by Eric Wilson
“You tell me.” Kelso cleared his throat. “Here’s my suggestion. Go home, prop up your feet, rest in the knowledge of a job well done. That’s what I’m going to do. Sure, the chief’ll want some justification for the monies assigned to our shenanigan. But after what happened to Detective Freeman, I feel better about it. Don’t you?”
“Officer, don’t shut me off. Digs’s date is this Friday.”
“Digs? The one you work with?”
“I touched his arm a moment ago, and that’s what the numbers matched with.”
Kelso paused. “But that’s not right. Add ’em together, and they equal sixteen.”
“I know, but—”
“What happened to your unlucky thirteen theory?”
“Don’t you see?” Clay tried to keep his voice below a shout. “Friday the thirteenth. There it is. The rules’ve changed, but it’s the same game.”
“Mr. Ryker, go get some sleep. This is one game I’m done playing.”
“Shouldn’t I check the others? What if—”
“No. We’re not doing this. At some point fate steps in, don’t you think? Are we intended to run around obeying your every whim, saving people’s lives until they’re well into the hundreds? What if our attempts at intervention are the very things that trigger a fatal chain of events? Have you considered that?”
“Yes, Officer. But these numbers were as clear as ever.”
“You sound like that guy Jonah.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not a religious man, but isn’t he the one who predicted everyone would die? Then when God had mercy, Jonah whined and moaned about it.” Officer Kelso found humor in the story. With laughter still trickling from his words, he said, “Go home, Mr. Ryker. It’s been a long day.”
“Just this one last time. That’s all I ask.”
“Good night.”
“Just this Friday.”
“Good-bye.”
Oleg dabbed a cloth at his facial cuts. Even days later these wounds stung, and he suspected a glass chip remained buried in his cheek.
Dmitri Derevenko was dead. The newspapers had confirmed it.
What did Oleg care? Dmitri had been duped; he had failed to secure the Fabergé egg. Oleg, bloodied and sore, had escaped from the scene only moments before the first City of Florence Police vehicle caromed into the lot.
He bandaged his wounds and settled onto the bed of the Portland hotel.
The world was no place for idealists. Decades ago the Brotherhood of Tobolsk had pursued dreams of a restored monarchy. A dead cause. In this era of pragmatic realities, it was no wonder the globe’s longstanding monarchies had fallen within a short time of each other—the kaisers, the Tsars, the royals of Great Britain.
Times had changed. The world’s citizens were more urbane than in days of yore. They expected to rule themselves. And why shouldn’t they? The heavy-handed abuse of sovereigns had gone on far too long.
A righteous ruler? A fair ruler? A loving ruler?
Bah. Such a one does not exist.
Of course Lenin had been right, destroying churches and murdering acolytes by the thousands. Religion was the “opiate of the masses.” Those who clung to their ancient customs and guilt-driven beliefs were the ones standing in the way of progress.
Da. That’s why it’s a good thing Dmitri is dead.
Oleg bandaged his wounds and returned to his late-night research.
The more he studied, the more he was convinced Gertrude Ubelhaar did not have a biological son. She had claimed one as her own, a man named Karl Stahlherz. Stahlherz, however, had died last year, and according to documents recently recovered by Sergeant Turney and made part of the public record, the man was the brother of Marshall Addison—both of them genetic offspring of Virginia Addison.
All this gave substance to Oleg’s theories. He believed Gertrude Ubelhaar, ward of the Coffee Creek Correctional Facility, was after Rasputin’s fortune. She, too, wanted to slap the world into awareness. She wanted the reins to the riches represented by Josee Walker’s Fabergé egg.
In other words she was hungry for money, power, and control.
Oleg liked Ms. Ubelhaar already. He would have to pay her a visit.
“Mind if I join you, Clay?”
“Henna?” He stared up from the table. “Surprise, surprise. Don’t tell me it’s coincidence to find you tramping in here after midnight.”
