by Eric Wilson
“I tried to save one kid, Sarge, soon as I realized what was going on.”
“Good. I’m sure that’s part of your assignment. God still works through his people, you know.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Clay’s voice turned bitter. “Well, guess what. That kid died. He got … He was taken out by a train.”
“And that’s why you threw yourself off the boat. To pay for your failure.”
Clay said nothing.
“Lemme tell you something that should bring a smile to that long face of yours. From what I can tell, Junction City hasn’t reported a train accident in months. Hasn’t reported any missing children either.”
“I saw it with my own eyes. You’ve gotta believe me, Sarge.”
“Can’t believe everything you see. Don’t ask me how or why, but for some reason you’ve convinced yourself of something that never happened. My investigation has kept connectin’ back to Engine 418, so it was only a matter of time till I found out about Kenny Preston’s favorite pastime.”
“Kenny? Yep, he told me how he liked exploring that engine.”
“He told me the same thing.”
“Huh?”
“It’s true, Clay. Three nights ago I sat and talked with him and his mother. He’s got more life left in his bones than you and me put together.”
30
In the Bunker
Dmitri lost another ten dollars at the Mill Casino’s blackjack table.
This was a poor idea, he scolded himself. He was too distracted to be gambling with Brotherhood monies. Too tired. He felt dirtied by this encounter with greed’s ugly stepchild.
“Kak dela?” he heard a voice say. “How’s life?”
“Oleg?”
Dmitri turned to find his comrade’s shiny face. If the man shaved, he showed no need for it; his skin was oily and without wrinkles. Despite his choirboy look and voice, Oleg Volovnik was a former crime lord from Moscow. His great-grandfather had been one of the Brotherhood of Tobolsk, and Oleg told how he had renewed his own vision for Russian resurgence during the Kremlin’s recent exhibit of Fabergé eggs. When he heard that a number of the jeweled artifacts were still missing, he felt it symbolized his country’s state of affairs, and he vowed to put things right.
“A nice afternoon. Let’s take a walk so we can speak in privacy.”
“Da, Oleg. I’m ready to stretch my legs.”
Dmitri strolled past a poster advertising an upcoming series of Rick Springfield concerts. Outside, a Coquille Indian totem pole staked tribal claim to the casino’s profits, and ocean salt replaced the air’s cigarette stench.
“No one knows you are here, Dmitri?”
“No one. After I called you with news of the shooting, I turned in the rental car in Eugene. This casino had a special deal. I took a free bus ride here and also got a weekend in the hotel. I didn’t use the passport or my real name.”
“Very good.”
“But I did lose track of the object from Engine 418. It’s far gone, I fear.”
“Dmitri.” Oleg chortled. “You have already searched, and there was nothing on the train. A little boy’s treasure? Bah. More likely a historian’s mistake. These things happen.”
“The boy may still have it. I chased after him, but a train came, and I could not search until it’d passed. I found no sign of the boy. He escaped with the secret, or maybe he gave it to this man Clay Ryker. I should’ve followed Clay into the mountains.”
“Nyet. We have other matters for you to investigate. We believe we will find the final connection to the Tsars’ bloodline.”
Dmitri lifted his head. “Are you certain of this?”
“Nothing is certain, comrade. But look at this photo. We believe it’s her.”
Dmitri accepted the dossier Oleg eased into his hand. He removed a picture and biography sheet, noticed the names and statistics matched those he had coaxed from his Fort Lauderdale victim. This was good; the former Nazi had not lied.
“Gertrude Ubelhaar, she is here? At the women’s correctional facility?”
“Da. South of Portland.” Oleg looked like a schoolboy delivering an oral report. “Already she is behind bars nine months on charges of terrorist activity.”
“Has she told anyone her secret? Maybe she wishes to make peace with God.”
“She’s not one to worry about God, Dmitri. She’s an isolated old woman … babushka. Who would she tell? What for?”
