Expiration Date

by Eric Wilson

  Clay looked down past his toes on the rusted metal girder. To intensify the thrill of the activity, he and his companion had rolled their clothes up on the shore and tackled the structure in the buff. Bolstered by the six-pack now discarded in the bushes, they had convinced themselves they were invincible. They’d completed two flailing, yelling, posturing descents into the dark pool. The water was chilly. Murky, too. The distance between the river and the lower section of the structure was a minimum of fifteen feet, twenty-plus feet to their perch on the girder.

  “Having second thoughts?” Bill gibed.

  With his stomach backflipping into his throat, Clay gripped the metal with one hand and leaned out over the impact zone. The water toyed with a group of leaves, spinning them in a lazy circle. A moving target.

  Don’t think. Just do it. Do it!

  Letting go was the worst part. Once airborne, there was no turning back. Stretched out over the river, unencumbered, Clay felt the rush.

  His lungs became a combustion chamber, and his adrenaline exploded into a primal yell. He tucked his head between overlapped forearms, knifed into the water, then carved rudderlike hands upward to alter speed and direction. For a moment, he was floating in the cold darkness, arching back to the surface.

  He came up with a kick. Let out a war whoop of exultation.

  “That is awesome!” He climbed up the bank, crossed to the middle of the bridge, and reached the railing again. “Completely radical!”

  “I’ll take your word.”

  “Oh, come on. You gotta try it.”

  Withstanding Clay’s heckling, Bill took his place at the girder, his body tight against the brace. His right leg started quivering.

  “You gonna do it?”

  “Shut up. I’m thinking.”

  “You can’t think. You just do it. Just jump.”

  “Shut up, Ryker!”

  Clay emitted a clucking sound. Despite the charade of kidding around, he felt annoyed. He could hear his dad’s voice: Gotta be a man’s man.

  Honestly, what was Bill so afraid of? They’d talked before about going bungee jumping or skydiving. Even sketched out plans for a summer-long hike on the Pacific Crest Trail, braving bears, cougars, the weather, and other humans. This was nothing in comparison.

  Not to mention that Bill had done enough other things that implied he had no fear—stupid, mean-spirited things.

  “Is it gonna hurt when I hit?” Bill asked. “Looks a lot higher from up here.”

  He curled his hands behind him, clamped on to the metal. He eased out over the water, trying to stare down the danger. Intense and self-absorbed, he seemed not to notice Clay’s approach. He started to let go the same instant Clay gave him some encouragement.

  A prod … a push … a shove.

  They were all really the same, weren’t they? Sure they were. Sure.

  Bill flailed through the air and hit the water in a contorted dive. His thighs slapped the surface. His toes followed his body down. He was a blur in the water, a phantom moving through the netherworld.

  The specter came to an abrupt stop. Then shrank into the black depths.

  He was gone.

  Clay released a nervous chuckle. Seconds ticked away. Slowly the enormity of his action struck him. He had pushed Bill from that precipice, and he was not rising to the surface; he was not coming up.

  Clay stepped back, stunned and unsure, then darted across the bridge and slid down the slope, blaring his friend’s name, surveying the river and the shorelines for any glimpse of sandy hair and a squat torso. He waded into the water, dove beneath the surface. Visibility was nil. No sign of his companion.

  Minutes later Bill Scott made his appearance …

  Facedown, lifeless, his body nudged against the riverbank.

  Clay turned him over, then shrank from the clammy skin, the touch of death. He saw a wound on the skull where it had collided with a hidden object, floating or fixed, beneath the roiling surface. He gagged and retched into the water. He called out, yelled, looked around. He would have to go for assistance; he’d have to tell someone.

  The solitude that had been so exhilarating now collapsed about him—a blanket of icy detachment. Nobody to help. Nobody in the vicinity.

  Also no witnesses.

  Or so I thought, until these notes started showing up.

  Although authorities had questioned him and others after that horrible day, no one else claimed to have seen a thing. Two kids; a few drinks; a blunt object floating beneath the surface … The cops concluded that it was a tragic accident.

