Expiration Date

by Eric Wilson

  “Justice, huh? What about the woman hit by a stray bullet the day before her wedding? Or the innocent kid run over by a drunk driver?”

  Blomberg’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t question God’s judgments.”

  “His judgments?” Clay carved the tip of his pick into his maple workbench. “See, that’s what I mean. How can we be so sure that he’s a loving, personal God involved in every aspect of life?”

  “You’ve tossed him aside. Is that it, Ryker?”

  Digs, with his eyes on an order, was shaking his head as if to indicate he would not be an accomplice to Blomberg’s pious display. But Clay knew the boss was right; he was slipping away, losing his hold. Losing his religion—like the classic REM song.

  “I just can’t accept,” Clay said, “that he’s an uncaring God. That’s not the God I knew, not the one I grew up believing in.”

  “Then what do you believe, if you can tell us that much?”

  “Mr. Blomberg, I don’t think this is the time or the place.”

  “You’re on my time, at my place.” Blomberg spread his hands. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I believe …”

  “That’s a start.”

  “I’d rather believe God doesn’t exist than believe he doesn’t care!”

  “Ah! The prodigal shows his true colors.” The big man gesticulated as though victory had been won. “Well, good, that settles that. World’s full of fence-riders, and we certainly don’t need another one.”

  Clay clenched his jaw, gave extra attention to the job at his fingertips.

  Wearing a self-congratulatory expression, Blomberg stood in the center of the warehouse. He clapped his hands once, told everyone to get back to work, then spun his wide frame toward the exit.

  Crammed into a rental car en route to Fort Lauderdale, Dmitri felt his short hair grate against the roof. Never mind. His car in Ekaterinburg was smaller still. Three weeks ago, he had squashed into the dusty Prada on his way from the Ural Mountains to Moscow. He had stood outside the Kremlin, in Red Square, where throngs once paid homage at Lenin’s Tomb.

  Vladimir Lenin. Marx and Stalin.

  Their ideas had crushed a nation’s spirit; their methods had scarred bodies and countless souls.

  Dmitri believed the land could be restored. Reared in the warm glow of glasnost, he and his comrades had been convinced their country would be free at last, ready to regain her place of honor. Instead, Mother Russia had foundered, falling prey to organized crime and freewheeling religious pretenders. She had thrown morals aside and become a patchwork of ideologies and revolt.

  Now it was every man for himself, as it was in the West. What a sham.

  Recently Chechen rebels had thumbed their noses again at President Putin when an explosion in a Grozny stadium killed the Kremlin’s puppet ruler. And why not? When leaders were less than honorable, less honor was deserved.

  Still an hour from his destination, Dmitri Derevenko pulled into a rest area. These thoughts tired him, and Florida’s humidity drained his energy.

  He stretched, relieved himself in the men’s room. He dug through an ice chest in the car’s trunk to retrieve a container of cucumber-tomato salad. Sour cream and dill sauce played along his taste buds, nourishing his body, reviving his mind.

  He snapped the container’s lid shut and shoved himself back in the driver’s seat.

  For decades, the coals of the Brotherhood had smoldered beneath the ashes of Imperial ruin. Feeble. Flickering. Forgotten. Like all good Russian stock, the Brothers had faced tragedy but refused defeat. Recent discoveries had rekindled the flames, and a new gathering of Brothers had formed an eternal pact.

  They would not rest until a Tsar regained the helm of their great land.

  No easy task. It would require vast wealth and irrefutable proof of an heir’s identity. The rest, as always, would remain in God’s hands.

  May our destiny be realized. May the Brotherhood succeed!

  He merged the car back onto Interstate 95. In Fort Lauderdale he would find an old man basking in anonymity on a government pension, a man with a time-softened German accent and a head full of secrets from Hitler’s regime.

  Dmitri secured his cell phone to his belt.

  Modified in Croatia with Maksalov VI components, loaded with four small-caliber bullets, the device was armed and ready to place another call.

  Clay did not look up, did not acknowledge his fellow workers. He closed his mind to Blomberg’s sanctimonious display, slid a finished headstone down the line, and drew the next project closer. Best thing to do now was let the job take over.

