Expiration Date

  There was no easy way to ask this. “Are … all of your brothers still alive?”

  “Dude, what kind of question is that?” Aggravation tinged Wesley’s words. “What do I care anyway? Been years since I talked to any of ’em, and you won’t hear me complainin’. Some things are better left alone.”

  Clay took the hint. He didn’t broach the subject again.

  Dmitri Derevenko watched Vicki hurry out the door. She was flighty, annoying. After a heated phone call with her “control freak” boyfriend, she’d thrown on her Bob’s Burger uniform and muttered something about returning before six.

  From the couch Dmitri surveyed the dark apartment with its nicotine-yellowed walls. He had not come thousands of miles from his beloved country for this.

  Yesterday he had visited Glenleaf Monument Company on Junction City’s northeast corner. He’d entered the single-wide trailer that served as showroom and office, found a buxom secretary tapping an IM on her computer.

  She’d turned down her country music station. “Can I help you?”

  “This song.” Dmitri found a point of connection. “It’s by Bering Strait.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This music group, they’re from my motherland. From Russia.”

  “Yeah? It’s a pretty good song.”

  “You would like Russia. We have many good musicians, da.”

  “I’m sure I would.” The secretary glanced at the monitor’s IM window.

  “Mr. Blomberg … Is it possible that I could speak with him?”

  “So sorry, but he won’t be back till tomorrow, and our sales staff’s in a meeting.” She buffed a nail on her skirt, then fetched a business card from a granite holder. “You can always call to set up an appointment.”

  Dmitri slipped the card into his pocket. Near the sliding back door, a dry erase board showed names on a weekly work schedule.

  “Clay Ryker.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He works here? He’s the son of Gerald Ryker?”

  “Gerald and Della. They’ve been friends of my parents since, oh, way back.”

  “Perhaps I could speak to Mr. Ryker. One or two short questions.”

  “The crew’s busy and can’t be interrupted. Anyway, Clay’s been gone since Monday, didn’t even call in sick. No one knows what’s happened to him.” She’d frowned.

  Then yesterday evening Vicki had confirmed Clay Ryker’s disappearance.

  “Guy’s lucky he’s still alive. Rumor has it he went on a drinking binge, then ran his car off the road into a ditch. The latest is that he’s taken off for the mountains.”

  Today, alone in the apartment, Dmitri considered a personal visit to Gerald and Della Ryker. With some persuasion they would give him the facts he needed to track their son into the woods. In fact, the thought of being outdoors stimulated him; in the forests near Ekaterinburg, hiking and fishing had been part of his life.

  Was Clay carrying Kenny’s secret? Was he out there intending to hide it?

  Dmitri picked up the phone to inform Oleg of his next step. After days without communication, his Brotherhood contact would be worried. He might even suspect Western influences were eroding Dmitri’s dedication. It was a prevalent danger.

  Before Oleg could answer, Dmitri heard a creak on the landing.

  “Astergaisya,” he whispered. “Beware.”

  The apartment door slammed inward. Splinters of wood tore through the air. A burly kid with black shoulder-length hair roared Vicki’s name, then came in screaming accusations over the barrel of a gun.

  The control freak, Dmitri realized, had lost control.

  Mako was a bouncer at the Raven. Although boozed-up and flirty women hit on him every night, he reserved his heart for one special lady.

  Vicki was a year older than Mako. They’d gone to JCHS together. He loved everything about her, which was why he tried so hard to make her happy—gifts, cards, teddy bears, phone calls, whatever it took to show his love.

  But there was just no pleasing some women.

  Last night Mako hadn’t slept a wink. His eyes were stinging, his temples pounding, his fists clenching in sudden spasms. He faced her apartment building and tried to convince himself the white Taurus must belong to a new occupant. But he had never been a good liar. His aunt used to say he was without an ounce of guile, and he believed her—even though he had no clue what “guile” meant.

  He crept up the stairs to Vicki’s landing. The gun made him feel powerful.

  Just gonna scare her. Let her know I won’t put up with this. And if there’s some guy in there? Heaven help him!

