Expiration Date

  Daddy, I want you to come home. Mommy works to hard and reads and won’t play Xbox with me. I don’t think she knows how. She hugs me real hard. Why did you hafta move? I don’t want you to. Can you bring the bus back? I love you. Jason

  The second time Clay read it, his throat tightened, and the words ran like ink underwater. Jason still called him Daddy. Clay held the postcard to his chest, and his shoulders shook. He made not a sound. In his mind, the image of Jason’s nine-year-old face popped up, dirty and full of wonder the day he’d carried in a beetle for his momma’s inspection. Jenni had jumped, dropping a can opener. Clay and Jason had laughed, a male moment of bonding.

  Concern now swelled through Clay’s chest. His son seemed so far away.

  Then he thought of the paperboy on the porch early this morning.

  7.1.1.0.4 … A warning?

  Clay took a drink from a half-empty container on his nightstand. He had one week to find and safeguard the paperboy. Yes, this is what he would do. Since Jason was a few states away, Clay would channel his concern toward this newly threatened child. He would serve as protector. Perhaps he could do this one thing right.

  One thing, just one thing …

  When the sunlight roused him on Sunday morning, he was stretched out on the bed with his clothes wrinkled about his body, the overhead light glaring, the postcard still clutched between his fingers.

  “Kenny?” His mom’s voice carried thinly from her twin bed.

  “I’m going to do the paper.”

  “Be careful out there. You know cars have a hard time seeing you.”

  “I know, I know.” He ruffled Gussy’s ears, then kissed his mom on the cheek. “Love ya, Mom. Be back soon.”

  Kenny Preston took his usual path through the garage’s side door. Stuffed with inserts, the Sunday papers were the hardest, often overflowing his shoulder bags. Today’s date was stamped clearly: July 4, 2004. Independence Day.

  He couldn’t wait for tonight’s fireworks display in Harrisburg.

  The morning wind was light, the sky streaked with violet, and Kenny felt invigorated by the smell of fresh-cut grass and hay. On Juniper Street, a resident had asked that his paper be brought each day to the welcome mat on the back porch. This morning Kenny found a tip folded there beneath a pack of gum.

  Koolerz. My favorite. And five dollars!

  While his jaws worked the gum, his legs pistoned him forward so that he was able to complete the Sunday route before seven o’clock.

  Which gave him a few minutes to kill.

  He rolled the five-dollar bill in his hand. His mom was right that the world wasn’t such a bad place if you knew the right people. Actually, she had said, “… if you know the right person.” Meaning God.

  Kenny had come to understand this a few months back. In a Sunday school class, the teacher explained that Jesus was a real man who came and lived on earth. “Even though he was God and could’ve stayed in heaven, he humbled himself so we humans would know how much he loved us. He went through struggles just like we do. He was tempted but never sinned. He was a spotless lamb, sacrificing himself for the sins of the world. His death brought each of us life.”

  The words touched Kenny. In his heart he believed, and in his head it made a strange sort of sense. At the teacher’s invitation, he raised his hand. Yes, he’d done things wrong, which separated him from his Father God. Yes, he wanted Jesus to make things right.

  Kenny Preston was born again, saved, baptized—the whole deal.

  Yep. I know the right person.

  The traffic was minimal this early, but his mother’s warnings played through his head. He looked both directions. Blocks away, near the Dairy Queen, he saw a panel van waggling around a corner.

  Ivy Street was Junction City’s main thoroughfare, a segment of Highway 99 that ran up and down through the state. If Kenny followed it, he knew it’d take him to Portland, where he could visit the IMAX theater and the old submarine at the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry. His last visit to OMSI had been on a field trip.

  A hundred miles away. He could do that. One big adventure.

  Of course, his mom would freak. Always an entertaining thought.

  Kenny cut across Ivy, through a parking lot and an alley, then bunny hopped a curb so that he was on the smooth path running through Founder’s Park. This was the site of the locomotive. He loved this train with its hints of intrigue and spies, battles and mystery. Supposedly, some famous Russian guy had escaped on this thing.

