by Eric Wilson
“You let her go in there? Mom!”
“No, not exactly. Her mother and I were looking through the new Avon catalog, and I believe Henna just poked her head in on her way back from the ladies’ room.”
Revulsion welled in Clay’s throat. He swallowed against it.
“Eat, drink, and be merry,” he said with a caustic chuckle. He sipped at the foam in his glass. “For tomorrow we die.”
“Please get some sleep, doll. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind.” Without waiting for a reply, Della strode back to the room at the end of the hall.
Clay’s cell phone vibrated on the counter.
“Mylisha, whassup?”
“You’ll think I’m a pest soon enough, but I had to share this with you. Actually, I got a sense—from the Lord, I think—that you should hear this right away.”
He swirled the glass, creating a frothy whirlpool.
“I told you about the Langston Hughes poems I like to read. Listen here. This is from one called ‘Little Old Letter.’ Made me think of those notes you’ve been getting.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Says that you don’t need traditional weapons when you’ve got the power of pencil and paper to issue threats. As a whole, I know the poem refers to my people’s history, full of racial threats and violence, but I think it applies to your situation too.”
“Go on.”
“Don’t you see, Clay? If Henna is the writer of those notes, she’s using fear as a tactic. Using pencil and paper to goad you on. You were the man she always wanted for her own, but she lost out. So now she’s pushing you to the edge, hoping you’ll make that final jump. The incident at Crater Lake? That was by design.”
“Almost worked.”
“Since she can’t have you, she’s trying to make sure no one else can.”
“Jenni.” Clay’s throat squeezed tight. “She’ll be coming in a week or so.”
“I’d keep an eye on her, if I were you. You’re still here for a reason, boy. I suggest you don’t waste it.”
“I’m so tired of this.”
“Nobody finishes a race without getting weary, Mr. Ryker. Sound familiar?”
“Okay, okay. I deserved that one.”
They ended the call. He stared at his drink and slurped once more at the foam.
Like you have time to drink, Claymeister. You’ve got people’s lives to consider.
He tipped the glass into the sink and watched amber liquid spiral down the drain.
As a habit, Dmitri did not remember his dreams; when he did, however, they flowed with symbolic and prophetic meaning.
He tossed one leg from the Best Western bed and pushed himself into a seated position. Other than the air conditioner’s purr, the morning was still. He considered his dream’s images. Horses. Snakes and skulls. Monochromatic charcoal gray panels.
Dmitri recognized certain elements …
In Russian folklore, a soothsayer had once told a man named Oleg that his horse would be the cause of his demise. Thus warned, Oleg never rode the horse again. When at last his horse died, he stamped scornfully on its skull, but a snake that nested within struck back with poisonous fangs. Oleg died as had been foretold.
Here in the present, Dmitri’s partner from the Brotherhood bore the same name.
What did this mean? Was the cherub-cheeked man courting death?
At the bathroom sink, he splashed water over his face and rubbed away thoughts of the dream with a towel. On his hips, his angel hovered with spread wings, ready to guide and protect. Assuring him of preordained success.
“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Ryker.”
“My boss wasn’t too thrilled,” Clay said, “but he’ll survive.”
Oops. Better leave the dark humor back at the job.
The blue-uniformed man said, “I’m Officer Kelso.”
They shook hands, then both men let their arms drop with looks of sudden comprehension. Kelso’s eyes slid past Clay’s shoulder, his unspoken question hanging over the interview room.
“Don’t worry,” Clay reassured the man, “it’s not anytime soon.”
“I wouldn’t want to know. So it’s true? With just one touch, you can tell?”
“Yep, seems that way.”
“We have it on tape, your conversation with Detective Freeman.” Kelso whistled. “Especially eerie the way you predicted that one.”
“Not sure I’d call it a prediction.”
