Expiration Date

by Eric Wilson

So hard to swim. To move.

  Below he could see it, shadowy and waiting. Hell. Hungry for his soul.

  It’s what I deserve … Jesus!

  There, carved from the depths, Bill Scott was peering up with vacuous eyes. Then Summer Svenson. Edged in flickering aquamarine, black shapes swirled into a macabre crowd of spectators. They were waiting with yawning mouths, calling to him without a sound, and he was descending to join them.

  His body seemed to hover, almost peacefully, in an embryonic state.

  Shutting down.

  But where was Kenny? The kid was not here among the crowd.

  He’s not here!

  Clay tried again to turn—so sluggish, caught in the grip. The pack slipped free finally, but he was fading into blackness. His lips gaped. Crying out.

  A final trail of bubbles, exploding upward …

  A silvery telltale chain …

  A dying man’s desperate prayer …

  Oh, Jesus. Hear my cry!

  PART THREE

  Ghost and fiend consorted with him there.…

  he walked continually in its shadow, groping

  darkly within his own soul.

  The Minister’s Black Veil, Nathaniel Hawthorne

  Everyone must turn

  from their evil ways … Who can tell?

  Perhaps even yet God will have pity on us.

  Jonah 3:8–9

  29

  Two Things

  “Ghosts.”

  “Shut up. That’s not even funny.”

  “Well, what else could they freakin’ be? Listen to that.”

  The young couple stood in their Junction City apartment, eyes turned upward. Again an object of some sort rumbled overhead, followed by an angry growl. Sheetrock dust and paint chips drifted from the ceiling.

  “Usually they’re so quiet. I wasn’t even sure anyone lived up there.”

  “This is creepin’ me out,” the girl said. “Call the cops.”

  “Like we need that right now.” The guy nodded his head at the stash of stolen TVs and DVD players that overflowed from the closet into the hallway. “We look like a stinkin’ Circuit City.”

  “What’d I tell you? We shoulda never moved into this town or this rat hole. You know what they say happened upstairs? Couple months ago some guy got skewered right there in his own kitchen.”

  “That’s a buncha bull. This town feeds off stories like that.”

  Another low howl conjured images of an animal in pain.

  The guy’s girlfriend thrust forward a cell phone. “Call somebody; call the apartment manager!”

  “But what if he sees—”

  “I swear, if you don’t do something, I will. Who knows what’s going on up there? Somebody could be dying. What if they’ve got a gun? We could get shot.”

  “You need to back off the meds, babe. You’re trippin’ hard.”

  She punched numbers on the phone, slapped away his hand. He latched on to her wrist. He was not going to let this little tramp ruin what they had going. With sales to scattered pawnshops, they’d be lining their pockets soon enough. Jackpot! He’d buy that Kawasaki he’d seen at the Lane County Fairgrounds auto show; she’d shop at all those stores that eyed her like she was some sticky-fingered retro rebel.

  Well, okay, maybe she was. But that wasn’t the point.

  “Think about it, babe. Use your head for once.”

  “Oh, don’t even!”

  “Listen,” he said. “One call and we could lose it all. Every last dime.”

  Another layer of dust sprinkled between their glaring faces. The guy thought it was hilarious, seeing bits of powder land on the tip of his girlfriend’s nose. Knowing her previous habits, he had to laugh.

  She socked him in the ribs, then spurted out the door.

  Once more the ceiling quaked and fierce wall pounding punctuated a litany of growls. It was getting really annoying. If she didn’t come back, he was going to be furious, and he’d blame it on those idiots overhead.

  He yelled at the top of his lungs, spitting epithets. “Shut up! You hear me up there? You don’t quiet down, I’m callin’ the police!”

  Asgoth paced the apartment, livid and bewildered. After all the planning, how had they failed? Where were the miscues? Clay Ryker had gone on his death march. Yes, he’d thrown himself into the water, relenting to the psychological pressure.

  But he survived! And now the treasure of Engine 418 is out of reach.

  “Please, A.G., don’t do this,” Henna pleaded.

