Expiration Date (22 page)

Mylisha closed out her register, locked the night deposit in the safe, and headed back to her apartment. She parked on the back end so that she had to cut across the grass to reach her stairway. Although this route was longer, it
circumvented the still visible stains on Maple Street. Nevertheless, her eyes wandered in that direction.

Inside, she programmed her CD changer to alternate disks after each song. With a bowl of Lochmead ice cream in hand, she kicked off her work shoes, plopped into her beanbag, and savored the first spoonful of chocolate and cookie dough bits.

“Mmm.” She sighed.

Music swooned from the speakers with romantic tenderness, then took the hand of a deeper groove and began a saucy jaunt around the room.

She took another bite. “Mmmmm.”

But no matter how hard she focused on tastes and sounds, she could not erase the desire to pick up her cell phone and dial Clay Ryker’s number. She wanted to believe it was something more significant, maybe more spiritual, than a simple desire to find closure with an old flame.

Licking ice cream from the upturned spoon, she stared at her purple phone with its luminescent numbers. She tapped at the keys. Played a game on the screen.

She didn’t hear so much as feel the heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

She had been nursing a suspicion that Summer Svenson’s death had been more than a horrible accident, more than an act of violent irresponsibility. Someone had been aiming for Summer, Mylisha was sure of it.

This same fear now played tricks with her mind.

In a flash she was out of the beanbag, dropping her phone onto the floor, and tossed the spoon into the sink and the ice cream container into the freezer. She snatched a knife from the block on the kitchen bar. She peeked through the hole in the door, saw a white guy in his thirties, in dark canvas pants and a striped red and white polo shirt. The distorted image made him look like a cartoon character stuffed into a crystal ball.

“Who’s there?”

“Sergeant Vince Turney. Investigative consultant.”

“What do you want?” She saw the man fumble to produce an official-looking badge. “How do I know that’s real? You can get ones just like it at the dollar store.”

“Got a few questions for you, nothin’ more. Won’t take much of your
time. Has to do with the vehicular homicide that happened right outside your building. I don’t think it was an accident, and I’m hopin’ you might be able to help me.”

His confirmation of her suspicions prompted her to open the door.

He spread his hands in playful reaction to her weapon of choice. “Cut to the chase? Is that your point?”

She rolled her eyes and turned back into the living room. She lowered the music, kept the knife beside her on the couch, gestured him toward the beanbag. He considered it with apprehension, then surrendered to her wishes. His weight splayed the lime green material so that he ended up tilted backward, to the left.

The guy deserved a point or two for effort.

“Not much of one for beanbags,” he said. “They work better for you skinny folk.”

Mylisha laughed, and their eyes met. “I’m Mylisha.”

“Glad to hear it, or I’ve gone through this trouble for nothing. Call me Sarge.”

“Want something to drink, Sarge?”

“Sounds good, so long as it’s not V8 juice. Don’t mind the stuff, but I got more than my fill the other night.”

“Bottled water or Pepsi work?”

“Sure thing.”

“Which one?”

“Hmm. Let’s go with Pepsi.”

Mylisha returned with ice-filled Portland Trailblazer cups. She wondered if notepads were still in vogue. The one propped on Sergeant Turney’s knee reminded her of those ’70s detective shows, whereas she would’ve expected a Palm Pilot tucked into a shirt pocket.

Sarge scored another point for old-school charm.

“Ah, that is good stuff.” He took another long sip, with eyes closed as though he was enjoying an infrequent pleasure. “Thanks, Mylisha. Now the reason I’m here, if you don’t mind me takin’ up a little of your time, is to discuss your good friend. And before you get your hackles up, let me tell you, she was also a friend of mine.”

“And you got stuck on the case? That’s not right.”

“I requested this one,” he explained. “I’m a consultant. They turned it over to me a few days ago. Truth is, the police don’t have a whole lot to go on, so the case’s slipped down the list of priorities. But to people like you and me”—he tapped his fist against his chest—“there’s nothing more important.”