  Mako faced the door, studied its construction. One or two well-aimed kicks—that’s all it would take.

  His mind flashed back to last Sunday night at the tavern. He’d thrown a tall, lean, drunken fool out onto the sidewalk. A guy named Clay. He’d shoved the guy hard. Sneered. But he could not erase Clay’s words: Man, you’re about to die too …

  He hesitated now. Maybe he should back off.

  Then he felt the tug, like a finger snagging his chin and pulling down.

  There on the landing he spotted Vicki’s charm bracelet. The one he’d given her. Paid good money for. Sent with a bouquet of flowers. It was sitting in the dirt like so much trash.

  Kur-rashh!

  In a burst of wood and popped screws, his boot shot the door inward. He spit out Vicki’s name amid a volley of insinuations. Blundering forward, he followed the barrel of his gun, saw a broad-shouldered man with icy blue eyes.

  Was the guy just plain dumb? What could a cell phone do for him?

  “Too late to call the cops! You think you can waltz in, just take her away?” Mako tried to look past the clothes on the bed; Vicki would never mean to hurt him this way. “She’s the only girl I’ve ever loved. The only one! I’d do anything for her!”

  “Even die?”

  Mako roared. “You’re the one who’s going to—”

  The bullet burst into his chest with a hot-cold, splashing-shrinking sensation. He stared down. His legs cut out. Crumpling to the floor, he was still baffled by the gunshot’s source. He should’ve listened to the warning: You’re about to die too.

  Coming here had been a very bad call.

  “Nicely arranged,” Asgoth congratulated Monde. “You made it look easy.”

  “As I said before, it’s all a matter of unlocking the human mind. Find the right combination, and the rest is simple. On occasion, though, more drastic measures are needed. Pride, love, hatred, and self-doubt—they can be as effective as dynamite.”

  “And in this case, the charm bracelet was the fuse.”

  “I suppose you could say that.”

  Although sirens were playing in the background, Asgoth couldn’t resist. He moved up the apartment stairs, hoping for another glimpse through the open door.

  Monde seemed anxious to leave the scene. “I know what you’re thinking, A.G. You believe I made errors.”

  “Did I say a word?”

  “Actually I made them intentionally, to attract Sergeant Turney’s attention.”

  “What’s the use? He’s gone out of town.”

  Monde’s onyx eyes bulged. “Where?”

  “I know I’m good, but you can’t expect me to know everything.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this earlier? He has a nasty habit of bumbling his way into places I’d rather he ignored.”

  27

  At Long Last

  They parted ways at the Diamond Lake guard station.

  “Need to stock up at the resort store, make some calls, get a hot shower.” Wesley wore a pout. “And try washing the berry stains outta my cap.”

  Clay forked over a ten-dollar bill. “Here. For the laundry.”

  “Nah. Keep it, dude.”

  “I don’t need it. Only got one more day before I’m done.”

  “I’m not takin’ your cash. Do I look like a slacker?”

  “Then take this.” Clay tucked his Discman in
to Wesley’s pack. “I prefer the silence anyway. The sounds of nature.”

  Wesley’s head tilted, and his lips split into a grin. “That’s wild, just flat-out crazy. I used to have one of these before my coma. This means a lot, really. Thanks. This is one gift I’ll take.”

  “Good. It’s all yours, man.”

  “But”—Wesley wiggled his cap—“if these stains don’t come out, I’ll hunt you down. Little Duck better run from mean Husky.”

  “I’m quaking in my boots.”

  “Quacking’s more like it.” Wesley stretched out a hand. “Seriously, Clay, thanks for the company. It’s been real. You’re a good guy.”

  Clay avoided the contact. He gave his hiking partner a playful jab in the shoulder, touching nothing more than a tan sleeve. “You’re not bad yourself, for a former coma patient. Happy trails, man. It’s off to Crater Lake for me. Haven’t seen the place since I was a little tyke.”

  “Think you’ll make it there by tomorrow? Without me to baby you along?”

