Expiration Date (32 page)

“Yeah, dude. Like a Washington ball cap. Came back hoping it’d still be here.”

“Uh, actually I did find it.” At Clay’s knees, the mutt sniffed and snorfled. Cute, with gold and white fur, she looked up and begged him to come clean. He coughed. “Hate to tell you this, though. I’m a Ducks fan, so you wouldn’t expect me to do something nice to a Huskies cap, would you?”

“Tell me you’re jokin’.” The man’s eyes begged for mercy. “What’d you do?”

“I still have it. If that’s any help.”

“This is the PCT, dude. S’posed to be lookin’ out for your fellow hikers.”

Although softened by the beard, the man’s face had an odd angular shape, with one hazelnut eye set deeper than the other. He gave the impression of one who’d lived through darker days and had now been granted a fresh helping of grace. He wore green khaki pants, a Scooby Doo T-shirt, and a leather bracelet matching a braided necklace.

“Yeah? Well, uh … sorry.” Clay produced the missing cap. “Here you go.”

“What’d ya do to it? You tore off the letters?”

“No, no. Nothing that permanent. Just rubbed them in a little berry juice so they’d blend in with the rest of the cap.”

“Dude, that’s so wrong. I’m not even laughing.”

“Trust me. It’s better than my original idea.”

“Dmitri, you better get outta here.” A wadded shirt hit him in the chest.

“So soon? Is this what Americans call a one-night stand?”

“Call it what you want, but if my boyfriend finds you here …” Vicki left the sentence unfinished. “What’m I doing? I need to get ready for work. Why don’t you meet me later by the Chevron, same as yesterday.”

“You must grow tired of keeping secrets.”

“You kidding?” She opened her eyes wide to apply mascara. “I live for them. Around here, you take what adventure you can get. Most of my friends never leave the Northwest. Well, maybe a trip to Disneyland, but that doesn’t count. If they do leave, they still end up back here. Same old, same old. It never changes.”

“You’ve lived many years in Junction City. You know the town secrets?”

“Oh, I could tell you stories. But you know what, around here it’s like a pact—‘I won’t tell your secrets, if you won’t tell mine.’ Doesn’t stop the gossip, though.” Vicki pulled her hair into a ponytail, slipped into work shoes. “My dad, he comes off like some religious nut, but talk about a man who knows the dark sides of this place.”

“This is him?” Dmitri tipped back a framed picture on the dresser.

“Mr. Stan Blomberg himself. Dad and I don’t get along. As you might’ve guessed, I’m not the prissy virgin queen he wanted me to be.”

“What is his work?”

“He owns Glenleaf Monument Company, makin’ tombstones. Pretty creepy, huh? Talk about having a finger on the pulse of the town.”

“Don’t tell me. Are ya headin’ south?”

Clay shrugged. “Is that an answer?”

“You just said not to tell you.”

“Mighta guessed.” The man put on his UW cap. “Same way I’m headed, my rotten luck. Name’s Wesley, by the way. And my dog’s Oatmeal.”

“Clay.”

They shook hands, then turned to the challenge of the trail. They kept pace with one another, held dialogue to a minimum, pointed out vistas through the trees. For a while Clay listened to the band Coldplay on his Discman—upbeat enough to set his pace, moody enough to match his downward spiral of emotion. Occasionally Wesley patted Oatmeal on the head and provided a dog biscuit. Clay and Wesley exchanged snacks of their own, trail mix for fruit leather.

With the sun blazing overhead, they reached Windigo Pass. A nearby parking lot at the trailhead turned this into a busy juncture for both north- and southbound hikers. They marched on without a word.

Ahead they spied the pyroclastic cone of Windigo Butte. Far beyond, snow-sprinkled Mount Thielsen waited to be conquered.

This, Clay realized, was what he had hoped to experience with Bill Scott.

Bill had been his friend during his junior and senior years of high school. A change had come over Bill, though, in those months before the bridge incident. He’d become morose, quiet, more likely to incite trouble with authority figures. He did mean things. His circle of friends tightened into a fiercely loyal, secretive bunch.

Without words being spoken, Clay felt himself being edged out.

When Clay asked what was wrong, Bill snapped at him. “It’s this life, this little game they play with us. What do these teachers care, Ryker? Or our parents? They just want to impose their own bitterness on us. We’re powerful, young, full of dangerous ideas. And that scares them spitless. Get this—my dad says I should start going by ‘William.’ More mature, he claims. More likely to score me a job. As if I give a rat’s tail about jumping into his world! It’s all a big game to them.”

For Clay Ryker, jersey number nine, it had been all about the game. On the b-ball court he was a winner, headed for the big time, with nothing to stop him.

Until Bill Scott’s death at the river.

How many must die to pay for your sin? Sacrifice yourself …

Wrapped in these thoughts, Clay bumped into his hiking companion’s stationary form. Wesley grunted, stepped forward to retain his balance.

“Where’d you learn to drive, Clay?”

“My bad. Didn’t see your brake lights.”

“S’all right. So what’re your thoughts? A night at Tolo Camp?”

“If there’s room. Might have to push on to Maidu Lake.”

“Late July. Lotsa hikers. Yeah, Tolo might be outta the question.”

“What about you, Wesley? You got any specific plans?”