“Is that a yes? I was hoping you’d be pleased to see me.”
Clay took a steaming pepperoni slice from the deep-dish pizza on the table. “Sit down. But the pizza’s off-limits.” He took a bite.
“You should be glad that none of your precious charges was harmed. In fact, we had to divert one of them from a dangerous situation. Just in case.”
“Am I supposed to thank you?”
“Would you rather they had died?”
Clay’s eyes shifted toward the front counter. “Can you keep your voice down?”
“You’re in no position to ask favors, dear heart. Do you know where your wife and son are at this moment? Asleep in their beds at a Holiday Inn off I-80.”
Clay slammed down his pizza slice, causing red plastic cups of Coke to jump.
“You leave them outta this!”
“Please.” She winked. “Can you keep your voice down?”
“Henna. Forgive me. You were a underclassman, and I’m sorry I didn’t notice you more, but that’s the way life goes. You brought trouble to Mylisha and Shanique. You tried to manipulate things in your favor. Real love doesn’t work that way.”
“And you’re the expert, Mr. I’m-Going-Through-a-Divorce?”
“In this life we don’t always get what we want. We move on and take what God provides. He ’causes everything to work together for the good.’ We have to trust that.”
“The rest of that cute little verse says for ‘those who love God and are called according to his purpose.’ ” Henna lifted her hands, palms up. “Which eliminates me, doesn’t it? I choose to love myself. I don’t need your outdated religious nonsense.”
“Whether we like it or not, we’re all part of his plan.”
“Not so, Clay. We can choose our own plans. Make our own paths.”
“Tell me what you want. Why’re you here?”
Henna grinned. “I thought you might like to speak to your high school pal, the one with the missing shoe. Keep Thursday night open. We’ll arrange a reunion.”
“As a habit I don’t talk with my dead friends.”
Through the front window, Clay saw Digs heading back.
“For Jason’s and Jenni’s sakes, I’m sure you’ll make an exception.” With care, Henna wrapped a piece of pizza in a napkin. “It might also be wise to start pooling your resources—that is, if you’d like to ‘reunite as a pair.’ If you hope to see your wife again, I’ll need your GPS unit and a hundred thousand in cash.”
“Dollars?”
“Love comes at a price!”
Clay let out a snort. “If you could see my bank statement. That’s impossible!”
“Weren’t you the one just quoting scriptures? ‘With God everything is possible.’ ”
Henna brushed past Digs on her way out.
“My eyes deceivin’ me, Ryker, or did that blonde just swipe some o’ my dinner?”
Clay dropped his head into his hands. One hundred thousand dollars? Henna was insane. At the present rate that was more than he’d make in the next four years. And the GPS? Apparently she was after Kenny Preston’s treasure from Engine 418. But where was it? At the bottom of Crater Lake.
“What’s eatin’ at ya now, Ryker? You are one ball o’ nerves.”
“I’m done. I give up.”
“After only one piece o’ pepperoni? You’re a lightweight.”
“This is so stinkin’ ridiculous!” Clay shook his head. “I mean, what would you say if someone told you they needed a hundred grand within forty-eight hours?”
“I’d say ya better start talkin’. Tell your pal Dig
s what’s goin’ on.”
“As if you need my burdens. What good’ll that do?”
“Try me.” Digs folded two pizza slices into a hearty deep-dish sandwich, took a bite, washed it down with a swig of root beer. “Done said it yourself, Ryker. I’m just full o’ surprises.”
45
In Touch
While waiting at the toaster that morning, Clay tried reaching Jenni and Jason. The hotel room phone rang without response, then rerouted him to the operator.
“I’m sorry, sir. Would you like to leave a message?”
“My name’s Clay Ryker. Tell them to call me ASAP. It’s an emergency.”
“An emergency? I can have one of our staff go to the room.”
Clay insisted on it. He waited, tapped the end of his butter knife on the counter, deflected Gerald’s stern stare from the dining nook with a stare of his own. He was buttering the second piece of toast when the operator came back on.
