Expiration Date

by Eric Wilson

  “Don’t start now. You’re cranky after a long night’s drive.”

  From the Subaru, Asgoth could see Jenni and Jason Ryker at a window table inside an Idaho diner. The tourist spot was run-down, with tumbleweeds surrounding the modular building like regulars at a bar. A hand-painted plywood sign leaned against the fence: Biggest Burgers Within a Hundred Miles.

  Thanks to the Consortium’s network, Asgoth had never doubted his ability to locate Jenni and Jason. When mother and son deviated from Interstate 80 earlier in the day, they did so before watching eyes.

  “I’m serious,” Henna persisted. “Am I missing something here?”

  Asgoth watched Jenni’s hair part around her fingers, liquid gold in shiny waves. Light freckles danced across her nose. No wonder Clay was upset about his divorce; this was a nice little specimen of a woman. She reminded Asgoth of licentious moments in his past.

  “Beauty and brains,” he said. “That’s what she has.”

  “Like I said, what’s she have that I don’t?”

  Asgoth took this opportunity to stir up emotion. “She has Clay’s heart.”

  “Then we’ll have to cut it out.”

  “First, get ahold of young Jason, and don’t let him run off the way Kenny Preston did. That’s why you brought the handcuffs. Once Jason’s secured here in the car, Jenni will do anything we ask. We’ll lead her to our friend’s trailer in central Oregon, where we’ll keep the two of them locked up until our plans on the thirteenth.”

  46

  The Backseat

  Clay had suspected this would be the case. Despite numerous attempts Wednesday and today, his calls to Jenni’s cell had gone unanswered. He wanted to know his wife and son were safe. He tried dialing from a pay phone at the Chevron station so that her caller ID wouldn’t recognize him. Still, she never picked up.

  Was she there? Ignoring him? Or …

  Stop. Don’t even think about it, Claymeister.

  Getting ready for work, Clay tucked his phone and GPS unit in his work pants. He expected a call from Henna. Tonight he was to meet with her.

  And with Bill Scott.

  It was a mind-twisting concept that went against the memories he’d experienced, catalogued, and avoided. He considered calling the Scott home. Mr. and Mrs. Scott might be able to give him insight.

  No. He screwed his eyes shut against the idea. What would he say? “Hi, this is Clay Ryker, the one who was drinking and bridge diving with your son. You know, the last one to see him alive. Sure it’s been twelve years, but I think Bill’s back in town. Has he contacted you?”

  Okaaay then. They would think I’ve gone psycho.

  Clay faced the time clock, breathed a sigh, and punched in for the day. On the corkboard to the right, fliers and handbills advertised local restaurant specials and upcoming events. He tugged a pizza coupon from its pushpin, and a tan brochure dropped free as well. He bent to retrieve it.

  Skin to paper. A fresh tattoo with the latest refrain … 8.1.3.0.4

  Who was the victim to be this time?

  He walked to his workbench. Pulled on his gloves. With his fingers, he flattened the brochure and found the name of Kenny Preston’s mother printed across the front. Kate’s church was coordinating a weekend retreat along the McKenzie River, and newcomers were welcome. Kate was listed as the information person, with a phone number that looked like a church extension.

  Was this what she did for a living? Or was it volunteer work?

  Clay told himself it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t live past tomorrow.

  Trolls and farmers and Scandinavian lovers. Asgoth liked this tale. He’d seen “Hardanger Wedding” performed here before.

  He and Monde wove themselves among the crowd of parents and performers. Portable bleachers faced the Festival Park Stage, where Scandinavian-garbed dancers of all ages twirled and stepped to traditional folk music. Starting today, they would put on their show for standing-room-only crowds.

  The Scandinavian Festival was in its final preparations.

  “Here we have our lovely pairs dancers,” Monde said.

  Asgoth peered around a knot of gossiping mothers. “I see them.”

  Digs and Wendy dipped, stepped, dipped, and spun. Following them across the stage, Father Patrick and Mylisha mirrored the choreography.

