Expiration Date (37 page)

Clay sank back into feathery bliss. “I’m so tired.”

“You’ve been snoozin’ since yesterday evening. You should be bright as a lark. Heck, by the time I fished you outta the water and flopped your bony butt into the boat, an emergency team was cuttin’ across the lake. They performed CPR and all that rigmarole, then shot you off to the nearest medical facility.”

In Clay’s mind, hazy images supported the sergeant’s account.

“ ’Course, they wanted to hold you for medical evaluation. I told ’em I was in the middle of an investigation, flashed my credentials, promised to keep an eye on you. After a call or two, they handed you over. To be honest, I think they were glad to be rid of you. Bad park publicity—security questions and all that. Sooner you were outta there, the better.”

“You dove in after me? You were on the boat?”

“Right behind you.”

“Never even saw you.”

“Your head was in a fog—that much was obvious. You saw me all right. Just didn’t recognize me. Had on a pair o’ shades and a baseball cap, jeans and one of them Hawaiian shirts.”

“So it was your hands I felt on my belt? Scared me to death. I was praying God would make you go away.” Clay’s eyes closed as his energy ebbed.

“Thank God for ignorin’ that one, huh?”

“I thought I was dead for sure.”

“And now you’re alive, partner. You’ve been given a second chance.” Sarge rubbed a hand over his cheeks. “The way it looked to me, you went overboard on purpose. Am I right?”

Clay looked toward the window.

“Forget that I’ve got a badge,” Sarge said. “Sakes alive, what made ya think it was time to call it quits?”

With both hands, Clay rubbed his forehead, then closed his eyes. He felt embarrassment and shame, as well as an overwhelming sense of relief. He’d been offered back his life. Free will had been exercised, but God’s will had cut in. The life and times of Clay Ryker were not yet over.

“I killed a man.”

“You what?”

“Years ago,” Clay said. “I killed a friend.”

The words of confession were ropes tied to his limbs and pulled in opposite directions. He would be torn apart; he could not survive. Then, as his voice rose and fell, as the full story of Bill Scott’s death gurgled forth, Clay felt the guilt ebb away. He’d never told a soul about this, never in full detail.

Sarge met his eye. “You wanted him to die.”

Clay nodded.

“Could’ve been an accident. Those things happen.”

“Nope. I know what was in my mind, Sarge.”

“Maybe so. But only God knows the intentions of a man’s heart.”

“Then I deserved to die in that water.”

“Don’t we all, Clay. So you’ve been carryin’ this around all this time, takin’
it out on yourself and those around you? Well, I’d say you had yourself a good old-fashioned baptism in Crater Lake. Time for you to start fresh. As a new man.”

“Shouldn’t I confess to the police?”

“You just did. And there’s really no way of knowin’ what caused his death, not one hundred percent. Twelve years—that’s a long time. Relax.”

Clay eased into the pillows, warm beneath the lamp’s honey glow.

He had to ask, though: “Why me, Sarge? Summer’s gone, and that old couple out on High Pass Road. Why am I still alive?”

“That’s a question we should be askin’ ourselves each day. Now listen, you should be countin’ your blessings. Think back to those childhood Bible stories, and tell me what kept Jonah from drownin’ in the sea. A large fish, am I right?” Sarge patted his protruding stomach. “Well, looky here, you got saved by your very own whale.”

Located on the North Umpqua River, Steamboat Inn provided the rest Clay needed. Through the windows of the river suite, he watched the rushing waters dip and curl against a backdrop of bigleaf maples and evergreens. The faint noise along Highway 138 reminded him of the outside world, but within the pine-paneled walls he found rejuvenation beyond his physical concerns.

Sarge had paid for two nights here. He’d spread out his stuff on the couch, leaving the king bed for Clay. Clay watched him kindle a fire in the fireplace, cook eggs and waffles in the minikitchen, pour fresh coffee into “Get Oregonized” mugs.

“Ran a load o’ laundry for you,” Sarge said, pointing at a pile of loosely folded clothes. “ ’Course, you’re pretty much stuck with whatcha got. Most everything”—he flipped his thumb down—“went to the bottom of the lake.”

Clay looked through the stack. His GPS was there, still strapped to his belt.

“Was there anything else, Sarge? A wooden tube?”

“Does an old cork count? Sorry. If it didn’t float, it’s sittin’ down with the fishies.”

Without the cork, Clay reasoned, the hollowed oak tube would’ve sunk like a stone. Did it even matter?

After breakfast Sarge loaded up his fishing gear. “Wanna come along, Clay? Some of the biggest steelhead you’ll ever find.”

“I’ll pass.”

“If you’re needin’ tackle, I’ve got—”

“No, I’m just not ready to go dipping my feet into the water again. Not yet.”

Sarge clapped a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “You’re gonna be all right.”

Clay spent the next hours relaxing. On a private deck, he gazed over the water between sips of coffee and fifteen-minute naps. He tended his stitches, glad to see the skin mending. Trees rustled in the river breeze as passages from the Gideon Bible in his lap began stitching the wounds in his spirit.

Next to the main building, he found the Steamboat Inn library where plush chairs beckoned and vaulted ceilings pointed skyward. In one sitting he read through half a Randy Singer legal thriller—just as Jenni was prone to do.

He considered calling her. Maybe in a day or two.

Sarge returned that afternoon and pan-fried his fresh catch in olive oil. He sprinkled thyme on the thick fillets, served them with broccoli and garlic bread.

“After roughin’ it on the trail,” Clay said, “this is awesome.”

Sarge gripped a fold of his belly. “Yeah, who says we bachelors can’t enjoy a good meal? I have been cuttin’ back, though. Gotta slim down for the lady in my life.”

