Expiration Date

by Eric Wilson

  Lotta good that’d done her.

  She crumpled the paper and slammed it into the wastebasket beneath the desk.

  Rhea Deering had the night off from waitressing at the Raven.

  And in fifteen minutes she had a date.

  She turned on the gas stove, planning to make some tea. Her voice was raspy with nerves. What she needed was some of that herbal, medicinal, antioxidant junk in the little cellophane-wrapped box.

  At forty-six Rhea was too old for the bar scene. She’d run into her share of strange cats, the most recent example being that Clay Ryker guy. He’d come in a few days ago, downed a couple of drinks, then grabbed her arm and tried to predict her death. Who did he think he was? What right did he have?

  A new job would do her good, Rhea decided. But what else was there for her? She’d smoked since she was nine, having picked up the habit from her older sister. She drank for lots of reasons, and none of them had to do with the taste. She’d gone through three skirt-chasing husbands, all of them suit-wearing stiffs. Just something about a man dressed to the nines.

  And dang it, you’d think I would learn my lesson.

  So what was she doing tonight? Hitting the town with—you guessed it—another guy in a suit. A star performer. A salesman at Guaranty RV Centers, one of the nation’s largest dealerships, located right here at the south end of JC.

  The doorbell rang. That was a promising sign. On the first date with her last husband, he’d honked from his Porsche in her driveway.

  “Be right there,” she croaked.

  He was early. That could be a good or bad thing, but she’d decide later.

  He knocked this time.

  “On my way.”

  She tossed a leather jacket over her hot pink top, inhaled, then fastened the top button on her trendy jeans with the frayed pockets. Reformed biker-girl chic. The guys in suits seemed to have a thing for it.

  “Clay?”

  Jenni’s voice was a crack of light chasing off the darkness. It’d been months.

  “Clay, say something please. You’re calling back late as it is.”

  He gripped the drapes of bitterness and peeled them back from the window of his soul. The light was blinding, almost painful, yet capable of life-giving warmth.

  He breathed her name. “Jenni.”

  “I’m not going to bite. Remember, I called first.”

  “I thought my mom might be lying.”

  “Della?” Jenni said. “She’s been known to be manipulative. But lying?”

  “I’ve had a couple of rough days. Thought she might be trying to cheer me up.”

  “Yeah, I heard how you vanished. Gave everyone a scare and royally peeved your dad. You did get my message?”

  Clay mumbled an affirmative.

  “I’ll make this quick,” she said. “You have a son who misses you terribly.”

  He grunted. Should he remind her whose fault that was?

  “Jason can’t stop talking about his trip to see you,” Jenni continued. “I’ve been counting down the days for him with those plastic magnets on the refrigerator.”

  Clay grimaced. She’d taken the side-by-side Frigidaire when she moved.

  “What I’m leading up to, Clay, is that I want to adjust the visitation plans. Now before you say anything, let me explain. I have a family reunion to attend in mid-August over in Bend. I did the math, and instead of separate airfares, it’d be cheaper for Jason and me to drive out together. Due to my schedule, we’d arrive on the eleventh. One day later than the original plan, but Jason could stay with you a few extra days.”

  8.1.0.0.4 … August 10th. What if Jason never gets here?

  “Are you there? Have you heard a word I’ve said?”

  He looked at his palm. The numbers were invisible, yet hot and coiling. “Couldn’t you get here a few days earlier, Jenni?”

  “My clients will be backed up as it is. I can’t risk losing new accounts.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I’ve already checked, and the airlines will let us redeem the ticket for some later date. Perhaps during Christmas break.”

  Clay’s eyes clamped down against the thought of holidays divided.

  “Well,” Jenni huffed, “nothing like the old patterns. I see it’s going to be up to me to carry the conversation. You should know that I’ve changed a lot in the past months—gaining confidence, saving money, building my customer base each day.”

  “Does this mean less alimony?”

  “Is that all you can think about? You probably don’t even care that I had one of the Denver Broncos come in yesterday.”

  “That’s amazing. Which one?”