“Call it what you will, but all of us here at the station sat up straight after watching that clip. Not one of us knew about the detective’s condition. He was a straight shooter—no bull, just the facts—so most of us are convinced there was no trickery in the exchange between you two. A few don’t know what to think.”
“Put me in that second group.”
“But you were on the money. On top of that, we have signed affidavits from people down at the Raven who heard you foretell Rhea Deering’s and Mako’s deaths.” Kelso propped himself on the edge of the interview table. “Which means we have a dilemma. Understand this, if we try to use your … psychic powers—”
“No, not psychic. I’m not into that stuff.”
“Alien telepathy, Nostradamus channeling—whatever term you use, it’s categorically spooky. We’d cause a panic if we unleashed you on the townspeople. Some would want to hang you, while others’d want to bronze you and kiss your feet.”
Clay pointed. “Mind if I sit down?”
“Sure thing.” Kelso rubbed his hands against his uniform. “Do you see my point? If we don’t say a word and we let someone die, we might be held responsible. On the other hand, if we do say something and it provokes extreme or negligent behavior, then we’ll face another sort of liability.”
“These things’ve been running constantly through my mind.”
“I’m sure they have, Mr. Ryker. You a religious man at all? Maybe the higher power’s got his hands full, and now he’s doing a bit of micromanaging, using you to spread the load. Or maybe there is no such power.”
Clay squirmed in the wooden chair. “If there’s no God, how do we explain this?”
“Chance. Sheer dumb luck. Chaos theory.”
“And if there’s no such thing as good or evil, what does it matter? A negotiable moral code, based on the needs of the moment and the individual?”
“Hey, let’s not get too deep with this.”
“Deep? You have no idea, Officer. My mind’s been racked with this stuff for weeks now. We’re barely scratching the surface.”
“Not my cross to bear, buddy.”
“Try this on,” Clay snapped. “I know at least a half-dozen people who are going to die a week from Tuesday. I don’t know how, when, why, where—nothing. Just that their dates have come up. Time to kick the ol’ bucket.”
Officer Kelso pushed a legal pad across the table.
“What’s this for?” Clay said.
“Give us names and dates. We’ll make a concerted effort to intervene.”
“I hope you’re not just messin’ with me. I took off work to come—”
“Not at all, Mr. Ryker. We’re taking this seriously. Although we don’t like to make a fuss of such things, the department’s used clairvoyants in the past.”
“Clairvoyants? Do you see me wearing a turban or swami robes?”
Kelso forced a smile. “You’d be surprised. Some of them dress much nicer than you. And believe me, when it comes to missing children, we’re willing to resort to such measures. In the world of law enforcement, we rub shoulders with the paranormal quite frequently, good and bad. If pushed, most of us will admit we’ve seen inexplicable things. Blame it on what you will—the occult or the divine, drugs or faith healing—but the stuff’s out there. An unsettling reality.”
“I can’t argue. The Bible describes a struggle between darkness and light.”
“If it works for you, stick with it. In this case, Mr. Ryker, we have the chance to effect a positive change. That’s not always so. We’re wi
lling to give it a shot this one time if you’re willing to work with us and keep it strictly confidential.”
For a moment Clay felt possessive. This was his gift, his obligation. Could he risk involving others? What if they failed?
August 10, 2004 … Jason, Digs, Wendy, Father Patrick, Mylisha—who else?
“We’re as nervous as you are,” Kelso confessed. “If this doesn’t work, the department’ll wash their hands of the deal. Bad press? We can do without it. This town’s been under enough scrutiny already.”
Clay stared at the blank legal pad. The rows of lines begged to be filled, and he wondered what would happen if he strolled the streets—touching, detecting, recording.
Would it matter? Death was inevitable. At some point it swallowed everyone.
Sure, he’d challenged God’s hand in the past. He’d even convinced himself that if he were in charge, if he were omniscient, he would step in at every point of personal tragedy to create a world of never-ending tranquillity. When laws were broken, when rights were violated, he would administer quick and fair punishment. Where inequality and greed abounded, he would scatter the wealth to be shared by all.
