by Eric Wilson
“You already tried to do your little prayer thing. Now what?”
Good question. Where am I going with this?
Clay covered the cell phone’s mouthpiece, lifted his eyes upward. The fast-approaching first of August caused his heart to pound. Death was nearing, so impersonal, so inexorable. Was there a way to override another individual’s choice?
“Bye-bye, Mr. Ryker.” Freeman’s tone was snide.
“Wait! Hold on. I don’t expect you to buy what I’m saying, but what if God’s just waiting for you to give him a chance? Maybe I sensed the numbers so you could live a little longer. Like an early-warning system. The Bible says it’s ‘destined that each person dies only once.’ But it doesn’t say that date is written in stone. In fact, there are times God held death back. Times he seemed to change the plan.”
“And he’d do that for me?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Detective Freeman sniggered. “You’re a real nut case, you know that? I’ve lived my life, made my choices, and I don’t need some religious caped crusader swooping in to save the day. I became a detective to bring justice to this world, but you know what I’ve found? There’s no such thing. Life’s one huge septic tank, a godforsaken mess! And yes, Mr. Ryker, you can quote me on that.”
“Godforsaken, huh? Even though he’s trying to reach out to you?”
“You get more delusional by the minute.”
“August first, Detective Freeman.”
“Tell ’em to bury me with my eyes open. You can tell ’em I saw it coming.”
After conversations with the unnerving Mrs. Dixon and the irascible Detective Freeman, Clay was ready for a straightforward call.
The Holly Street apartment manager …
“Yeah, I’m wanting some information. Rates, move-in dates, and all that.”
“Don’t got any places available.” The voice was male, thin, and feeble.
“Popular place, huh?”
“We make do. I can give ya a number to call, place on the north end o’ town.”
“Actually, I had my eye on your second-floor apartment, the one on the corner.” Clay recited the number. “View of the park. Close to the video store. Private.”
“You know how to pick ’em, don’t ya?”
“Is it taken?”
“Did I say that?”
“If you give me the renters’ name or number, maybe I could talk to them about a roommate situation. Shared utilities, phone bill, whatever.” Clay realized the manager was no longer listening. To go along with the man’s muffled chuckles, Clay visualized an age-marked hand over colorless lips. “Did I say something funny? People make arrangements like that all the time.”
“It’s not that,” the manager said. “I take it you haven’t been in town long.”
“Grew up here actually. Just moved back from Wyoming.”
“You missed all the hubbub then. Still under investigation. You’re not one o’ them cops, are ya? They told me to keep my gums from flappin’ and let ’em know if I heard anything, anything at all.”
“About what?”
“You are a cop, I can tell. Well, good try there. Guess we’re done talkin’.”
Clay stared at the disconnected phone in his hand. By degrees, his day had gone from abnormal to bizarre. Welcome to his world.
At home that night he found two new bills and a phone message from Mylisha. For dinner his mother served a homemade Bartlett pear and Gorgonzola cheese pizza—not bad at all. Della explained her baking stone’s benefits while Clay thought about the coming days. The coming deaths.
Gerald rescued them both by demanding Clay’s help in clearing leaves from the gutters. They worked together, their words never moving beyond the chore’s logistics.
After a shower Clay called Mylisha back. He told her he was ready for real conversation and feedback, and she agreed to join him for a hike on his next day off.
Sunday. August first.
Even a freeman cannot run from the fate he deserves.
Clay shoved aside his frustration with the detective. Although he remained concerned, he could not take on the responsibility of those who refused to listen; he must keep up a buffer, dulling his emotions for what lay ahead.
37
The Color of Blood
The Tattered Feather Gallery had aged with dignity. Situated on Southwest Second in Corvallis, the old two-story home featured local artists, and it appeared that the curator took oil paintings and sculptures on consignment. Myrtlewood clocks and carvings filled one wall; genuine Indian art pieces graced another, with a selection of dream catchers dangling in the front windows.
