Expiration Date (23 page)

“Better clean ’er up. Last thing you need’s an infection.”

“Be back in a few,” Clay said.

He steered past Digs on his way to the first-aid kit in the bathroom. Mentally, he turned over the details at his fingertips. This was crazy. People did not die only on dates adding up to thirteen.

In horror movies, maybe. By design of some psychopath, possibly.

Not here in the real world.

He splashed water and disinfectant over his wound, ran his hands under the faucet until the heat became too much to handle. He could not burn away the latest numbers. They throbbed, more persistent with each pump of his heart. Neosporin and a Band-Aid provided physical solace, nothing more.

He leaned on the bathroom sink and stared into the mirror. A quick look at the facts: one, people were dying; two, he seemed to know beforehand; and, three, the narrow scope of dates indicated intelligent manipulation.

Maybe I’m to blame. I caused one person’s death years ago. Why not others?

The notes were right; he had tried running from his guilt over Bill. Despite his hand in the death, he’d remained “scott-free,” innocent in the eyes of the law.

The latest note had consisted of threats against Kenny Preston—“I have pressed on”—and used symbolism of trains and railways.

Engine 418. The old war-horse downtown.

How did it all tie together? Sergeant Turney had mentioned the engine’s involvement in his investigation, and Kenny had found a lost object aboard, but Clay knew of no reason for a connection.

Speaking of which, how had his belt buckle ended up on the Coateses’ property?

Clay returned to his workbench, snugged his gloves back on.

“Need some space to breathe, is that it, Ryker?” Digs studied him. “I know how it is, sharin’ a roof with the old man. Gets to you after a while. You ever need a place to sack out, you’re more ’n welcome at the Digs estate.”

“Appreciate that, I really do. But I’m more trouble than you deserve.”

Mylisha dropped groceries at Shanique’s place, basked in the giggling hugs of her niece and nephew, gave her wild-haired and sleepy-eyed sister a kiss on the cheek, then headed down the street for a solitary walk in the Rose Gardens.

College kids tossed a Frisbee in the late afternoon sun. An ancient tree with knotted limbs so heavy they required bracing provided shade to a couple on a blanket. A gaggle of elderly ladies pointed and paused between rows of fragrant roses.

Mylisha smiled yet knew her pleasure was vicarious.

She found an unoccupied bench that faced the river. Across the wide waters, Valley River Center served as a shopping haven and mall-rat paradise.

In her hands the baby blue envelope addressed to her offered a link to her deceased friend. She’d left it unopened last night, denying its finality. Her heart still pulsed with hope that Summer would skip through a door and admit her death had been an elaborate hoax.

The greeting card made a shushing sound as Mylisha slid it out. Summer’s handwriting looped across the paper, carefree and alive.

Mylisha chewed on her bottom lip. These were matters best left alone.

Years ago, with God’s healing and cleansing, she had managed to bury the fear. Once in a while though, it came back to whisper cruel threats in her ear, to reach violating hands into her thoughts. She owed it to Summer to consider the card’s words, but it would be so much safer to ignore them altogether.

Mylisha tucked the envelope into her purse, strode back to her sister’s place. Shanique was in bed. The kids were planted in front of the TV, laughing between bites of Cocoa Puffs.

They seemed content. Which irritated Mylisha.

Why had her sister’s choices proven so successful? Mylisha had tried to walk the line, to do what was right, but she questioned whether God was even watching. Why was she the lonely one? Her soul bore wounds she could not understand.

She drove over the Jefferson Street Bridge to the mall at Valley River. She
needed something new—or something ancient and tested. Why hesitate? This could be a return to her tribal roots. Since the beginning of time, mankind had consulted the skies for answers; they’d relied on signs in nature, in God’s handiwork.

Was a horoscope or astrology chart any different? Mylisha ached for guidance and God’s will. Maybe here at last she would discern answers for her life. She shoved aside doubts to the contrary.