  He smoothed the printed order and read the headstone’s specifications—name, date, and epitaph. A basic slab. He’d whip through this one and move on to the next, squeezing solace from routine.

  June 21, 2004.

  Like a fist in his gut, the date stole away his breath. He knew these numbers.

  6.2.1.0.4 …

  His vision turned fuzzy. He refocused. Stenciled there on gray stone, the letters spelled the name of his visitor from a few weeks ago.

  Summer Lee Svenson.

  9

  Another Note

  Time to deliver the papers. Kenny Preston loved this part of the morning. His clothes were right where he’d left them, so that he didn’t even have to turn on the lights to get dressed.

  He moved through his basement room with a working man’s sense of responsibility. He was thirteen now. This newspaper courier job put extra cash in his pockets, which lightened his mom’s load. She was a good mother, doing it on her own, deserving every penny he could give to help out. Recently she’d even gone so far as to find him a pet.

  On the stairs Kenny felt warmth brush against his leg. A creature stirred, roused by his alarm clock and fumbling preparation.

  “Hey, girl.” He reached down to pet soft fur. “How’d you get all the way down here, huh? Missed me already? Missed you too.”

  The puppy’s firm, small body wagged beneath his affection.

  “So what’m I gonna name you? Mom says it’s up to me.”

  The puppy’s nose pressed against his hand, tiny teeth nipping at his pinky. She was the cuddliest little thing. Kenny tugged at her ear, eliciting an amateur snarl that sounded like Mr. Gustafson’s car trying to start up on a cold morning.

  “Gussy,” he said. “That’s what I’ll call you. Gussy. You like it?”

  He cradled his dog, carried her to his mother’s room on the backside of the kitchen. After words of adoration, he propped Gussy on the carpet and pulled the door shut before her tiny nose could poke through. The whines that followed him down the corridor made him wish he could skip today’s paper delivery.

  Uh-uh, I’ve got a job to do.

  Kenny Preston put on his bike helmet. With the dual-pouched bag slung over his shoulders, he guided his mountain bike through the side door of the garage and found the bundled papers stored inside the gate.

  Fog was thick, dampening his hair and draping a blanket over the block. Already his hands were growing numb, but he was used to it. His mom would have hot chocolate and marshmallows ready when he returned fifty-five minutes from now. Maybe less, if he pushed for a record.

  For you, Gussy. I’ll hurry for you, little girl.

  His left hand steered the bike while his right launched the Register-Guard toward front steps and porches. Passing Gustafson’s place, he rode through a plume of exhaust from the car warming in the drive.

  Could he shave five minutes from his record? For Gussy?

  The route was straightforward. He knew Junction City was built on a grid, numbered streets running south to north, alphabetized streets east to west. He was up off the seat churning the pedals when an apparition stepped into his path.

  Kenny plied the brakes and skidded along the sidewalk, then righted himself with a wheel-stuttering maneuver that saved his knees at the expense of a few papers.

  “Going a bit fast, weren’t you?” said a female figure in charcoal gray s
weats.

  “Didn’t see you. Sorry.” Kenny collected the dropped papers, brushed away leaves and dirt.

  “No harm done. Listen, kid, I need your help.”

  “I didn’t hit you, did I? I said I was sorry.”

  The woman gave a light chuckle. She toyed with a bracelet on her wrist. “I’m speaking of a small errand. You’re pretty nifty on that bike, and I—”

  “I’m in a hurry. Got papers to deliver.”

  “You must be trying to earn some money, huh? This morning, you could make a lot more. A little detour—that’s all I’m asking.”

  Kenny was suspicious; his mother had warned him against such things. He had his hands on the bars, a foot ready to shove off. “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  In a show of disdain, Kenny started to move forward.

  “I’ll double it. Does forty sound better?”

  Kenny lowered his chin, smiling at his own ingenuity. Forty bucks could go a long way—wood, nails, and paint to start a doghouse in the backyard. “Okay, tell me what I have to do. I need to hurry. Need to finish my route.”

