Expiration Date

by Eric Wilson

“That may be so,” her mother continued. “Regardless, the Good Lord’s put you there for a reason. He knows you both need each other. Sure, Shanique’s made some poor choices. She’s not walking in the ways we taught her, but that gives you no right to place yourself in judgment over her. You hear what I’m saying?”

  “I hear you.” Mylisha turned down the music. “I miss you and Dad.”

  “We miss you too, sweetie. When’re you coming to visit again?”

  Mylisha’s parents lived and worked in Santa Monica. After their daughters had graduated, they’d moved from Oregon in search of less rain and more income. They’d found the first in southern Cal; they still sought the second.

  “I’ll try to get a few days off during my winter break from school.”

  “Let us know. You take care, Mylisha. You’re in your mama’s prayers.”

  Mylisha dropped the cell phone onto the beanbag. She finished her nails, capped the container, turned up the music until the bass shook her apartment.

  Why did the troublesome ones always get the attention? At home, in college, on the job, it was always the same; the squeaky wheels got the grease. Ever since their older sister, TraVonda, had gone off to the University of Tennessee, Mylisha had tried to pick up the slack—studying hard, working long, following her parents’ rules. Even on the track, she’d trained harder than her little sister. But no matter how much partying Shanique did the night before, she was always right there, neck and neck at the tape.

  “You wore me down, girl,” Mylisha admitted to her empty apartment.

  It was true: she’d given her sister that last race. If Shanique had trained half as hard, she would’ve dominated the track anyway. Mylisha had simply tired of competing with Shanique and her talent, with Clay and his dreams.

  In addition, during that last year of high school, she’d been threatened into leaving Clay Ryker alone. Angry and scared, she’d tried to work out a deal, but it had backfired. Clay had been hurt, and she’d let him go his way. Only Summer Svenson had known the full account of her troubles.

  Mylisha readjusted in her beanbag, turned on the TV. She found distraction in a show called Beyond the Stars.

  Clay was channel-surfing from his bed. A mind-bending variety of channels clicked past. He stopped. Okay, this could be entertaining.

  Beyond the Stars …

  A prime-time special dedicated to numerology, astrology, psychics, and reflexology. No doubt Henna Dixon ascribed to this sort of stuff.

  Clay scooted back against his pillows. Typically he shunned superstition, figured it was bad luck even to talk about such stuff—a wry smile—but the numbers had forced him to reconsider. He could no longer disregard the phenomenon; the repercussions had become all too real, and he needed some rational answers.

  Of course, there was an easy solution.

  No human touch. A boycott on all contact.

  Whether a blessing or curse, he could just wash his hands of this responsibility. Who would believe him anyway? He couldn’t deny the numbers, yet neither could he prove their existence. Certain things in life had to be accepted blindly.

  Which just might be the point of this show.

  Clay raised the volume, settled back with a drink between his legs.

  The first study proved amusing. A professor passed envelopes to his students and told them to read their personal horoscopes within. Afterward, he asked them to weigh the information objectively and raise their hands if they thought, beyond question, it fit their individual situations. A majority responded. “Amazing,” they exclaimed. “Like, omigosh, my life to a T.” Others thought it fit, albeit with small discrepancies. Only one student believed it to be totally inaccurate.

  In conclusion, the professor instructed the class to exchange and read one another’s horoscopes. Titters of embarrassment and disbelief filled the room as the students realized they had all been given the same exact horoscope.

  Buncha gullible people, Clay thought. Just goes to show you.

  In another study, however, when a famed TV psychic was put to the test, he passed with flying colors. Skeptics were unable to prove any coercion or tomfoolery, and the psychic’s knowledge about the studio audience’s deceased family members was confirmed by further research.

  Knowledge … the first seduction.

  Henna’s warning echoed in Clay’s ears. He could still see her face at the Avon party. So innocent. So smug.

  Following a commercial break, Beyond the Stars concluded that charlatans did abound. Apparently, though, there were others with certifiable paranormal abilities. The show’s closing statement encapsulated Clay’s confusion.