“Josee, right? How’s it working out between you?”

“Wow! Good memory there. Yes sir, things’re lookin’ up.”

The conversation turned from women and relationships to the events of the past few days. With his energy returning, Clay was ready to work through the details.

“Sarge, what led you to Crater Lake? How’d you know to find me there?”

“Trade secret.” Sarge winked. “No, you really wanna know?”

“My parents. They realized all the camping gear was gone, right?”

“They did. That’s a fact. When they let me know you’d disappeared, it didn’t take me long to find out the car was registered for long-term parking up by Willamette Pass. Got worried when I found out you’d drained your checking account. Your mother figured you must be headed for Crater Lake. Told me all about your high school dreams of doin’ just that.”

Clay speared another bite of fish.

“I had other help too,” Sarge said.

“What do you mean?”

“Had someone keepin’ an eye out for ya. Kid by the name of Scooter.”

“Wesley?”

“That’s him. He’s a natural at it. Dropped him off at Windigo Pass, had him hike back until he ran into you. Last year he got messed up in some nasty stuff, so this is one way I’ve helped him stay outta trouble. Good kid at heart. Every now and then he likes to gimme a hand with my investigations.”

“He was a spy. That’s what you’re saying? An informant?”

“He volunteered.” Sarge shrugged, sipped at a glass of Pepsi Vanilla.

“So you were watching me the whole time. You think I’m guilty, is that it?”

“I had my questions. Thing is, Clay, it doesn’t add up. The nights that Summer Svenson and Mr. and Mrs. Coates died, you were at home. Your parents swear to it. On top of that, the blue paint scrapes at the Svenson scene don’t come close to matchin’ any of the vehicles you’ve been drivin’. As for the incident at the Coateses’? That was just one terrible accident. Every bit of evidence says the lady shot him, thinkin’ it was self-defense, then died while breathin’ in fumes.”

“If that’s the case, why’d you have me followed?”

“Whoa now. You hiked right alongside Scooter. That was your choice as much as his. And in case you don’t remember, he left you a day early.”

“At Diamond Lake.”

“Mm-hmm. That’s when he called. Told me where you were headed.”

“But why’d you come?” Clay pushed back his chair.

“Scooter told me how you gave him your Discman. He was worried about you, said you were actin’ awful depressed. Guess it was a good thing I was there since you meant to die in that lake. I almost drowned gettin’ you out, and now suddenly I’m the bad guy?”

Clay stood and paced in front of the fireplace. “I mean, thanks for saving me. Seriously. Without your help, I guess I’d be fish food two thousand feet under.”

“There’s something else buggin’ ya. What is it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me. I’ve been through stuff most people would say was crazy. Just ask Josee. She could fill you in.” Patient sincerity filled Sergeant Turney’s eyes. “C’mon, Clay. Let’s hear it.”

“Expiration dates?”

Clay groaned at the question.

“Lemme get this straight. You think you know when people’ll die?”

“I don’t just think, Sarge. I know. How else do you explain—”

“Clay, hold up. I’m just workin’ this out in my head.”

“Sounds like I’ve lost my mind, doesn’t it?”

“How can you lose something you never had?” Sarge laughed and pressed on past Clay’s show of indignation. “So the way I figure it, you’re like a modern-day Jonah. You’ve been given the knowledge to help save lives, but you’ve been more focused on feelin’ sorry for yourself. Runnin’ from yourself and the past.”

“I tried to save one kid, Sarge, soon as I realized what was going on.”

“Good. I’m sure that’s part of your assignment. God still works through his people, you know.”

“Oh, he does, does he?” Clay’s voice turned bitter. “Well, guess what. That kid died. He got … He was taken out by a train.”

“And that’s why you threw yourself off the boat. To pay for your failure.”

Clay said nothing.

“Lemme tell you something that should bring a smile to that long face of yours. From what I can tell, Junction City hasn’t reported a train accident in months. Hasn’t reported any missing children either.”

“I saw it with my own eyes. You’ve gotta believe me, Sarge.”

“Can’t believe everything you see. Don’t ask me how or why, but for some
reason you’ve convinced yourself of something that never happened. My investigation has kept connectin’ back to Engine 418, so it was only a matter of time till I found out about Kenny Preston’s favorite pastime.”

“Kenny? Yep, he told me how he liked exploring that engine.”

“He told me the same thing.”

“Huh?”

“It’s true, Clay. Three nights ago I sat and talked with him and his mother. He’s got more life left in his bones than you and me put together.”

Dmitri lost another ten dollars at the Mill Casino’s blackjack table.

This was a poor idea, he scolded himself. He was too distracted to be gambling with Brotherhood monies. Too tired. He felt dirtied by this encounter with greed’s ugly stepchild.

“Kak dela?”
he heard a voice say. “How’s life?”

“Oleg?”

Dmitri turned to find his comrade’s shiny face. If the man shaved, he showed no need for it; his skin was oily and without wrinkles. Despite his choirboy look and voice, Oleg Volovnik was a former crime lord from Moscow. His great-grandfather had been one of the Brotherhood of Tobolsk, and Oleg told how he had renewed his own vision for Russian resurgence during the Kremlin’s recent exhibit of Fabergé eggs. When he heard that a number of the jeweled artifacts were still missing, he felt it symbolized his country’s state of affairs, and he vowed to put things right.

“A nice afternoon. Let’s take a walk so we can speak in privacy.”

“Da, Oleg. I’m ready to stretch my legs.”

Dmitri strolled past a poster advertising an upcoming series of Rick Springfield concerts. Outside, a Coquille Indian totem pole staked tribal claim to the casino’s profits, and ocean salt replaced the air’s cigarette stench.