Expiration Date (20 page)

“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.

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.”

Naturally, Clay would still have freedom to choose his course and stand
firm against their schemes, but how long could he rack up guilt before collapsing beneath its weight? No doubt, the deaths of Summer Svenson and the Coates couple had been persuasive. A young boy, though. That would push Ryker to the limits.

At thirteen years of age, Kenny Preston was on the small side. Easy prey. They’d shadow his activities, applying pressure and fear, then draw him into a final trap.

Over Wednesday and Thursday, Kenny sensed he was being watched. He saw movement from the corner of his eye, heard scuffles on the sidewalk behind his bike and down alleyways. Was he making these things up? Creating some summer excitement?

This morning on his route Kenny heard a car growling at him through the fog.

Okay, that was just silly. Blame it on his overactive imagination; as the only child of a single mother, he relied on it for adventure. Of course, he hadn’t forgotten about his latest treasure hidden in the drainpipe, but his mother had been keeping him on a short leash. As if she knew there were something bad out there, something waiting for him.

I’m not afraid. Spymaster Kenny’s no stranger to danger
.

Kenny had been spending most of his time with Gussy. The puppy grew bigger by the day, nibbling on everything. Dribbling too. Mom said Gussy could sleep on Kenny’s bed once she was housebroken. Until then, it was best if she slept outside, which meant the little girl needed a doghouse.

Kenny gathered scrap plywood from the garage. He had a saw, a hammer, a Maxwell House can full of nails. And forty-five dollars saved up.

So he’d lost his jacket. It being summertime and all, he wouldn’t need a new one till school started. Maybe Clay Ryker still had the old one. He hadn’t seen or heard from Clay since Sunday’s call. The dude was probably harmless. Still, better safe than sorry—that’s what Kenny’s mom always said.

“Mom, I need to grab some stuff from the hardware store.”

“You know I don’t like you going out at midday. The traffic.”

“I’ll be careful. I’ll use the crosswalks.”

“Can’t it wait?” She was slicing onions and carrots, then stirring them into a pot of simmering chicken broth. “I could drive you down later.”

“I’m a teenager, Mom. All my friends get to ride around by themselves.”

“I can’t control what other mothers let their kids do.”

Kenny eased alongside her. He knew she’d clamp down if he let his attitude slide. Better to work together. Do a little sweet-talkin’.

“Promise to play Scrabble with you after dinner.”

“Kenneth, are you trying to bribe me?”

“I just need a few things for Gussy’s doghouse. Won’t take long.”

“Scrabble? You promise?”

He crossed his heart, wore his most sincere expression.

“You’ll go there and straight back?”

“Is that a yes?”

She swatted his backside with a hand towel. “Go before I change my mind.”

Clay couldn’t believe his luck. Or was it divine intervention?

There was Kenny Preston, up on the pedals, riding through the crosswalk.

Calls to the newspaper, Internet searches, visits to Nickel’s Arcade, talks with Oaklea school officials—every effort to track down Kenny had come up empty. He’d called Kenny’s number twice more, but he was sure the Prestons had caller ID and refused to answer unknown callers.

Stuck at a red light at Sixth and Ivy, Clay stared through the windshield.

I’ll spook him if he sees me. Maybe I’ll catch him as he gets off the bike
.

Turning right, Clay moved to the curb on Sixth. He idled the car, watched the bike cross over train tracks, pass the U.S. Bank and small gift shops. He edged back into traffic in second gear, following until Kenny parked the bike outside Ace Hardware.

Please, not here again. I don’t even want to think about old Mitchell Coates
.