Expiration Date (44 page)

So what was she doing back here this late? Almost ten thirty.

On Sixth Street, Henna parked and entered a local video store. Clay passed by, turned onto Holly, kept the engine running while he sat at the curb. From this spot he could see if she used either the front or rear exit.

It was a short wait.

Twenty seconds after entering the store, Henna emerged from the back and jogged up a stairway to a second-story apartment complex. Clay watched her coast along a dilapidated open-air walkway. She hesitated before entering the far unit.

He observed the door number. Counted the seconds.

Once he saw the golden hues dancing behind the apartment curtains, he presumed candles had been lit. He even imagined the sounds of mood music.

His mind played back over his encounter on the Greyhound. That first day back in JC had leveled him. Depressed beyond words, he’d dipped into his dad’s stash of Miller Lite. He’d spoken with Summer, felt the numbers on her hand—just as he had on his mother’s arm.

And it had all started after Henna’s little palm-reading gig.

You’ll begin to know things. You’ll feel them …

If this was a gift from God, could it stem from that auspicious beginning? And if it was a curse of sorts, why did it keep prodding him along with the sense he could save lives? Regardless of the answer, it seemed that someone had tried driving him toward his own grave, playing the guilt card that had been dealt years ago.

Was Henna at fault? What else had she said to him?

That whole thing about the first seduction. In the Garden of Eden.

At the apartment window, a shape moved. Clay pressed back into the shadows of his car, barely breathing. It was time to curtail this clandestine activity. If he pressed too hard, he might alert Henna to his presence and forfeit his chances of tracking her to her accomplice. Who, he wondered, lived up there? Was it her partner in crime?

Maybe this was nothing but Clay’s paranoia talking.

For kicks, during a break at work tomorrow, he’d make a routine phone call to quell his suspicions.

Those were Henna’s footsteps coming up the stairs.

“I need you now,” Asgoth spoke into the apartment’s stillness, and the hallway swatted the words back in an indecipherable echo.

He was beginning to question her loyalty. When they were together, her eyes seemed to wander, her mind felt closed to his advances. And at this late date, as the festival crept closer and the Consortium awaited results, she had the gall to gather solace from another source. This morning he’d seen her enter a low building at the edge of town where a chiseled lawn sign advertised acupuncture treatments.

“A.G.?” Henna cooed. “Are you there?”

She oozed into the apartment. The front door creaked as she pushed it back into its heat-warped frame. Through a gap in the bedroom door, Asgoth watched her.

“No need to be jealous, A.G. I’ve been tense. Just needed to unwind.”

“Here I am.” Asgoth slipped from behind the door, moved toward her. “Why’d you go to him this morning?”

“I should’ve known you’d be watching. That’s not very civil of you.”

“He’s a charlatan. He can’t do the things I do.”

She lit a row of candles on an upturned crate, hailing the benefits of acupuncture, flaunting her disloyalty with no regard for him as her host. He could appreciate her need for stress release, and he knew she was drawn to the respectable doctor types, but this was annoying.

Much more of this and she’ll think she no longer needs me
.

Henna peeked through the curtain. “As I thought. There he is.”

“Who?”

“Clay. He’s down there in his car.”

“What’s he doing here? Have you been meeting with him as well?”

“I bumped into him at the arcade. That’s it,” she answered. She rolled her neck. Slipped out of her sandals. “A.G., help me relax. I’ve been so tight recently.”

Her words stirred his doubts into a desire to wrest control. As she stepped
toward the hall, he enwrapped her body and grabbed her blond hair with his free hand. He could smell her oregano scent, plus a mixture of foreign oils—from her treatment, most likely. The thought enflamed him.

“Do you want me?” he said.

“A.G.,” she cried.

“Or have you begun fantasizing about Clay Ryker again?”

“He was the first man I ever loved.”

“So you have been thinking of him.”

“Only when necessary for the sake of our plans.”

“Listen, Henna. I’m the only one for you. Oh yes, you have a soft spot in your heart for Mr. Ryker, but who has stayed by your side?” He drove her down to her knees, tugging back on golden locks. “Who loves you?”

“A.G.”

“Who?”

“Asgoth!” she called out.

“So if you know the answer, why, may I ask, do you look elsewhere?” He kneaded the bleached handful, let his words trickle down that beautiful neck. He was in command; he was the dominant one here. Then, slapped anew by the possibility of her betrayal, he found himself moaning into her hair with the awkwardness of a teenage boy thwarted by love.

“Why?” he managed to ask.

Henna shook her head. “I’m sorry. Please, I don’t mean to hurt you.”

“How do I know you won’t close me off?”

“You’re the only one,” she said. Her eyes were wet, sparkling in the candlelight. She was a woman reconfirming the vows of a religious order. “I won’t let anyone else in my heart.”

“I hope not. Or we’re through.”

Asgoth spoke the words with more acid than he felt. He knew he was lying, because he needed her more than she would ever need him. Wasn’t that the way it always worked? When it came down to it, he was limited without her.