“Because she must surely take great pride in this. She was chosen in secret, because of her ties with Hitler, to mother the descendant of the Romanovs. Her son, may he be blessed, is the very Tsar we seek!”
“Do we know his name? Is he in hiding?”
“We’ve searched but found nothing. As if he never existed.”
“The Tsar does exist. He should be fifty-eight, the age of our fathers.”
“Look at these.” Oleg tapped at assorted newspaper clippings.
Dmitri removed a paper clip and thumbed through reports of a late-night altercation near an Oregon lighthouse. A photo showed a mangled helicopter, while a corresponding article mentioned a kidnapped woman’s harrowing tale, plus a missing man now presumed dead.
“We believe this is the same man. Her son.”
“But, Oleg, this man is missing. For how long?”
“Since October of last year. He could be gone for good.”
“Dead? I do not accept this. I will not. We must speak to his mother.”
“Witnesses saw him that night,” Oleg reasserted. “He had a knife, and he—”
“Nyet!” Dmitri slapped the dossier against his comrade’s shoulder. “I will not believe this is the truth. You see here?” He folded down the hem of his slacks, jabbed at his identifying scar. “This is the angel we must wrestle. She guides us, leads us to a strong motherland. God has given us this task.”
“I, too, bear the angel wing. We are men of destiny, but others make choices that bring us trouble. We must prepare for—”
“Oleg, destiny does not stumble over small obstacles. I will speak with Gertrude Ubelhaar, and we will find our Tsar.”
“Da. As well as a portion of the Rasputin fortune.” A cherubic smile graced the former crime lord’s lips. “You will do this as the Brotherhood has appointed. Do svidanya.”
Kenny Preston was the reigning spymaster. Strong and courageous.
Jesus, you were with me. I could feel it all the way.
Lying on his basement bed, he grinned and patted the mattress. Gussy pounced up and licked his face, her tongue tickling his nose. His mom kept telling him to “discourage this unsanitary behavior,” but he was a thirteen-year-old. What did he care? He loved his little puppy.
“That’s right, girl. Wasn’t sure if I’d find you again.”
Gussy nuzzled his neck with a playful growl.
“You were so pitiful,” Kenny said, “huddled in that alley. Can’t blame you, not after the lady tried to scare you with that needle.”
Had it been over a week already? Eight days since he ditched two grown men along the rail embankment? That Sunday night would stick with Kenny for a long time—the way he’d escaped from the park to the drainage ditch, the way Gussy had bit that lady and almost got hit by the Mustang.
But the night train …
Yeah-huh, that was the best part. Won’t ever forget it.
Standing at the drainpipe, Kenny’s heart had inflated in his throat. He’d given his treasure to Clay Ryker, then taken off through the ditch. As hoped, that other dude jumped out of the car and started chasing him. For some reason, though, Clay came back. What was he thinking? Kenny wanted to yell at him to get away, to hide the wooden tube somewhere safe. The big guy was gaining. Up ahead, Kenny saw a concrete bunker that he’d explored in the past. On its backside, concealed by thorn bushes, a metal door hung on rusted hinges.
He sprinted up the ditch. Out of view of his pursuers, he shimmied beneath the briers, thankful for his bike helmet’s protection. He pulled himself i
nto the bunker’s black space, swiped at spider webs on his arms and face. The night train screamed a warning at the shadows along the tracks.
Not like Kenny wanted to get flattened into a pancake, no thanks.
Seconds later the guy with the accent vaulted up the embankment. Amber lights pulsed over the ground. Clay’s voice sliced through the chaos, screaming Kenny’s name, telling him to run.
Kenny almost obeyed. Almost sprinted from his hiding spot.
But no, why should he? The big dude hadn’t seen him.
Through the mess of thorns, Kenny watched the train hurtle by, felt it shake the ground beneath him. A creature scurried over his neck. He flicked it away. Kept his eyes on the man now searching the empty tracks with eyes as intense as the Rottweiler’s earlier that morning.
