Early Friday morning … 8.1.3.0.4.
Aside from thick vapor floating above the pool, the place was still.
“I’m supposed to meet her in there. By the pool.”
“It’s closed, Son. Locked. We’ll have to check at the front desk.”
“No. They’ll make us wait until it opens.”
“I’ll see what they say.”
“Sure. Fine.” Clay watched his father shuffle toward the grand front entrance, shook his head. His old man could be so stubborn, so unfeeling.
Clay clipped his cell phone to his belt. He grabbed the ammo box and circumvented the lodge. He could see a footbridge spanning the McKenzie River, casting a deep green shadow upon white-capped currents. Through a wire gate around the pool, mist seeped outward and blocked any view of the heated surface. One hard rattle proved the gate was locked.
“Henna?”
The clouds were dispersing before the rising sun. Warm rays slipped over the hilltops, between the tree branches.
“Henna, are you here?”
A bird chirped from the opposing bank.
“Jenni? Jason?”
A breeze coursed down from the mountains, tracing the river’s path, churning the steam above the pool. Clay peered through the mist. Saw two gray garbage bags floating in the water. Tied off at the ends, cumbersome and misshapen, they looked as if they contained human bodies—one medium sized and one small.
He screamed out the names of his wife and son. He dropped the ammunition box, clawed his way over the wire fence, and barely noticed the metal end that gouged at his thigh and tore away his cell phone. Adrenaline, keeping pace with his fear and anger, raced through his limbs. He dropped to the concrete. Fully clothed, he dove into the pool.
Asgoth was depleted. Nothing but a ghost wandering the wastelands. With the last of his strength, he’d latched on to a car heading over the pass. He had let the wind carry him from there until the gruesome accident scene was out of view.
Now, miles away, he faced a scene just as horrific.
In fact, the fires engulfing the trailer home before him were but a glimpse of his own irreversible destiny. Hell … Gehenna. A punishment without end. Death would be welcome, yet unattainable, in that place.
The trailer’s front door popped open. Asgoth flinched at the sight of a charred body curled into a fetal position on the bubbling tile floor.
He’d had no doubt of Henna’s ability to carry out this deed. She had stopped by here to secure her victims before setting the place ablaze; she had welcomed the idea of watching Jenni “burn” for her soon-to-be ex-husband. Clay’s wife and son had been here since yesterday, held captive by two heroin-addicted roughnecks who’d given themselves long ago to the Consortium’s desires.
How sad. Jenni and Jason were nothing more than kindling now. The authorities would shake their heads. Another matchstick home gone up in flames—a dropped cigarette, a miswired baseboard heater.
Or arson, initiated at the feet of bound hostages. Whatever.
His smile froze. The form in the doorway was twitching. Dead? Absolutely. But reacting to the extreme heat. Nothing more than a bacon strip in a frying pan.
Again Asgoth cringed at the thought of his own impending doom. A macabre fascination pushed him forward, and within yards of the inferno, he noticed something amiss. What had gone on here? He moved closer, with a need to know for sure. In the ceiling, wood snapped; from the walls, metal pinged.
He slithered beneath coils of blue-tinged flame, his tired shape passing the corpse in the doorway before reaching the smaller form on the kitchen floor. Both bodies, to his dismay, wore heavy, mud-caked logging boots. And both held firearms in their gnarled hands, bolstering Asgoth’s theory that drug-induced suspicions had sparked a bloody confrontation between these two roughnecks.
So typical! But where are Jenni and Jason? Did Henna change our plan?
Asgoth’s howl rose through the roof, a shriek from the fire’s throat.
The pool’s heat burned along Clay’s skin. His hands clawed upward. Brought him back to the surface. He grabbed at the plastic bags, snagged both, dragged them toward the side. Their weight resisted him. He heaved and rolled them one by one up over the pool’s edge.
He would not let his emotion take over. Not yet.
“Leave it all behind, and come with me,” a female voice crooned.
