanting to draw her closer. He’d survived the past few weeks on a strict regimen that denied all human touch, and he longed for it. Desperately. Yet, his lonely bachelor-boy status had made him wary of female contact, and he was familiar with biblical warnings about loose women whose “steps lead straight to the grave.”
8.1.0.0.4 …
There they were, as expected. Numbers. Wendy’s dance card with the Reaper. But why pay any heed? He washed his hands of this.
Hands … touch. Clay craved the comfort of warm skin.
Jenni had turned her back months ago. Filed the papers. Left him on his own. Now the sickness of divorce ate at his soul, gnawing at his moral fiber.
He could feel it: nibble, nibble, nibble.
He looked over at Wendy’s sleeveless shoulder. Her skin was warm. Before he could lift his chin, Wendy dipped and found his lips with her own. Beneath a hint of barley and hops, her mouth was soft, nipping at his skin.
Nibble, nibble.
He pulled back, chuckling at this image. He dropped his hand to his side. Anyway, it all felt forced. Unnatural. His head was spinning, and heat was burning over his cheeks, down his neck.
“What now?” Wendy tilted her head. “Did I misread your signals?”
“Ummm …”
Was this a trick question? The room seemed to expand, filled
with people who waited for his response. He looked to the bar for a clue but found little aid. The tarbender … No, no, the bartender was leaning at a funny angle, filling a glass with ice cubes that clinked louder than normal. Extra-clinky cubes. Now available.
Wendy’s eyes begged for consolation.
“Ahhh. Okay, I get it, Wendy. That’s what you want, isn’t it? You’re just waiting for me to tell you, bet you’re just dying to know.” He laughed and slapped his leg. On the job, this dark humor was their common language.
“To tell me what?” She eased away. “Omigosh. You’re gay?”
Well, he thought, that would be a twist. “Nope, that’s not it.”
“You’re getting back together with your wife?”
“Jenni? She’d sooner slam dunk me through a hoop. Slammajamma!” He held up two fingers. “That’s money in the bank! Two points for the home team.”
Wendy took a drink, puckered her lips.
“Okay now, don’t look so grave,” Clay said. “Grave? You get it?” He giggled. “You wanna hear the truth? I know the day you’re gonna die.”
“Die?”
“You know, as in kick the bucket? We all have to do it sometime.”
“Ryker, you’re embarrassing yourself. Go home.”
“Home, as in to my beddy-bye? Or home, as in …” He widened his eyes and pointed to the floor with exaggerated significance. “Six feet under. In a casket.”
“You know, you’re a lousy drunk.”
“And how would you know?”
“Well, duhhh.”
Clay scowled in mock indignation.
“Ryker, you need to get rested up. You have work in the morning.”
“What’d I do? All I’m tryin’ to say is you should live like there’s no tomorrow. Look at the bright side. At least you’ve got a couple of weeks left. August … uh … August tenth, to be exact.”
“Until what?”
He held a fist against his chest in solemn show. “Till you meet your maker.”
“That’s enough,” the bartender said. “No need for threats around here.”
Clay saw a waitress brush past, and he grabbed her bare arm. The dates slashed across his fingertips, settled into his palm. He thought of the blank tombstone that had toppled in the shop just yesterday. He shook his head at the craziness of it all. The waitress slipped free and headed toward a hulking figure near the door.
The bartender said, “You owe sixteen fifty. I suggest you settle up.”
Clay dug into his wallet; with great attention to detail, he studied a twenty-dollar bill. “Here ya go. Keep the change. Or give it to the waitress that just went by.”
“Rhea?”
“Mm-hmm. She’s got till the twentieth of this month. Then she’s a goner.”
“A goner? I doubt that. Rhea Deering’s a survivor in every sense of the word.”
“Nope. Nothin’ you can do about it. Nothin’ I can do. Believe me, buddy”—Clay lowered his voice—“I’ve tried it, and it just don’t work.”
With affection turning to distaste, Wendy looked him up and down. “Ryker, forget that kiss ever happened. Please. For a guy as tall as you, you’re a sad little man.”
He was still reeling from her open-handed slap across his face, still trying to set the world back on its axis, when two sets of vise grips screwed into his rib cage from behind. He registered stern words, understood that he was being asked to leave. He’d forgotten how rude these places could be. Smoky little meat markets.
The slap from Wendy? He deserved that.
But couldn’t a guy have a drink or two without being harassed? Honestly.
Before he had time to react, rough hands whipped underneath his armpits and knotted behind his neck. He was shoved, stumbling and complaining, out the front door where he bounced up off a knee and turned back to gesture his opinion of this less than stellar customer service.
“I know people who can board this place up! Board it up!”
“Shut your hole, and get off our sidewalk!”
“You hear me? Take your paws off me.” Clay stopped. Looked up at the heavyset bouncer. “Man, you’re about to die too—same day as that waitress lady. Rhea? Yeah, you might wanna stay away from her, just in case.”
Another shove propelled Clay to the pavement. Finding his face near a square of dirt and mulch, he decided it was as good a place as any to purge himself of this evening’s ills. Behind him, the tavern’s door slammed shut.
