Expiration Date (34 page)

Mylisha heard about Clay’s disappearance through the grapevine. Through a customer at the Safeway service desk, to be more accurate.

“He’s left town,” the woman said. “Yep. Couldn’t handle it.”

“Couldn’t handle what?”

“The boredom.”

“Was there anything else you needed today?” Mylisha asked.

“Like I don’t spend every dime here already. Nope, nothing else. You heard about the other night? I’m only telling you because you and Clay used to be an item. Well, he got drunk as a skunk. That’s the way it was told to me. Started mouthing off, grabbing and threatening waitresses. Bouncers tossed him out on his butt.”

“We all have our moments. You think he’d want you talkin’ about this?”

“Guess he should’ve thought about that before going into the Raven, eh?”

Mylisha extricated herself from the conversation. She thought she might lose it, give the woman a piece of her mind.

She slipped into her small office area and picked up the newspaper. She knew what she was looking for, although she went through the motions of scanning the latest news—Kobe Bryant trial updates, potential scandal among Olympic athletes, Chechen terrorist threats.

Okay, girl, here’s what you wanted. May as well take a peek
.

The horoscope column beckoned with bits of humor, sage advice, and projections for the day’s events. She knew she should put her trust in God alone. But hadn’t God borne witness through the stars before? Bethlehem: perfect example.

Mylisha ran her enameled nails along the page. Twice she read the section devoted to her, seeking parts that fit, finding questions instead.

Hadn’t she refrained from calling Clay a few nights ago based on this column?

Now the advice seemed pointed in the opposite direction.

Honesty is the perfume of any friendship. The longer you hold on to secrets and relevant facts, the more likely your relationship will become a real stinker
.

Knowing of Clay’s recent disappearance, Mylisha now doubted her decisions. Had she misread the signs? What if she followed today’s advice, then found that it conflicted with yesterday’s? Or tomorrow’s? How could she know with any certainty? Shanique never seemed bogged down with such doubts.

Mylisha clocked out for a break, then dialed the Ryker residence.
I hope Clay’s mother answers. She might know how I can reach that boy
.

“Henna, do you remember Clay’s belt buckle?”

“The one you left beneath the Coateses’ bedroom window?”

“Yes, that one.” Asgoth smiled at the memory. “We need to plant a similar piece of evidence at this girl’s apartment, at the scene of the homicide.”

“The scene of the crime,” Henna corrected. “Mako’s not dead yet.”

“Give it a few more days.”

“I have my reservations, A.G. Your activities keep getting … darker. Are you sure we should be involved in this?”

“We cannot take responsibility for the actions of others. This Russian man has a pattern of violence, and we’re merely using his mistakes to our advantage. You know me, Henna. I wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

“But that paperboy.”

“What about him? I didn’t break my promise to you, didn’t even touch him.”

“What do you need me to do this time? What’s the objective?”

Asgoth waved at an object on the kitchen’s stained wooden table. Left by
the former occupant, the table had become a focal point of the apartment’s recent activities. Hardened red wax spread tentacles across the pine surface.

“The objective,” he told Henna, “is to keep our dear Sergeant Turney busy.”

“Aren’t there better ways of distracting him?”

“I’ll tell you a little secret.” Asgoth circled around Henna’s back so that his presence hung over her like a cloak. “If you can distract a man through his job, he’ll never suspect outside involvement. Human nature longs for meaning, for purpose. A career can become so intertwined with a man’s view of himself that he fails to see anything else.”

“Clay.”

“Exactly. Now there’s a man convinced he has lost his purpose.”

“ ‘A child of the earth.’ That’s what I said to him on the bus.”

“And to the earth he shall return.”

Clay slowed his pace to appreciate the sweeping view. In the future his family might appreciate pictures of these vistas.

He snapped a few photos with his digital camera, thought of Sam and Lyndon. How were they faring? He smiled at the thought of Lyndon’s spraying repellent around Sam’s spindly legs. Despite his view of their lifestyle choices, he had enjoyed their company. In turn, they had challenged his thinking.

Were they right? Was he hurting Jesus?

I used to think that way, but it all seems so removed now. So distant
.

Clay snorted, realizing the words described himself as well.

But why was it that two gay guys could survive nineteen years together, while he and his wife couldn’t make it past twelve? When had this world turned upside down and crazy? Why had Clay and Jenni’s vows before God fallen apart? Where was the faith to which they’d once held?

Clay crossed a mountain meadow cloaked in wildflowers. He followed a gully, then a gentle slope leading toward the North Crater trailhead and the desolate Pumice Desert.

He signed in at the trail register, then moved across the wide expanse. The
going was easy. He picked up and studied bits of pumice and shards of glistening obsidian. The landscape to his right was a lunar setting: barren, wiped out by layers of ash and volcanic destruction. Grouse Hill was a former lava flow, built up on the valley floor.

At Red Cone Spring he refilled his water. Set up camp.

On his cell he had messages from his mother and the secretary at Glenleaf. Mylisha had called as well, but her message contained only brief silence.

He deleted each one in turn.

But the last message sucked the air from his lungs.

