Expiration Date

by Eric Wilson

  Jenni. Clay rested the book’s open pages over his face.

  I’m no relational expert, as you know. But even Dr. Gerringer’s not all he’s cracked up to be. I’m sorry. For everything. See, I had a hand in Bill’s death, and I let it keep whittling me down until I had no confidence left. Now look at me. I’ve failed at everything, like a disease that keeps getting worse. I tried to let it go, and you’re absolutely right, I tried to make you carry that weight with me. Which you couldn’t do. I know that now. Well, don’t worry. Tomorrow I’m shirking this load forever. And just in case … I’m all paid up on the life insurance. You and Jason’ll be able to move on.

  As he comprehended his own scheme, Clay stared into the darkening sky, astounded, even amused. No wonder he’d felt propelled along this pilgrimage.

  Had he known all along? Or had he hidden it from himself?

  Twelve years ago he had caused Bill Scott’s death, pushing his friend toward the treacherous river. Days ago he had failed to save a helpless child, thus witnessing a brutal destruction. Tomorrow he would take his own life in Crater Lake’s cold depths.

  At long last he understood.

  Sacrifice yourself so others might live.

  28

  The Below World

  Two chiefs, according to Klamath Indian legends, had been pitted against one another. Llao of the Below World and Skell of the Above World fought a cataclysmic battle, raging with fire and smoke, hurling ashes and stone, until Llao’s home of Mount Mazama was destroyed.

  Crater Lake was what remained. Evidence of the Below World.

  With a brochure describing the conflict, Clay crested the lookout. In an instant he forgot every gripe, every dirty pore and bruised muscle.

  He gasped. His mind boggled at the sheer enormity of this natural wonder. Poised a thousand feet above the surface, he gazed upon the nation’s deepest lake. If he threw himself over the railing, he would plunge nearly three thousand feet from the cliff’s top to the lake’s icy bottom. The waters now covering the heart of this ancient volcano shimmered in the sunlight, a mirror of ultramarine blue.

  He had never seen anything like it. It dwarfed him. Demanded awe.

  To his left a massive lava flow formed the crags of Llao Rock. To his right, Devil’s Backbone paralleled Skell Channel, a band of water separating the caldera’s cliffs from its unruly offspring known as Wizard Island. The cone was no more than a volcanic youngster, waiting for its turn to blow; tufts of trees sprouted along its neck and pointed chin.

  Clay set down his pack. With the GPS unit strapped to his belt, he saved the coordinates. What, he wondered, makes us want to leave our mark?

  He locked his arms around the top rail, slipped one leg over the bottom. His foot was dangling over empty space.

  “Hold it right there.”

  Clay gripped the rail tighter. The voice had come from his right.

  “Don’t move a muscle, Clay. I’m about to shoot.”

  “Sam? Is that you?” He turned. “Lyndon?”

  The Nikon camera whirred and its lens blinked twice.

  “Ahhh.” Clay slapped a hand to his chest. “You got me.”

  Clay could do nothing but smile at the SNL banter. Sam’s Volvo had been parked at the lookout, and he’d driven them to the Rim Village’s restaurant near Crater Lake Lodge. By large windows they now waited for their lunch orders.

  Lyndon said, “You should’ve seen the look on your face, Clay.”

  “Well, put yourself in his shoes, Lyndon. Peering over the lake, nothing but a guardrail to hang on to, and he hears you threaten to shoot. How was he to know we would bump into him out there?” Sam brushed a tidbit of parsley to the floor.

  “I saw that, Sam.”

  “Oh, stop. You know how I despise poor service, and it’s plain to see they didn’t even touch this table after the last party left.”

  Lyndon rolled his eyes and looked to Clay for help. “Do you think you could live with a person like this?”

  “For hygiene reasons, definitely. For moral reasons, probably not.”

  “Look at Bible boy climb onto his high horse.”

  “Hey, I’m not pointing fingers. If you knew my own past, you’d stay far away.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Lyndon rubbed his hands together. “No holding back. We want every juicy detail.”

  “You’re a pig,” Sam told Lyndon. “You really are.”