  “Clay, I believe client confidentiality’s important. This guy—and no, I’m not telling you his name—he says they might need a massage therapist. He’s going to speak with the team doctors about having me come down in the preseason to give a hand.”

  “A hand.” His laugh caught in his throat. “I get it.”

  “Why’re you doing this to me?”

  “That’s supposed to be my question.”

  “I’m trying to have a nice conversation, Clay.”

  “Listen, I didn’t want this divorce. Or have you forgotten that?”

  “What did you want? That’s something that still eludes me. You had the Prince Charming act down—tall, handsome, athletic, and motivated. Do you blame me? Is that it? Each year, by degrees, you drew further inward. Like you were hiding from something. Or maybe you stopped loving me and started looking for a way out.”

  Clay had hoped to tell Jenni of his catharsis at Crater Lake. He’d imagined a moment of reconciliation as he explained the paralysis of guilt that had cut him off from her. Instead, the emotions that’d been shoved into the corners along with his secrets now demanded recognition.

  “I’m not the one who filed,” he snapped. “I’m not the one who ignores my messages. You don’t really wanna know what I’m thinking. You run when I show who I really am.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m a failure, Jenni. That’s what I am! As soon as you began to realize it, you turned away. Didn’t even give me a stinkin’ chance. When I needed you the most, when everything was falling apart, you left. So my name wasn’t on the bankruptcy? Ha! Okay, you can take the credit for that one. At least incorporating SME kept my nose clean, right? Wrong. I have bills coming out my ears. And to top that off, I have these wonderful little things called alimony payments, child-support payments. I’d willingly work my fingers to the bone to take care of you if I could. But that’s not good enough. I have to be a show-stopping success, or it’s just not worth it for Ms. Jenni Ryker.”

  For a moment Clay thought she had disconnected the phone.

  For kicks he considered spewing more of his thoughts into thin air.

  “Clay.”

  “You’re still there? Surprise, surprise.”

  “Most of what you’ve said is … I suppose it has some truth in it.”

  Clay paused. Flabbergasted. He himself didn’t believe half of what he had said; he’d been using it to strike back.

  “You know something else, Clay? That’s the most you’ve said to me since the morning they towed away my Lexus. That’s the day I knew it was over.”

  “A car. A hunk of metal. That meant more than twelve years together?”

  “Clay, you’re so thickheaded! No, it wasn’t because of the car.”

  “The house? The SUV? What was the final straw?”

  “Your silence! Don’t you get it? Are you hearing me? It wasn’t over for me. It was over for you. I tried to stand by you, to love you through it all. You were what I wanted most. But you were gone. Not physically perhaps, but you had checked out. When they took our things, they took you along with them. After months of nothing from you—not a word, barely a kiss—I had to escape.”

  Clay’s cheeks burned. “From your failure of a man, huh?”

  “No, Clay. From whatever it is that’s haunting you.”

>   A tear brimmed on each of his eyelids. She had already cast him in his role as ex-husband, distant father, failed businessman and athlete. He wanted to tell her about Bill Scott, about the bridge and Bill’s involvement with Mylisha, about the guilt that had driven him into the depths of Crater Lake.

  He could not, however, allow her to add manslaughter or attempted suicide to his list of sins. The list was long enough already.

  Past midnight. And she could get nothing more than a good-night kiss? A ride into Eugene in a nice car, a fancy dinner at the renowned Oregon Electric Station, a slow dance in the club at the top of the Hilton …

  And all he does is ask for a second date. What? Is he low on confidence?

  Rhea Deering stood at her front door, key in hand, and watched her date drive away. On the back bumper one of those little fish symbols caught the light.

  Was he a do-gooder? Or was his age bracket the problem? These middle-aged guys had loads of emotional baggage, same as she did, and now they thought they could find true love. Well, they’d already blown their good years chasing the pretty young things, never thinking they would be left high and dry once they passed forty.

  Welcome to the real world, guys.

  Although years of smoking had deadened her taste buds and sense of smell, Rhea caught a whiff of something. She lifted her nose. Turned on the step. Something made her look to her left, where she spotted a figure in an argyle vest skirting the streetlight’s glow.