  He circled her moaning figure. Felt an insatiable desire to grab clumps of blond hair and pull. He wanted to strike out—at anyone, anything.

  “Please. We’ll make things right.”

  “You say that so flippantly, but do you know how many years I’ve waited for this? I might as well be a dead man for all the good it’s done me. I’ve dreamed of this opportunity. With Clay still in the picture, though, I can’t even take the next step.”

  “Maybe I should have a go at him?”

  Asgoth churned inside. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m inadequate, or do you have a soft spot for him? You have seemed distracted.”

  “Distracted? No, don’t be silly.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Henna. Surely you find him attractive.”

  “He’s always been handsome, I won’t deny it.”

  “Ah! See, there’s the reason I can’t leave this in your hands. You need me to help carry it out.”

  “But it’s not working.”

  “There’s still time!”

  “Aren’t the others willing to help?”

  “The Consortium?” Asgoth said with disdain. “They’d love to see me fail.”

  “What about Monde?”

  “That fool! He’s slipping. He didn’t even realize Sergeant Turney was gone until yesterday. I told him, but did he listen? With his purported expertise, he should’ve anticipated this.”

  Rage surged through Asgoth’s extremities, seeking an outlet. He lashed out. Henna whimpered, hugging herself. When she moved to brush her hair from her face, Asgoth threaded his fingers with hers and pulled back. She emitted a shriek. He followed with a low howl of his own.

  Downstairs, the neighbor was screaming empty threats.

  Clay relived those final moments of consciousness …

  His body was on high alert, his mind flipping some primal switch that called for survival at all costs. He was still sinking. The cobalt gel was thickening around him. Frozen muscles and carbon dioxide–poisoned limbs hampered his efforts to claw upward. Shards of light slashed across his eyelids, intensified by the dark waters.

  Bump …

  It was a creature of the deep.

  Bummpp …

  Or a malevolent spirit coming to feast upon his soul.

  God, I don’t want to die! Make it go away. Protect me from … whatever this is.

  The thing latched on to his thigh, into his belt, around his chest. It was strong, unyielding. Gathering him in.

  Is anyone listening? Anyone there?

  He tried to fight, but liquid ice flooded his mouth. No strength left.

  Jesus … save me!

  The waters folded him up in a cold black bundle.

  Hands propped him up against cool white pillows. From the corner a lamp poured honey-colored light over the room’s sparse furnishings.

  “Welcome to the land of the living.”

  Clay turned toward the warm voice. He was not alone. He was alive.

  “For a while there, thought you might check out on us.”

  Clay blinked against the light. As his pupils adjusted, he saw a patch of short dark hair, wide cheeks, deep chocolate eyes, and a spreading grin.

  “Sarge? You again?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Where are we? How’d I get here? Were you there … at Crater Lake?”

  “Whoa.” Sergeant Turney lifted fleshy hands in surrender. “Hold on a sec, partner. See, we can do this my way: I tell
you what happened from start to finish. Or we can try it your way: one question at a time.”

  Clay sank back into feathery bliss. “I’m so tired.”

  “You’ve been snoozin’ since yesterday evening. You should be bright as a lark. Heck, by the time I fished you outta the water and flopped your bony butt into the boat, an emergency team was cuttin’ across the lake. They performed CPR and all that rigmarole, then shot you off to the nearest medical facility.”

  In Clay’s mind, hazy images supported the sergeant’s account.

  “ ’Course, they wanted to hold you for medical evaluation. I told ’em I was in the middle of an investigation, flashed my credentials, promised to keep an eye on you. After a call or two, they handed you over. To be honest, I think they were glad to be rid of you. Bad park publicity—security questions and all that. Sooner you were outta there, the better.”

  “You dove in after me? You were on the boat?”

  “Right behind you.”

  “Never even saw you.”

  “Your head was in a fog—that much was obvious. You saw me all right. Just didn’t recognize me. Had on a pair o’ shades and a baseball cap, jeans and one of them Hawaiian shirts.”

  “So it was your hands I felt on my belt? Scared me to death. I was praying God would make you go away.” Clay’s eyes closed as his energy ebbed.