  “You’re as curious as I am, just afraid to admit it.”

  Sam waved off this accusation. “There’s a proper way to do things, a time and a place.” He leaned forward, propped his chin on folded hands. “Clay, we have no ulterior motives. We made no conscious attempt to arrive here the same day as you. Even if we had, it would’ve been quite the chore tracking you down at a place as vast as Crater Lake.”

  “A crazy coincidence, but I’m not complaining. It’s great to see you guys.”

  Although Clay’s words were sincere, a portion of him wanted to flee the table. He had a task to carry out, a sacrificial act. He could think of little else.

  “It’s more than coincidence,” Lyndon said. “Don’t you remember our conversation the other day?”

  “What he’s saying, Clay, is that we’re here together, talking, baring our souls, because of elements beyond our control. Which brings us back to your past. Despite Lyndon’s outrageous lack of manners, we do share a desire to hear more.”

  “To hear every juicy detail. Why deny it, Sam?”

  “It’s true.” Sam flipped up his hands. “We want to know everything.”

  Clay grinned.

  “Your terrible past, your secrets … Please, what’re you hiding from us?”

  “In all seriousness,” Lyndon said, “you don’t have to say a word.”

  Yes, I do. But it’s too late for that now.

  Clay took a deep breath. He was in a rustic setting, near a lake of ominous beauty, on the point of confessing his sin to a pair of men many would judge. Lyndon and Sam, like most male roommates, shared rent and space, but according to biblical teaching, they also lived in a specific pattern of wrongdoing.

  Don’t we all? What makes them less deserving of grace than others?

  Clay thought about the lepers of Jesus’s day, those whom most religious leaders had dismissed with arrogance and repugnance.

  Jesus had reached out to them. He’d walked with them.

  Well, isn’t it God’s kindness that leads us to repentance? Like I can talk!

  His guilt yanked him back to that moment on the bridge. It’d been more than a prod. More than a push. In a flash of anger, he’d wanted to see Bill Scott dead, and he’d shoved the kid as hard as he could.

  With Sam and Lyndon awaiting a response, Clay mouthed, “Maybe later.”

  Lyndon sighed.

  “Famous last words,” Sam said with an air of defeat.

  “Cleetwood Cove. This is the right place?”

  From the Volvo’s backseat, Clay saw a marker for the trailhead. “Yep, this is it.”

  Sam turned from East Rim Drive into the parking lot. “You’re sure you want to go down there?”

  “I’ve wanted to do it for a long time.”

  “Really, Sam,” Lyndon chimed in, “I don’t see what you’re so worried about anyway. Sounds wonderful. A long boat ride around the lake, park rangers in uniform dispensing snippets of little-known trivia.”

  “And one tiny little boat over four cubic miles of water.”

  “You’re a worry wart—that’s what you are. Worry, worry, nag, nag.”

  “Thanks, guys. Good seeing you again.” Clay opened the door, wrestled his pack onto the pavement.

  “Clay.”

  He turned into Sam’s slate gray gaze.

  “Whatever’s gnawing at you, let it go.”

  “Mm-hmm. Okay.”

  “You’re not alone in this world. There are people who care.”

  “Thanks, Sam. Lyndon.” Clay lifted his load again. “Appreciate the ride.”

/>   Without looking back, he took a breath and headed for the ticket kiosk. From there the steep trail carried him down to a rocky shore where tour boats waited for their next loads. He isolated himself from the flocking passengers, stared across the lake’s blue-velvet blanket. In this majestic place, it was hard not to think in spiritual terms.

  Skell and Llao—warring chiefs of the Above and the Below World.

  God and Satan—opponents locked in battle over the souls of mankind.

  Or maybe it’s all legends and myths. I don’t know anymore.

  Clay munched on a granola bar. Swatted at a fly. Dug through his pack for Kenny Preston’s oak tube. With the cork snugged down, he passed the object from hand to hand. He and Kenny could share this secret in the grave.

  When the boarding call came, he shoved the tube into his pants and found a seat on the boat. He set his backpack between his legs, tried to look past those around him. German and Japanese accents mixed with a lone Aussie voice, grating against his crowded thoughts.