“You got dat right.”

“And somewhere, there’s one other person interested in this.”

“The one who did it!” Mylisha spit out the words.

“There were no skid marks at the scene, no sign that the driver tried to swerve away or hit the brakes. I’m thinkin’ an angry boyfriend. Or an ex.”

“Summer had lotsa relationships. None of them what you’d call serious.”

“Anyone else who might’ve had a bone to pick with her?”

“Sure.” Mylisha’s mind flipped through a stack of local names. “She kept a mental catalog of JC’s secrets, and some people avoided her because she was a threat. A potential embarrassment, you know what I’m sayin’?”

“Did she use blackmail?”

“Sarge, this is my friend you’re talking about.”

“And I’m tryin’ to catch the person who took her from us. Which means we’ve gotta go where the truth leads us. However close. However far back.”

For the next thirty minutes, Sergeant Turney explained some of the steps he was taking in his investigation—from a countywide search of wrecking yards and auto-body-repair shops, to the questioning of family and friends, to a visit with an insurance-claims adjuster who’d helped narrow the hit-and-run vehicle to a mid-’90s Ford based on blue paint chips found at the scene.

“There you go,” Mylisha voiced. “You’ve got the murder weapon.”

“Wish it were that easy. Using a list from the police computer, I’ll be goin’ house to house, to every place with a registered vehicle matching the description. Got a guess on how many Fords there are in Lane County alone?”

Mylisha shook her head. She just wanted her friend back.

“More than a couple,” Sarge informed her. “And that’s assuming the perp’s a local.”

They continued to discuss the details preceding and following Summer’s accident. Summer hadn’t died until four days later, which had given Mylisha time to sit with her in the hospital. Mylisha had hoped. Prayed. Wept.

“Still feels like I failed her somehow,” she said.

“Know the feeling. I sat with Milly for a day and a half. Not a thing I could do.”

Mylisha thought it was strange how life brought people together. She could hardly believe Sergeant Turney was the same guy who’d been engaged to Summer’s sister, but she did vaguely remember meeting him in passing four years ago. He’d been thinner then, although he wasn’t bad looking now. Beneath heavy brows, his eyes were the color of rich and creamy chocolate.

“Got something for you,” he told her. “Picked it up at the station.”

“Thought you didn’t work there. You said you were a consultant.”

“Freelance, that’s right. Make my own hours, go where I please. Despite the good share of ribbin’ they deal out, they still treat me like one of their own. Has its advantages.” He flipped his notepad to the back, produced a baby blue envelope from between the pages. “This is yours. They found it in the glove compartment of Summer’s Honda Prelude. Been sittin’ in an evidence box all this time, but I figured you might like to have it since it’s addressed to you.”

“To me? From Summer?”

“I can only assume.”

“It’s been opened.”

“They checked it for possible clues, figured it was harmless. It’s private, so I haven’t read it, but one of the officers said it might be of sentimental value to you.”

“Oh no you don’t.” Mylisha waved a finger, chastising herself for the moisture now collecting on her eyelashes. She pulled the envelope to her stomach, as she would a cold pack to soothe a wound. “You mean to tell me it’s been just sitting there all this time? In the wreckage?”

Sarge nodded.

Suddenly his eyes widened, cut through with dark swirls. “For the life of me! Why didn’t I see it before? The wreckage.”

Mylisha waited, but he did not elucidate; he, too, seemed plagued by unanswered questions and past mysteries. She wished she could say something to help. She was a comforter, a nurturer; she was no good if she wasn’t looking out for others.

“Your glass is empty, Sarge. Want a refill on your Pepsi?”

“S’okay.” He tried to rise from the beanbag.

“You can take the cup with you if you want.”

“Thanks, Mylisha, but I best be movin’ along. Some stuff I need to check on.”