Clay’s workweek was over, but he wasn’t ready to end it in seclusion at his parents’ place. He’d had more than enough of his father’s testosterone-heavy sneers and his mother’s subtle conniving. He needed an evening out. Away.

Even if it meant risking contact with others.

Saturday night at the movies? He liked the sound of that.

He checked the Internet from the computer in the Glenleaf front office, found a listing for
Spiderman 2
playing at Valley River Center. He’d have just enough time to grab a bite at the food court.

Less than half an hour later he was in line for Sbarro’s pizza. He found himself watching the mall’s bevy of young women in hiphuggers. On high heels, they marched the walkways, an army of shoppers with loaded purses and credit cards slung over their shoulders.

Best-looking troops he’d ever hope to see. What would it be like to enter the battlefield once more? He missed the touch of a woman. How long had it been?

Get a grip, Claymeister. You’ve still got a ring and a beautiful wife
.

With eyes down, he carried his pizza to a table and ate alone.

The mall provided Mylisha a diversion. She browsed clothing outlets, dreamed of new furniture arrangements, listened to demos of the latest CDs. She had a specific destination, though. The other stores were links of a chain, encircling and dragging her toward a place she’d long avoided.

Time to tap her soul’s connection with earth, wind, and sky.

She scooted through the food court, eyes straight ahead on the tiled floor, determined to let nothing dilute her newfound resolve.

Wait up, girl. You should plant yourself in a seat and rethink this
.

Mylisha lifted her chin and marched on.

This wouldn’t be the final act, not even close. Nevertheless, it would be sweet.

Hidden in the darkness, Asgoth paced by the Preston home on Oak Street, enamored with the golden glow oozing through the curtains and the muted yelps of Kenny’s puppy. A sadistic grin was carved across his lips. He wished he could knock on the front door and enter. He considered it but reminded himself it would be futile.

Asgoth pulled down on his argyle vest. He must wait.

Hours remained before the proper date rolled into position on the calendar. For a bit longer, that runt of a paperboy would be safe in his bed.

The basement bounced the alarm clock’s sounds back and forth over Kenny’s head. This wasn’t like him to wake up late. Grownups were always talking about being tired and stressed. Was this what they meant?

Sunday again. Big newspapers.

And big trouble, according to Clay. Kenny wanted to discount the warnings but couldn’t shake them from his skull.

He shut off the alarm and stared into the darkness. He could feel moisture in the air, indicating it’d rained during the night. One of his favorite T-shirts said, “Oregonians don’t tan. They rust.”

Kenny loaded his shoulder bags and wheeled his bike through the side gate. In the drain from the roof gutter, water rumbled and sluiced onto the driveway, carrying leaves and worms and acorns. Junction City’s streets glistened.

“Kenny.”

“Clay. You sure you wanna do this? You don’t have to, you know.”

Clay wore a hooded sweatshirt over rain gear. He unloaded a ten-speed from the trunk of an old beater and pulled on a pair of biking gloves. “Would it seem strange if I said I think it’ll be fun? Always wanted to have a paper route, but sports kept me too busy when I was a kid. My dad had me trying everything—basketball, baseball, football.”

“My dad’s in Alaska.”

“For how long?”

Kenny adjusted his helmet. “He’s been gone since I was little.”

“Just you and your mom, huh?”

“And Gussy, my dog.”

“Did you tell your mom about me?”

Kenny noticed Clay’s furtive glances up and down the street. He knew this was the guy’s real purpose in being here, to serve as a bodyguard. Not that Kenny needed it, but he wasn’t going to complain, uh-uh. The streets did look
a little spooky this early; plus it was nice to have a man who was concerned. Not to mention, he could use an extra hand with the Sunday editions.

“She’d freak if I told her. ‘Don’t talk to strangers,’ and that sort of stuff.”

“Good advice, Kenny. Especially today.”

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you? Hafta admit it seems kinda wacko.”

“What about the lady and the note she had you deliver? And that chess piece you found on the train engine? How do you explain those things?”