Expiration Date (19 page)

“Your sister’s always scored poorly, Mylisha. She’s a sweet child. We both know it’s true. She has other concerns, though.”

“I think she uses it as an excuse, Mama. That’s what I think.”

Cross-legged on a lime green beanbag, Mylisha held the phone against her ear while painting her fingernails metallic purple. On the stereo, Kanye West was singing “Jesus Walks,” pleading for God to show him the way.

“That may be so,” her mother continued. “Regardless, the Good Lord’s put you there for a reason. He knows you both need each other. Sure, Shanique’s made some poor choices. She’s not walking in the ways we taught her, but that gives you no right to place yourself in judgment over her. You hear what I’m saying?”

“I hear you.” Mylisha turned down the music. “I miss you and Dad.”

“We miss you too, sweetie. When’re you coming to visit again?”

Mylisha’s parents lived and worked in Santa Monica. After their daughters had graduated, they’d moved from Oregon in search of less rain and more income. They’d found the first in southern Cal; they still sought the second.

“I’ll try to get a few days off during my winter break from school.”

“Let us know. You take care, Mylisha. You’re in your mama’s prayers.”

Mylisha dropped the cell phone onto the beanbag. She finished her nails, capped the container, turned up the music until the bass shook her apartment.

Why did the troublesome ones always get the attention? At home, in college, on the job, it was always the same; the squeaky wheels got the grease. Ever since their older sister, TraVonda, had gone off to the University of Tennessee, Mylisha had tried to pick up the slack—studying hard, working long, following her parents’ rules. Even on the track, she’d trained harder than her little sister. But no matter how much partying Shanique did the night before, she was always right there, neck and neck at the tape.

“You wore me down, girl,” Mylisha admitted to her empty apartment.

It was true: she’d given her sister that last race. If Shanique had trained half as hard, she would’ve dominated the track anyway. Mylisha had simply tired of competing with Shanique and her talent, with Clay and his dreams.

In addition, during that last year of high school, she’d been threatened into leaving Clay Ryker alone. Angry and scared, she’d tried to work out a
deal, but it had backfired. Clay had been hurt, and she’d let him go his way. Only Summer Svenson had known the full account of her troubles.

Mylisha readjusted in her beanbag, turned on the TV. She found distraction in a show called
Beyond the Stars
.

Clay was channel-surfing from his bed. A mind-bending variety of channels clicked past. He stopped. Okay, this could be entertaining.

Beyond the Stars …

A prime-time special dedicated to numerology, astrology, psychics, and reflexology. No doubt Henna Dixon ascribed to this sort of stuff.

Clay scooted back against his pillows. Typically he shunned superstition, figured it was bad luck even to talk about such stuff—a wry smile—but the numbers had forced him to reconsider. He could no longer disregard the phenomenon; the repercussions had become all too real, and he needed some rational answers.

Of course, there was an easy solution.

No human touch. A boycott on all contact.

Whether a blessing or curse, he could just wash his hands of this responsibility. Who would believe him anyway? He couldn’t deny the numbers, yet neither could he prove their existence. Certain things in life had to be accepted blindly.

Which just might be the point of this show
.

Clay raised the volume, settled back with a drink between his legs.

The first study proved amusing. A professor passed envelopes to his students and told them to read their personal horoscopes within. Afterward, he asked them to weigh the information objectively and raise their hands if they thought, beyond question, it fit their individual situations. A majority responded. “Amazing,” they exclaimed. “Like, omigosh, my life to a T.” Others thought it fit, albeit with small discrepancies. Only one student believed it to be totally inaccurate.

In conclusion, the professor instructed the class to exchange and read one
another’s horoscopes. Titters of embarrassment and disbelief filled the room as the students realized they had all been given the same exact horoscope.

Buncha gullible people
, Clay thought.
Just goes to show you
.

In another study, however, when a famed TV psychic was put to the test, he passed with flying colors. Skeptics were unable to prove any coercion or tomfoolery, and the psychic’s knowledge about the studio audience’s deceased family members was confirmed by further research.

Knowledge … the first seduction
.

Henna’s warning echoed in Clay’s ears. He could still see her face at the Avon party. So innocent. So smug.

Following a commercial break,
Beyond the Stars
concluded that charlatans did abound. Apparently, though, there were others with certifiable paranormal abilities. The show’s closing statement encapsulated Clay’s confusion.

“In a culture grounded on empirical facts and scientific data, the hunger for spiritual meaning continues to assert itself.” The sweater-clad host set a hand on a globe. “Some claim there is no higher power, no afterlife, nothing outside of that which we define with our five senses. Others claim that we’re all part of a collective consciousness, that we limit knowledge by restricting ourselves to finite physical definitions. Perhaps in the future, brave pioneers of science and spirituality will join hands, leading humanity one step further along the path of progress, one step closer to harmony with our vast and expanding universe.”

Heat coiled on Clay’s palms. In the background he thought he heard the doorbell, but he focused instead on Henna’s statement from the bus.