  Obviously, though, someone had seen. Someone had been there.

  For reasons unspecified, this person had come back to torment him.

  Upright in seat 14B of a commercial jetliner headed for Portland, Dmitri Derevenko gazed down on the Columbia River. Wending its way to the Pacific, the water was a blue green thread stitching together Oregon and Washington. On either side, towering rocks and stretches of trees formed a tapestry of tan and green, rust and ocher.

  How could a land so stunning produce such debauchery?

  He sipped at his mineral water and pressed his head back in his seat.

  Unbridled freedoms and relativism had blinded Mother Russia. Black marketeers, swindlers, peddlers of superstition—they had swept in and taken advantage. Even his own countrymen had turned into capitalistic cannibals.

  Who could restore Russia to greatness? Who but a descendant of the Tsars?

  Enter the Brotherhood of St. John of Tobolsk.

  “Sir, we’ll be landing shortly,” a flight attendant informed Dmitri. “You’ll need to fasten your seat belt and return your tray to the upright position.”

  He dipped his head. “Thanks for the warning.”

  The flight attendant smiled, gave him a wink. He’d been pleased to find that his square jaw and bright blue eyes held sway over women even here in this land of the “beautiful people.” This was a talent, a tool. He would use it when necessary.

  All for the Brotherhood. For the sake of the Almighty.

  His father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather connected him in an unbroken line to the original band of Brothers. Formed in 1918, named by Empress Alexandra in honor of the town’s saint, the group had consisted of Tsarists who wished to see the Romanovs returned to power. Lenin’s revolution had ousted the once-mighty Romanov family, thrusting them into exile where they faced a dubious future under house arrest. The newly formed Brotherhood hoped to rectify the problem.

  The solution, however, was far from easy. With Lenin’s revolutionaries in power, terror was ripping the country asunder. Famine threatened; religious freedom withered; godless men did godless acts.

  The Brotherhood understood they needed to take action, but it would require adequate funding and clever coordination. They needed a leader.

  Boris Soloviev claimed he could meet the challenge.

  Indeed, Soloviev proved to be a shrewd man. A dichotomy of loyalties. Trained in Berlin, raised in the Orthodox Church, he was also an in-law to Rasputin and well versed in the occult. He molded people to his will, securing finances from baronesses, clergymen, peasants, and nuns. He instilled in the Brotherhood a sense of purpose. Rumors prevailed that three hundred officers of the Brotherhood were standing by, disguised and ready to rescue the Imperial Romanov family. They were the “good Russian men,” awaiting Soloviev’s signal.

  But the signal never came.

  As a young boy, Dmitri heard his great-grandfather tell the tale with tears in cataract-clouded eyes. The old man relived the proud dreams over bowls of cabbage soup and heels of black bread. With bottles of vodka, he faced the demons.

  Dmitri cinched his seat belt. Ran his hand along the hidden scar on his hip. He swirled the last of his mineral water over his teeth, then crushed the plastic cup in his fist as he recalled Soloviev’s treachery.

  Curse the man! Curse his mysticism and greed.

  Conveniently, the Bolsheviks had arrested Soloviev even while Re
d Guards whisked off the Romanovs to the Ipatiev house in Ekaterinburg. The pointless detainment provided Soloviev an alibi for his failure to procure the family’s freedom—and in this manner he escaped punishment.

  Whereas the Tsars did not.

  On July 16, 1918, the storied family was gathered in a basement. With a volley of gunfire and stabbing bayonets, guards brought the Tsars’ centuries-old dynasty to an ignoble end. Reports leaked out that the Romanovs were dead.

  Only a handful understood the nuances of this deception.

  Clay dropped into a seat at the breakfast nook and forced the memory back beneath the surface—down, down, down where it belonged. A freshwater leviathan constrained by sheer force of will.

  Yes, I know, Dr. Gerringer … a coping mechanism. And thank goodness!

  Just as he feared, the memories left him still clueless as to the identity of his tormentor. He scanned the message’s ominous words, traced the letters with his fingers, a blind man trying to read nonexistent Braille. Blowing out a sigh of frustration, he buried his face in cupped hands and sent up a prayer for help.