Dmitri filed these observations within seconds of crossing the threshold.
As a Russian, I appreciate fine works of the imagination. We lead the world in classic literature. We boast the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg.
The strident cry of the front door’s electric eye did not surprise him. Art was worth protecting. He smiled at the lady behind the long glass counter, let his eyes linger on hers. He was here to find Josee Walker.
“I’m looking for the last Tsar,” he could say. “Please point way to the treasure.”
But of course that would never do. Americans were too self-absorbed to believe such a statement, and even if they did, they were too self-seeking to offer advice without reward.
He let his hand brush against the cell phone on his belt.
Cleaned, checked, loaded. He might have to do today’s work the hard way.
“Come on in, come on in,” said the lady at the counter. “I’m Suzette Bishop. Feel free to look around.”
“Spahseebah … Thank you.”
“You’re Russian? Oh, I do love the accent, love it. Are you a fan of Kandinsky, per chance?”
Dmitri Derevenko let his smile widen. This might not be so hard after all.
“I’m a fan of the Fabergé eggs. Do you have anything like this? Any replicas?”
“How odd that you should ask that. My assistant’s been engrossed with the same thing of late. Have you met Josee yet?”
Clay peeled off his gloves. His skin was damp with sweat. He ran his wrist down his cheekbone, swiped it across his blue canvas pants, looked both ways along the workbench. Digs was rolling a new stone toward the sandblasting area; Wendy was etching out a line of letters; Brent was loading blank slabs onto the hand truck.
Why worry? They would have no idea what he was doing.
Still, he felt the need for secrecy. As though he were about to peer into the crypts of the tombstones laid out before him.
He had to know. His fingers hovered over the first. Dropped down.
Clay recoiled from the distinct row of numbers, but they clung to touch receptors beneath his skin, shot off messages to his brain. He blinked once, reached for the next stone. More numerals. He checked his palm, but there was nothing to see. Cut by an invisible blade, each number throbbed below the surface. Who would believe him? Why should anyone listen?
He touched another slab. Another and another.
The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth—they were all the same.
A coming Tuesday … 8.1.0.0.4
That was impossible. The date was already taken by Jason, Wendy, and Father Patrick. In a town this small, what were the odds of so many people dying in one day? There must be some mistake.
Clay pushed his fingers back into the gloves, continued his work.
Lunch break brought Wendy and him together at the time clock.
“Hi,” he said. “I don’t blame you for avoiding me the past few days, but I want you know I’m sorry for the way I acted in the Raven.”
“Just two adults sharing drinks.”
“I was rude, Wendy.”
“And I was a flirt, but it didn’t mean anything. Liquor can make a person do silly things.”
“Do you remember what I said to you?”
“Oh, I see. Gonna act like you forgot, Ryker? It’s the oldest trick in the b
ook.”
“No tricks. I just want you to … be careful. Take it easy. Watch your step.”
“You’re making no sense.”
“On August tenth. Isn’t that the day I mentioned? I’m trying to protect you.”
“Stay away from me.” Wendy elbowed past him. “I heard what you said to Rhea and Mako that night, and look what happened to them. I don’t know what your trip is, but I’d feel more comfortable if you kept your distance. You hear me?”
“I hear you.”
Digs caught a ride with Clay to the corner market.
“What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “You got Wendy rattled.”
Clay shook his head, said nothing.
“You like drivin’ with those gloves on, Ryker? Can’t say that I’ve ever seen them come off. Must be a fixation with canvas, eh?”
Clay ripped them free, dropped them on the Duster’s seat.
“Okay, I might be a white-haired fool, but I can tell when a man’s all twisted up. You don’t hafta carry your burdens alone.” Digs shook his head. “Life ain’t a one-man show, you know?”
“Lot on my mind. I know you’re just trying to be a friend.” In a show of nonchalance, Clay threw out his hand and clapped Digs’ bare forearm. He mumbled a thanks, but his mind was focused on the results.
