Expiration Date (31 page)

Where were you then, God? Answer that one
.

Nope, this was Clay’s burden, and he’d have to carry it alone. Each step he took, each drop of sweat, each blister and swollen mosquito bite would be a payment applied toward his debt of failure.

Headed south on the PCT, he wasn’t running from the past; he was hiking along with it. Feeling each jab of pain.

Winding through mountain hemlocks, Clay kept his eyes open for the PCT trail markers. The rain had held off. He had traveled more than thirteen miles, based on the guidebook’s markings. Behind him, voices played along the trail’s switchbacks.

He skirted Diamond Peak, caught glimpses of its rubble slopes leading to broken tips at over eighty-seven hundred feet. Even here, at seven thousand feet, the thinner air required increasing effort. Clouds raced and peeled apart over the summit, like paper through a shredder. Strong winds carried away the tattered strips, but in the lee of the peak it was quiet and warm.

His neck muscles had become twanging steel bands. He squatted, let his pack rest against a boulder. Water and a granola bar began to grant new energy.

A pair of fellow hikers caught up with him.

“Hey there. How goes it? Think it’ll rain?” asked a man with a walking stick.

“Never can tell.”

“You from the Northwest?”

“Got web feet to prove it.” Clay tipped his Oregon Ducks cap.

The man smiled. “Around here, hiking’s a water sport. I’ve lived here half my life, but I’m from Long Beach originally, born and raised. Surfing used to be my brand of water activity.”

“Never tried it.”

“I’m too old for it. Haven’t ridden a wave in over twenty years. And don’t even ask my age.”

“He’ll lie through his teeth,” the other man said. “Like all Californians.”

“Hey now. Let’s play nice, Sam.”

Sam frowned and swiped at his leg. “I told you the shorts were a rotten idea. These mosquitoes are eating me alive.”

“Oh, you’re so bad.” The man slapped his partner’s arm. “Here, let me reapply.”

Clay shielded his granola bar from the repellent’s spray, feeling like he’d been dropped into a
Saturday Night Live
skit.

“Thanks, Lyndon. Let’s go on and leave this fine gentleman in peace.”

“Maybe he likes the company.”

“His body language says, ‘It’s been nice, boys, but I’ll let you go now.’ ”

Lyndon considered Clay.

Clay snapped the lid on his water container. “Actually, I think I will join you. For a while anyway.”

The trail carried them several miles, descending toward Summit Lake. Clay enjoyed Sam and Lyndon’s combative repartee and their intimate knowledge of this wilderness area. They’d been traversing the PCT and old Oregon Skyline Trail for years, financing their summers by selling nature photography to postcard distributors.

“Pick up any one of a hundred cards,” Lyndon said, “and you’ll find us on the back.”

“SNL Photography,” Sam said. “Nineteen years of business together.”

Saturday Night Live … Sam and Lyndon … SNL
.

Clay could barely control a chortle.

“You’re not the first one who’s caught the pun,” Sam said.

“Is it intentional?”

“Intentional. Well, that’s a good question.”

Lyndon looked back over his pack. “Clay, don’t you think everything has a purpose, a connection, a reason? Even unintentionally we tap into larger truths. Our spirits are all woven together, which is why it’s so important to embrace our differences. Don’t you agree?”

Clay placed one boot before the other. Branches creaked overhead.

“Lyndon,” Sam said, “that’s enough with the philosopher shtick.”

“Am I wrong? Tell me I’m wrong. What I’m saying is that hateful words and unaccepting attitudes only harm us all. When we lash out at a fellow human being, we’re lashing out at an extension of ourselves. What’re your thoughts, Clay?”

“I think your Northwest colors are showing.”

Lyndon was in earnest. “You see the truth in it, don’t you?”

“I was raised a good church boy, so I’m not sure how it all fits. I know Jesus said that if we do something even to ‘the least of these’—the poor, the lonely, the outcasts—we’re doing it to him. If he’s the one holding it all together, I guess everything we do helps or hurts him on some level.”

“Hey. Now that’s deep stuff. A command to show love.”

“I’m not even sure why I said that. Believe me, I’ve got my own set of questions and problems. Right now, God and I aren’t on the best of terms.”

“So then, you’re hurting him.”

“And yourself,” Sam noted.

Clay cleared his throat. Picked his steps through a stretch of loose stone.

“Here’s one for you, Clay. You think Jesus would be walking along with two openly gay men?”

In light of the discussion, only one answer fit. “Here I am, aren’t I?”

Lyndon turned to face Clay. His camera bag swung from his shoulder, bounced against his hip. “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard from a churchgoer’s mouth. In my book, you being here is no accident.”

“Funny. Besides you two, no one even knows where I am.”

“He means here”—Sam extended his arms—“on this planet.”

Asgoth spent a restless night roaming the streets of Junction City. He stopped at the concrete rail over a duck pond, ignored by a Hispanic couple strolling past. He took a deep breath as he gazed down on the water.