  “It’s summer, no school. You have lots of time.”

  “Not much. I have a deadline. And if I don’t get back, my, uh … my dad’ll come looking for me.” The fib seemed justified. He fought back a rippling chill.

  “Well, it shouldn’t take too long. See this envelope?” The woman brushed a strand of hair from her face, fixed serious eyes on him. “You need to deliver it to that address and tuck it into the sports page of today’s newspaper.”

  Kenny leaned forward to read the black lettering.

  “Cox Butte Road? That’s not my route.”

  “Forty dollars. If it takes an extra twenty minutes, that’s two dollars a minute.”

  “Is it anything illegal?”

  The lady grinned. “Of course not.” She laid the cash atop the envelope, then handed it over. “What’re you waiting for? We don’t want your … dad to get worried.”

  Did she know he was lying? Why didn’t she take this to Cox Butte herself?

  The crisp currency tantalized Kenny, and before she could withdraw the offer, he pocketed everything. Maybe there was a romantic note enclosed or a humongous bill. What’d it matter? He had the money, and the job sounded harmless enough.

  “It’ll get it there,” he told the woman.

  He set off as fast as his thirteen-year-old legs would pedal.

  “He’s a kid,” Asgoth’s female friend said.

  “You already knew that, Henna.”

  “You promise he won’t get hurt?” Sitting on the floor, Henna dropped her head into her hands. “There’s a line I don’t believe we should cross.”

  “I won’t touch him,” Asgoth vowed.

  Earlier here in the apartment’s shadows they had concluded a morning session with Mr. Monde and the other contacts. Henna had chosen to stay after, to be alone with Asgoth. He knew he must assuage her concerns. His fingers settled over her blond hair, and she tensed before melting under his ministrations.

  “Thanks for your reassurance, A.G.,” she said. “I needed to hear you say that.”

  “Are you having doubts?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I won’t lay a finger on him,” Asgoth reiterated. “He’ll serve another purpose.”

  With eyes half-closed, the woman leaned back into his massaging touch. “I admit, I was a little worried. I’d be dishonest to tell you otherwise. When I heard how Mr. and Mrs. Coates died, I thought we might’ve let things go too far.”

  “And you have the right to point a finger?”

  “No. I just … I don’t know what went through my mind.”

  “An unfortunate accident—that’s all it was. She thought he was a burglar.”

  “I know, I know. Forgive me.”

  “Don’t speak of forgiveness. Love means never having to say you’re sorry, isn’t that so? You should know that by now. Come on, relax and let the tension go.”

  As she surrendered to his touch, Asgoth stole a view through the window blinds. With its bulging smokestack and conical nose, the Finnish locomotive taunted him from the park. “You can look,” it seemed to say, “but you can’t touch.”

  Asgoth felt perturbation flood his veins. Through his arms, sparks of electric energy dredged up yesterday’s memories. Had Rasputin actually reached from his grave to cast a spell over the iron beast?

  Asgoth needed an accomplice. An innocent child.

  Kenny Preston was suited for the task.

  “Ouch!” Henna shrank beneath his fingers. “That’s too deep.”

  He backed off, then cursed this timorous response. Why let a woman dictate his actions? “No,” he told her. “If I ease into it, you’ll see I can go much deeper.”

  The road slithered upward into the mist, and Kenny feared he’d never reach his destination. This uphill portion was a killer. Only one more mailbox to go, and he’d be at the Ryker address.

  Forty dollars … Gussy’s doghouse … forty dollars …

  He counted it in his head as his tires whirred over slick road. Shifting through gears, he fought his way to the hilltop. The wreath of fog gave way to a yellow L-shaped home with a cream-colored railing around the porch and a pair of white oak trees at the corner. A basketball hoop was fixed over the garage doors.

  Could this envelope be for some kid his own age?

  “Clay Ryker”? Uh-uh. It’s not anyone I know.

  Breathless, Kenny braced his mountain bike against a fence post and measured the distance to the front porch. He’d read front-page news about drug deals gone bad, where people got beat up and even shot. What if this was a criminal transaction? He had no idea what was in this envelope.