Kenny hunched in the bunker long after everyone had gone.
Boy, talk about a rough day for the spymaster. But he’d fooled them all.
“Then,” he said, ruffling Gussy’s ears, “I went back and found you.”
The puppy shook her head and backed onto his chest, tugging at a button.
“Kenny,” his mother called, “come on up.”
He set his pet on the floor and dashed up the basement stairs to meet her. She’d been on edge earlier in the week. Although he hadn’t told her everything, she knew enough to be worried sick. When an investigative consultant named Sergeant Turney had showed up a few nights back, he’d eased some of her concerns and offered protection. He’d also asked about the locomotive downtown.
“Kenny,” his mom was explaining, “you have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s at the table, eating the last piece of blackberry cobbler.”
Kenny turned into the kitchen to find a tall man hovering over a slice of week-old pie. He’d made his mom promise not to throw that out. Good thing.
“Guess who?” He tapped the broad back.
Clay Ryker spun in the chair.
“Kenny? Kenny! Oh, man, if you only … if you had any idea.”
Clay set his hands on Kenny’s shoulders, looked him over, then smothered him in an embrace. Kenny thought it was nice to get this kind of attention, but he had a hard time telling if the man was laughing or crying as the hug tightened.
“I can’t believe it,” Clay said. “I thought that train took you out. I thought I’d failed in every way. I mean, I watched it happen. I screamed for you to run, but you just stood there. You must’ve jumped at the very last second.”
“Never even went up on the tracks. Just hid in the bunker.”
“That concrete thing? But I … I saw you … That was a horrible trick.”
“Yeah? Well, I thought you’d disappeared,” Kenny said. “Where ya been the last week? Heard stories, but I know most of them were just dog doodie, right?”
“Kenneth,” his mother chided from the doorway.
Clay shook his head. “I’ve been to hell and back, Kenny. What about you?”
Clay left the Preston home in a state of joyous disbelief. The kid was alive, flesh and bone. Death had not claimed him. His expiration date had been extended.
At Steamboat Inn, Sarge had commissioned Clay to stop running from this unusual ability, to start using it for others’ good. There was a spiritual world, he explained, that impacted things in the physical realm—and vice versa. Clay’s task was to release his past burdens and accept God’s design for the future.
One thing still plagued Clay. In his mind he could see Kenny’s face caught in that night train’s light. He winced at the scene’s brutal conclusion. Had his brain lied? Had his eyes deceived him? How could he deny what he’d witnessed?
But of course, he thought. That must be it …
In those moments before impact, at that crossroad between life and death, Clay must have projected ahead a few seconds, catching glimpses of what fate had intended for the kid; whereas, Kenny’s last-second choices had diverted him from that course.
However it worked, the boy was healthy and breathing. Clay’s decision to get involved had reaped the reward of a human life, and relief flooded his soul.
But, he reminded himself, emotions are fickle things.
A sense of regret seeped in as he crested Cox Butte Road, less than a hundred yards from his parents’ house. This was a whole different scene. How was he going to explain himself? He was returning the Duster in one piece; that was a consolation of sorts. Sergeant Turney had been kind enough to take him back to the trailhead on Highway 58, and the car had started right up—with a little jumper-cable assistance. On the other hand, Clay had deep-sixed all the camping equipment and lost a week of work.
From the living room recliner, a gruff voice halted him. “The prodigal, eh?”
“Hi, Dad. Is Mom around?”
“Son, you think I keep track of everyone in this family?” With the remote Gerald lifted the volume two more notches.
“I should’ve called. Let you know where I was.”
“Should’ve showed up for work—that would’ve been the proper thing.”
“Did Mr. Blomberg call? He must be steamed. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Humph!”
“Well, what else do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. That seems to be your usual tactic.”
“Learned it from the best.”
Clay stomped down the hall, feeling like a six-foot-three-inch adolescent. In the past few days he’d met new friends, toughened his body and cleared his mind, and had an epiphany in the depths—a full-body, head-to-toe baptism.