Skin to skin. Numerals … 8.1.0.0.4
Now I’m convinced of it. The numbers must be wrong!
For whatever reason, it appeared they had locked up, jammed on one date in particular. Or maybe his ability had departed altogether, leaving only a residue. Yep, that must be it. What else made any sense?
He parked at the market. “What’re you having, Digs? I’m buyin’.”
“Now there’s a quick turnaround for ya. Let’s see, how ’bout a Butterfinger.”
Clay left his gloves in the car, hesitated at the beer cooler, chose an Arizona Iced Tea instead. He collected a few other snacks and plunked them on the counter. He was feeling expansive. He was free from worry. Now that the ability had taken a nosedive, he realized the amount of pressure it had been exerting on him.
“How goes it?” He nodded at the teenage girl behind the counter.
“Okay. Yourself?”
“It’s a great day.” Clay handed over his cash, made a purposeful effort to let his hand touch hers. He had nothing to fear, no responsibility and no worries.
But he was wrong. Her expiration date was over two years away.
Which meant the numbers were not stuck; they had not malfunctioned. The other dates must be as accurate as ever, precursors of doom and destruction.
August tenth was going to be a very bad day.
Asgoth patrolled the streets, gauging, plotting. Soon festival booths on these sidewalks would channel thousands of pedestrians from fried delicacies to crafts to clog dancing and face painting. On the Scandi-Fest’s edge, the Finnish locomotive would stand watch.
Just as I will. Watching. But no longer waiting.
For twelve years he had labored in this obscure principality. Few of these citizens knew he still walked among them, but they would find out soon enough.
Yes, one bad worm could work its way through an entire barrel.
He wondered how things were going north of here in Corvallis. Screws were being tightened, and it was only a matter of time before secrets came to light. With the Consortium’s aid, Monde was shadowing the Russian and others in the Brotherhood, and his latest message had confirmed the location of a woman Monde knew all too well.
Josee Walker. She’d caused Monde trouble before.
Let Mr. Monde deal with her while Asgoth pursued a strategy of his own.
“Josee’s a feisty little character. She’s lived and worked here with me for less than a year, but what a true gift she’s been. A fine employee, as well.”
“So she also has interest in the Fabergé eggs?”
“Yes,” Suzette said. “Quite definitely.”
Dmitri made appropriate sounds as Suzette Bishop showed him around her art gallery, pointed out trinkets, thumbed through clothbound catalogs that creaked with age. In a circular case, jeweled Fabergé imitations—“Fauxbergé,” some called them—sparkled on fabric beneath a band of lights. One or two bore marked resemblance to the genuine objets de luxe, demanding a second look. Was it possible? Nyet. This would be silly for Josee to hide her treasure in the open rather than in a locked vault.
“Why is she so curious, do you think?”
Suzette’s nose twitched at the question. Between long, limp curls of hair, her eyes were almond shaped and pretty. “Well, Josee’s naturally inquisitive, and once she sets her mind to something, it’s not easy to pry her away.”
“Like a bulldog.”
“Yes. But a cute bulldog.”
“Forgive me, it was an improper joke of mine.”
“You’re fine, you’re fine.” Suzette giggled as she moved back behind the glass counter. In a bowl of Nez Percé pottery, ivory business cards sported maroon calligraphy. “Perhaps it was an inquiry by one of our customers that set Josee on her search. She’s been preoccupied with it, that’s for certain.”
“As a Russian, I also have much interest. The Fabergé treasures were made special for the Romanov family, Easter gifts each year for three decades. They are important to my people, Mother Russia’s glory and past.”
“They’re exquisite, from what I’ve seen of them.”
“But foreign money has stolen many away. King Farouk of Egypt, J. P. Morgan, and Dr. Armand Hammer, even your President Roosevelt—FDR, I think you say—they have owned our treasures. For us, it’s a national shame.”