He heard steps coming near. A familiar voice.
“Hoo boy. Whatcha doin’ down there?”
“Who wantsa know?”
“They weren’t akiddin’. They said you called and didn’t sound too good.” The speaker crouched down on thick legs, folded his arms over his knees. “Well, look at you. That was an understatement.”
“You’re that sergeant, right? Sergeant Tubby?”
“Sergeant Turney. Rumor has it, you called 911 an hour ago.”
“That some kind of crime?”
“Don’t know, right off. You tell me.”
Clay’s intestines clenched and heaved. He used the dirt one more time, then curled into a ball and began to sob.
23
A Pilgrimage
Folded into her course syllabus, the daily horoscope awaited her eyes.
Why, Mylisha wondered, was she sitting through this drivel? At the front of the Lane Community College classroom, an alleged marketing guru—whom she’d never heard of—prattled on about “sales culture.” Did he realize most of the students in here had been awake less than an hour?
No, he was enamored of his own knowledge. Although he wore a decent suit and tie designed for garnering customers’ trust and money, he seemed wily and insincere. White America, Mylisha believed, had made Mammon and materialism its masters. Revolving credit and high interest rates had become the lashes on lower-class backs.
Not that my people express our freedom any better. We live for the bling-bling and the Paper in My Pocket. Pimpin’ it to da limit.
She closed her eyes. Who was she to talk?
She’d chosen a degree that tapped none of her heart’s passion. She pondered 401(k) and stock options instead of pursuing filmmaking, which had always been her desire. Even Clay on the phone last week had remembered that much. Sure, she wanted security for her future and for her family to come. But what about her dreams, her passions?
Mylisha opened her syllabus, unfolded today’s advice for Pisces. Perusing the words, she latched on to a line that seemed full of relevance.
Old secrets may come to light, but resist the desire to unveil them to others.
Look at that. The timing couldn’t be more obvious.
Hadn’t she just received Summer’s card three days ago, via Sergeant Turney? Hadn’t Summer mentioned secrets regarding Clay’s past? And hadn’t Mylisha dialed Clay’s number twice since Saturday, then disconnected before the calls could go through? If she revealed everything to him, it would only bring more pain.
Mylisha refolded and cradled the paper in her hands.
What Mr. Clay Ryker didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Clay awoke to a midmorning drizzle.
He had lost the kid. He had failed.
Refracted by myriad raindrops on the glass, gray light infused the room, and he jerked the blue sheet over his face. In the bed’s pastel womb, he spent the next minutes differentiating between his nightmares and last night’s events.
His nightmares were less disturbing.
Inside his frontal lobe, sad little men with pickaxes were hammering away. Vaguely he remembered Wendy’s insult in the Raven. He’d brought it upon himself, no doubt—touching skin, calling out numbers like a bingo-hall crier.
He lifted himself to an elbow. The bedroom wobbled into focus.
Shoot. Late for work. Mr. Blomberg was supposed to be back this week, which made any tardiness that much worse. Where was Gerald Ryker? Why hadn’t he roused Clay from his bed?
As if it mattere
d.
How could Clay go into the workplace and pretend nothing had happened? By the end of the day, the whole town would be buzzing with details of Kenny’s demise. Did Sergeant Turney hold Clay responsible for the accident? Already he’d tied Clay to the other deaths under investigation, but the only correlation seemed to be Engine 418.
He touched his pocket. Kenny’s treasure was still there.
What about Kate Preston? How would she react to the news her son was dead? Clay had offered protection that he failed to provide. She would hate his guts.
Clay groaned.
With thoughts of his own son, he read Jason’s postcard again. He recalled the dates he’d detected so clearly on the drafted divorce agreement. Based on recent experience, he could only assume that Jason’s death was imminent.
Was there a way to stop it? Or would Reckless Ryker screw that up too?
Clay fumbled for the water and aspirin on his nightstand.
Sergeant Turney, he recalled, had provided the Tylenol. Sarge had helped get him home, promising to return tonight for a report. Sarge had spoken with Gerald and Della so that they would not worry themselves over their son, and he might have even instructed them to let Clay sleep in.
Through the window, he saw the Duster parked alongside the garage.
I’ve got wheels. Sarge must’ve taken Dad to fetch it last night.
Hoping to avoid either of his parents, Clay moved into the hall. The living room was empty. The TV was dormant, which meant Papa Bear was off to work. He called his mother’s name. After three tries, he deduced she was also gone. Shopping? Running errands? Who knew what she did with her free time?
An internal dynamo kicked in, driving him toward a task that he himself could not identify. Time was ticking. Undeniably, he had shoved his secrets down and avoided the past.
No more. He refused to go on as a haunted man.
Bypassing a morning shower, sticking with the same clothes, he whispered, “Let’s get this over with. Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”
Sorry, Dr. Gerringer. Guess some things just have no other solution.
He laced up a pair of sturdy work boots, felt his thigh tighten where the Rottweiler’s paw had landed. His left forearm was also sore but workable.