“Figured I’d bum it with you, if that’s cool. You’re packin’ good trail mix, and I’ve got the watchdog. Not much in the danger department, but Oatmeal’s a frickin’ awesome early-warning system. Good for chasin’ off the critters.”

“Critters? Where’d you learn that kind of talk?”

“Raised in Puget Sound, stinkin’ Microsoft country. Guess I like anything that goes against the high-tech flow.” Wesley flicked at a spider creeping up his pant leg. “So whaddya say? You wanna stick together another day or two?”

“Shoot. I guess I could try taming a Husky.”

Dmitri carried a mental list of priorities. Near the top he wanted the man’s identity from Sunday night’s fiasco, the one who had abandoned the car.

He made a visit to the local Department of Motor Vehicles, discovered that Gerald Ryker was the Duster’s registered owner. The Yahoo! people search told him where the Rykers lived. During surveillance at the Cox Butte address, Dmitri failed to sight the Duster, but he did see a middle-aged couple exit the house, arguing and gesticulating while climbing into a big Dodge truck.

Dmitri eased away. Still he had not spotted his target.

What was the next step? He’d gone through the motions with Vicki, waiting for the burger girl to bubble over with some relevant gossip or tawdry detail. She’d produced nothing of the sort, nothing about Kenny or Engine 418.

Where was the driver of the Duster? Where had Kenny’s adult friend gone? As predicted, Tolo Camp was full. They made the long descent to Maidu Lake, then, with the sun plunging behind the ridge crests, scrambled to set up
camp. They’d trekked more than twenty miles. Once Clay had eased out of his pack, he felt weightless, a man walking on the surface of the moon.

The night air turned brisk. Both men warmed their hands with cups of instant Nescafé while stretching stockinged feet toward the campfire. Hiking boots aired out by the tent flaps. Oatmeal curled next to Wesley’s legs, eyes reflecting the flames.

“How far tomorrow, Wesley?” Clay was dabbing medicated cream at the stitches on his arm. The soreness in his back and legs gave him a perverse pleasure. A penitent satisfaction.

Wesley groaned. “Can’t we talk about it in the morning?”

“I’m thinking of bagging a few peaks. Tipsoo and Mount Thielsen.”

“Then what? Head down to Diamond Lake for the night?”

“Why not? Your young legs could use the workout.”

“Funny.” Wesley twisted his leather bracelet. “Sounds to me like a heckuva lotta hiking.”

“Uh, look around you. We’re in the middle of nowhere doing what?”

“Drinking java by the fire.”

“Hiking, Wesley. Don’t know about you, but it’s what I came to do.”

Clay disliked the sound of his own sarcasm. His voice had turned snappy, hard edged. He tilted his head back. Above, it looked as though angels had airbrushed the blackness with white glitter and tiny red speckles. The moon was a creamy circular splotch, swirled with wisps of gray.

“Sleep on it,” he goaded. “I’ll understand if you don’t think you can hack it.”

“Listen, dude.” Wesley pulled his knees to his chest, scratched a hand through his beard. “I used to run cross-country. Back in the day I even held a few records in King County—that’s Seattle area if ya don’t know—so I’ve got stamina comin’ out my ears. Didn’t earn my nickname for nothin’.”

“Nickname?”

“Scooter. As in, ‘That boy can scoot!’ For years that’s what they called me.”

Clay flicked aside a poking finger of suspicion. “Why’d you drop it?”

“A lot’s changed. I’ve been doing a lotta thinking. Just ready to start fresh. You know what I’m sayin’? Ready to settle my accounts.” Wesley drew a hand
over his misshapen brow and cheekbone. “See this, the way it’s all outta whack? Up till January I was in a full coma.”

“Wow. How’d it happen, if you don’t mind me asking? Must’ve been serious.”

“Deadly.” Wesley rocked with arms still clasped around his knees. “Guess you could say I fell victim to some hard-core poison.”

“And you’re all right out here? At this altitude? Even after the coma?

Wesley nodded. “Don’t look so worried.”

“Man, forgive my stupid jabs. It was just my competitive nature coming out.”

“No harm, no foul. I’m all good, just a little funnier lookin’.”

“And slower moving,” Clay joked back. “Your nickname could have another meaning. As in, ‘That boy’s so slow, he just scoots himself along.’ ”

“S’already got a double meaning. Dude, you need some new material.”

“Clue me in.”

“My full name’s Wesley Scott.”

“Scott?” Clay’s voice faltered. “Scooter … Scott. Okay, I get it.”

You thought you could get off scott-free …

Was the name a coincidence or something more? The hand of suspicion clamped around his lungs, while in his head, misgivings and vague hope jockeyed for position.

Clay could barely move. His mummy bag was tight around his ankles, but his trail-weary bones were the real culprit. After a second day together on the PCT, he and Wesley had claimed Tipsoo Peak and Mount Thielsen as their conquests. Tipsoo’s glaciated face and Thielsen’s needle-tip pinnacles had been well worth the journey, but this morning his body was paying the price.

Carrying my burden. All part of my pilgrimage
.

He moaned, then wished he had not.

“I heard that,” Wesley said from the neighboring tent.

“Don’t even start.”

“Thursday morning. Ready to hit the trail again, you peak bagger?”

Clay kicked at the side of his tent. “Shut up.”

“I feel your pain. My body’s all racked up, like I got beat with a two-by-four.”