Clay spun to see Henna through the mist, on the other side of the fence. “What’re you talking about?” He pawed at the rope, then tore instead at the plastic where the faces should be. Trapped oxygen and earthy decay rushed up into his nostrils. Apparently the bags had been airtight, kept afloat despite their burden of moldy potatoes in dirty sacks.
“Where are they!” He clung to the side of the pool. His clothes were heavy, pulling on him.
“They’re already dead.”
“You’re full of it!”
“We could start fresh, Clay. You and me, the way it was supposed to be.”
“I wanna see my wife and son.”
“Are you sure about that? A trailer home fire is never a pretty sight.”
“Where? Tell me!” He climbed from the water.
“What do you think?”
“About what? Stop playing games, Henna.”
“About us?”
“You’re outta your mind. Where’s my family?”
“Your loss, Clay. Thanks for leaving the money and GPS. I appreciate that.” Henna was holding the green ammo box. She gestured at his feet, at the torn plastic and waterlogged cords. “You know, this would be an ideal time to use the leftover rope. You’ve refused to recognize me all these years, so now let my face be the last one you see. Here’s a suggestion. Tie yourself to the bags and throw yourself into the deep end. The pool’s closed. No one’s out here to spoil things. Do it right this time.”
Clay attacked the fence. “Where are they!”
Henna shrugged, then disappeared around the lodge with the ammo box.
Riding thermal waves produced by the smoking conflagration, Asgoth floated around the trailer and caught sight of two more bodies, sixty yards back at the edge of the trees. Kneeling over them, Sergeant Turney was giving them long draughts of water from a bottle. He’d spread wet blankets over them, no doubt soaked in the nearby tributary of the mighty McKenzie.
Why him again? Why here of all places?
Asgoth swooped down toward Turney. Before reaching him, Asgoth found himself facing a husky, bearded individual who looked supremely uncomfortable in a logger’s plaid shirt and blue jeans.
This was no logger; that much was obvious.
Behind the creature, Turney continued ministering health to Jenni and Jason. They looked weak from smoke inhalation; their eyes were swollen, their faces grimy with sweat. But they were alive.
“You have no authority here,” said the bearded being. The voice was a hammer, nailing deep its words.
“Step out of my way!”
The being remained rock steady. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you do. Decades ago you sauntered about in black robes with a blasphemous cross about your neck. You were one of an entire legion, you and your friend Mr. Monde—and still you could not protect the man whom you possessed. Oh, you tried. In the end, though, Rasputin died like any other mortal.”
“And I was sent into exile, halfway around the world. Can’t you let me be?”
“You also lost the right to open Rasputin’s hidden chamber.”
“If we ever do open it, your kind will feel the sting of our revenge!”
“It’ll never happen. Your hopes’ve drowned along with the men you possessed.”
The statement injected Asgoth with melancholy. He relived those final moments—sinking into darkness, gulping water, fighting poison and the bite of bullets.
The icy depths of the River Neva.
Later the murky waters of the Willamette.
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“Leave!” the angelic creature commanded. “You have no place here.”
Asgoth saw an ethereal light seeping through the lumberjack facade. He knew that for the moment he was impotent to counterattack. Already exhausted, he felt the being’s syllables pound into him and drive him away.
Wet and breathless, head spinning from the temperature difference between the pool and the outside air, Clay gathered his dropped cell phone, then pulled himself to the fence top, where metal tines scratched at his stomach. He edged a toe into the wire and hefted himself over.
His shirt caught. Ripped across his face and over his head.
He was half-naked. Bleeding. Running.
His characteristic despair was a familiar spirit, hovering, haunting his thoughts. Although he refused to accept that his wife and son were dead, Henna and Asgoth had shown themselves more than capable of arranging such a thing.
No! Jesus came to “destroy these works of the devil.”
His feet scrambled in pursuit. At the front of the lodge, Henna hopped into her Subaru and peeled toward the winding exit road.
