Expiration Date (36 page)

Clay got his arms beneath his pack, then flipped it overboard.

“My stuff,” he cried out. “It fell over.”

With the distracted tourists serving as his witnesses, he had to believe that his life insurance policy would cough up a good chunk of cash. For Jenni. For Jason, too—if his son survived beyond next month.

Regardless, this had to appear as an accident, a monumental lack of judgment as he went after his belongings.

His pack smacked the water. He took a deep breath.

Go, go, go … now!

Clay catapulted himself over the side, felt the icy cold rip at his face. He was underwater. His clothes and shoes sucked him down, but he made an effort to reach the pack while air pockets kept it hovering at the surface. All part of the show.

His head burst from the lake. He gulped air. Shouts came from the boat. He clawed toward his belongings, saw them tilt and begin to sink. He porpoised his long body, carved his arms down into the frigid zone, kicked headfirst toward the plummeting pack that had become a specter leading him into the Below World.

Every cell screamed for air. His body resisted this death wish.

Back to the surface? No! Not this time around
.

His legs scissored again. Cupped hands pulled him deeper. The pack was nearly beyond the sunlight’s reach, a black pebble dropping through cobalt blue gel.

What was he doing? Did this make any sense?

Clay had shouldered his guilt, carried it on this pilgrimage. His sins had dragged him down. Yet now, released from the weight, he was still here chasing after them.

Behind him, far above, water splashed.

He continued his descent. His fingers brushed, then clamped on a strap of his pack. He twisted it around his wrist.

Death’s jaws seemed to close around him with each downward inch; the temperature chewed through his clothes; the needle-sharp fangs of oxygen deprivation pumped carbon dioxide into his lungs. Briefly his thoughts snapped into crystalline focus, then they, too, fell victim to the gathering pressure.

God, what have I done? I am unclean. A sinner!

With more than a quarter of a mile to the bottom, he sensed the presence of millions of gallons of ice water shoving him down into the volcano’s black heart. Like shattering glass, water pinged and popped in his ears.

He needed air. How long had it been—forty-five seconds, a full minute? Yet the instinct not to breathe underwater overpowered the growing agony in his lungs. The edges of consciousness were shredding. Darkness was closing in.

How pathetic this must seem. Would they find his corpse like some
bloated fish? Would they have to keep his coffin closed to spare his family? Clay thought of his parents, of his wife and son, standing over him, staring down.

Would there be tears?

These contemplations joined forces with his base instinct to survive and, in a spasmodic breath that overrode his brain’s warnings, his mouth dragged water into his windpipe and flooded his chest cavity. Half-conscious, enfeebled, he turned his eyes to the surface. He kicked once. Tried to rise.

The pack’s strap was cinched in a knot around his hand.

He struggled. Panic was his enemy now.

And he was still going down, losing feeling in limbs that weighed upon him like rubber truncheons. The cold water was slowing his metabolic processes. His thoughts were filtering through cold molasses.

So hard to swim. To move.

Below he could see it, shadowy and waiting. Hell. Hungry for his soul.

It’s what I deserve … Jesus!

There, carved from the depths, Bill Scott was peering up with vacuous eyes. Then Summer Svenson. Edged in flickering aquamarine, black shapes swirled into a macabre crowd of spectators. They were waiting with yawning mouths, calling to him without a sound, and he was descending to join them.

His body seemed to hover, almost peacefully, in an embryonic state.

Shutting down.

But where was Kenny? The kid was not here among the crowd.

He’s not here!

Clay tried again to turn—so sluggish, caught in the grip. The pack slipped free finally, but he was fading into blackness. His lips gaped. Crying out.

A final trail of bubbles, exploding upward …

A silvery telltale chain …

A dying man’s desperate prayer …

Oh, Jesus. Hear my cry!

“Ghosts.”

“Shut up. That’s not even funny.”

“Well, what else could they freakin’ be? Listen to that.”

The young couple stood in their Junction City apartment, eyes turned upward. Again an object of some sort rumbled overhead, followed by an angry growl. Sheetrock dust and paint chips drifted from the ceiling.

“Usually they’re so quiet. I wasn’t even sure anyone lived up there.”

“This is creepin’ me out,” the girl said. “Call the cops.”

“Like we need that right now.” The guy nodded his head at the stash of stolen TVs and DVD players that overflowed from the closet into the hallway. “We look like a stinkin’ Circuit City.”

“What’d I tell you? We shoulda never moved into this town or this rat hole. You know what they say happened upstairs? Couple months ago some guy got skewered right there in his own kitchen.”

“That’s a buncha bull. This town feeds off stories like that.”

Another low howl conjured images of an animal in pain.