  “Nothing’ll stop me. I’m dying to do that guided boat ride.”

  Wesley Scott tipped his cap.

  With a wave Clay cut across Highway 138 toward a trail that rejoined the PCT. Through branches of hemlock and lodgepole pine, he saw Thielsen’s stony pinnacles slashing at the sky. The temperature was pleasant. According to his Shaffer guide, today’s journey would be his least difficult. He would trek past the North Crater trailhead, down along the Pumice Desert, to Red Cone Spring where he’d find water and a campsite for his final night.

  Tomorrow he would hike the rim of Mount Mazama.

  Step by step. Nearing the point of baptism.

  Mylisha heard about Clay’s disappearance through the grapevine. Through a customer at the Safeway service desk, to be more accurate.

  “He’s left town,” the woman said. “Yep. Couldn’t handle it.”

  “Couldn’t handle what?”

  “The boredom.”

  “Was there anything else you needed today?” Mylisha asked.

  “Like I don’t spend every dime here already. Nope, nothing else. You heard about the other night? I’m only telling you because you and Clay used to be an item. Well, he got drunk as a skunk. That’s the way it was told to me. Started mouthing off, grabbing and threatening waitresses. Bouncers tossed him out on his butt.”

  “We all have our moments. You think he’d want you talkin’ about this?”

  “Guess he should’ve thought about that before going into the Raven, eh?”

  Mylisha extricated herself from the conversation. She thought she might lose it, give the woman a piece of her mind.

  She slipped into her small office area and picked up the newspaper. She knew what she was looking for, although she went through the motions of scanning the latest news—Kobe Bryant trial updates, potential scandal among Olympic athletes, Chechen terrorist threats.

  Okay, girl, here’s what you wanted. May as well take a peek.

  The horoscope column beckoned with bits of humor, sage advice, and projections for the day’s events. She knew she should put her trust in God alone. But hadn’t God borne witness through the stars before? Bethlehem: perfect example.

  Mylisha ran her enameled nails along the page. Twice she read the section devoted to her, seeking parts that fit, finding questions instead.

  Hadn’t she refrained from calling Clay a few nights ago based on this column?

  Now the advice seemed pointed in the opposite direction.

  Honesty is the perfume of any friendship. The longer you hold on to secrets and relevant facts, the more likely your relationship will become a real stinker.

  Knowing of Clay’s recent disappearance, Mylisha now doubted her decisions. Had she misread the signs? What if she followed today’s advice, then found that it conflicted with yesterday’s? Or tomorrow’s? How could she know with any certainty? Shanique never seemed bogged down with such doubts.

  Mylisha clocked out for a break, then dialed the Ryker residence. I hope Clay’s mother answers. She might know how I can reach that boy.

  “Henna, do you remember Clay’s belt buckle?”

  “The one you left beneath the Coateses’ bedroom window?”

  “Yes, that one.” Asgoth smiled at the memory. “We need to plant a similar piece of evidence at this girl’s apartment, at the scene of the homicide.”

  “The scene of the crime,” Henna corrected. “Mako’s not dead yet.”

  “Give it a few more days.”

  “I have my reservations, A.G. Your activities keep getting … darker. Are you sure we should be involved in this?”

  “We cannot take responsibility for the actions of others. This Russian man has a pattern of violence, and we’re merely using his mistakes to our advantage. You know me, Henna. I wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

  “But that paperboy.”

  “What about him? I didn’t break my promise to you, didn’t even touch him.”

  “What do you need me to do this time? What’s the objective?”

  Asgoth waved at an object on the kitchen’s stained wooden table. Left by the former occupant, the table had become a focal point of the apartment’s recent activities. Hardened red wax spread tentacles across the pine surface.

  “The objective,” he told Henna, “is to keep our dear Sergeant Turney busy.”

  “Aren’t there better ways of distracting him?”

  “I’ll tell you a little secret.” Asgoth circled around Henna’s back so that his presence hung over her like a cloak. “If you can distract a man through his job, he’ll never suspect outside involvement. Human nature longs for meaning, for purpose. A career can become so intertwined with a man’s view of himself that he fails to see anything else.”