  Kenny was ready to explore. The morning was young, locking the park in shadow. The coast was clear.

  He laid his bike behind a bush, then shimmied over the gate that guarded Engine 418. The machinery was huge and dark. New paint fumes and the smells of wood, smoke, and grease floated about. He had to jump to reach the first step. At the rear, the tender car was a reminder of the work required to make this monster move.

  Dude! And I thought the Sunday paper was bad.

  Kenny heard a voice, low and feeble in the dawn.

  He wedged himself back into the engine’s cabin. Okay, he was trespassing, but he meant no harm. A little exploration, that’s all. Why did people these days try to discourage a kid if he used his imagination to let off some steam?

  Maybe because of school shootings, Kenny thought. Kids weren’t just kids anymore; they were potential criminals.

  Well, I’m not! I’m thirteen just trying to have some fun.

  The voice passed from his left to his right. Kenny gripped the metal, flattened his back against the rough surface to assure he would not be detected. Hopping the fence hadn’t been the brightest idea.

  He was losing his balance. With tight fingers, he clawed the cold iron at his feet.

  Caked grease—oooh!—coming right up between his fingernails.

  Scurrr-tinkkk!

  The texture changed beneath his touch. In the corner, where floor and partition met, his finger exposed a wooden object amid flakes of grime and curled black residue. An old piece of kindling from the tender box? A twig blown here by the wind?

  Or maybe it’s a war relic.

  Kenny’s mind kicked into high gear. He’d seen newspaper stories about children in Florida who came upon pirate treasures or farm boys here in Oregon who plowed up old army munitions. This could be his chance at something big.

  “What’re you doing in there?”

  His muscles jerked at the sudden nearness of his accuser.

  “Get out of there before I call the police, you hear me?”

  His eyes crept to the partition to assess the threat.

  “What’s your name, young man? You tell me this instant.” The woman was hunched in a brown wool coat, leading a shaved and shivering Chihuahua on a leash.

  “Kenny Preston,” he said. Stupid, stupid. What made him open his mouth?

  “Well, get out. Must I repeat myself?” Eyes full of admonition, she picked up the dog as though arming herself for confrontation. Kenny couldn’t help but notice her chin had more white hairs than the pooch’s. Had she heard of razors?

  “I’m going,” he said. “Wasn’t doing nothin’ wrong.”

  With leery eyes glued to Kenny, the woman grumbled into her Chihuahua’s ear.

  Kenny scaled the fence and grabbed his bike. He could always return tomorrow or the next day for this latest find. Was it important? Probably not, but he’d be back.

  Asgoth scratched his elbow, then rolled up the sleeves of his pale yellow shirt. This was a workday. For others, Sunday might be a day of reverence or recreation, a day to catch up. Not for him. Not anymore.

  He thought back to his golden years.

  Though his stint as a high schooler had never brought him popularity, he had celebrated his own social triumphs. He’d spent most summer weekends at Fern Ridge Reservoir, exploring the benefits of pot and ecstasy with his peers. He’d coerced and been coerced into all sorts of wayward activity.

  Anything to fit in and feel accepted. To feel human.

&nbs
p; Then the risks had gone too far.

  Like countless others before him, Asgoth had learned the hard way—one act of stupid pride, one slip-up. The Consortium had moved in to mop up his mess, and in so doing they’d built lucrative careers.

  Asgoth was still scraping by. Still fighting for respect.

  And I hold you responsible, Mr. Clay Ryker!

  Asgoth paced the sidewalk, searching for Monde. How long must he wait? Down the street he saw an elderly woman shuffling along with a lap dog on a leash. Then, spotting a kid on a bike, he forgot his impatience.

  Kenny Preston. The boy hopped the curb and entered the park.

  “My apologies,” Monde offered, appearing out of nowhere. “I’ve seen Pristi off, and the Consortium’s scheduled us for review after the Scandinavian Festival.”

  “The Scandi-Fest. We still have a few weeks to work with.”