  “In a culture grounded on empirical facts and scientific data, the hunger for spiritual meaning continues to assert itself.” The sweater-clad host set a hand on a globe. “Some claim there is no higher power, no afterlife, nothing outside of that which we define with our five senses. Others claim that we’re all part of a collective consciousness, that we limit knowledge by restricting ourselves to finite physical definitions. Perhaps in the future, brave pioneers of science and spirituality will join hands, leading humanity one step further along the path of progress, one step closer to harmony with our vast and expanding universe.”

  Heat coiled on Clay’s palms. In the background he thought he heard the doorbell, but he focused instead on Henna’s statement from the bus.

  You will begin to know things. You’ll feel them.

  He was feeling things, all right, but he still knew next to nothing. Certainly not how to redeem his marriage. Or his ruined financial portfolio. Or his—

  “Son, you in there?” Gerald pounded on the door. “Turn down that blasted TV. You got someone here needs to talk at you.”

  He opened the door, found himself impaled by his father’s glare.

  “Clay, what sort of trouble have you brought back into this house?”

  Uprooted from his command post in the recliner, Gerald clearly felt justified in venting at full volume. He brushed past his wife and rumbled down the hall on his way to the workbench in the garage, his usual escape route.

  Della mouthed an apology to Clay before nodding toward the living room. “He’s in there. Please, for our sakes, don’t say anything foolish.”

  Asgoth and Mr. Monde rendezvoused at the Long Tom Grange. Made famous—or infamous, some might say—by a local scandal, the grange had played host in recent months to a group of lighthearted, scantily clad gentlemen. Their calendar was a hot seller, and the middle-aged male models had welcomed their corresponding nicknames: “Mr. March,” “Mr. June,” “Mr. July.”

  “Which would you be, Monde? Could they have captured you on film?”

  “I find that inappropriate, A.G. Not the slightest bit funny.”

  “You’re more sour than usual.”

  “And you’re more … incorrigible.”

  Asgoth looked forward to making his next announcement. Monde and Pristi had surprised him with news of the Brotherhood’s reemergence; this now was his chance to catch his partner off guard.

  “What is it?” Monde inquired. “You’re hiding something. That much is obvious.”

  “We have a new arrival in town.”

  “One of the Brotherhood? Already?”

  “No,” Asgoth said. He gazed past the tree-shaded grange and a row of daffodils. Over the rise, fields stretched toward a row of foothills. “I’m speaking of your feared nemesis.”

  Monde huffed. “I fear no man.”

  “Well, he’s certainly not much to look at. He’s lost some weight, but he’s still a hefty fellow. Used to be a boxer in his childhood days. Have you figured it out?”

  “Sergeant Vince Turney.”

  “None other.”

  Monde’s black brows furrowed. “But why here? Why now?”

  “I’d like an answer to that myself.”

  Clay stood tall, then moved to meet this newest complication. Passing through the kitchen, he snagged two glasses and a can of V8. Nothing like hearty ve
getable juice to chase off the guests.

  “Mr. Ryker? You mind if I call you Clay?”

  “Been called worse.”

  “Name’s Vince Turney.” A stocky man rose from the couch. “Call me Sarge, if you like. Mmm. You sharin’ the V8? I’ll take a glass.”

  Okaaay, so much for that plan.

  Clay poured the drinks and, with mild awe, watched Sergeant Turney gulp down the swill. The man had deep-set brown eyes, dark, buzzed hair, and remnants of a double chin that leaped with each gulp. His utter lack of pretension appealed to Clay. He seemed close in age and came across like a fishing buddy, one who could give and receive attention without demands.

  “So, Sarge, what’s this all about? I did have other plans for the evening.”

  “Good question. And I’m sorry to be a bother. See, I’m lending a hand to the local authorities—a pinch hitter, a freelancer. When the police run short on experts or manpower, they call in an investigative consultant such as myself. Mostly I keep my business within the tri-counties. Used to be a cop not long ago. In Corvallis.”

  “Let me guess. A sergeant?”

