Expiration Date (33 page)

“Which is what I’ll do to you if you say another word.”

In the following silence, Clay rumbled over Tuesday night’s conversation. There, over the Maidu Lake campfire, his emotions had collided. The fact he was camping with a Wesley Scott seemed unreal, considering he was on these trails because of a dead friend named William “Bill” Scott.

Was the coincidence a gesture of hope from above? An offer to build new friendships while sweeping away the ghosts of Friday the thirteenth, May 1992?

Or was it a sinister sign? A dead man’s brother coming for blood?

Clay had made attempts to find out more, asking if Wesley had any siblings.

“Got four brothers,” Wesley had responded. “All of them older.”

“You grew up around Puget Sound, right? But did any of them live in Oregon?”

Wesley scratched at his chin. “I can’t keep track. Sorry, but I was the
baby, and we didn’t have what you’d call the model family. Pretty abusive, if you wanna know the truth. We get together for two things—weddings and funerals.”

There was no easy way to ask this. “Are … all of your brothers still alive?”

“Dude, what kind of question is that?” Aggravation tinged Wesley’s words. “What do I care anyway? Been years since I talked to any of ’em, and you won’t hear me complainin’. Some things are better left alone.”

Clay took the hint. He didn’t broach the subject again.

Dmitri Derevenko watched Vicki hurry out the door. She was flighty, annoying. After a heated phone call with her “control freak” boyfriend, she’d thrown on her Bob’s Burger uniform and muttered something about returning before six.

From the couch Dmitri surveyed the dark apartment with its nicotine-yellowed walls. He had not come thousands of miles from his beloved country for this.

Yesterday he had visited Glenleaf Monument Company on Junction City’s northeast corner. He’d entered the single-wide trailer that served as showroom and office, found a buxom secretary tapping an IM on her computer.

She’d turned down her country music station. “Can I help you?”

“This song.” Dmitri found a point of connection. “It’s by Bering Strait.”

“Excuse me?”

“This music group, they’re from my motherland. From Russia.”

“Yeah? It’s a pretty good song.”

“You would like Russia. We have many good musicians, da.”

“I’m sure I would.” The secretary glanced at the monitor’s IM window.

“Mr. Blomberg … Is it possible that I could speak with him?”

“So sorry, but he won’t be back till tomorrow, and our sales staff’s in a meeting.” She buffed a nail on her skirt, then fetched a business card from a granite holder. “You can always call to set up an appointment.”

Dmitri slipped the card into his pocket. Near the sliding back door, a dry erase board showed names on a weekly work schedule.

“Clay Ryker.”

“Excuse me?”

“He works here? He’s the son of Gerald Ryker?”

“Gerald and Della. They’ve been friends of my parents since, oh, way back.”

“Perhaps I could speak to Mr. Ryker. One or two short questions.”

“The crew’s busy and can’t be interrupted. Anyway, Clay’s been gone since Monday, didn’t even call in sick. No one knows what’s happened to him.” She’d frowned.

Then yesterday evening Vicki had confirmed Clay Ryker’s disappearance.

“Guy’s lucky he’s still alive. Rumor has it he went on a drinking binge, then ran his car off the road into a ditch. The latest is that he’s taken off for the mountains.”

Today, alone in the apartment, Dmitri considered a personal visit to Gerald and Della Ryker. With some persuasion they would give him the facts he needed to track their son into the woods. In fact, the thought of being outdoors stimulated him; in the forests near Ekaterinburg, hiking and fishing had been part of his life.

Was Clay carrying Kenny’s secret? Was he out there intending to hide it?

Dmitri picked up the phone to inform Oleg of his next step. After days without communication, his Brotherhood contact would be worried. He might even suspect Western influences were eroding Dmitri’s dedication. It was a prevalent danger.

Before Oleg could answer, Dmitri heard a creak on the landing.

“Astergaisya,” he whispered. “Beware.”

The apartment door slammed inward. Splinters of wood tore through the air. A burly kid with black shoulder-length hair roared Vicki’s name, then came in screaming accusations over the barrel of a gun.

The control freak, Dmitri realized, had lost control.

Mako was a bouncer at the Raven. Although boozed-up and flirty women hit on him every night, he reserved his heart for one special lady.

Vicki was a year older than Mako. They’d gone to JCHS together. He loved everything about her, which was why he tried so hard to make her happy—gifts, cards, teddy bears, phone calls, whatever it took to show his love.

But there was just no pleasing some women.

Last night Mako hadn’t slept a wink. His eyes were stinging, his temples pounding, his fists clenching in sudden spasms. He faced her apartment building and tried to convince himself the white Taurus must belong to a new occupant. But he had never been a good liar. His aunt used to say he was without an ounce of guile, and he believed her—even though he had no clue what “guile” meant.