Clay saw coolant and water still dripping beneath his parents’ Dodge truck; regardless, he jumped in, turned the key. The engine ignored his fist pounding and yells. The truck was lifeless.
God, please! Why can’t I get a miracle? How hard could this be?
Gerald limped from the lodge’s front doors. “Forget it, Clay. Won’t work.”
“Come on! She’s already out of sight. I’m losing her!”
“Who? Henna?”
“She took the money and the GPS. She says Jenni and Jason are dead.”
“Henna was out by the pool?”
“Didn’t you hear me yelling?”
“The guy at the front desk, he has the morning news turned up loud. He said no one’s allowed in the pool till nine o’clock.”
Clay kept trying the ignition. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing …
Gerald stood at the passenger window. “Clay.”
“What?”
“It’s dead. Overheated.”
“No, we’ve gotta go. Jump in.”
“Clay, the water pump’s shot. Forget it.”
Clay slammed both palms down on the steering wheel so hard that the repercussion traveled back up his arms into his chest. He could try pursuing Henna on foot. Or try stealing a car. Or borrowing one. Deep down, though, he knew he had already lost her. She could’ve turned either direction on Highway 126. She was gone.
“Son.”
Clay closed his eyes, shook his head.
Gerald cleared his throat. “Son, thanks for helpin’ me. Back at the cliff. I thought I’d punched my ticket, thought I was goin’ over that cliff for sure.”
“I ran out of gas.”
“At just the right spot.” Gerald removed his hand. “An act of God, you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
Accepting the good and the bad was no easy task, but Clay had learned it was the best option. He had to believe that the master storyteller was still writing the tale, that the climax would justify the heartrending moments that preceded it.
Numb inside and out, wet and shaking, Clay took a deep breath.
God is good.
He took another breath.
Nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God.
Silently he made his commitment of faith; yet there was no feeling behind it, no emotion. The words spiraled through his head.
And then his phone rang with a call from Sergeant Turney. “Hello?”
“Clay?” The connection was poor, but Sarge’s concern was evident. “Are you … Belknap Springs?”
“Sitting in front of the lodge as we speak. Henna was here, and she—”
“I can’t … losing you … the lodge, you say?”
“I’m right out front.”
“Don’tcha move … muscle.”
Clay heard the line disconnect. He dropped his head into his hands and stared at the pool water still dripping from his jeans.
“Daddy!”
Jason’s compact body hurtled from Sergeant Turney’s car. His hair was matted and smelled like smoke—the most beautiful smell in the world. Clay could only imagine Turney’s part in this reunion.
“Jason. Man, am I glad to see you!” Clay caught up his son in a hug.
Peering beyond, he saw Jenni step into view. Did he dare perceive her grin as anything personal? Could he risk a moment of hope? Physical and emotional numbness threatened to bog him down; he could feel them like weights on his limbs.
“Jenni.” He resisted an overload of reactions. “Are you okay?”
Her voice was rough. “I can hardly talk … the smoke.”
“Smoke?”
“We have a lot to tell you.”
Clay cringed at the thought of detecting any more numbers, but he could not let this moment pass. He would not. With a hesitant smile, he held out his arms and gathered her in so that the three of them were mashed together in a soggy embrace. His hands ran through her hair. He flinched as his fingers brushed the soft skin along the back of her neck.
At first he felt nothing.
And then he felt everything.
EPILOGUE
A Confession
Scandinavian Festival, August 2004
With Jason’s hand firmly in his own, Clay jostled through the Friday night crowds. He greeted old friends. Nodded. Waved.
He wished he could have his wife at his side, but Jenni had opted for a quiet evening with relatives in Eugene. Despite mutual words of reconciliation, he knew they faced a long road ahead as a couple—rebuilding trust, opening new lines of communication, dealing with past rejection. At least she was willing to give it a chance.
By God’s grace. After twelve years of detachment, it’s more than I deserve.