The next set of numbers broke the rules.

On his way to work, Clay grabbed his lunch sack from the fridge, brushed past his father at the dining nook.

“It’s Saturday. Actually puttin’ your nose to the grindstone, eh?”

“Only missed one day so far, Dad.”

“Blomberg’s a hard one to please. Don’t push your luck.”

Gerald popped the lid from his blue travel mug, letting his morning java cool. Forecast: scattered showers with partial clearing. He turned his attention to the
Register-Guard
, said as an afterthought, “Your mail’s by the phone, certified letter from Wyoming. Signed for it yesterday afternoon.”

Clay trudged back into the kitchen. He’d already returned the last set of documents—with a few contested points. He tore at the flap as he headed outside, found a list of concessions and counterpoints from Jenni’s lawyer, followed by a deadline for Clay’s final response.

Warming up the Duster, he stared at the papers. He felt paralyzed by inadequacy, by pride and a sense of injustice. He had an urge to fly straight to Cheyenne.

Not that Jenni would soften if she heard his apologies or pleas for forgiveness.

Was there any hope of stopping this marital train wreck?

Clay knew better. His continual calls had elicited no replies. His son’s postcard from Yellowstone was the lone strand tying him to all he held dear while these tedious legalities sawed away, severing the cords of his family. With all his might, Clay had swung the sword of human endeavor and found himself flailing forward when it bit into nothing of substance. Now he was falling upon his own blade.

Where’s God in all this? Does he know I exist down here?

Clay warmed at the thought of seeing Jason in a month. Jenni was worried
about letting their son ride the Greyhound or Amtrak alone, so Clay had split the cost of an airline ticket with her. Jason would fly into Eugene the second week of August, in time for the Scandi-Fest. He’d stay through the rest of the summer.

Clay fanned the court orders and let his fingers move down to his son’s name.

You’re a good kid, Jason Alan Ryker
.

Hot and razor-sharp, the ink stabbed upward through Clay’s skin. Touch receptors fired. His brain received signals that defied biological explanation.

8.1.0.0.4 …

He yanked away, his fingertips aflame with the uninvited numerals.

That’s a day before the festival starts. The day Jason arrives!

Was there no escape? Clay had come to accept these expiration dates on human skin—no matter how illogical—and he’d found ways of insulating himself against this knowledge. Here, though, the numbers were presenting themselves through an inanimate apparatus. Despite his efforts, the curse seemed determined to assert itself.

Or perhaps it was a gift. Could he, with this information, circumvent death’s design and distract the Grim Reaper from helpless souls?

Tomorrow he would have his answer. With the paperboy.

“You all right there, Ryker?”

“Fine.”

“Been awful quiet all day.” Digs was picking at his ear, his finger buried in white tufts of hair. “Something to do with your wife or kid—that’d be my guess.”

Clay moaned under the weight of a blank granite headstone. Stored against the wall at his back, it jutted into his path. As he shifted it toward the corner, a nub of his glove caught beneath the rough-hewn bottom and pulled away from his hand. He set his bare palm on the arched granite, tipped it to remove his glove, but it crashed back, cracking the surface of another stone and spraying jagged chips.

“Careful,” Digs said. “Gotta stay tuned in or you’re liable to hurt yourself.”

Clay glanced at his arm. By cinching his sleeves to his elbows in the early afternoon heat, he’d left himself vulnerable to the rock shard now protruding from his skin. Blood, mixing with shop dust and dirt, formed a spongy gasket around the wound.

Without pain or emotion, he eased the shard from the gash.

This, however, was not his focus.

His fingers, once again, had extracted death dates from a lifeless object. On the blank granite, he had discovered a set of numerals without any apparent connection to an individual. Perhaps this stone would be assigned to an upcoming victim’s grave.

Whoever it was, he or she would be breathing their last in ten days.

July 20, ’04 …
Again, the digits reached the same total as the others.