Jenni. Speaking her first words to him in months.

“Clay, I hope you get this. Your mother contacted me at work, said she’s worried sick and begged that I call you. I know we’ve had our rough times, and, no, you’re not the only one at fault. Do you ever reach a point where you can’t turn back, though? As though a part of you has died and you can’t revive it, no matter how hard you try. Well that’s me. That’s the point I’m at.

“We’ve done enough finger pointing. We have a son …” Her voice broke. “We have a gorgeous little boy who just wants to be loved, and when I look at him, all I can see is you. Is there any chance of us making things work down the road? You tell me.”

A bitter little chuckle. “But that’s always been our problem. You won’t tell me what’s going on in your head. It’s as though you’ve locked the door and lost the key. Even after I filed, you sat back as if it was a done deal. Sure, you tried calling, but you weren’t going to go beyond surface conversation. You know it’s true.”

A sigh. “Why am I even wasting my time? I get peeved all over again just thinking about it. You know, my mail still says Mrs. Ryker. Does that mean anything to you? You act as though I should be able to read your mind and be there to hold your hand, be up for you when you need it. You have a son who loves you. You have a wife … uh, a woman who cares about you. But, Clay, whatever’s weighing you down, you’ve kept refusing to let it go. That’s why I’m finished, why I don’t think I can be part of your life any longer. And if you don’t deal with it—through God’s help or that Dr. Gerringer guy or whoever—then you won’t even have a life of your own.”

Clay avoided the other campers in his vicinity.

Dinner. That sounded good.

He fed himself berry-topped pancakes, strips of beef jerky, and a vanilla pudding cup. With a mug of instant coffee, he wedged his long body into the tent. Mesh windows filtered the waning sunlight so that he was able to read a dog-eared paperback. A Louis L’Amour. He hadn’t read one in years.

He could hear his dad’s voice.
Gotta be a man’s man …

Gerald had read these as well. Father and son finding common ground.

Jason
. Clay sank back into the Kelly sleeping bag.

You’ll always be a man. Don’t let others tell you otherwise. You’re a smart kid. Handsome and full of ideas. I’m so proud of you. I tried to love your mother. She’s a very special lady, she really is. I think I just kept pulling away from her until she snapped. She couldn’t keep giving without getting anything in return
.

Jenni
. Clay rested the book’s open pages over his face.

I’m no relational expert, as you know. But even Dr. Gerringer’s not all he’s cracked up to be. I’m sorry. For everything. See, I had a hand in Bill’s death, and I let it keep whittling me down until I had no confidence left. Now look at me. I’ve failed at everything, like a disease that keeps getting worse. I tried to let it go, and you’re absolutely right, I tried to make you carry that weight with me. Which you couldn’t do. I know that now. Well, don’t worry. Tomorrow I’m shirking this load forever. And just in case … I’m all paid up on the life insurance. You and Jason’ll be able to move on
.

As he comprehended his own scheme, Clay stared into the darkening sky, astounded, even amused. No wonder he’d felt propelled along this pilgrimage.

Had he known all along? Or had he hidden it from himself?

Twelve years ago he had caused Bill Scott’s death, pushing his friend toward the treacherous river. Days ago he had failed to save a helpless child, thus witnessing a brutal destruction. Tomorrow he would take his own life in Crater Lake’s cold depths.

At long last he understood.

Sacrifice yourself so others might live
.

Two chiefs, according to Klamath Indian legends, had been pitted against one another. Llao of the Below World and Skell of the Above World fought a cataclysmic battle, raging with fire and smoke, hurling ashes and stone, until Llao’s home of Mount Mazama was destroyed.

Crater Lake was what remained. Evidence of the Below World.

With a brochure describing the conflict, Clay crested the lookout. In an instant he forgot every gripe, every dirty pore and bruised muscle.

He gasped. His mind boggled at the sheer enormity of this natural wonder. Poised a thousand feet above the surface, he gazed upon the nation’s deepest lake. If he threw himself over the railing, he would plunge nearly three thousand feet from the cliff’s top to the lake’s icy bottom. The waters now covering the heart of this ancient volcano shimmered in the sunlight, a mirror of ultramarine blue.

He had never seen anything like it. It dwarfed him. Demanded awe.

To his left a massive lava flow formed the crags of Llao Rock. To his right, Devil’s Backbone paralleled Skell Channel, a band of water separating the caldera’s cliffs from its unruly offspring known as Wizard Island. The cone was no more than a volcanic youngster, waiting for its turn to blow; tufts of trees sprouted along its neck and pointed chin.

Clay set down his pack. With the GPS unit strapped to his belt, he saved the coordinates. What, he wondered, makes us want to leave our mark?

He locked his arms around the top rail, slipped one leg over the bottom. His foot was dangling over empty space.

“Hold it right there.”

Clay gripped the rail tighter. The voice had come from his right.

“Don’t move a muscle, Clay. I’m about to shoot.”

“Sam? Is that you?” He turned. “Lyndon?”

The Nikon camera whirred and its lens blinked twice.

“Ahhh.” Clay slapped a hand to his chest. “You got me.”