  “They’re all healthy as can be. I liked the bait-and-switch idea, Monde. I’ll give credit where it’s due. I do think we’ve got Clay Ryker flustered, but we can’t let him survive like he did at Crater Lake. I need him. He’s the signature on my paycheck.”

  “Rest assured, Dmitri Derevenko will present no complications. Like so many dreamers, he viewed himself as indispensable. Now he’s dead, shot by his partner Oleg. And of all things, Sergeant Turney and his girlfriend lent me a hand. Unwittingly, of course.”

  “Turney? Your hated foe?”

  “They fooled Dmitri. Now Oleg’s off on a hunt of his own.”

  Asgoth hushed him. “More later. This is one of my favorite scenes.”

  Against the painted backdrop of deep blue fjords and jagged crags, the young lovers pranced over a makeshift bridge, unaware of the lurking troll beneath.

  “If I had to guess,” Monde said, “I’d say this is where you stole your idea.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little inspiration.”

  “It does fit nicely.”

  Asgoth found his gaze sweeping along the stage, the props, the performers’ exit points. The lurking troll here in his scenario would be of a more explosive nature.

  He was confident in Henna’s ability to penetrate this low-security area; he had other friends who would execute their duties, but she would be the fire to the fuse. The Oklahoma City bombing had demonstrated the staggering destruction of a homemade device consisting of, in part, standard fertilizer ingredients.

  In a rural community such as JC, there had been little difficulty obtaining the correct components. Rigged properly, the Festival Park Stage would erupt in a superheated blast.

  During Friday night’s nine o’clock performance, if all went as scheduled.

  “Look,” Asgoth whispered. “One of them’s arrived.”

  Monde followed his partner’s gaze to a red-nosed individual who waddled along on hoglike legs. The tailored suit and silk tie only distorted his size.

  “Is he with the Consortium?”

  “He is. Come on, Monde, I’ll introduce you.”

  Clay slipped into St. Helen on his morning break, peered about the empty chapel area. Votive candles and holy icons graced the walls. A reverential silence blanketed the pews, providing cool yet detached comfort.

  Was God here? Was he personal enough to meet one frantic soul?

  I used to believe it.

  Although raised Catholic, Clay had taken his father’s lead and held faith at arm’s length. Della displayed her devotion, but it seemed more sentimental than heartfelt. In Wyoming, Clay had surrendered to a relationship with a personal God. He and Jenni had attended an interdenominational church that encompassed Protestants and Catholics alike in loving, corporate communion with Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

  Like his old man, though, he had started to distance himself.

  How could he come boldly into the presence of the all-knowing God?

  Here now in St. Helen, he found himself on his knees with hands folded over the back pew. You know the things I’ve done. You’ve seen my anger, my pride, my lust. Well, here I am. Take a good look. I need you, Jesus. I can’t do this on my own, and now I’m stuck without a wife. I’ve tried paying for my own sin … and even failed at that!

  He thought of Sergeant Turney. His rescuer. A whale sent to save him.

  God had extended forgiveness and a second chance.

  A whisper of feet caused Clay to lift his face. Father Patrick stood above him, set a hand on his. Clay tried to keep from recoiling, but his skin burned with the tattoolike etchings of five numerals.

  Tomorrow. Father Patrick’s date had also shifted.r />
  “You’re welcome to stay. You’re Gerald and Della’s son, is that right?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I’ll be gone most of the day, but don’t let me stand between you and God.”

  “Where are you going? I mean, not that I’m trying to be nosy.”

  “The Scandi-Fest. Opening day. I’ll be dancing on the Festival Park Stage.”

  “You?”

  “Is that a problem? I’m already accustomed to wearing robes.”

  They shared a moment of laughter.

  “From what I understand, you used to be … good friends with my dance partner.”

  Clay’s cheek twitched. “Oh yeah?”

  “Mylisha French. A beautiful young lady. Please don’t accuse me of trying to fit her into a box when I say she has more rhythm than the majority of us on that stage.”

  As a festival participant, Mylisha had requested time off from Safeway. After speaking to her LCC guidance counselor, she headed from Eugene to the Scandi-Fest.