  “Thank God for ignorin’ that one, huh?”

  “I thought I was dead for sure.”

  “And now you’re alive, partner. You’ve been given a second chance.” Sarge rubbed a hand over his cheeks. “The way it looked to me, you went overboard on purpose. Am I right?”

  Clay looked toward the window.

  “Forget that I’ve got a badge,” Sarge said. “Sakes alive, what made ya think it was time to call it quits?”

  With both hands, Clay rubbed his forehead, then closed his eyes. He felt embarrassment and shame, as well as an overwhelming sense of relief. He’d been offered back his life. Free will had been exercised, but God’s will had cut in. The life and times of Clay Ryker were not yet over.

  “I killed a man.”

  “You what?”

  “Years ago,” Clay said. “I killed a friend.”

  The words of confession were ropes tied to his limbs and pulled in opposite directions. He would be torn apart; he could not survive. Then, as his voice rose and fell, as the full story of Bill Scott’s death gurgled forth, Clay felt the guilt ebb away. He’d never told a soul about this, never in full detail.

  Sarge met his eye. “You wanted him to die.”

  Clay nodded.

  “Could’ve been an accident. Those things happen.”

  “Nope. I know what was in my mind, Sarge.”

  “Maybe so. But only God knows the intentions of a man’s heart.”

  “Then I deserved to die in that water.”

  “Don’t we all, Clay. So you’ve been carryin’ this around all this time, takin’ it out on yourself and those around you? Well, I’d say you had yourself a good old-fashioned baptism in Crater Lake. Time for you to start fresh. As a new man.”

  “Shouldn’t I confess to the police?”

  “You just did. And there’s really no way of knowin’ what caused his death, not one hundred percent. Twelve years—that’s a long time. Relax.”

  Clay eased into the pillows, warm beneath the lamp’s honey glow.

  He had to ask, though: “Why me, Sarge? Summer’s gone, and that old couple out on High Pass Road. Why am I still alive?”

  “That’s a question we should be askin’ ourselves each day. Now listen, you should be countin’ your blessings. Think back to those childhood Bible stories, and tell me what kept Jonah from drownin’ in the sea. A large fish, am I right?” Sarge patted his protruding stomach. “Well, looky here, you got saved by your very own whale.”

  Located on the North Umpqua River, Steamboat Inn provided the rest Clay needed. Through the windows of the river suite, he watched the rushing waters dip and curl against a backdrop of bigleaf maples and evergreens. The faint noise along Highway 138 reminded him of the outside world, but within the pine-paneled walls he found rejuvenation beyond his physical concerns.

  Sarge had paid for two nights here. He’d spread out his stuff on the couch, leaving the king bed for Clay. Clay watched him kindle a fire in the fireplace, cook eggs and waffles in the minikitchen, pour fresh coffee into “Get Oregonized” mugs.

  “Ran a load o’ laundry for you,” Sarge said, pointing at a pile of loosely folded clothes. “ ’Course, you’re pretty much stuck with whatcha got. Most everything”—he flipped his thumb down—“went to the bottom of the lake.”

  Clay looked through the stack. His GPS was there, still strapped to his belt.

  “Was there anything else, Sarge? A wooden tube?”

  “Does an old cork count? Sorry. If it didn’t float, it’s sittin’ down with the fishies.”

  Without the cork, Clay reasoned, the hollowed oak tube would’ve sunk like a stone. Did it even matter?

  After breakfast Sarge loaded up his fishing gear. “Wanna come along, Clay? Some of the biggest steelhead you’ll ever find.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “If you’re needin’ tackle, I’ve got—”

  “No, I’m just not ready to go dipping my feet into the water again. Not yet.”

  Sarge clapped a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be all right.”

  Clay spent the next hours relaxing. On a private deck, he gazed over the water between sips of coffee and fifteen-minute naps. He tended his stitches, glad to see the skin mending. Trees rustled in the river breeze as passages from the Gideon Bible in his lap began stitching the wounds in his spirit.

