Expiration Date (59 page)

His heart crept into his throat as he pulled into the Dixon driveway. The motion-activated lights came on so that he could see the same spot where he had watched Henna park her Subaru at the Avon party.

On this very property, someone had slipped an envelope into the truck.

While Henna Dixon sat innocently indoors.

“Clay Ryker, what a pleasure.”

Clay’s eyes roved the living room behind Henna’s mother. Where was Bill?

“I must say,” Mrs. Dixon told him, “I’ve always hoped to find you standing on my doorstep. Hannah’s been waiting for this day.”

She ushered him in. Offered him coffee and tiny cakes that creatures from a fairyland might have made. On an antique bureau sat stacks of Avon order sheets, sales catalogs, and items to be delivered. In cellophane wrappers, a cluster of pens waited to accompany the orders. Complimentary. Nothing out of the ordinary.

See, he had read far too much into all this. Henna’s delusional hope had infected him with suspicion and fear. There was nothing to fear but his own thoughts. His past guilts were running wild.

“Clay,” Henna greeted him. “I see you made it right on time.”

“I try.”

She moved close and whispered, “My mother’s bound to dawdle and then pass along every juicy detail. Follow me. Let’s take a walk out by the pond.”

They stepped through the backyard’s dry grass until reaching the lusher patches around the pond’s perimeter. The sun was almost out of view, flinging its last drops of orange and deep red across the rural landscape’s black purple shade.

“Where’s Bill?” Clay demanded.

“He doesn’t want you to see him,” Henna said.

“What? You brought me out here and—”

“Don’t overreact, please. He will talk to you, Clay.”

“When?”

“Now. In a moment. But you’ll have to sit here”—she indicated a flat rock at the pond’s edge—“while he speaks from back here.”

“Is it really Bill Scott? From high school? I’ve gotta see him for myself.”

“You can’t. Not yet.”

Clay plopped down on the stone. A grasshopper flung itself into the grass.

Fine, I’ll play her little game
.

“Clay Ryker.”

The male voice behind him sent a stream of chills down his neck. He had last heard this voice at the bridge over the Willamette. A nervous tone still ran beneath its husky pubescence.

“Bill?” He started to turn.

“Don’t look back. Face the water.”

“Do you look … different?”

“You may not recognize me. But you do remember? After what you did?”

“Bill, I was wrong. Yeah, I’ll admit I was angry with you—after the way you treated Mylisha. I didn’t mean for it to happen, though. How did they revive you?”

“Are you disappointed?”

“No! Of course not. I just know what I saw. You weren’t moving. I don’t even know how long you were under.” Clay would have disbelieved this, except the past weeks had prepared him for such a moment. And he could not deny Bill’s voice. This was no recording; he was speaking to the dead.

Or one I thought was dead
.

“You left me wandering, Clay. With no place of my own.”

“Your parents don’t know you’re back? Does anyone know?”

“I have no parents.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Henna said. “Why do you think I’ve opened my home to him? Most people ignore him. Others fear him. He just wants a place to call his own.”

“Does he look … deformed? What’s going on? Let me see him.”

“What do you say, Henna? Should we let him turn around?”

“I suppose.” Henna giggled. “But I don’t think he’ll understand.”

Mylisha had an uncharacteristic flutter in the pit of her stomach. She was costumed and stretching for the Thursday night premiere of their performance. Bright lights pointed across the stage, and scents of cinnamon and baked goods hovered over the audience. Despite the setting, her thoughts hopped back to the scene at Glenleaf, to that look of surprise and support on Clay’s face. His care for her had been evident.

Clay Ryker? What’s that boy doing in my head again? Not now!

The day had been an emotional ride. Blomberg’s hypocrisy had been exposed, along with his self-inflated sense of destiny. And the process of washing away her years of violation and oppression had begun. She felt free.

Clay? No, he’s got his own life, and I’ve got mine. Time I started living it
.

Shaking off her musings, Mylisha fastened a bonnet on her head. Time to go on stage. Tonight’s show would be a warmup for tomorrow’s larger crowd.

Again Clay’s face popped into her mind.

Okay, she knew this must be a good time to pray for her friend. That’s what this was all about—hearing God’s still, small voice, carrying on a daily relationship with her Maker.

God, you are good. If you’re prompting this girl to pray, that’s what I’ll do
.

Turning on the pond’s flat rock, Clay found himself facing the backside of the Dixon residence. He tried to prepare himself for a horrendous disfiguration but saw nothing. Dry lawn stretched in both directions; rhododendrons circled the house; fifty yards away, a barn sheltered farm equipment and supplies.

Only Henna stood before him. Too slight of frame to hide a man at her back.

“Where is he, Henna?”

“He’s not here. Not in the way you think.”

Clay started toward the house. He’d had his fill of this ridiculous charade.

“I’m right here, Clay.”

Clay froze at Bill’s voice. Very close. Within arm’s reach.

“Yes, right in front of you,” the voice said. Coming from Henna’s lips.

Clay stumbled back, almost tripped. Choked for air.