  En route, an automated billboard flashed the lottery’s latest jackpot amount. She shook the temptation from her head. Things were looking up. Changes were in store.

  In the backseat, a leather camera case provided evidence of that.

  She pulled into a parking spot at Ralph’s Drugs and trekked across the main thoroughfare to the changing rooms at the Festival Hall. Amid pale Danes, Swedes, Norwegians, and Finns, she was hard to miss in her bonnet, apron, and dress, but she’d earned her place with the dancers. She heard few complaints.

  None to her face, anyway. Nobody was that stupid.

  “In half an hour,” her director called out, “the cloggers will be rehearsing on this stage. This is it, folks. Our last practice. Let’s work out the kinks, shake off the nerves. That’s right. Loosen up, and let’s have some fun.”

  Mylisha gathered with her troupe. Took her place beside Father Patrick.

  She was touching down her foot, starting to spin, when she spotted Henna.

  The blond woman was on a top bleacher, outfitted in bracelets and a shawl laced with shiny threads. Her eyes were closed. Head back. Mouth parted.

  Mylisha stopped in midstep. She came down squarely on both feet. With the sun beating down on the bonnet, she stared at this woman who had brought such pain. She thought of Shanique. Of Summer Svenson. Of Clay Ryker. In a blur her thoughts and emotions spun, then came to an abrupt halt, with the fabric of deceit swishing about her in the same manner as her Scandinavian gown. Cringing, her head filled with the image of Clay’s dad, Gerald Ryker.

  He was there! He knows what happened. Why didn’t I think of him weeks ago?

  Mylisha decided it was time to contact Sergeant Turney.

  Her thoughts cleared in time to see Henna staring at her. Henna’s smug expression was that of a woman guarding dangerous secrets, and the cell phone she lifted to her ear was her co-conspirator.

  Clay peeled off his canvas glove and answered on the second ring.

  “Clay, I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  “Oh. Hi, Henna.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  “I was hoping it was Jenni.”

  “Your ex? You still talk with her? My understanding is that she’s not returning your calls of late.”

  Clay’s ribs formed a fist around his lungs. He could hardly breathe. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Do you know where she is?”

  “Obviously you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t need to ask.”

  “Are we still meeting tonight, Henna?”

  “I certainly hope so, for the sake of your loved ones.”

  “Just tell me where. I’m too tired for innuendos and threats.”

  “My place. On Lovelake.”

  Clay saw Mr. Blomberg striding his direction across the warehouse floor. He held the phone against his shoulder, slipped his glove back on. “I don’t get off work till six.” He leaned down, pretending to be focused on the headstone before him.

  “We’ll be waiting for you at eight. No sooner. And don’t worry about bringing the items I requested just yet. We’ll save that for later. This will be our excuse for a friendly reunion, nothing more or less.”

  Blomberg slapped a meaty hand on Clay’s shoulder. “I’ll be waitin’ for you in my office after lunch. That is, if you’re not too busy yakkin’ on your blasted phone.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The big man shoved his way through the exit.

  Clay lifted the receiver again, gathered strength. “Tell me. I’ve gotta know. Did he really survive, Henna? Is Bill Scott alive?”

  “Hmm. That’s a relative term, is it not? After what you did, he has no life.”

  Digs saw Clay’s approach, lifted his goggles so that white eyebrows sprang free. Sweat droplets outlined the ring of granite dust around his face. He studied Clay’s face. Wrapped an arm over his shoulders. Drew him to the far end of the sandblasting hut.

  “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want,” Clay told him.

  “That’s about enough o’ your nonsense. Ain’t one person I’d rather help.”

  “Sure it won’t get you in trouble?”

  “At my age? With my past? Nah. Won’t be no trouble at all.”

  “Hey, Digs, you could come with me.”

  The man pursed his lips, spit dust on the floor. “Now who would Wendy dance with if not an ol’ codger like myself? My schedule’s plumb full. This one’s all yours, Ryker. That’s the way of it.” He pulled a pencil from behind his ear, scrawled a line of numbers on a notepad, double-checked it before delivering them to Clay.

  “These’re the right ones?”