He crept up the stairs to Vicki’s landing. The gun made him feel powerful.

Just gonna scare her. Let her know I won’t put up with this. And if there’s some guy in there? Heaven help him!

Mako faced the door, studied its construction. One or two well-aimed kicks—that’s all it would take.

His mind flashed back to last Sunday night at the tavern. He’d thrown a tall, lean, drunken fool out onto the sidewalk. A guy named Clay. He’d shoved the guy hard. Sneered. But he could not erase Clay’s words:
Man, you’re about to die too …

He hesitated now. Maybe he should back off.

Then he felt the tug, like a finger snagging his chin and pulling down.

There on the landing he spotted Vicki’s charm bracelet. The one he’d given her. Paid good money for. Sent with a bouquet of flowers. It was sitting in the dirt like so much trash.

Kur-rashh!

In a burst of wood and popped screws, his boot shot the door inward. He spit out Vicki’s name amid a volley of insinuations. Blundering forward, he followed the barrel of his gun, saw a broad-shouldered man with icy blue eyes.

Was the guy just plain dumb? What could a cell phone do for him?

“Too late to call the cops! You think you can waltz in, just take her away?” Mako tried to look past the clothes on the bed; Vicki would never mean to hurt him this way. “She’s the only girl I’ve ever loved. The only one! I’d do anything for her!”

“Even die?”

Mako roared. “You’re the one who’s going to—”

The bullet burst into his chest with a hot-cold, splashing-shrinking sensation. He stared down. His legs cut out. Crumpling to the floor, he was still baffled by the gunshot’s source. He should’ve listened to the warning:
You’re about to die too
.

Coming here had been a very bad call.

“Nicely arranged,” Asgoth congratulated Monde. “You made it look easy.”

“As I said before, it’s all a matter of unlocking the human mind. Find the right combination, and the rest is simple. On occasion, though, more drastic measures are needed. Pride, love, hatred, and self-doubt—they can be as effective as dynamite.”

“And in this case, the charm bracelet was the fuse.”

“I suppose you could say that.”

Although sirens were playing in the background, Asgoth couldn’t resist. He moved up the apartment stairs, hoping for another glimpse through the open door.

Monde seemed anxious to leave the scene. “I know what you’re thinking, A.G. You believe I made errors.”

“Did I say a word?”

“Actually I made them intentionally, to attract Sergeant Turney’s attention.”

“What’s the use? He’s gone out of town.”

Monde’s onyx eyes bulged. “Where?”

“I know I’m good, but you can’t expect me to know everything.”

“Why didn’t you mention this earlier? He has a nasty habit of bumbling his way into places I’d rather he ignored.”

They parted ways at the Diamond Lake guard station.

“Need to stock up at the resort store, make some calls, get a hot shower.” Wesley wore a pout. “And try washing the berry stains outta my cap.”

Clay forked over a ten-dollar bill. “Here. For the laundry.”

“Nah. Keep it, dude.”

“I don’t need it. Only got one more day before I’m done.”

“I’m not takin’ your cash. Do I look like a slacker?”

“Then take this.” Clay tucked his Discman into Wesley’s pack. “I prefer the silence anyway. The sounds of nature.”

Wesley’s head tilted, and his lips split into a grin. “That’s wild, just flat-out crazy. I used to have one of these before my coma. This means a lot, really. Thanks. This is one gift I’ll take.”

“Good. It’s all yours, man.”

“But”—Wesley wiggled his cap—“if these stains don’t come out, I’ll hunt you down. Little Duck better run from mean Husky.”

“I’m quaking in my boots.”

“Quacking’s more like it.” Wesley stretched out a hand. “Seriously, Clay, thanks for the company. It’s been real. You’re a good guy.”

Clay avoided the contact. He gave his hiking partner a playful jab in the shoulder, touching nothing more than a tan sleeve. “You’re not bad yourself, for a former coma patient. Happy trails, man. It’s off to Crater Lake for me. Haven’t seen the place since I was a little tyke.”

“Think you’ll make it there by tomorrow? Without me to baby you along?”

“Nothing’ll stop me. I’m dying to do that guided boat ride.”

Wesley Scott tipped his cap.

With a wave Clay cut across Highway 138 toward a trail that rejoined the PCT. Through branches of hemlock and lodgepole pine, he saw Thielsen’s
stony pinnacles slashing at the sky. The temperature was pleasant. According to his Shaffer guide, today’s journey would be his least difficult. He would trek past the North Crater trailhead, down along the Pumice Desert, to Red Cone Spring where he’d find water and a campsite for his final night.

Tomorrow he would hike the rim of Mount Mazama.

Step by step. Nearing the point of baptism.