Expiration Date

  Clay suddenly understood.

  “Hold on there,” one of the officers said, trying to coax Mylisha from the car. “You may have every right to be mad at Mr. Blomberg, but you’re going to hurt yourself.”

  “He killed her!”

  “That’s for a judge to decide. Thank you for your call to Mr. Ryker. He’s explained it all to us.”

  Clay wondered why he had never pieced it together. He could feel Mylisha’s conflicting emotions as she turned. She looked pitiful with tears and dirt staining her Scandinavian dress.

  She faced the hard stare of Gerald Ryker. Unrestrained, she came up the stairs. Stopped a foot from the man who had made it clear years ago he disapproved of his son’s interracial relationship with her. Her deep mahogany eyes had roots somewhere deep in her soul, in her ancestral heritage. Those same roots had drawn up water many times, only to discover the burn of acid rain.

  Here though, in this scenario, Gerald Ryker had backed her up.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ryker,” Mylisha said. And threw both arms around his chest.

  Clay’s only clue that his father was not carved from granite was the single blink of Gerald’s eyelids followed by the twitch of his lower lip.

  47

  Speaking to the Dead

  Clay digested the news with doubt, bewilderment, then outrage.

  “So Mylisha called you. At work?”

  “Got my attention.”

  “I’m surprised you gave her the time of day.”

  “Think what you want, Son.”

  “So she told you what Blomberg had done. But what made you listen?”

  At the dining nook, Gerald explained how he and Stan Blomberg had once worked together at the lumberyard. Blomberg was a religious zealot who formed no specific ties but preached a gospel all his own. Pulling verses from the Bible and blending them with his own prejudices and vices, he ostracized himself from his co-workers. Eventually he left the yard to take over Glenleaf Monument Company.

  But he still owed Gerald a favor. For Gerald’s silence.

  During Clay’s senior year, Gerald had complained at work about his son’s relationship with a black girl. He felt uncomfortable with it. Small-town Junction City was unprepared for such dilemmas.

  Blomberg, without permission, took it upon himself to cleanse the town of this abomination. He believed he must fight fire with fire. Evil with evil. In his own mind, he justified the sale of drugs to a minor and the use of violence to purge the depravity.

  Hannah Dixon and Bill Scott were his selected implements of punishment.

  Mylisha and Shanique were the offenders.

  When Gerald realized Blomberg’s involvement, he threatened to turn the man in. Blomberg swore he had done it for Gerald’s good. He agreed to curtail his extracurricular activities and to leave the lumberyard but told Gerald to keep his mouth shut, or Clay would hear how his father had ordered this round of heavenly wrath.

  A lie, Gerald now assured Clay. Yet one that would’ve been hard to disprove.

  Blomberg and Gerald forged an uncomfortable truce. Silence for silence: You don’t tell my secrets, and I won’t tell yours.

  Clay’s recent return had given Blomberg a chance to pay off the owed favor.

  It’d also brought to light Summer Svenson’s knowledge of Blomberg’s deeds. In the past she had been known to use her secrets for mild forms of blackmail, but she crossed swords with the wrong man in Stan Blomberg. He was the avenging blade of the heavenlies. And in this case, his blue Dodge Intrepid was the weapon of choice.

  He drove it through Summer, convinced it was for his greater good.

  Death was his business—tombstones and graves. It had been thus ordained.

  According to Gerald, Blomberg had stuttered at his desk this afternoon when Gerald walked in with the two cops. He’d been out of town much of the past few weeks, hoping to avoid questioning or confrontation. But he had slipped up by telling Clay about Summer’s head wound. Mylisha had realized the mistake when she checked the local papers and found that none of them divulged such information. Blomberg had also left tread marks and paint chips as evidence, which Sergeant Turney had sent in for analysis. Mylisha’s calls had linked the separate clues, and Turney’s recollection of a glimpsed Ford Probe in the Blombergs’ garage added the final nail.

  The police had means and motive, evidence and witnesses. A judge had signed the warrant. A blue Probe was being towed off from the Blomberg’s garage even as Stan Blomberg was being hauled in.