  Next to the main building, he found the Steamboat Inn library where plush chairs beckoned and vaulted ceilings pointed skyward. In one sitting he read through half a Randy Singer legal thriller—just as Jenni was prone to do.

  He considered calling her. Maybe in a day or two.

  Sarge returned that afternoon and pan-fried his fresh catch in olive oil. He sprinkled thyme on the thick fillets, served them with broccoli and garlic bread.

  “After roughin’ it on the trail,” Clay said, “this is awesome.”

  Sarge gripped a fold of his belly. “Yeah, who says we bachelors can’t enjoy a good meal? I have been cuttin’ back, though. Gotta slim down for the lady in my life.”

  “Josee, right? How’s it working out between you?”

  “Wow! Good memory there. Yes sir, things’re lookin’ up.”

  The conversation turned from women and relationships to the events of the past few days. With his energy returning, Clay was ready to work through the details.

  “Sarge, what led you to Crater Lake? How’d you know to find me there?”

  “Trade secret.” Sarge winked. “No, you really wanna know?”

  “My parents. They realized all the camping gear was gone, right?”

  “They did. That’s a fact. When they let me know you’d disappeared, it didn’t take me long to find out the car was registered for long-term parking up by Willamette Pass. Got worried when I found out you’d drained your checking account. Your mother figured you must be headed for Crater Lake. Told me all about your high school dreams of doin’ just that.”

  Clay speared another bite of fish.

  “I had other help too,” Sarge said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Had someone keepin’ an eye out for ya. Kid by the name of Scooter.”

  “Wesley?”

  “That’s him. He’s a natural at it. Dropped him off at Windigo Pass, had him hike back until he ran into you. Last year he got messed up in some nasty stuff, so this is one way I’ve helped him stay outta trouble. Good kid at heart. Every now and then he likes to gimme a hand with my investigations.”

  “He was a spy. That’s what you’re saying? An informant?”

  “He volunteered.” Sarge shrugged, sipped at a glass of Pepsi Vanilla.

>   “So you were watching me the whole time. You think I’m guilty, is that it?”

  “I had my questions. Thing is, Clay, it doesn’t add up. The nights that Summer Svenson and Mr. and Mrs. Coates died, you were at home. Your parents swear to it. On top of that, the blue paint scrapes at the Svenson scene don’t come close to matchin’ any of the vehicles you’ve been drivin’. As for the incident at the Coateses’? That was just one terrible accident. Every bit of evidence says the lady shot him, thinkin’ it was self-defense, then died while breathin’ in fumes.”

  “If that’s the case, why’d you have me followed?”

  “Whoa now. You hiked right alongside Scooter. That was your choice as much as his. And in case you don’t remember, he left you a day early.”

  “At Diamond Lake.”

  “Mm-hmm. That’s when he called. Told me where you were headed.”

  “But why’d you come?” Clay pushed back his chair.

  “Scooter told me how you gave him your Discman. He was worried about you, said you were actin’ awful depressed. Guess it was a good thing I was there since you meant to die in that lake. I almost drowned gettin’ you out, and now suddenly I’m the bad guy?”

  Clay stood and paced in front of the fireplace. “I mean, thanks for saving me. Seriously. Without your help, I guess I’d be fish food two thousand feet under.”

  “There’s something else buggin’ ya. What is it?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me. I’ve been through stuff most people would say was crazy. Just ask Josee. She could fill you in.” Patient sincerity filled Sergeant Turney’s eyes. “C’mon, Clay. Let’s hear it.”

  “Expiration dates?”

  Clay groaned at the question.

  “Lemme get this straight. You think you know when people’ll die?”

  “I don’t just think, Sarge. I know. How else do you explain—”

  “Clay, hold up. I’m just workin’ this out in my head.”

  “Sounds like I’ve lost my mind, doesn’t it?”

  “How can you lose something you never had?” Sarge laughed and pressed on past Clay’s show of indignation. “So the way I figure it, you’re like a modern-day Jonah. You’ve been given the knowledge to help save lives, but you’ve been more focused on feelin’ sorry for yourself. Runnin’ from yourself and the past.”