  “Been, oh, a coupla years, but that’s them, all right.” Digs tapped his head with the pencil’s eraser. “Got ’em locked up tight in here.”

  “I might not be back.”

  “Don’tcha be talkin’ like that.”

  “I mean, I might not be back here.” Clay frowned. “Blomberg wants me in his office after lunch. I think today’s my last day on the job.”

  “Your last day, eh? You shoulda told me you were dyin’ to get outta here.”

  Clay groaned. “That’s not even funny.”

  “Hmm. Well, sometimes there ain’t nothin’ ya can do but laugh.”

  8.1.3.0.4 … Wendy, Digs, Mylisha, and Father Patrick.

  Tomorrow four people within his circle of acquaintances would be joining the festivities downtown. Each was marked for death. Each was scheduled to dance in the “Hardanger Wedding” evening performance.

  Nine o’clock at Festival Park Stage. Friday, August 13. What were the odds?

  Then of course there were his son and his own father.

  And Kate Preston. Where did she fit in?

  Clay swallowed a dry bite of a ham and cheese sandwich. He fished in his wallet for Sergeant Turney’s number. It’d been a week since they talked. On his cell Clay caught the sergeant waiting for a courtroom appearance. Apparently, he had to testify regarding events surrounding Dmitri Derevenko’s death.

  “The big guy?” Clay said. “White Taurus? One who killed Mako?”

  “That’s still to be determined. But the Dmitri fella was found dead in a rental car, two bullets in him. Shot by his own gun, a little thingamajig that looks like a cell phone. Made in Croatia.”

  “Scary the stuff they come up with.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Was it suicide, Sarge?”

  “I’m not s’posta be talkin’ about it too much. Be under oath in a few minutes.” The investigative consultant cleared his throat. “But it looks like someone else was involved. Good thing is, me and Josee are fine. She’s sportin’ a coupla bruises.”

  “Josee? Your girlfriend? How’d she get tangled up in it?”

  “You’ve gotta meet her. Tell ya right now, partner, she gets tangled up in everything. One free-spirited woman.”

  “So it’s all good between you two?”

  “Gettin’ better by the day.”
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  “What about Summer Svenson’s death? Any word?”

  Sergeant Turney’s voice turned husky. “I’ll always care about the Svensons. They’re good people. Can’t rightly tell you that I understand God’s plan, but I do know he works things out. One day at a time. The way Josee tells it, our job’s to just walk on.”

  “But did they find out who ran Summer down?”

  “Roundin’ up a suspect as we speak. Or haven’t ya heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Talk to your friend Mylisha French. Or call up your old man.”

  “I’ll have to check into it later, Sarge. Right now, I’m supposed to go throw my butt in a sling. I think I’m about to get fired.”

  “Dad?”

  “Son, grab your stuff.”

  Clay had finished his lunch and clocked back in, figuring he might as well get paid for the time it took Mr. Blomberg to rake him over the coals. He sauntered up the single-wide trailer’s back steps, braced himself for the inevitable reprimand, shoved his way into the lobby.

  Nothing looked right. The secretary was huddled over her desk, blubbering into a wad of facial tissue; the front door was wide open, wasting coveted air conditioning; two patrol cars faced the railed entryway, lights spinning.

  “What’s going on?” His question to the secretary caused her to burst into fresh tears. “Who’s in the backseat? Did they arrest someone?”

  At that moment Gerald Ryker came from Blomberg’s office, followed by two cops. His face was grim. He looked like a man ashamed, but oddly proud, of what he had done. He was telling Clay to grab his stuff, but Clay was still reeling.

  “Can someone tell me what’s happening?”

  Gravel churned in the parking area. Heads turned, and Clay watched Mylisha French hop from her car, march to the back of the first patrol car, and slam clenched palms against the glass. Angry tears ran down her face. Years of pent-up pain and regret.

  “You killed my friend!” Her palms punctuated her words. “You aimed right for her, didn’t you? In cold blood! Trying to cover your tracks, you self-righteous piece of dirt! I hope you rot, you cold-hearted freak! Are you listening to me?”