  “Which necessitates our haste, yes. Already, we know the Brotherhood’s topnotch personnel are targeting this location.” Monde lifted his beaklike nose, sniffed at the air. “The trick will be to misdirect them or perhaps leave a substitute … a decoy.”

  Across the way, Kenny was climbing the train’s iron fence.

  “Do you remember me mentioning an innocent young boy? Take a look over there.” Asgoth gloated. “He’s the one.”

  Gussy sniffled at the door, alerted to Kenny’s presence in the garage.

  “Hey, girl.”

  Kenny parked his bike, then scooped his darling into his hand as he swept into the house. From the kitchen, the smell of melted cheese and bacon tantalized his growing body. He could hear his mother’s slippers scuffing along the tiles. He wondered if this was what it was like to be a grownup, to come home to your space, to feel as though the world was shut out from the confines of your castle.

  Won’t be long. Mom already calls me the man of the house.

  Kenny’s father, the other Mr. Preston, was in Alaska. He’d left when Kenny was three, spewing vows to Mrs. Preston that he would return with a bundle of cash and a new lease on life. Whatever that meant.

  Mr. Preston had sent one check. And two letters. He’d never come back.

  A spike of pain tore through Kenny’s chest.

  “Gussy!” He pushed her down onto the living room’s throw rug. The silly dog had latched on to his skin through his shirt. “Bad girl, Gussy. Don’t bite!”

  “Kenny, you okay?”

  “She bit me. No big deal.”

  “Ready for breakfast? You have two minutes to get washed up.”

  Brrngg-brrngg … From down the hall, the phone chirped. Kenny yelled that he had it, then made a dash, sliding on his socks, trying to beat the second ring.

  Brrn—

  He snagged the receiver, awarding himself half credit. “Hi.”

  “Good morning. Is this the Preston residence?”

  “Um, yeah. Who’s this?”

  The baritone voice said, “Need to speak to Kenny Preston, if I could. Is that you? Please don’t hang up. It’s important.”

  “No thanks. We don’t wanna buy anything.”

  “Hold on, Kenny. I’m not a telemarketer. Sorry if I’m scaring you, calling up like this, but I need to … need to warn you about something.”

  Static hissed from the receiver as Kenny carried it into the front room, where he peeked through the curtains. Like clockwork, Mrs. Larsen was trudging around her flower beds with gloves on, clippers in hand, a bag of weeds and roots trailing behind her. She was about the nicest person Kenny knew. In the light of dawn, her crown of white hair looked radioactive. Her husband, Mr. Larsen, was gone—a victim of cancer. Apostate … or something like that. No one would give Kenny the details, but he knew it had to do with down there.

  Which made him nervous.

  What if he died? What would his mom do? Would Gussy even remember him? Sometimes he worried about his own body. Things were changing. Maybe he had apostate cancer.

  “You still there? Kenny? Don’t hang up, I beg you. I know this sounds bizarre, but if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll try to explain. Will you let me do that?”

  Kenny let the curtains fall back into place. “First tell me your name.”

  “Clay.”

  Clay? The dude’s tracked me down. I should never have—

  “Are you still there, Kenny? I promise I’m trying to help you.”

  “Sorry. Can’t talk. My mom’s calling me for breakfast.”

  “How about later? I could meet you and your mom together, if that’d be better.”

  Kenny balked at the thought of dragging his mother into this. She had reasons for keeping an unlisted phone number, and he was here to protect her. He wanted to know, “How’d you get my number?”

  “Got it from the Register-Guard. I said I wanted to pass on a message to my newspaper carrier, and I gave your description.”

  “Do you know where I live?” Kenny inquired.

  “Nope, they only gave me your phone number. By the way, I have your—”

  Kenny disconnected.

  12

  No Turning Back

  Clay fought off panic. He stared at the dead phone in his hand and reminded himself he had nearly a week. Would Kenny Preston end up as an unsuspecting victim, another weight on his conscience?

  It would be more than he could handle.

  The jacket under his arm took on new significance; surely he could use it to track down the kid. Overriding his sense of propriety, he riffled through the pockets and found nothing but lint and a sticky glob of chewing gum. He thought he was out of luck, then noticed the small slit of an inner pocket.