  Please, Lord, I need a sign here. Not that I deserve one, but—

  A distinct scent interrupted his desire to start bargaining.

  An aroma … like vanilla and cherries. Like his mom’s Avon pen.

  Clay sniffed at his fingers, ran his nose along the reassembled paper of the message. No doubt about it. The words had been penned with scented ink, with an Avon pen if he were to venture a guess.

  It was a tangible clue. Wasn’t much, but it was a start.

  PART TWO

  … how pale his features! and how like a shroud

  the sheet was wound about his frame!

  Yes; it was a corpse, in its burial clothes.

  The White Old Maid, Nathaniel Hawthorne

  I sank down

  to the very roots of the mountains …

  imprisoned in the land of the dead.

  Jonah 2:6

  13

  The Deception

  On Monday, graveyard humor prevailed at the monument company.

  Most everyone had stayed up late for Fourth of July celebrations, hangovers were in evidence, and Mr. Blomberg was away on business—or so his secretary claimed. Rumors had him on a flight to Hawaii.

  Brent seemed to consider it his duty to keep the crew on task, although he lagged behind Digs in seniority. Clay kidded Digs and Wendy. They slung jokes back and forth. In light of recent happenings, Clay found this to be an outlet, a means of putting things in perspective.

  Or a means of denial.

  Either way, the neck muscles that had cramped in his fitful sleep last night began to loosen, and he even worked through an entire fifteen-minute period without considering the numbers he’d been detecting on others’ skin.

  During lunch break, Wendy pulled out a timeworn riddle. “D’ya hear about the little Egyptian boy who got lost in the pyramids?”

  Brent and Digs groaned. Clay waited for the answer.

  “He was trying to find his mummy.”

  In his mind Clay saw Jason. He headed back to his workbench.

  What about the paperboy? Kenny Preston.

  7.1.1.0.4 … Only six days away.

  At closing time Digs took Clay aside to ask what was troubling him. Clay remained stoic, turning down an invitation to grab some buffalo wings at the Raven, a nearby tavern. He thought it sounded too Poe-ish, too grim.

  “Maybe next time, Digs. Appreciate the offer.”

  “Can’t carry it all on your own,” Digs admonished. “Something’s eatin’ at ya. Ain’t no weakness in asking for help.”

  “I have an errand to run. Sorry. Gotta go.”

  After a belch of smoke, the Duster took him to Nickel’s Arcade downtown. He questioned clients and teenage employees for details about a kid named Kenny Preston. A few recognized the jacket. Nobody knew where he lived.

  “Whaddya want him for anyway?”

  “Like I said, I want to make sure he gets his stuff back.”

  “Try back later.” The speaker was a chubby teen in a schoolgirl’s skirt, a black Disturbed T-shirt, and a chain connecting the piercings in her ear. “He’s a skinny little runt. Comes in coupla nights a week, hogging the games, scrounging tokens.”

  “You think he might be in later tonight?”

  She shrugged. “He’s too young for me, so what do I care?”

  “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  “Anything for you, Mom.”

  And anything to keep an eye on your Avon partygoers.

  “You really don’t have to.” Della’s motherly line was baited with guilt.

  “It’s fine,” Clay assured. “I’ve been busy with work, but if I take you to the party, at least we’ll have a few minutes together, right?” He set a kiss on her cheek.

  “You’re welcome to drive the Dodge,” she offered in reward. “We’ll need to leave soon, though, since I’m expected to help Mrs. Dixon with refreshments. How will you occupy yourself while waiting at her place?”

  “Actually, I’ve got some reading to catch up on.”

  “Reading? You’ve never been much of one for books.”

  “People change,” he mumbled. “At least, outside of Junction City.”

  Della ran a hand over her arm, back and forth, as though soothing her nerves. She said, “Stability does have its good points, dear. Some people use change as an excuse to run away.”

  Clay had no response.

  As Della went to fetch her purse, he grabbed an old Stephen Lawhead novel from a shelf in the hall, then tucked a written draft of a divorce agreement between the pages. The paperwork had arrived in today’s mail. A formality.