  Looks like they’ve let out the town weirdoes. Gotta make sure to lock my door.

  Across the street on her neighbor’s porch, an old man and woman were puffing together on hand-rolled smokes. Was that her future?

  She dug into her leather jacket, found her keys and her pack of Camels. She pushed inside, flicked her Bic—just like the old ads used to say—held the flame to her cigarette as she moved toward the kitchen.

  Billowing without visible form, swelling without a sound, reaching from the forgotten stove burner, the natural gas found the fire at Rhea Deering’s fingertips.

  There would be no second date.

  32

  A Lifeline

  Clay heard about the explosion from Digs.

  In blue uniforms they stood side by side at the sandblasting chamber. Clay had been keeping his gloves on, afraid of what the headstones might reveal. The past two days Wendy had made every effort to avoid eye contact with him, and his other co-workers acted as though his absence had gone unnoticed.

  Midweek at Glenleaf Monument Company. Another death, another dollar.

  “Woman was a good friend o’ mine,” Digs said. “Met Rhea at the Raven. Gosh, she’s waited tables there it seems like forever.” He pulled down a pair of goggles, stood at the Plexiglas viewing slot as he turned on the blaster. “Real heart o’ gold.”

  “I met her.”

  “You know what I’m talkin’ about then.”

  “Not really. Just bumped into her at the bar one night. She was working.”

  Clay thought of the numbers, Rhea Deering’s expiration date. In his drunken state, he’d called it out irreverently. It matched that headstone he’d brushed with bare hands here in the warehouse a few weeks back. And there’d been that other guy, the bouncer. Same date as Rhea’s.

  “I … was worried about her,” Clay said.

  “About Rhea? Ain’t nobody worried over her. She was a survivor.”

  “Is this one of your attempts at humor?”

  Digs shook his head, then opened the door into the blasting chamber and removed a headstone. “Wouldn’t joke about Rhea.” He heaved the stone onto a table, blew away dust with an air hose. “ ’Specially after two tragedies in the same week. That poor Mako kid.”

  “Who?”

  “Worked with Rhea. A bouncer at the Raven. He caught wind his girl was foolin’ around, went to tear the guy up.” Digs ran the air hose over his ears, blasted dust from his hair tufts. “Didn’t work out. Mako took a bullet in the chest, ended up dyin’ Tuesday morning at Sacred Heart.”

  The news was a stone around Clay’s neck.

  7.2.0.0.4 … Two more deaths while I sat by.

  “I’m going to the police,” he told Digs.

  “Why? You know somethin’ about it?”

  “I think I do.”

  “What about the bossman? Blomberg’s gotcha ridin’ probation already, doesn’t he? You’ll lose your job, sure as canaries can sing.”

  “I’ve got another job to do, Digs. Saving people’s lives.”

  “What about payin’ the bills? You got a kid. A wife.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still gotta send off a check, don’tcha? What about their lives?”

  “I don’t have all the answers.”

  “Sounds like our boy Ryker is confused. Am I wrong? Lemme ask you this, whassit like out there on the Pacific Crest Trail? What I hear, it’s a mighty long haul.”

  “Only did a hundred miles or so.”

  “Musta learned somethin’ in them hundred miles. About yourself or your family? Maybe God? You tell me.”

  “I did.” Clay mulled it over. “I learned that my time here’s not up.”

  Digs grinned. “Now if that’s not the same thing I was just sayin’. There, grab hold o’ that end, and help me get this stone back into the blaster. We got work to do. The police, they ain’t goin’ nowhere. They’ll still be there after our quittin’ time.”

  “Clay’s in there now?”

  “Yes, A.G.”

  “This goes against all we had planned. Do we even know what he’s doing?”

  “I have theories, but I’ll need to observe him further. I would’ve followed him inside if it weren’t for that lady at the front desk.”

  Asgoth marched higher up the JC Library’s handicapped ramp. From this vantage point, he’d be able to see Clay Ryker’s departure from the police station. Monde stood below, pensive in his corduroy jacket.