  Sarge cocked a finger. “He’s no slouch, this one.”

  “You’re too young to retire. Why aren’t you still doing the police thing?”

  “That’s a whole other story.”

  “Okay. What about now? Can you tell me the reason you’re here?”

  “Well, truth is, I’m investigating an incident that happened on the other side of town. You heard about the older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Coates? Tragic scene. We’re trying to piece together that night’s events. Let’s see.” Sarge fumbled with a notebook. “It was a Thursday night. Actual time of death was early Friday morning.”

  6.3.0.0.4 … June 30, 2004.

  “I didn’t know them,” Clay said. “Not sure what you want me to say.”

  “Just checkin’ each angle. The Coateses’ case isn’t the only one I’m involved with. Two weeks ago there was a vehicular homicide, also here in JC.”

  6.2.1.0.4 … June 21, 2004.

  “Summer,” Clay heard himself say.

  “Yes sir. Summer Svenson. Guess she’d been out at your place that night.”

  “Now wait a minute. I had nothing to do with—”

  “Whoa, no one’s accusin’ anyone. Ease off the pedal.”

  “Then why are you here, Sarge? What’s this about?”

  Sarge raised both hands. “Connectin’ the dots, that’s all. Gotta trust me, Clay. See, I’ve got a personal attachment. I knew Summer way back when. Hadn’t seen her in quite some time, not since … well, not since her sister passed away.”

  “Her sister? Milly? From what I heard, Milly was killed in a head-on collision a few years back. Some idiot teenager was reaching for a CD and swerved.”

  Sarge coughed into his hand. “Milly was my fiancée.”

  Clay swallowed. The room seemed to shrink.

  “Life just keeps on marchin’,” Sarge said. His deep brown eyes seemed to melt. “God’s brought a new woman into my life by the name of Josee. Best thing that’s ever happened to me. But this mess with Summer Svenson has set my mind aspinnin’. Lotsa heartache and memories. As you can imagine, Josee wants it settled before we can move on. Says it’s best if I deal with it now rather than later.”

  “You think it’s wise to mix your work and personal life?”

  “My experience tells me they’re often one and the same.”

  Clay thought about the headstones on his workbench, about the macabre events since his return. This investigative consultant had a point.

  “I’m just tryin’ to make sense of all this and see that justice is served,” Sarge assured him. “That’s my job whether or not I’ve got personal stakes. Both our tempers could run hot here, but I’m hopin’ you’ll work through this with me.”

  Clay sipped the V8. Was he a suspect in these deaths? He’d done nothing wrong. Whispering through his mind, from beneath the river’s surface, dead pale lips told him otherwise. He was guilty. A sinner on a pilgrimage, stumbling along this path of absolution, forcing others—such as Jenni and Jason—to shoulder his shame.

  A sinner … sinner … sinner.

  “Clay, you say you didn’t know the Coateses. Had you ever talked with them, by chance? Bumped into them?”

  “No, of course not.” Clay exhaled. “Okay, wait. There was one time. I ran into the old guy at Ace Hardware.” When Sarge nodded, Clay got the impression it was information the consultant already possessed.

  “You been by the train engine recently?” Sarge asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Engine 418. The one parked down at Founder’s Park. You seen it lately?”

  “In passing. Not something I pay much attention to.”

  “Did you know Mr. Coates was involved in its repainting project?”

  “Before he died?” Clay tried to catch the words, but they were out of his mouth. “Sorry. Stupid question.”

  Sarge studied his notepad, scraped fingers over his short hair. “You know, Summer Svenson also visited the train. She was there mere hours before you saw her. She was seen touching it.”

  Touching?

  This conversation was irritating Clay, digging beneath his skin.

  “I guess I’m missing the connection,” he said. “Where do I fit in, Sarge? This is all fascinating, gotta admit. But I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree. I had nothing to do with either of their deaths. If I could’ve stopped them, I would have. You have to believe me on that.”