  “Clay.”

  “Exactly. Now there’s a man convinced he has lost his purpose.”

  “ ‘A child of the earth.’ That’s what I said to him on the bus.”

  “And to the earth he shall return.”

  Clay slowed his pace to appreciate the sweeping view. In the future his family might appreciate pictures of these vistas.

  He snapped a few photos with his digital camera, thought of Sam and Lyndon. How were they faring? He smiled at the thought of Lyndon’s spraying repellent around Sam’s spindly legs. Despite his view of their lifestyle choices, he had enjoyed their company. In turn, they had challenged his thinking.

  Were they right? Was he hurting Jesus?

  I used to think that way, but it all seems so removed now. So distant.

  Clay snorted, realizing the words described himself as well.

  But why was it that two gay guys could survive nineteen years together, while he and his wife couldn’t make it past twelve? When had this world turned upside down and crazy? Why had Clay and Jenni’s vows before God fallen apart? Where was the faith to which they’d once held?

  Clay crossed a mountain meadow cloaked in wildflowers. He followed a gully, then a gentle slope leading toward the North Crater trailhead and the desolate Pumice Desert.

  He signed in at the trail register, then moved across the wide expanse. The going was easy. He picked up and studied bits of pumice and shards of glistening obsidian. The landscape to his right was a lunar setting: barren, wiped out by layers of ash and volcanic destruction. Grouse Hill was a former lava flow, built up on the valley floor.

  At Red Cone Spring he refilled his water. Set up camp.

  On his cell he had messages from his mother and the secretary at Glenleaf. Mylisha had called as well, but her message contained only brief silence.

  He deleted each one in turn.

  But the last message sucked the air from his lungs.

  Jenni. Speaking her first words to him in months.

  “Clay, I hope you get this. Your mother contacted me at work, said she’s worried sick and begged that I call you. I know we’ve had our rough times, and, no, you’re not the only one at fault. Do you ever reach a point where you can’t turn back, though? As though
a part of you has died and you can’t revive it, no matter how hard you try. Well that’s me. That’s the point I’m at.

  “We’ve done enough finger pointing. We have a son …” Her voice broke. “We have a gorgeous little boy who just wants to be loved, and when I look at him, all I can see is you. Is there any chance of us making things work down the road? You tell me.”

  A bitter little chuckle. “But that’s always been our problem. You won’t tell me what’s going on in your head. It’s as though you’ve locked the door and lost the key. Even after I filed, you sat back as if it was a done deal. Sure, you tried calling, but you weren’t going to go beyond surface conversation. You know it’s true.”

  A sigh. “Why am I even wasting my time? I get peeved all over again just thinking about it. You know, my mail still says Mrs. Ryker. Does that mean anything to you? You act as though I should be able to read your mind and be there to hold your hand, be up for you when you need it. You have a son who loves you. You have a wife … uh, a woman who cares about you. But, Clay, whatever’s weighing you down, you’ve kept refusing to let it go. That’s why I’m finished, why I don’t think I can be part of your life any longer. And if you don’t deal with it—through God’s help or that Dr. Gerringer guy or whoever—then you won’t even have a life of your own.”

  Clay avoided the other campers in his vicinity.

  Dinner. That sounded good.

  He fed himself berry-topped pancakes, strips of beef jerky, and a vanilla pudding cup. With a mug of instant coffee, he wedged his long body into the tent. Mesh windows filtered the waning sunlight so that he was able to read a dog-eared paperback. A Louis L’Amour. He hadn’t read one in years.

  He could hear his dad’s voice. Gotta be a man’s man …

  Gerald had read these as well. Father and son finding common ground.

  Jason. Clay sank back into the Kelly sleeping bag.

  You’ll always be a man. Don’t let others tell you otherwise. You’re a smart kid. Handsome and full of ideas. I’m so proud of you. I tried to love your mother. She’s a very special lady, she really is. I think I just kept pulling away from her until she snapped. She couldn’t keep giving without getting anything in return.