  “You did a good thing, Dad.”

  “Not lookin’ for approval.”

  “Thanks, though.”

  “It was the right thing, Son.”

  “I agree.”

  “Hafta find you another job. The Ryker family is done workin’ anywhere near that man.” Gerald stared down into his emptied travel mug. “As for me, I’m ’bout tired of tourists crawlin’ all over town during the festival. I’m takin’ tomorrow off.”

  “You? A day off?”

  Clay’s palm throbbed with a searing reminder of Gerald’s expiration date. He glanced down, felt the numbers coursing along his skin, following whorls and lines. His father had twenty-four hours to live. Unless Clay could step in.

  “Going fishin’,” Gerald said. “That spot o’ mine up the McKenzie.”

  “Hey. Looks like I’ll have the day off too. What if I—”

  “No, Son. My thinkin’ time. I’ll be doin’ this alone.”

  “But I—”

  “Man’s word is his word. Not changin’ my mind.”

  Acting in her self-appointed role as a buffer, Della slipped into the dining area. “Clay, I’ve just spoken with Mrs. Dixon. She tells me you’re paying her daughter a visit this evening. To be honest, I have mixed emotions about you going over there.”

  “Join the club.”

  Downtown Junction City was closed to automobile traffic. The festival would be a pedestrian event, with police sawhorses and orange reflective barrels marking its boundaries. Already, nearby businesses were preparing to cash in on coveted parking spaces; along Greenwood Street, booth operators stocked supplies and arranged displays; setup crews ran electrical cords and strung lights for the hot summer nights.

  Asgoth and Monde paced beyond the perimeter, past the fire station to the lawn beneath the water tower. Workers were battening down a canopied expanse over the wine terrace. By tomorrow evening the place would be a lively attraction.

  The Consortium’s obese representative joined them on the grass.

  “Monde, meet Mr. Gerde.” Asgoth had always found the name effeminate, yet fitting.

  “Mr. Gerde.” Monde bowed his head in respect.

  “Thanks for coming,” Asgoth said. “We hope to make an impression.”

  “And I’m sure you will.” A wheezing hiss accompanied Gerde’s words. “Whether it’s positive or negative rests entirely upon you. Let’s not beat around the bush. The Consortium has bigger goals than this piddling place. You tried here on your own twelve years ago, and it was a fiasco. That was your second failure, am I correct?”

  “Sir, it’s hardly fair to—”

  “Don’t interrupt, Asgoth! If you fail a third time, I’ll personally demote you to mindless minion in some backwater town. Yes, you went through your initiation, providing us with the death of John Doe, so we know you’re serious. However, to invest any further in this area, we need the hundred grand and the assurance that Clay Ryker has been persuaded to leave the picture. Permanently? That’d be best.”

  “Believe me, Mr. Gerde, I want nothing more.”

  “You were careless twelve years ago, allowing hard work to go to waste. This time, if Mr. Ryker discerns your identity, he might once more jeopardize everything you’ve striven toward. Already he seems impervious to your cat-and-mouse tactics.”

  “The screws are tightening. Another day or two—that’s all I ask.”

  “If you fail to come through—with the money or Mr. Ryker—we’ll pull you out.
”

  “Absolutely, sir. That’s been clear from the start.”

  “And if you trigger any premature destruction, you’ll face consequences of a most severe nature. The last thing the Consortium needs is the undue attention of a bomb. We have pressure enough as it stands, without inciting a public backlash. When it comes to conquering a population’s will, violence is always a delicate balance.”

  “I’ve worked hard to coordinate this explosion. I’d be disappointed if—”

  “This has little to do with your disappointment or personal animosity toward this town.” The porcine face grew larger in Asgoth’s vision. Stench-laden tendrils coiled along in the draft of Gerde’s breath. “It has everything to do with avoiding a repeat of your incident at the bridge. Have I minced my words?”

  “No, Mr. Gerde. This time I’ll do as you’ve stipulated.”

  “A.G., I have to believe,” Monde interjected, “that I’ve played a significant role in your preparations. I don’t think it’s too bold of me to say so.”