“Thank you for your patience, sir. I’m connecting you now.”
“Clay?”
“Jenni. Thank God you’re there.”
“Where else would I be? It’s only eight in the morning here, which means seven your time, am I right? Gosh, I’m tired. I drove most of yesterday.”
“Sorry to bug you.”
“They said this was an emergency. Are you okay?”
“Yep.” Clay coughed. “I’m heading to work soon, but I … I wanted you to know I love you. I love Jason.”
“That’s very sweet. We luvya too.”
“Do you, Jenni?”
“Please. Don’t try to make me feel guilty.”
“No, what I mean is, do you still … care about me? After everything I’ve done?”
“And not done.”
“Yeah, rub it in.”
“Of course I care, Clay. But let’s leave it at that. We’ll only stir up old emotions, and I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”
Clay pictured her curled up on the bed; he recalled their mornings together. Usually he had awakened first. Oftentimes he had watched her sleeping form—tousled sandy blond hair; strands that curled against parted pink lips; lean legs that had never lost the baby dimples on her knees. Although he would think of cuddling next to her, his insecurities and guilt had held him back. He didn’t deserve her. He never had.
And in the past two years, his failures had mounted like evidence against him. Triggered by the incident at the bridge.
Friday the thirteenth.
Only two days remaining till this came full circle.
“Clay. What’s the emergency? Or did you just say that to get me on the phone?”
“Be careful,” he said. “Even if it takes a little longer, choose a different route. Shoot, that might be the best idea. Show up a day late, if necessary.”
“First you try to sweet-talk me. Now you want me to stay away.” Jenni’s chuckle held no humor in it. “Brings back memories.”
“This’ll sound crazy, okay, but I think someone might be planning to kidnap you.”
This time her laughter was real. “If it’s money they’re after, good luck.”
“I’m serious.”
“Clay, have you found a girlfriend? Is that what you’re trying to hide?”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Mylisha. What about her?”
“What about her?”
“When we went to the Scandi-Fest a few years back, she was there. She still cares deeply for you. That was obvious in her eyes. Girls can tell these things.”
“Jenni, I’m still wearing my ring. Is there any reason we can’t keep it that way?”
Her silence was pregnant with regrets and unresolved issues. “Clay, we’ll talk more about this when I get there. I promise. But for now, please try to stop worrying. And don’t make up any more emergencies to get my attention. Depending on which route I take, we should arrive sometime Thursday. I’ll get hold of you then.”
“If I call your cell, please pick up.”
“No, Clay. I’ll be driving. Praying. I’ll need the time to think things over.”
“You have to promise me. You can’t—”
“I’ll tell Jason you love him. I’m going back to sleep. See ya soon, Clay.”
Clay cradled the dead receiver in his palm. Banged his head on the cupboard twice. Turned, thrust the phone back onto its hook.
Over the Register-Guard, his father was glaring at him.
“Don’t even say a word, Dad.”
Gerald’s chair hit the wall as he stood. He had his travel mug in one hand; with the other he nabbed a sheet of paper from the stack beside his checkbook. Slapped it on the counter so hard that Clay’s toast jumped. With a stubby finger, callused by years of lumberyard work, his father poked at a circled figure on the paper.
The telephone bill. Totaling over one hundred dollars.
“My phone,” Gerald said. “Take care of my stuff, or you’ll be out on your butt.”
Clay stared down. His hand moved toward the bill but came in contact with his father’s arm. Numerals shot through his skin. Uninvited. Deep and tenacious.
8.1.3.0.4
Gerald shook him off in a show of disgust. Snapped the lid from his travel mug and dumped the contents down the drain.
On his morning break at the monument company, Clay dialed Officer Kelso. The result was no worse than expected.
“You want me to do what?”
“My wife and son are in danger. Is there a way we can arrange some sort of police protection?”
“You mean, is there a way I can arrange it?”
“Well, yes.”