“That’s so sad,” Suzette commiserated. “I’ve never thought of it that way, but I can understand that you’d have a sense of loss.”
“Our people are torn. We have many troubles already, with Chechnya and terrorists, crime, inflation. I hope to bring change.”
“Oh, Dmitri, you’re right, you’re so right. We have it easy here.”
“You see now why I need to know.”
She wrinkled her eyebrows. Again her nose twitched.
“I need to know,” he said, “where is the missing Fabergé egg?”
“And this search brings you to Oregon of all places? How strange.”
“These are symbols of new life, rebirth. It is what my country needs. After the young Tsarevich, Alexei, was discovered with a blood defect—”
“Hemophilia.”
Dmitri nodded. “When this happened, Tsar Nicholas and Alexandra turned to Rasputin for a cure. He placated them with brief breaks in the disease’s symptoms. Miracles, he claimed. He misguided them on the political path, causing rumors and shame. The blood defect brought distorted thinking to the Tsars, and later Lenin took advantage of this unrest. Alexei’s illness opened the door for revolution.”
“I’ve heard that said before. The Romanovs’ story is indeed a tragic one.”
“So, Suzette.” Dmitri set his cell phone on the counter’s wood molding. “I seek a particular egg from 1917. It bears rose diamonds, indicating that it’s one of the last gifts created.”
“As an art lover, I adore such details. Tell me more.”
“After the discovery of Alexei’s condition,” he explained, “the color of blood was not allowed on Fabergé’s imperial creations. Red was forbidden since it could bring anguish to his parents. This rose-diamond egg proves what has been suspected, that Rasputin believed he had obtained a true cure at last.”
She held up a hand. “But he died in late 1916, if I remember correctly.”
“Poisoned, shot, and drowned.”
Suzette gave an involuntary shudder and took a step back.
“Rasputin gave an idea to Fabergé’s work master, Henrik Wigstrom. In the design he included the forbidden color. It was a surprise for the Romanovs, for the coming Easter celebration. He would present this gift along with the cure for Alexei.”
“Yet they never received it. Is there any happiness in this story?”
<
br /> “Nyet. The egg disappeared, Bolsheviks killed the imperial family, and my country still mourns.” Dmitri straightened his jacket. “Do you know when Josee will return? I wish to speak with her about such matters.”
38
Downriver
“Now this is scary, Clay.”
“Scary how?”
He held the passenger door for Mylisha French. She settled into the Duster with a daypack on her lap. She looked good in her dark green sweatpants and T-shirt, Nike hiking shoes, and one half of a “Best Friends” necklace. The other half, Clay felt certain, was with Summer Svenson beneath the headstone he had prepared.
“Hard to believe this thing’s still running, that’s how.”
Behind the wheel Clay pumped the gas twice and turned the key.
“We had our first date in this, you remember?” She patted the dash. “Guess it outlasted us, hmm?”
No suitable comments came to mind. Clay didn’t trust his mouth at this juncture. A friendship, he reminded himself; that’s how their relationship had started, and that’s how it should remain. Before God and family he had made vows to be a faithful husband. That hadn’t changed yet. Not irrevocably.
The Duster carried them out of town. Clay was glad to see a clear sky overhead, a perfect Sunday afternoon for their hike at the falls. With the window down, he adjusted the side mirror and noticed a vehicle trailing them toward Monroe.
“You think you’re ready for this, Clay? You up for a good hike?”
“It was my idea. You’ll be wishing you could keep up.”
Mylisha chuckled into her hand. “Can’t fool me, boy. Straight up, we’re both older now. And the way I hear it, you’ve been a desk jockey. Is that true?”
“Yep. Had my own business, a satellite mapping service.”
“Act as if I don’t have a clue.”
“Uh, basically, you establish the coordinates of any given location by using a grid of GPS dots, global satellite positioning. When you translate and lay it all out, the information has numerous applications, especially for emergency services. If they need to pinpoint where a hunter’s disappeared, for example, these maps can save a life.”