You will begin to know things. You’ll feel them
.

He was feeling things, all right, but he still knew next to nothing. Certainly not how to redeem his marriage. Or his ruined financial portfolio. Or his—

“Son, you in there?” Gerald pounded on the door. “Turn down that blasted TV. You got someone here needs to talk at you.”

He opened the door, found himself impaled by his father’s glare.

“Clay, what sort of trouble have you brought back into this house?”

Uprooted from his command post in the recliner, Gerald clearly felt justified
in venting at full volume. He brushed past his wife and rumbled down the hall on his way to the workbench in the garage, his usual escape route.

Della mouthed an apology to Clay before nodding toward the living room. “He’s in there. Please, for our sakes, don’t say anything foolish.”

Asgoth and Mr. Monde rendezvoused at the Long Tom Grange. Made famous—or infamous, some might say—by a local scandal, the grange had played host in recent months to a group of lighthearted, scantily clad gentlemen. Their calendar was a hot seller, and the middle-aged male models had welcomed their corresponding nicknames: “Mr. March,” “Mr. June,” “Mr. July.”

“Which would you be, Monde? Could they have captured you on film?”

“I find that inappropriate, A.G. Not the slightest bit funny.”

“You’re more sour than usual.”

“And you’re more … incorrigible.”

Asgoth looked forward to making his next announcement. Monde and Pristi had surprised him with news of the Brotherhood’s reemergence; this now was his chance to catch his partner off guard.

“What is it?” Monde inquired. “You’re hiding something. That much is obvious.”

“We have a new arrival in town.”

“One of the Brotherhood? Already?”

“No,” Asgoth said. He gazed past the tree-shaded grange and a row of daffodils. Over the rise, fields stretched toward a row of foothills. “I’m speaking of your feared nemesis.”

Monde huffed. “I fear no man.”

“Well, he’s certainly not much to look at. He’s lost some weight, but he’s still a hefty fellow. Used to be a boxer in his childhood days. Have you figured it out?”

“Sergeant Vince Turney.”

“None other.”

Monde’s black brows furrowed. “But why here? Why now?”

“I’d like an answer to that myself.”

Clay stood tall, then moved to meet this newest complication. Passing through the kitchen, he snagged two glasses and a can of V8. Nothing like hearty vegetable juice to chase off the guests.

“Mr. Ryker? You mind if I call you Clay?”

“Been called worse.”

“Name’s Vince Turney.” A stocky man rose from the couch. “Call me Sarge, if you like. Mmm. You sharin’ the V8? I’ll take a glass.”

Okaaay, so much for that plan
.

Clay poured the drinks and, with mild awe, watched Sergeant Turney gulp down the swill. The man had deep-set brown eyes, dark, buzzed hair, and remnants of a double chin that leaped with each gulp. His utter lack of pretension appealed to Clay. He seemed close in age and came across like a fishing buddy, one who could give and receive attention without demands.

“So, Sarge, what’s this all about? I did have other plans for the evening.”

“Good question. And I’m sorry to be a bother. See, I’m lending a hand to the local authorities—a pinch hitter, a freelancer. When the police run short on experts or manpower, they call in an investigative consultant such as myself. Mostly I keep my business within the tri-counties. Used to be a cop not long ago. In Corvallis.”

“Let me guess. A sergeant?”

Sarge cocked a finger. “He’s no slouch, this one.”

“You’re too young to retire. Why aren’t you still doing the police thing?”

“That’s a whole other story.”

“Okay. What about now? Can you tell me the reason you’re here?”

“Well, truth is, I’m investigating an incident that happened on the other side of town. You heard about the older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Coates? Tragic scene. We’re trying to piece together that night’s events. Let’s see.” Sarge fumbled with a notebook. “It was a Thursday night. Actual time of death was early Friday morning.”

6.3.0.0.4 … June 30, 2004
.

“I didn’t know them,” Clay said. “Not sure what you want me to say.”

“Just checkin’ each angle. The Coateses’ case isn’t the only one I’m involved with. Two weeks ago there was a vehicular homicide, also here in JC.”

6.2.1.0.4 … June 21, 2004
.

“Summer,” Clay heard himself say.

“Yes sir. Summer Svenson. Guess she’d been out at your place that night.”

“Now wait a minute. I had nothing to do with—”

“Whoa, no one’s accusin’ anyone. Ease off the pedal.”

“Then why are you here, Sarge? What’s this about?”

Sarge raised both hands. “Connectin’ the dots, that’s all. Gotta trust me, Clay. See, I’ve got a personal attachment. I knew Summer way back when. Hadn’t seen her in quite some time, not since … well, not since her sister passed away.”

“Her sister? Milly? From what I heard, Milly was killed in a head-on collision a few years back. Some idiot teenager was reaching for a CD and swerved.”

Sarge coughed into his hand. “Milly was my fiancée.”

Clay swallowed. The room seemed to shrink.