  Did man’s free will prevail here? Clay wondered. Or God’s sovereignty?

  6.2.1.0.4 … 7.2.0.4 … 7.1.1.0.4 … and blah-dee-blah.

  Had these been arbitrary dates, capable of being shifted? Or had they been set in stone by grand design, beyond mortal manipulation?

  He’d tried to intervene. Failed miserably.

  8.1.0.0.4 … Jason Ryker.

  Clay felt a moan well in his throat. He swallowed. If he let the sound escape, it would burst into soul-wrenching wails. The thought of losing his son tore him apart; the thought of being unable to stop it stabbed at his heart. He was done.

  In one and three-quarter hours, this boat would return to Cleetwood Cove.

  If Clay’s free will prevailed, it would be minus one passenger.

  “The report’s just come in,” Monde said. Dressed in his corduroy jacket, sporting elbow patches, he could’ve been an old-time news anchor delivering a story. “One of the Consortium’s apprentices has spotted Mr. Ryker on the shores of Crater Lake.”

  Asgoth’s lips twisted into a smile.

  “Based on my projections, A.G., we’ll soon receive word of Ryker’s demise.”

  “What’s to stand in our way? You’ve been right on the money so far.”

  Monde’s nostrils flared.

  “What? Has something gone wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Monde weighed the idea. “That may be too strong a word. But there are elements I did not anticipate. Referring back to my lock analogy, even one tumbler out of place could disrupt access to Ryker’s mind.”

  “Are you telling me the plan could fail? The way it did years ago?”

  “Let’s not dredge that up. Earlier, when Ryker convened with two middle-aged gentlemen near the lodge, it appeared to throw off our timetable. Now, though, they’ve transported him to the cove, delivering him to the anticipated spot.”

  “Okay. But you mentioned a tumbler out of place.”

  “I did.” Monde rolled his shoulders. “Given the opportunity, the apprentice was supposed to nab the train’s treasure from Clay, but now it’s suspected that someone else followed Clay down to the boat.”

  “Who? The man from the Brotherhood? Dmitri so-and-so?” Asgoth bristled. “I’ve waited years for this, Monde. We need that item and the riches it can provide. We need Clay to cooperate. He took everything from me, and this is his chance—his duty!—to give it back. If this Dmitri guy steps in, he’ll spoil the whole thing. Do you understand? Only a sacrifice will do.”

  “Of course I understand. Mr. Ryker must believe he’s paying for his own sins.”

  “That’s right. A self-sacrifice!”

  The boat moved through pristine waters, a walnut shell set afloat in a huge earthen bowl. Cliffs encircled the lake, ranging from glacier-carved saddles to ragged lava formations to orange-pumice deposits.

  Clay hugged his pack with his knees. When should he do it?

  The ranger’s running commentary broke through in pieces.

  “Nearly five hundred feet below the surface, directly beneath us now, the Merriam Cone is a lesser volcano … Considering Mount Mazama’s long eruptive history, scientists predict this area will become active again … Straight ahead, you can see Hillman Peak and the Watchmen … Keep an eye open for the Old Man, an ancient hemlock tree that floats about the lake. We’re not sure, but we believe lightning may have felled it. It’s been a part of the lake’s lore since the 1800s. None of today’s tours have spotted him yet, so one of you may be the first.”

  At Wizard Island the boat released its passengers to a brief period of exploration. Clay wandered without aim. He gazed up, imagined molten lava pouring down the cone’s shaved scalp.

  Back onboard, the tourists quieted. Couples leaned into one another, while older men rubbed their glasses; some panned the lake with camcorders, while others pulled hats down low in defense against the hammering sun. A large man in a Hawaiian shirt shifted behind him, knees brushing against his back.

  Clay was preoccupied. His heart thumped against his chest.

  Should he throw himself overboard with his pack on? Were the rangers trained for such emergencies? For insurance purposes he had to be certain it looked accidental. Would it be better to drown in a shallower area, say four or five hundred feet of water? Or would the deepest sections serve best?