  “Sounds convincing, Clay.” Sarge peered up from his scribbles. “I’m even inclined to buy your story. There is one other item to discuss, though. See, while we were running a perimeter check at the Coateses’ place, we found something in the flower bed beneath their bedroom window.”

  Clay folded his arms. What a waste of his time. He had things he could be doing, such as trying to protect an innocent boy from … From what?

  Five days left, and counting down fast.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “I give. What’d you find?”

  The consultant slipped a Polaroid across the table. The photo bore a freshly penned case number and showed an oval belt buckle with Clay’s name scrolled in silver filigree. He recognized it. Indeed, the buckle belonged to him.

  16

  The Stone Figurine

  Clay felt like a crash-test dummy, slammed into the wall, disjointed. Head lolling. Quartered yellow and black circles dotting his lank frame like cross hairs in a sniper’s scope. He was being set up. They’d put him in the driver’s seat and claimed he was to blame.

  He looked across the coffee table into Sergeant Turney’s eyes, then looked away.

  Shoot, maybe I am a … sinner. I know what you’d say, Dr. Gerringer. You’d dismiss my guilt as some outdated code of morality, but I can’t shrug this off.

  “So you admit the buckle’s yours,” Sarge said.

  “I haven’t admitted to anything. My mind’s a blur right now. In fact, I think we’d be better off talking about this later.”

  “You look as though you’ve been blindsided by a truck.”

  “I feel like it. I promise, I haven’t seen that belt buckle in twelve years.”

  “Twelve years, hmm? And where was that?”

  Clay had last seen the buckle the day he and Bill Scott packed their clothes in the riverside bushes. In his rush after finding Bill’s body, Clay had missed the belt as he dressed to go for help. Later the authorities had roped off the scene and refused to let him search for the item. When he tried to explain that it should be near Bill’s clothes, a gangly, bespectacled detective eyed him with suspicion. “Clothes? We’ve covered every inch of the bank. Lotsa trash and beer cans—the usual junk—but we have yet to find a shred of clothing. You wanna revise your story?”

  Sarge was less accusatory. “You with me, Clay? Anything you need to tell me?”

  “I’m just trying to—”

  “Get lost! That’s what he’
s trying to tell you.”

  Clay snapped up at his father’s voice. Gerald was standing with boots apart, his fists cocked and loaded at his sides.

  “You listen here, Sergeant What’s Your Name. We had our share of grief when Clay’s friend died. Cops poking around. Questions and suspicion. My family’s name was smeared, and that’s something I don’t take lightly.”

  “A man’s name is everything. I’m just—”

  “Got that right! Now I’m only gonna say this once. Get off my property!”

  Sarge’s jaw muscles tensed. Standing, he placed a business card on the end table and looked Clay in the eye. “You think of anything, anything at all, you call me at that number.”

  Beyond the Long Tom Grange’s silhouette, sunrays retreated through the hills and scratched with spiteful orange claws at concrete-colored clouds. The breeze was picking up over the Long Tom River, sweeping the day’s warmth into cellars of dusk.

  Asgoth breathed deeply. Evening time infused him with life.

  Despite the attempts to snuff him out, he was not dead. He had risen from the depths. Once he mined the riches of Engine 418, he’d be able to pay off the Consortium, and they’d be unable to overlook his resilience and ingenuity. Even Sergeant Turney’s arrival would not dampen his mood.

  Monde, too, appeared to be relishing the dusk. He stretched his arms, let the wind play over him. “A.G., you might be interested to know that I have the next date arranged. This one’s required a fair amount of psychological testing.”

  “You’re sure it’ll work? Will the sergeant cause you any trouble?”

  “It’s time to set your doubts aside, don’t you think?”

  “You’re right, Monde. Absolutely. Do you mind sharing the specifics?”

  “The woman’s name is Rhea Deering.”

  “She works in the tavern, right?”

  Monde nodded. “Her expiration date will be the twentieth of this month. If all goes as planned, Clay Ryker will cross her path and take on the burden of her approaching death. The human psyche’s made to take only so much. Let’s see how he handles it.”

  “We’ll make sure he has few options.”