Flashbacks from a previous time and place …

Going under. The biting cold of the river. Hair twining around his face, feet kicking, weakening, hands clawing for the surface that moved up and away from him. Floating. Only moments until the mind would pull the plug. And then, a slow return to the surface. Dead in the minds of many, yet wandering and alive.

Asgoth now found that his shallow gasps matched the cadence of the water sucking against the pond’s bank. He watched the Hispanic couple look around, then clasp hands and hurry on toward a better-lit area.

Soon it would be time for the Scandi-Fest. Throngs of people would pack JC. Asgoth knew his strategies for the coming weeks required the assistance of Mr. Monde; there was no choice, if he wanted to win the Consortium’s approval. But Monde had exhibited blind spots before; at critical moments his ambition had become a liability.

Asgoth headed back to the lonely apartment.

Never mind the old mistakes. Clay Ryker was on his way out. A sacrifice.

And once he’s gone, Henna will be wholly devoted to me—no more schoolgirl distractions. Monde’s services will be needed no longer, and I’ll be unchained, using my skills to their full potential
.

Over Summit Lake Campground, the morning sky was an inverted glass bowl reflecting sapphire waters. Clay waded out to his knees, saw small fish flicker and flash about his shins. Why hadn’t he paid for a fishing license? He could almost taste the potential trout fillets lurking further out in the depths.

After muesli cereal and black tea, he broke camp and refilled his water bottles. Unless he went off trail, he’d be without water access until sometime late tonight.

“Good hiking with you guys,” he told Sam and Lyndon.

“Clay, tell me you’ve registered with the Forest Service. As a precaution.”

“Don’t worry. My parking pass’ll give them a general idea of where I am.”

“But what if you’re injured?”

“Or stranded?” Sam inserted.

“Hey, you can always find friends on the trail. Least that’s been my experience.”

Lyndon touched a hand to his heart. “I do think he means us, Sam.”

“Listen, we’d better stop loitering if we’re going to get shooting today.”

“Shooting?” Clay didn’t think of these two as hunters. “Ah, the photos.”

“He’s not only friendly and tall, he’s smart.”

“We’re working on a set of historical cards,” Sam said. “Points of discovery and what have you. We’ll be back up at Emigrant Pass.”

“I’ll keep my eyes open in the stores.” Clay threaded his arms through his pack straps, aware of each aching muscle. “Off I go.”

“Remember. No accident.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“No,” Sam said. “He means from yesterday—you being here is no accident.”

“Gotcha. See ya later, guys.”

The first few miles were easy going, threading through trees along Summit
Lake’s west shore, then meandering south. The PCT began to climb again, cutting diagonally up an escarpment and bringing sweat to his forehead. He removed his ball cap to mop at thick brown hair.

Should’ve cut it
, he thought.
Buzzed it down to a half inch
.

Nope. He knew from his college b-ball days how itchy a fresh cut could be. Better left as it was. Jenni liked it longer too—used to, anyway.

He extracted his cell phone from a side pouch. To save the batteries, he would use it only if necessary. He noted missed calls from his parents, his work, and another number that might be Sergeant Turney’s.

None of it mattered. They would survive without him.

Along the path he spotted deer droppings and tufts of a pelt caught in a ponderosa pine’s bark. Hawks patrolled the azure sky. Although bear and cougar sightings were not unheard of, most hikers moved through these woods unscathed.

He greeted fellow backpackers—males, females, groups, loners. Some were on day excursions, while others were long-distance PCT veterans. One man in his sixties claimed he’d completed the entire trek from Canada to the border of Mexico.

“Over three summers,” he confessed, but Clay was impressed.

Clay’s research reminded him that the Pacific Crest Trail covered more than twenty-six hundred miles. In the 1920s and ’30s, the trail’s concept grew from passing dialogue into the hobby of mountain clubs. The passion of a USFS regional supervisor carried along the dream, followed by the persistence of YMCA officials and volunteers, but WWII and its aftermath delayed the trail’s progress. In ’68, Congress appointed an advisory council that had worked with the USFS to map the definitive route Clay was now on.

The scent of berries broke through his recollections.

He located a lode of huckleberries and helped himself to them while his mind pondered the lives of those who had made this trail a reality. They’d gone after a goal and achieved it; they’d created something special.

What, though, had he ever accomplished?

Carry on, Clay. Only a few days left
.

Near the saddle of Cowhorn Mountain, he had his eyes down, verifying his position on his GPS unit, when he spotted a flash of color on the path.
Some poor soul had lost a UW cap. Contemplating the rivalry between the University of Oregon and University of Washington, he had an urge to break out his camp shovel and bury this article in symbolic victory.

Anyway, Clay was about ready to find a spot behind a tree.

Not a half hour passed before Clay heard plodding footsteps. Hunched under his pack, a man approached with a bright-eyed mongrel panting alongside.

“Hey.”

“Whassup?” Beneath a thin beard, the man’s face was young. “You seen a hat along the way? Musta dropped it on the ground.”

“A hat?”