  Mr. Gerde leaned back, arms folded over his bulging waist. “I’m glad to see two partners dedicated to working as a team. It’s much rarer than you might suppose. Succeed or fail, your fates are now intertwined. Whether it’s sink or swim, you’ll do it together.”

  Asgoth exchanged a glance with Mr. Monde.

  Sink or swim? Hadn’t they been through this before, many years ago?

  Oleg had submitted his request to visit the Coffee Creek Correctional Facility. This evening, at last, he was walking through the screening area. With his papers cleared, he entered the visitors’ room and joined Gertrude Ubelhaar at a table.

  “Where is Dmitri?” the old woman inquired.

  “My comrade has returned to Mother Russia. He has not the patience for this task.”

  “And which task is that, might I ask?”

  Oleg leaned forward. “Finding Rasputin’s treasure.” He opened a folder of newspaper articles. “We both know you gave lies to Dmitri. Nyet, you have no biological son. It is a documented fact that Karl Stahlherz is dead.”

  Gertrude smiled. “But you are wrong. Oleg, is it?”

  “I have proof here. These papers.”

  “Stahlherz was my adopted son, my tool. He is dead, yes. I do have another son, though.”

  “I should believe this? You’re using lies to keep me searching for the hidden chamber.”

  “You’re right about one thing,” she acknowledged. “I am interested in the fabled treasure, only because the Tsar deserves all that is rightfully his. My son deserves it.”

  “Is this true? Hitler’s attempt to forge ties between our countries?”

  “Der Führer commissioned me personally.”

  “So, Mrs. Ubelhaar. Where is this Tsar?”

  “That is my final secret, Oleg. Until my son’s fortune is recovered, it is pointless to reveal his whereabouts. In Rasputin’s chamber lies his proof of identity.”

  “You and I are alike. We can form a good team, da?”

  “You want to cooperate with an old German woman?”

  “Bah. I do it for myself, for riches, but we need each other to make it work.”

  Gertrude Ubelhaar considered Oleg from beneath thin silvery hair, then, seeming satisfied, she said, “Tmu Tarakan. To proceed, we must find its location.”

  Clay felt inadequate. He circumvented the festival traffic, followed High Pass to River Road to Lovelake Road. He was going to meet a woman who nursed an old obsession and a man who was dead and gone in most people’s minds.

  Henna Dixon and Bill Scott.

  In what way was he prepared? How would he confront this? He had no idea.

  Jenni still failed to answer his calls. He wished he had a way to express emotion through each push of a button so that she could hear his desperation. Where was she? Where was Jason? They should’ve made it into Idaho by Wednesday; earlier today they should’ve crossed into eastern Oregon. Jenni had said she would call when they arrived Thursday.

  Still no word.

  The sun was sinking behind the coastal mountain range; shadows stretched their fingers into the road’s dips and hollows. But Clay hardly noticed. His phone was idle in his pocket, and his hands moved with the steering wheel in mindless routine. He knew these roads, knew this landscape.

  But what did he know about human lives and the paths they took? Knowledge, he told himself, is a seduction. Rooted in pride.

  He played over the series of deaths. Perhaps he had been reading too much into all this. Maybe Henna’s words and his own need for purpose had inflated the threats around him.

  Summer Svenson, June 21 … Hit-and-run victim. Blomberg under arrest.

  Eve and Mitchell Coates, July 2 … Victims of a tragic misunderstanding.

  Kenny Preston, July 11 … Apparent victim of a train collision. Still alive.

  Mako, July 20 … Gunshot victim of a lovers’ squabble. Dmitri also dead.

  Rhea Deering July 20 … Victim of an accidental gas explosion.

  Detective Freeman, August 1 … Dead from a diagnosed brain aneurysm.

  Mylisha, Wendy, Digs, and Father Patrick, August 10 … All unharmed.

  Which left him with tomorrow’s list of potential targets. What was he afraid of? Going over the mental list, he could unearth little evidence of foul play. The sensation of the numbers and the sum totals of thirteen might indicate a paranormal element, but they didn’t warrant a state of full-blown panic.