Henna’s mouth opened again, moving in a manner discordant with her own form. Bill Scott’s voice was issuing from her, as though she were a life-size doll programmed with the wrong speech commands. “Did you really think I was Bill? How touching.”

“This is sick, Henna! You are not funny.”

“I’m not Henna. Though I do feel very connected with her.”

“Who are you then?”

“You saw my name at the apartment, where she’d carved it into the wax. An act of devotion that I found touching.”

Clay’s mental gears whirred. “Asgoth?”

“Yes, but it’s only an acronym. Unscramble the letters and you’ll understand.”

Clay could barely think of his own name.

“A-s-g-o-t-h. Do I have to spell it out for you, Mr. Ryker?” Asgoth’s voice was mocking, enjoying this moment of exposure. “Turn it around … A-g-h-o-s-t.”

“A ghost.”

“That’s right. You pretend to know bits of the Bible. Do I need to refresh your memory? It says that an evil spirit ‘leaves a person … goes into the desert, seeking rest but finding none … So it returns … finds seven other spirits more
evil than itself, and they all enter the person and live there.… That will be the experience of this evil generation.’ ”

Clay had an urge to flee this perverse scene. He felt sick to his stomach, but he braced himself and said, “You’re Bill Scott’s ghost?”

“More or less. His demon, to put it more accurately. I worked with him, cultivated him, softened him for my purposes … and you stole him from me! You ruined my chances of success. Your little shove put an end to all my work in him. Of course, my goal for my friends is death anyway, but I seek it on my terms. Self-sacrifice.”

“Suicide?”

“That’s right. It’s our ultimate laugh in the face of him who sacrificed his Son for all. It’s my blood money. If I can’t convince my human friends to do themselves in, I don’t get my full share in the market.”

“The market?”

“This town. Junction City. The market of souls. Call it what you will.”

Clay’s skin crawled at the vehemence trickling from Henna’s lips. By her own volition, she’d given this demon freedom to manipulate her vocal cords to his purpose. Her face twisted into a mask of unnatural contours.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment, Clay.”

“What’ve you done to Henna? Henna? Can you hear me?”

“Oh, she hears you. But I’ve taken over the reins. When she discovered you were coming back to town, her obsession with you fired up all over again, and I promised to help her get to you. I have my own reasons too, as I’ve shared.”

“This is sick. I’m outta here.”

“No!” Asgoth whipped Henna’s hand forward, and it clamped with unnatural strength onto Clay’s shoulder. The deep voice continued to generate from Henna’s mouth. “I’ve anticipated this for too long to have you walk away. You need to hear this.”

“Please let me go.”

“You don’t know the turmoil you’ve caused me. Shut up and listen.”

“I’ll pass.” Clay’s heart had turned into a lump of motionless tissue. “Please.”

The voice grew snide. “Clay, I know you humans fear us, and well you should. Think about it. Only a third of the angels were thrown from heaven, which means we demons are the minority. Yet look at all the havoc we cause. Lies and deception—they’re our trade craft. If we can get you peeking under every bush, fearing us more than you fear God … Ha! That’s the ultimate thrill.”

“So you’re behind this? You gave me this ability to sense death dates?”

“Through Henna, yes.” Henna Dixon’s eyes were glassy, her lips moving with numb disconnection from her jaws. “She’s been a willing tool of mine.”

“You can’t work without her, can you? You need a … a host.”

“A host for a ghost?” Asgoth’s chuckle turned hollow, as though rising from a cavern. Henna’s limbs quivered, went limp, and she slumped to the grass. From her side a shape moved under night’s cover. Wispy and without depth, Asgoth rose tall in Bill Scott’s clothing. He was missing a shoe. Bill’s voice became strained.

“It takes energy to show myself. I prefer a host, but it’s not mandatory.”

“You don’t look right,” Clay said. “You look … shallow.”

“Usually only my victims get to see me—as I draw on their last traces of energy. You’re right,” Asgoth confided. “Bill’s clothes aren’t my style, but they’re what he left me at the riverbank. I never could find his other shoe, so I’ve had to hobble around in this foul thing.”

“You took his stuff?”

“Didn’t get an option. Few of us do. But at least I’m not tortured by corduroy jackets with elbow patches, like my partner Monde. He got stuck with the attire of a man who died on the cliffs at Heceta Head Lighthouse last winter.”

“Monde?” Clay turned the word in his head. “You mean … demon?”

“Aren’t you clever.”

Clay began muttering prayers as he twisted free from Asgoth’s grip. Here in the Dixons’ yard, at the edge of a pond in the darkness, he was facing a spirit that had plagued him for the past few weeks. One that had tormented his high school companion. Did this creature know the whereabouts of his wife and son? In hopes of unearthing a clue, Clay decided to poke at this demon’s pride.

“What’s with the silly names?” he jibed. “Couldn’t they give you something spooky or ancient? ‘A ghost.’ You sound so … generic.”

“I don’t have to justify myself to you, you runt.”

“You don’t have a real identity, do you? Without stealing one.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Bill Scott’s shape wavered, opaque and without substance. “You’re an ant in the grand scheme, Clay. An ant!”