And what do I do? I revert to thirteen as soon as Dad’s in the room.
Clay thumbed through the mail on his bed. While the entire issue of finances seemed trivial after what he’d experienced, he did feel imbued with a new commitment to do what was right. All in perspective. A day at a time.
“Dollface, you’re home.”
“Come in, Mom.”
Della entered the bedroom, squeezed his arm. “We were so worried.”
“We? I find that hard to believe.”
“Never mind Gerald. It’s just his way. What happened out there, Son?”
“I hiked the trail,” he said.
“Just like you’ve always wanted.”
“I was so frustrated with everything here. I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t think I could keep pretending like things were okay, but I should’ve told you more in the note I left. Please forgive me. Don’t know what got into me.”
His mother’s fingers were still on his skin. The numbers, he noted, had stayed in place—vivid, unmistakable. Yet his previous sense of futility was giving way to newfound assurance. It seemed that some of life’s gifts weighed as much as life’s burdens; he knew because he’d gone on a pilgrimage, intending to cast this one off.
Kenny’s alive, though! I can’t explain it, but the kid’s still here.
This irrefutable fact filled him with faith, hope, and love. For the future. For a sovereign plan. For humanity as a whole.
Maybe he could intervene. He could save lives.
“Jenni called,” Della said.
“Uh. From Wyoming? When?”
“Early this morning. She asked that you call back between eight and nine.”
The clock by the bed read 8:52. “Our time or hers?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Della nudged the door shut. She turned with hands folded in front of her sunflower-print skirt and sleeveless white blouse. “Clay.” Questions blinked in her eyes. “You’ve been through a bad stretch—the divorce, financial struggles, and that Summer girl’s passing. A lot to think about. Last week when the sergeant brought you home from the Raven, he warned that you’d become a risk to yourself. I want you to know how much I care about you.”
“Things’re working out. I’m here now, aren’t I?”
“And I’m so relieved. Please don’t forget your mother loves you.”
“I know.”
“Please, dear. If there’s anything you—
”
“Don’t worry. I know I’ve done some … irresponsible things. But I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll leave you in peace, then.”
Clay took a deep breath and reached for the phone. “I’m gonna try calling Jenni.”
Okay, boys and girls. Back to reality.
31
Forgotten
Mylisha felt good about this. She closed the office door, punched into an open phone line. She’d checked the daily column during evening break, had even run it by a colleague. Time to do this. She’d call Mr. Clay Ryker, tell him everything she knew about the threats and the link between Bill Scott and Hannah Dixon and.
“Hello.”
“Clay? You sound upset.”
“Oh. Hi, Mylisha. Sorry, I was just about to … uh, I was calling Jenni.”
“I’ll call back later.”
“No. I mean, go ahead. What’d you want to say?”
“Mmm. Might be better in person.”
“Say it.” He sounded annoyed.
“Why you have to be like dat? Boy, I’m trying to help you here. I don’t—”
“Listen,” Clay said. “A few weeks back you made it clear you didn’t wanna see me. Now I’m supposed to believe you’ve changed your mind? For the past year I’ve been riding a roller coaster, and I’m not anxious to climb back on.”
“Let’s see, Clay. High school graduation, a final peck on the cheek, a few lines in a Hallmark card … Who took who for a ride?”
“Told you already, I was stuck in my own world back then.”
“And now you’ve changed?” Mylisha asked. “Guess I missed that one.”
“Bye, Mylisha. I’m calling my wife.”
“You mean, ex-wife.”
The phone went dead in her hand. She expelled air. Why had she gone and acted the fool? Why rub salt into his wounds? She was in management at a supermarket, almost thirty, a grown woman. What was she thinking?
Circled and underlined, the horoscope taunted from her desk.
Don’t hesitate to realign with estranged friends and lovers. Today is the day. Pick up the phone and watch forgiveness work wonders.