But of course, not everyone could have his or her way. It would become a mess.
Maybe it’s better not knowing. Walking blindly. By faith.
In the Garden of Eden, yes, the knowledge of good and evil had seduced humanity’s mother and father. Their eyes had been opened—a backlash that continued to this day. They had succumbed to their desire to be like God.
Satan’s same pitfall.
Clay thought first of Detective Freeman’s refusal to receive help, then of his own prostrate form, vomiting into the dirt outside the tavern. He could see his hands shoving Bill from the bridge in rage and later pulling his own body down into the hellish depths of Crater Lake. How could he deny the results of mankind’s first seduction?
Good and evil—they’re on practically every corner. We each have a choice.
He looked at Officer Kelso. “I’ll do it.”
40
Up the Crooked Stairs
Dmitri watched from across the street. He’d been told Josee would open the shop.
On Monday, he had found the art gallery closed. He’d passed the day at the Corvallis Public Library, pleased by the selection of Russian classics. He’d spent many similar hours in Ekaterinburg among Belinski Library’s fifteen million volumes.
Today, however, he was ready for action.
In the mirror he admired the way his morning shave seemed to brighten his blue eyes; his hair was combed back; he wore a belt with loose-fitting trousers and a white tank top beneath a light tan jacket.
On his hip the Maksalov VI cell phone was a comforting weight.
He took another bite of the bread from a local bakery. Nibbling, he saw a station wagon bearing the Tattered Feather’s logo pull into the driveway.
Out jumped Josee Walker, keys dangling from a wrist strap.
He’d seen her photos, watched her on the vault videotape, but in person she looked smaller. Baggy corduroys swirled around her legs, while a sweatshirt with cutaway seams disguised her shape. A silver hoop clung to her eyebrow.
He gave her a few minutes to settle into her routine, then moved across Southwest Second and up the gallery’s steps.
Clay was back on the roller coaster. He’d left a message yesterday at Jenni’s office in Cheyenne, but she hadn’t called back. Was she ignoring him? Should he wait? Try again?
Nope. He refused to come off looking desperate.
He swigged from a fruit juice bottle and settled into the break room’s sofa.
“Still no luck?” Digs plopped down beside him.
“She’s the one who called. But hey, I’m not lettin’ it get to me.”
“That so? Well, Ryker, I’ll buy that the same day I buy tickets to the moon.”
“Look who’s bugging me now,” Clay said, but without malice.
“You need a diversion, somethin’ to take your mind off the women in your life.”
“I’m open to suggestions.”
“Next Tuesday,” Digs said. “C’mon down after work, shoot some pool with me. Place over in Harrisburg, they got a little tourney goin’ on. Think on it, and let me know.”
“I’ll do that.”
At the moment Clay was more concerned about letting Officer Kelso know. He’d agreed to collect information on August tenth’s potential victims, including their activities for a week from today, travel arrangements, companions, work schedules. Local detectives were making inquiries as well, establishing possible connections between those on Clay’s list.
“Ryker, you awake? Got a woman on hold for ya. Line four.” Digs wiggled his furry white eyebrows.
Clay dashed to the phone between the trailer’s drinking fountain and rest room.
“This is Clay.”
Jenni’s voice was warm, compliant. “Sorry I missed your call yesterday. Had to drive down to Denver. Is this a bad time? I was trying to catch you on your break, but it sounds like you just ran in from the shop.”
“It’s you, Jenni,” he said. “You always take my breath away.”
Extra cheesy. What am I thinking?
The distance stretched along the phone lines, but Jenni’s soft laugh erased it in a moment. “That was goofy, Clay.”
“Yeah, I thought so too.”
“I’m glad we’re speaking. That’s a good thing. For Jason’s sake especially.”
“And for our sakes too. Twelve years together. We can’t make that disappear.”