  As if it matters. Come on, Clay. Just do it!

  His eyes pierced the glassy surface. The lake had been stocked with trout. What other creatures prowled below?

  Breaking through Clay’s fear, the ranger’s voice described a nearing collection of lava flows. The tour boat turned so that the eerie formations of Phantom Ship seemed to spring into view. Harbored here indefinitely, this stone vessel rose above them with jagged sails and impregnable gunwales. Clay could imagine, among the crags, ghostly pirates loading muskets and cannons.

  Bill should’ve been here to see this.

  Clay flashed to an image of Kenny Preston.

  Yep. Kenny would’ve thought this was the coolest.

  Clay shifted his backpack to his knees. How long was he going to put this off? He fingered the buttons of the GPS on his belt, again marking his location. Here’s where he would die. His ears burned with his own words from that fateful bridge years ago.

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

  Around him passengers were shifting and turning, murmuring with excitement. Had he spoken the words out loud?

  Following the pointing fingers, Clay saw a timeworn tree hovering in the water. Boosted by the ranger’s romantic tales of yore, the Old Man held the crowd’s attention.

  Clay got his arms beneath his pack, then flipped it overboard.

  “My stuff,” he cried out. “It fell over.”

  With the distracted tourists serving as his witnesses, he had to believe that his life insurance policy would cough up a good chunk of cash. For Jenni. For Jason, too—if his son survived beyond next month.

  Regardless, this had to appear as an accident, a monumental lack of judgment as he went after his belongings.

  His pack smacked the water. He took a deep breath.

  Go, go, go … now!

  Clay catapulted himself over the side, felt the icy cold rip at his face. He was underwater. His clothes and shoes sucked him down, but he made an effort to reach the pack while air pockets kept it hovering at the surface. All part of the show.

  His head burst from the lake. He gulped air. Shouts came from the boat. He clawed toward his belongings, saw them tilt and begin to sink. He porpoised his long body, carved his arms down into the frigid zone, kicked headfirst toward the plummeting pack that had become a specter leading him into the Below World.

  Every cell screamed for air. His body resisted this death wish.

  Back to the surface? No! Not this time around.

  His legs scissored again. Cupped hands pulled him deeper. The pack was nearly beyond the sunlight’s reach, a black pebble dropping through cobalt blue gel.

&
nbsp; What was he doing? Did this make any sense?

  Clay had shouldered his guilt, carried it on this pilgrimage. His sins had dragged him down. Yet now, released from the weight, he was still here chasing after them.

  Behind him, far above, water splashed.

  He continued his descent. His fingers brushed, then clamped on a strap of his pack. He twisted it around his wrist.

  Death’s jaws seemed to close around him with each downward inch; the temperature chewed through his clothes; the needle-sharp fangs of oxygen deprivation pumped carbon dioxide into his lungs. Briefly his thoughts snapped into crystalline focus, then they, too, fell victim to the gathering pressure.

  God, what have I done? I am unclean. A sinner!

  With more than a quarter of a mile to the bottom, he sensed the presence of millions of gallons of ice water shoving him down into the volcano’s black heart. Like shattering glass, water pinged and popped in his ears.

  He needed air. How long had it been—forty-five seconds, a full minute? Yet the instinct not to breathe underwater overpowered the growing agony in his lungs. The edges of consciousness were shredding. Darkness was closing in.

  How pathetic this must seem. Would they find his corpse like some bloated fish? Would they have to keep his coffin closed to spare his family? Clay thought of his parents, of his wife and son, standing over him, staring down.

  Would there be tears?

  These contemplations joined forces with his base instinct to survive and, in a spasmodic breath that overrode his brain’s warnings, his mouth dragged water into his windpipe and flooded his chest cavity. Half-conscious, enfeebled, he turned his eyes to the surface. He kicked once. Tried to rise.

  The pack’s strap was cinched in a knot around his hand.

  He struggled. Panic was his enemy now.

  And he was still going down, losing feeling in limbs that weighed upon him like rubber truncheons. The cold water was slowing his metabolic processes. His thoughts were filtering through cold molasses.