“Can we buy one of those?” Jason tugged at Clay’s arm.
He noted the long line for the perennially popular hollow pancake balls. He watched a server add cinnamon and sugar. “You betcha, Jason. We can’t come to the festival and miss out on aebelskivers.”
“Can I give the lady the money?”
“Whatever you want. You’re getting to be a big kid.”
Waiting to order, he could not shake his despair over Kate Preston’s death. He’d heard about it only hours ago. Young Kenny had been at his uncle’s house while his mother went on her weekend retreat, and according to an officer’s report, the news had torn the boy apart. At least he had nearby family; for now, he’d remain under his uncle’s care. Still, Clay knew he would need to go visit first thing tomorrow.
Maybe Jason can befriend him. They might do each other good.
Clay turned his concerns to the upcoming performance on the Festival Park Stage. Half an hour from now he would meet with Sarge and Josee for the show in which Mylisha, Wendy, Digs, and Father Patrick would all be dancing. Any sort of disaster could wreak havoc; along these constricted walkways, chaos would rule. To contact the police would be counterproductive. After the fiasco of August tenth, they would only scoff at Clay’s interference.
What’s to stop Asgoth from trying something? He could be here. Now.
With Scandinavian desserts in hand, Clay led Jason through a group of craft booths displaying red vests and knitted sweaters, plastic Viking helmets and Nordic jewelry. One booth boasted nature prints and a swivel rack with an assortment of postcards.
Clay stopped. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’.”
He picked out a card with a photograph of cross-country skiers in Norwegian garb standing before a sparkling snowbank along a cabin at Odell Lake. On the backside in neat print, he saw the words: SNL Photography.
Spinning the rack, he found seven more postcards produced by Sam and Lyndon, his friends from the Pacific Crest Trail. Each card was startling in its clarity and beauty. The guys were talented, no doubt about it.
Clay bought every card available—hey, what were friends for?—inves
ting in Sam’s and Lyndon’s earthly existence while depositing a prayer for their eternal ones.
Clay took Jason along side streets to avoid the crush of pedestrians. Muffled by buildings and trees, the sounds of partying and music seemed vacuous, as though the festival was a charade of good cheer meant to fool the outside world. Clay sniffed at the air wafting from the beer garden. He shook free of it and held tighter to his son’s hand.
At Fifth and Holly, they found the Finnish locomotive standing sentinel.
“You remember this train?”
“Mm-hmm.” Jason chewed on his aebelskiver.
Outlined by the festival lights, Engine 418 was an ominous reminder to Clay of all that had gone on in recent weeks. He wondered if Henna would ever find the wooden tube and the black chess king lying at the bottom of Crater Lake. She had the GPS coordinates; nevertheless, a salvage operation would be expensive.
Would such an endeavor be worth it?
Of course, odds had it that soon Henna would be in police custody—as soon as she began leaving a trail of marked fifty-dollar bills.
From the stage area, traditional Norwegian music kicked in to indicate the play’s opening act. Amid melodious chords, Clay thought he heard a soul-wrenching scream.
Asgoth’s remaining time in JC was short lived. He had failed. Clay Ryker was still alive, and Henna Dixon was hiding out with over a hundred thousand dollars and a Garmin GPS unit. According to Consortium informants, she had “given up the ghost.”
The phrase brought a wry grin to Asgoth’s mouth.
What do I have to lose now? I’ll go out with a bang!
He meandered unseen through the crowd, reached the Festival Park Stage, where crew members were taping down a cord before the grand performance of “Hardanger Wedding.” He ducked through an access panel into the darkness below the stage. He would wait another ten minutes or so until the show started. Until families and friends filled the stands in colorful displays of their Scandinavian roots.
The carnage would be beyond anything this city had experienced.
“I know what you’re thinking, Asgoth.”
“Sir?” Asgoth jolted at Mr. Gerde’s sudden appearance.