  The library door swung open, and a man in a jogging outfit stopped, nose to nose with Asgoth. He blinked, chose to go the other direction down the steps. A moment later a little girl exited. She paid Asgoth no mind. Spreading her arms, she ran with squealing delight down the incline.

  Oh, to have that sort of freedom. Henna shows flashes of it.

  Asgoth thumbed his tan trousers. He was more than ready for a change.

  “I thought we had him at Crater Lake, Monde.”

  “As did I.”

  “He seemed … very close. Considering your skills, I thought it would be easier.”

  “The human psyche’s not as fragile as one might suppose.”

  Asgoth tapped against the ramp’s railing. “Of course, if Sergeant Turney hadn’t snuck into the picture, it might’ve been a different story. For that, I hold you responsible. Your old nemesis is once again giving you trouble.”

  Monde stood silent while his black eyes roved.

  “You have nothing to say?”

  Monde rolled his shoulders back so that his jacket flapped about his angular frame. He snapped his neck one direction, then the other. “This situation requires a revised strategy. Viewed properly, it’s not a setback. It’s a fresh opportunity.”

  Detective Freeman sat Clay in an interview room. Asked him to write down what he remembered: dates, details, descriptions. Clay fidgeted under hazy memories of his binge at the Raven but copied them down the best he could.

  “So you think you can tell when people are going to die?”

  “By touching them, yes.”

  “Touching them.” The detective scribbled on his pad. “Explain how that works.”

  “I can feel … numbers.”

  “I can see dead people.” The man smirked. “Like that Bruce Willis flick.”

  “For example, if I shook your hand, I’d know the exact day you’re gonna die.”

  Freeman’s eyes widened. “Oooh. Scary.” He glanced up at the camera fixed in the corner. “I’m going to die. You heard it first from Mr. Clay Ryker.”

  “Sou
nds crazy, I know. But it’s been right every time.” Clay indicated the three pages of notes that’d taken nearly forty minutes to write. “You’ve already got it on record from the bartender. I predicted Mako’s and Rhea Deering’s deaths.”

  “You were pretty well snockered, from what I hear.”

  “I’m not gonna deny it.”

  “Maybe you had a hand in their misfortunes. Anything to get off your chest?”

  “Your partner just finished questioning me, so you know the answer. I was on the Pacific Crest Trail during the shooting. And I’ve never even been to Rhea’s house.”

  “Not a pretty sight after the explosion.”

  “Bottom line is, I’m hoping we can help each other.”

  “How would that work exactly?”

  “I’d warn you in advance, then you’d provide protection for the possible victims.”

  “Victims. Mr. Ryker, you say that as if we’ve got a sociopath roaming the streets, as if there’s some scheme behind this.”

  “Well yeah, that’s the weird part. So far, all of the expiration dates have added up to thirteen. That can’t be mere coincidence.”

  “Thirteen? Really?” Freeman lifted an eyebrow, then pushed his left elbow across the small table. “What about me? Come on, don’t be shy.”

  “Am I gonna get in trouble for this? Touching your arm?”

  “Only if you’re assaulting me. The last crackhead tried it. Of course, that voluntary urine test you took will determine whether that’s your problem.”

  “I’m clean. Listen, whatever it takes to convince you I’m sincere.”

  The detective toggled his elbow, enjoying this masquerade.

  Clay let his exasperation take over. He stretched forward, rested his fingers on the ruddy, mole-dotted skin. The numbers transferred within milliseconds. As always.

  “The verdict, Mr. Ryker. Let’s say it loud enough for the camera.”

  “You have till the first of August, Detective.”

  “And then I bite the big one?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “Okay then. Am I supposed to carry you around in my back pocket, my own little guardian angel?” Freeman guffawed. “Here’s the way I read this, Mr. Ryker. In the past few months you’ve experienced a bankruptcy, a divorce, and the loss of personal friends. You’ve exhibited a sporadic work record here in town, been tossed out of a bar, shown self-destructive tendencies. And suddenly you’re a superhero?”