  His heart crept into his throat as he pulled into the Dixon driveway. The motion-activated lights came on so that he could see the same spot where he had watched Henna park her Subaru at the Avon party.

  On this very property, someone had slipped an envelope into the truck.

  While Henna Dixon sat innocently indoors.

  “Clay Ryker, what a pleasure.”

  Clay’s eyes roved the living room behind Henna’s mother. Where was Bill?

  “I must say,” Mrs. Dixon told him, “I’ve always hoped to find you standing on my doorstep. Hannah’s been waiting for this day.”

  She ushered him in. Offered him coffee and tiny cakes that creatures from a fairyland might have made. On an antique bureau sat stacks of Avon order sheets, sales catalogs, and items to be delivered. In cellophane wrappers, a cluster of pens waited to accompany the orders. Complimentary. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  See, he had read far too much into all this. Henna’s delusional hope had infected him with suspicion and fear. There was nothing to fear but his own thoughts. His past guilts were running wild.

  “Clay,” Henna greeted him. “I see you made it right on time.”

  “I try.”

  She moved close and whispered, “My mother’s bound to dawdle and then pass along every juicy detail. Follow me. Let’s take a walk out by the pond.”

  They stepped through the backyard’s dry grass until reaching the lusher patches around the pond’s perimeter. The sun was almost out of view, flinging its last drops of orange and deep red across the rural landscape’s black purple shade.

  “Where’s Bill?” Clay demanded.

  “He doesn’t want you to see him,” Henna said.

  “What? You brought me out here and—”

  “Don’t overreact, please. He will talk to you, Clay.”

  “When?”

  “Now. In a moment. But you’ll have to sit here”—she indicated a flat rock at the pond’s edge—“while he speaks from back here.”

  “Is it really Bill Scott? From high school? I’ve gotta see him for myself.”

  “You can’t. Not yet.”

  Clay plopped down on the stone. A grasshopper flung itself into the grass.

  Fine, I’ll play her little game.

  “Clay Ryker.”

  The male voice behind him sent a stream of chills down his neck. He had last heard this voice at the bridge over the Willamette. A nervous tone still ran beneath its husky pubescence.

  “Bill?” He started to turn.

  ??
?Don’t look back. Face the water.”

  “Do you look … different?”

  “You may not recognize me. But you do remember? After what you did?”

  “Bill, I was wrong. Yeah, I’ll admit I was angry with you—after the way you treated Mylisha. I didn’t mean for it to happen, though. How did they revive you?”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “No! Of course not. I just know what I saw. You weren’t moving. I don’t even know how long you were under.” Clay would have disbelieved this, except the past weeks had prepared him for such a moment. And he could not deny Bill’s voice. This was no recording; he was speaking to the dead.

  Or one I thought was dead.

  “You left me wandering, Clay. With no place of my own.”

  “Your parents don’t know you’re back? Does anyone know?”

  “I have no parents.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Henna said. “Why do you think I’ve opened my home to him? Most people ignore him. Others fear him. He just wants a place to call his own.”

  “Does he look … deformed? What’s going on? Let me see him.”

  “What do you say, Henna? Should we let him turn around?”

  “I suppose.” Henna giggled. “But I don’t think he’ll understand.”

  Mylisha had an uncharacteristic flutter in the pit of her stomach. She was costumed and stretching for the Thursday night premiere of their performance. Bright lights pointed across the stage, and scents of cinnamon and baked goods hovered over the audience. Despite the setting, her thoughts hopped back to the scene at Glenleaf, to that look of surprise and support on Clay’s face. His care for her had been evident.

  Clay Ryker? What’s that boy doing in my head again? Not now!

  The day had been an emotional ride. Blomberg’s hypocrisy had been exposed, along with his self-inflated sense of destiny. And the process of washing away her years of violation and oppression had begun. She felt free.

  Clay? No, he’s got his own life, and I’ve got mine. Time I started living it.

  Shaking off her musings, Mylisha fastened a bonnet on her head. Time to go on stage. Tonight’s show would be a warmup for tomorrow’s larger crowd.