  As if some fat-cat lawyers can decide the outcome of my marriage.

  Twenty-five minutes later Clay dropped his mother at the Dixons’ front door. He stationed the Dodge truck between the three-car garage and a fermenting burn pile and remained vigilant as vehicles began turning from Lovelake Road up the meandering drive. He felt confident strapped to the powerful diesel engine.

  All part of the plan. If he spotted his target, he’d be ready for pursuit.

  He counted the arrivals. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen …

  Would he find his tormentor here? He mulled over the few clues he’d obtained. Apparently, the note writer had been using a scented Avon pen, and judging by the paperboy’s description, she was an adult woman with blond hair.

  The fifteenth guest parked along the Dixons’ lawn. She was a young Hispanic mother, nudging along a toddler in a pink dress, fussing over every ruffle.

  Clay knew his own mother enjoyed these Avon parties. Friendship. Connection. All the things she lacked at home in the churlish weather systems Gerald generated.

  Clay thought of his wife, Jenni. Of her Bunko nights with the gals.

  Had she been crying out for something deeper?

  Although inconvenient, he’d always viewed those Monday evenings as his opportunity to hang out with Jason, order pizza, stay up late playing Xbox together.

  Rarely, though, had he given Jenni the same amount of attention. Time had become scarce, particularly as Satellite Mapping Elite nosedived, gobbling up his grandfather’s investment and bringing a lien against his and Jenni’s home. Some nights, paralyzed by inadequacy, he had shrugged off Jenni’s attempts to woo him to bed, opting for the couch and the remote. With business not performing as hoped, he feared failure might show itself in other areas of their marriage.

  Of course, Jenni’s disappointment only intensified his shame.

  Bunko … Even the name felt like a slap in the face.

  Shifting in the truck seat, Clay lifted his eyes as another guest—let’s see … that’s number sixteen—stopped a Subaru near the front entryway. The sinking sun drenched the woman in copper hues as she strolled to the door. Thin, wearing sandals and a shawl, with blond hair. Mid to late twenties.

  She smoothed her shawl, then turned her face his way.


  Henna? The lady from the Greyhound?

  Electricity jolted through Clay’s hands, up his arms, to the roots of his hair. Each follicle was a needle on a seismograph, registering his suspicions. She was here. Now. He knew with all certainty this lady was involved in his recent turmoil. Did she recognize him as well? Or was he shadowed by the sun at his back?

  Henna entered the house without knocking.

  Asgoth shuffled his feet through the apartment’s gold shag carpet. He stopped at the window, where mold ringed the glass like a black weather seal. He could see warped roofing and tarpaper spanning the causeway below. On the roof’s surface, empty beer cans glinted in the sun, and a curled magazine flashed suggestive images as leaves ballet danced over the filth.

  He despised this pitiful existence.

  From the beginning of time, the unscrupulous had found profit in the sex and drug trades, and he’d been told that the others in the Consortium enjoyed places regal and palatial. His home was nothing but a washroom to them.

  Well, that’d change. He’d peel this town open, revealing once and for all the dark core of even the smallest of communities.

  Earlier in the day Asgoth had met with his circle of recruits. They came with open minds, eager to establish a presence in Junction City, trusting in the finances he planned to tap—although he provided no details of Engine 418. With enthusiasm, they’d agreed to start things off with a bang.

  Yet they were unaware of his ultimate, much more intimate, goal.

  A goal spawned by a memory …

  Cold water. Dragging him down. Open wounds pumping into the river’s current. Knots in his stomach as death reached in and twisted his internal organs. Staring out through luminous eyes. Fading. Sinking into black depths. The end at hand.

  Or so everyone thought! But I’ve never left this place.

  In five weeks, at the Scandi-Fest, his deception would be revealed. Each of his victims would be another timecard punched for compensation—one fat paycheck, signed in Clay Ryker’s blood.

  As Clay stepped down from the Dodge, he let the door rest against its latch. He moseyed toward Henna’s car, stretched his legs. Gave the house a casual glance.