  It gave him a brief thrill.

  He stooped behind his bike, watching. No movement at this early hour. Twenty seconds, he judged. He could get to the paper box, feed the envelope into the Saturday morning paper, then rush back here for his escape.

  Mom … Gussy. What’m I thinking? I shoulda told the lady to forget it.

  Kenny weighed the envelope, held it up to the gray light from the clouds. It contained a piece of folded paper. A check maybe or a note. Nothing against the law as far as he could tell. Nothing explosive.

  In a low crouch, he sprinted across the grass, slipped, regained speed, and lunged up the stairs. He tugged at the box’s lid, tried to locate the sports section.

  The envelope fluttered from his fingers to the porch.

  His blood was burning at the back of his neck, his muscles tightening in his legs. He picked up the fallen item but fumbled it again.

  Cli-cli-clakkk!

  A deadbolt was turning. The front door was opening.

  “I see you, kid.” The door opened. “Been watching you through the hole.”

  Although Kenny’s pounding heart told him to make a dash for it, the mild-mannered words stiffened like concrete around his feet. He should escape; he knew that. But who was this guy? What was this all about?

  “Please don’t run.” The man was tall and wearing a plaid bathrobe.

  “I wasn’t doing nothing wrong, mister, just delivering the paper.”

  “Are you the usual paperboy?”

  “This isn’t even my route.” Kenny extended the plain envelope, then stepped back as the man pushed open the screen door. “I don’t know what’s in it,” he said.

  “Neither do I.”

  “You don’t?”

  “You’re sure it’s for me? Where’d you get it? Who gave it to you?”

  “Seriously, mister, I’m just doing a favor for some lady.” Kenny paused, wondering if he should admit he’d been paid. No, that might get him in trouble. That money had a purpose now, and he wouldn’t risk losing it. “I don’t even know who she is. She said to bring it out here and put it with your newspaper. That’s all she told me.”

  “Have you done this before?”

  “No!” Kenny backed up. “Never.”
/>   “You didn’t deliver another envelope a few weeks ago?”

  “No way, not me. Am I in trouble? I didn’t mean nothing—”

  “You’re not in trouble. Can you tell me where the lady lives, anything like that? I need to know who’s sending me these notes. What’s she look like?”

  “She had sorta blondish hair, I guess. She’s older, like my mom’s age.”

  “Did you see her car?”

  “No, she was walking. And wearing gray sweats.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You’re Clay, aren’t you? Like it says on the envelope.”

  “That’s me. What’s your name?”

  Kenny felt panic grip his throat. This guy was setting him up, getting him to relax so he could fish for information. Clay’s green eyes seemed nice, and he wasn’t exactly scary looking. But he was very tall, which was bad enough.

  Kenny thought about his mom and his puppy and his responsibility as the man of the house. The envelope was delivered, and the cash was in his pocket.

  Time to get outta here.

  In a single movement, he spun and leaped from the porch. He considered himself a fast runner, a regular champ at tag, and he knew he had the element of surprise. He pumped his arms and legs. He thought of how he’d grab his bike, toss a leg over, and rocket down the hill.

  Forty dollars … forty dollars. Cold gulp of air. Forty dollars.

  Clay caught him halfway across the grass. The man’s jumbo hand clamped onto his shoulder and whipped him around. Kenny resisted, shrugging free of his jacket, but the man’s other hand latched onto his bare arm. He’d been caught. Running had only made him look guilty, and now he was done for. Dead meat.

  Suddenly, to his amazement, he was free again.

  “Dang it!”

  Clay had dropped Kenny’s arm and was staring down at his own skin. He shook his hand in the air like a man warding off a swarm of bees, stomped his foot, then wiped his palm against the bathrobe. “What’s going on! Did I ask for this? Arrhhh!”

  Baffled by the man’s behavior, Kenny took the opportunity to rush to the bike and speed away. His feet could barely keep up with the spinning pedals. The tires skidded, and his heart thumped in his neck and his ears. He was free.