  Inside: an orange plastic card with a magnetic strip.

  “Nickel’s Arcade.” A local address and number.

  Tomorrow, Clay decided, he would visit the downtown hangout, poke around, ask if anyone knew the person to whom the coat belonged. He called and found out the place would be open from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m.

  For the heck of it, he perused the local directory and confirmed that Kenny Preston’s phone number failed to match any of the Prestons listed. No number. No address. Nothing. With all the mixed families these days, the kid could have a different last name than his parents. His mom could be single or a divorcée who had dropped her married name.

  Against his will, Clay’s thoughts jumped to Jenni—her freckled cheeks and smiling eyes. Last year he’d begun to see her first hints of laugh lines. He’d planned on watching them deepen.

  What did he have instead? An uncertain future.

  A judge would decide his fair share of marital property, while lawyers argued both sides of spousal and child-support payments. Clay didn’t mind helping his family. He did mind the courts stipulating when, where, and how much; he did mind having no say in how it was spent.

  He slammed his bedroom door on the way out.

  Della, whipping from the kitchen, almost collided with him. “Breakfast is served,” she said. “There on the table.”

  In this house he’d heard the same phrase every Sunday since he could remember. He recognized it as a compromise between his parents, a weekend arrangement. Della always cooked up sausage, peppery hash browns, and scrambled eggs with cheese; Gerald always joined her for Mass at St. Helen.

  Clay felt a sudden, palpable affection for his mother.

  “Mom.” He took hold of her arms, bare below the sleeves of her cornflower blue dress. He needed contact. He already knew her numbers, knew they indicated a date far off—though not far enough. Regardless, he could let down his guard.

  “What is it, Clay?”

  “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Just thank you. For everything.” He thought of her years of hard work, child rearing, the constant shuttling, and her ubiquitous smile.

  “Oh, don’t be silly. Go eat while it’s hot.”

  “Really, Mom. Thanks.”

  Della’s eyes softened beneath her shield of Avon cosmetics and Gloria Delaney hair products. “You’re a doll.”
br />   “Yeah, yeah.” Clay gave an affable squeeze, then let go. “So you’ve told me.”

  Later from the dining nook, he watched his parents depart in the gleaming Dodge pickup. Gerald took the wheel: No woman’s gonna drive me around. He looked forlorn and bitter behind the windscreen.

  Alone in the house, Clay delved into his robe and removed the shredded pieces of yesterday’s envelope. He nabbed a roll of tape from the drawer beneath the phone. Setting the pieces on the kitchen counter, he smoothed the torn edges with his fingers and assembled them with strips of tape.

  The message was uneven, but clear enough.

  You thought you’d get off scott-free, but you were wrong.

  How many must die to pay for your sin? Sacrifice yourself so others might live!

  Who knew? Who’d been there at the river? The wording was too specific: “one bill you can’t run away from …” “thought you’d get off scott-free …”

  Bill Scott.

  Dead at age seventeen.

  Bill and Clay had been alone that day. Spring break of their senior year. A great day to be at the river if you could handle the Willamette’s temperature. Of course, the beer helped with that, pilfered from the cooler in the Scotts’ garage. After the investigation, the alcohol in Bill’s system was no secret and was widely blamed for his death. A lesson to all good boys and girls.

  A lesson Clay had elected to forget.

  Now the incident rose from his memory’s muddied waters, insisting he replay the events and set aside guilt and anger long enough to search for clues among the details.

  Friday, March 13, 1992.

  A canopy of clouds. Filtered sunlight. A slight breeze ruffling the Willamette River’s deceptive waters. A bridge of aging, gunmetal gray.

  “You sure it’s safe?”

  “Sure,” Clay said. “We’ve done it feet first. Let’s go headfirst.”

  “How deep is it?”

  “Deep enough.”

  “What about stuff floating beneath the—”

  “Hey, if you’re afraid, just say so. Stop making excuses.” Clay mounted the railing. “I’m gonna do it.”

  Bill Scott shrugged. “Whatever, man. Go for it.”