The guy’s girlfriend thrust forward a cell phone. “Call somebody; call the apartment manager!”

“But what if he sees—”

“I swear, if you don’t do something, I will. Who knows what’s going on up there? Somebody could be dying. What if they’ve got a gun? We could get shot.”

“You need to back off the meds, babe. You’re trippin’ hard.”

She punched numbers on the phone, slapped away his hand. He latched on to her wrist. He was not going to let this little tramp ruin what they had going. With sales to scattered pawnshops, they’d be lining their pockets soon enough. Jackpot! He’d buy that Kawasaki he’d seen at the Lane County
Fairgrounds auto show; she’d shop at all those stores that eyed her like she was some sticky-fingered retro rebel.

Well, okay, maybe she was. But that wasn’t the point.

“Think about it, babe. Use your head for once.”

“Oh, don’t even!”

“Listen,” he said. “One call and we could lose it all. Every last dime.”

Another layer of dust sprinkled between their glaring faces. The guy thought it was hilarious, seeing bits of powder land on the tip of his girlfriend’s nose. Knowing her previous habits, he had to laugh.

She socked him in the ribs, then spurted out the door.

Once more the ceiling quaked and fierce wall pounding punctuated a litany of growls. It was getting really annoying. If she didn’t come back, he was going to be furious, and he’d blame it on those idiots overhead.

He yelled at the top of his lungs, spitting epithets. “Shut up! You hear me up there? You don’t quiet down, I’m callin’ the police!”

Asgoth paced the apartment, livid and bewildered. After all the planning, how had they failed? Where were the miscues? Clay Ryker had gone on his death march. Yes, he’d thrown himself into the water, relenting to the psychological pressure.

But he survived! And now the treasure of Engine 418 is out of reach
.

“Please, A.G., don’t do this,” Henna pleaded.

He circled her moaning figure. Felt an insatiable desire to grab clumps of blond hair and pull. He wanted to strike out—at anyone, anything.

“Please. We’ll make things right.”

“You say that so flippantly, but do you know how many years I’ve waited for this? I might as well be a dead man for all the good it’s done me. I’ve dreamed of this opportunity. With Clay still in the picture, though, I can’t even take the next step.”

“Maybe I should have a go at him?”

Asgoth churned inside. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m inadequate, or do you have a soft spot for him? You have seemed distracted.”

“Distracted? No, don’t be silly.”

“Don’t lie to me, Henna. Surely you find him attractive.”

“He’s always been handsome, I won’t deny it.”

“Ah! See, there’s the reason I can’t leave this in your hands. You need me to help carry it out.”

“But it’s not working.”

“There’s still time!”

“Aren’t the others willing to help?”

“The Consortium?” Asgoth said with disdain. “They’d love to see me fail.”

“What about Monde?”

“That fool! He’s slipping. He didn’t even realize Sergeant Turney was gone until yesterday. I told him, but did he listen? With his purported expertise, he should’ve anticipated this.”

Rage surged through Asgoth’s extremities, seeking an outlet. He lashed out. Henna whimpered, hugging herself. When she moved to brush her hair from her face, Asgoth threaded his fingers with hers and pulled back. She emitted a shriek. He followed with a low howl of his own.

Downstairs, the neighbor was screaming empty threats.

Clay relived those final moments of consciousness …

His body was on high alert, his mind flipping some primal switch that called for survival at all costs. He was still sinking. The cobalt gel was thickening around him. Frozen muscles and carbon dioxide–poisoned limbs hampered his efforts to claw upward. Shards of light slashed across his eyelids, intensified by the dark waters.

Bump …

It was a creature of the deep.

Bummpp …

Or a malevolent spirit coming to feast upon his soul.

God, I don’t want to die! Make it go away. Protect me from … whatever this is
.

The thing latched on to his thigh, into his belt, around his chest. It was strong, unyielding. Gathering him in.

Is anyone listening? Anyone there?

He tried to fight, but liquid ice flooded his mouth. No strength left.

Jesus … save me!

The waters folded him up in a cold black bundle.

Hands propped him up against cool white pillows. From the corner a lamp poured honey-colored light over the room’s sparse furnishings.

“Welcome to the land of the living.”

Clay turned toward the warm voice. He was not alone. He was alive.

“For a while there, thought you might check out on us.”

Clay blinked against the light. As his pupils adjusted, he saw a patch of short dark hair, wide cheeks, deep chocolate eyes, and a spreading grin.

“Sarge? You again?”

“The one and only.”

“Where are we? How’d I get here? Were you there … at Crater Lake?”

“Whoa.” Sergeant Turney lifted fleshy hands in surrender. “Hold on a sec, partner. See, we can do this my way: I tell you what happened from start to finish. Or we can try it your way: one question at a time.”