“Do I like your assertive new approach? I don’t know. What’re you aiming for, Clay? We’re only a few signatures from putting those years to rest once and for all.”
“That’s what you said a few months ago.”
“Your point being?”
“Maybe we’re not supposed to do this. I still think about you, about us.” Clay leaned his forehead into the wall. “I’ve been weighing a lot of things lately. I deserve most of the junk you wanna throw my way, the late hours and the loneliness, the …” He closed his eyes. “The things I couldn’t provide.”
“I don’t hold that against you. Didn’t I try to tell you that last time? You held it against yourself, then made Jason and me pay for it.”
“How?” he barked. “Tell me how Jason paid? I never did anything to—”
“Exactly. You were so busy trying to punish yourself, you had no time left for your son. Playing Xbox once a week doesn’t qualify in my book.”
“Ask Jason if it qualifies. He complains that you never play it with him.”
Jenni heaved a sigh into the phone. “Now we’re exchanging insults.”
“You just don’t wanna hear it, do you?”
“Clay. Listen. I still care for you.”
“And vice versa,” he growled.
“We’re two wounded people. It’s normal to strike out in self-protection.”
“Is that so? Boy, you’re good at this psychoanalysis. Where were you when I was paying for visits to Dr. Gerringer? You could’ve saved me a bundle.”
“You’re underlining my point.”
“What is the point again?” Clay painted the picture in his mind: Jenni’s soft freckles scrunched together beneath green eyes, her left cheek puckered as she chewed on her mouth in thought.
“I’m bringing the settlement papers. I know I could send them, but honestly, I’m not sure I’d get them back in an expedient fashion. And”—she gathered her breath—“I’m going to be a little later than planned. Jason and I won’t be leaving until the tenth, which means we’ll arrive on the twelfth.”
“Here a number, there a number. What do I care?”
“I knew you’d be upset.”
“Please, just promise me you won’t drive on the tenth. You know I’m not usually superstitious, but it’s a bad feeling I have. Maybe you could lock yourselves in a bed-and-breakfast somewhere. Relax, stay inside. But don’t go swimming, I beg you.”
“Yeah, same here.”
“If you’d like to call Jason, we’ll be home the next few nights.”
“And you’ll let him pick up?”
“He needs to hear from his daddy.”
Clay gave a tight-throated affirmative.
As Dmitri walked through the gallery’s door, Josee Walker glanced up. Her greeting was dispassionate, but he could feel her earnest scrutiny, the way she took him apart and put him back together again.
Damaged idealists were good at this, he thought. Cynically intuitive.
I, too, use high ideals to purify my actions.
He made a circuitous approach, from one art display to the next. Her feline presence demanded that he give her time to adjust. At the counter he kept his head down and asked if the gallery carried any Russian artifacts.
“Got anything specific in mind?”
“Fabergé. You know this name?” Dmitri turned his eyes upward, intending to weaken Josee. He faltered instead as her eyes absorbed the sparkle in his own, taking on a deep shade of turquoise.
“Heard of it,” she said.
“The store owner said you have studied the Fabergé eggs.”
“Suzette said what? Okay, yeah, they intrigue me. Not that it’s an obsession or anything.”
Dmitri had to break away his gaze. “Perhaps I misunderstood. Suzette insisted that you could help me find information on the imperial treasures. I was born in Ekaterinburg, the city where the Tsars were murdered, so this is also intriguing to me.”
“You grew up there?”
“Da. It was a lot of history for a young boy.”
“Have you been to the Cathedral-of-the-Blood?”
Dmitri gave a knowing nod. “You are a history buff, I see. As a child I also saw the House of Fabergé in Moscow, with granite pillars and much—what is the word?—opulence. Do you know this? There are still twelve eggs missing from the collection. Some of the creations no longer have hidden treasures inside. They’ve disappeared over the years, stolen or lost.”
“You seem to know a lot about them.”