“Listen, Mr. Ryker, I was tired last night, and I’m man enough to admit it. I was curt. Maybe even snide. Please, though, tell me this isn’t another fabricated attempt to prolong your moment in the spotlight.”
“This is serious, Officer. Please don’t shrug me off. My drug test came out clean, didn’t it? So put me on the lie detector if that’ll convince you.”
“Let’s skip the red tape, shall we? Two questions for you. Are your wife and son still out on the road between here and Wyoming? If so, that presents a logistical problem, does it not? And what gives you the idea they are in danger? I thought we’d made it over your little hurdle of August tenth.”
“I told you. The numbers have changed.”
“Oh, of course. I let that slip my mind.”
“Somebody threatened me, Officer. And threatened my wife and son.”
“You have proof of this?”
“It was verbal.”
“Ah.”
“No, wait! I have a note. Written with an Avon pen.”
“The plot thickens.”
“Henna Dixon,” Clay said. “You might like to question her about it.”
“The same one who cleans at the apartments. Is that what we have—a squabble between the two of you? Are you in a relationship with her?”
“Definitely not!”
“You say that with a good deal of emotion. So tell me, what does this note say?”
Clay ran the words through his head, realized how foolish they would sound. He chose a different approach. “I found it up in that apartment.”
“The one you broke into.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So let’s get this straight. You do a little B & E at a vacant apartment, but the nonexistent resident knew you were coming and left you a note. Or maybe it was the cleaning lady, is that it? She invited you to join her for dinner there in the darkness, then had the gall to leave you a little threat. Written, of all things, with an Avon pen.” Officer Kelso’s sarcasm oozed through the phone. “Sounds like we need to be keeping a closer eye on those shifty door-to-door saleswomen.”
“Thanks for your time, Officer.”
“If it puts your mind at ease, I can tell you from experience that most of the clairvoyant, paranormal crowd tend to exaggerate their own abilities. Comes with the territory, I suppose. We don’t hold it against your type. I’m sure it’s ea
sy to lose touch.”
“I wish.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m more in touch than ever before. It’s not a weight I’d wish on anyone.”
“Rest, Mr. Ryker. I suggest you get lots of it.”
“How can I sleep when my wife and my son are out there?”
The police officer was undeterred. “As for these phone conversations, interesting as they might be, I ask that you discontinue them. The department will have its hands full enough with the Scandi-Fest opening tomorrow and running through the weekend. Being a local boy, you know how it is. With all the out-of-towners, this place’ll be a zoo.”
“That’s what I’m worried about. Friday’s a big day down there.”
“Is this another of your harebrained predictions?”
“Good-bye, Officer Kelso.”
This time Clay had the pleasure of ending the call.
Clay kept his Garmin GPS unit in his pocket. The thing had become vital.
At Glenleaf Monument Company, he found the same numeric results as at his house. With Wendy, he made an excuse to help at the air compressor, then touched her hand while forcing laughter over her latest version of the mummy joke. With Digs, he helped load grave markers into the sandblasting chamber, then brushed his forearm in a charade of bumbling awkwardness.
Both co-workers shared the revised digits. Converted from the previous set.
8.1.3.0.4 … Friday the thirteenth. The high point of the Scandi-Fest.
And the same set of numbers was present on headstone after headstone.
“Remember what I told ya last night,” Digs said, cutting through Clay’s despondency. “You’ll let me know if ya need my help, won’tcha?”
Clay bobbed his head.
“Be my pleasure, Ryker. Seems to me someone’s lookin’ out for ya.”
“Wish I had your confidence. But, yes, I’ll let you know. Thanks.”
“Me and Wendy, we’ll be gone the rest o’ the afternoon. Got rehearsal.”
“At the festival?” A question spilled into Clay’s mind.
“Don’tcha say a word. I happen to think my costume’s snazzy.”
“Hey, if you’ve got the ability to dance in public, more power to ya.”
“What does he see in her?” Henna wanted to know.