Guns firing, tires screeching, cries of pain … What was going on?

Jiggling the controls of a video game, Tyrone and Tawnique startled Mylisha into awareness. She muttered, tucked herself tighter into her sister’s couch. She needed to shave her legs; she could feel them bristle beneath the multicolored throw blanket. The digital readout on the DVD player said it was not quite seven o’clock. Two hours before she had to get ready for work.

Where was Shanique? She’d been staying out longer each night.

“Ty.”

Her nephew was engrossed in the mayhem on the screen.

“Tyrone. Tawnique.”

They didn’t budge. “We playin’ a game,” they replied in unison.

On the screen a roadster careened into an enemy on foot, and the body somersaulted back out of view. The image disturbed Mylisha—stirring thoughts of Summer Svenson, awakening slumbering suspicions. Something Clay had told her on the phone a few weeks back …

Who would’ve wanted to kill my friend? It’s so wrong
.

She turned to the kids. “I don’t think your mama wants you playing that game.”

“But we just started,” Tawnique said.

“Mama ain’t even here,” Tyrone snapped.

That did it. Mylisha wrenched herself up, stumbled to the PlayStation, hit the Power button. “Please, I don’t need attitude to start my day. Your mama left me in charge, so I’m enforcing her rules while she’s gone.”

“She’s always gone,” Tawnique bleated.

“I know, honey. I feel you. You think I like sleeping on the couch all night?”

“Why isn’t she here? She forgot about us.”

“Tawnie, that’s just not true. She’s doing what she thinks she has to do.”

“She did forget.” Tawnique pointed to the kitchen. “We outta Cocoa Puffs.”

Before Mylisha could respond, her niece burst into tears and pattered down the hall. The lock clicked on the bathroom door. Tyrone slammed his game controller to the carpet, crossed his arms, threw his body into an overstuffed chair.

Mylisha felt an urge to turn on the PlayStation and wreak some violence of her own. Instead, she flopped back onto the couch and snuggled in the throw blanket.

Shanique showed up soon after, smiling but puffy eyed. “I needs me some sleep, for real. Thanks, baby. Kids were good for ya?”

“They miss you. They need time with their mama.”

“True, dat. They’s sweet as can be.” Shanique wandered off toward the whimpers in the bathroom. “Baby doll, talk to me. Wha’s wrong?”

Mylisha gave up the charade of sleep, skimmed through her collection of Hughes poems. One that was titled “Frosting” brought a smile to her face with its exhortation to find freedom by taking action, by learning how “to bake.” For a long time she’d found meaning by serving others, which wasn’t a bad thing. She had chosen the easy road, though, steering away from God-given goals for safer destinations. Why had she never got to the business of “baking” in her own life?

God’s will, she believed, led to true freedom. He had a plan.

Her eyes ran to the newspapers on the table, to the star charts she’d been searching for guidance. Straight up, she had turned to things created when she should be turning to the Creator. God had sent his Son, and Jesus had freed her. In the Good Book, in his own words, he no longer called her a servant but a friend.

It’s time I start walking in that freedom
.

Mylisha set aside her reservations, placed a call to the Ryker home.

Clay had done his detective legwork the night before. In his wallet he had three numbers to call. Aware of Mr. Blomberg’s disapproval of cell phones on the job, Clay waited until his ten o’clock break to dial the first.

Mrs. Dixon …

Her voice was pleasant, businesslike.

“Oh, yes, you’re Della’s boy. We used to come out to watch your ball games, Clay. My husband’s a JC alumnus himself.”

“Appreciate the support. Go Tigers.”

“You’re almost like family, Clay. Practically watched you grow up. So things didn’t work out for you in Wyoming?” Her innocent curiosity, Clay knew, was a trap for catching tidbits of gossip. “I suppose you’re glad to be home, eh?”

“I guess.”

“Just not the same, is it? After a … separation.”

Clay expected this sort of nosiness and told himself to remain detached, to feel nothing at all. Instead, he blurted out, “Jenni and Jason are coming for the Scandi-Fest, Mrs. Dixon. Things aren’t over till they’re over.”

“Oh. Forgive me, Clay. It’s not my place to pry.”

“S’okay. Actually, I was calling about Henna. How’s she doing?”

“Hannah, you mean? I’ve never quite adjusted to this New Age nonsense of hers. ‘Henna.’ Nothing wrong with the name in and of itself, but she sees it as a means of bringing herself into ‘alignment with the collective consciousness.’ Or some such notion, which I’m quite sure she’ll snap out of. I think Hannah’s a beautiful name. But then I’m just a doddering mother, so what do I know?”

Clay said, “I’m thinking about changing my name.”

“Oh dear, have you talked with Della yet?”

“ ‘Red Rock.’ Sounds okay, doesn’t it?”

Mrs. Dixon giggled at that.

“In all honesty, though, I need to ask about your daughter. You remember how I barged into your Avon party? I know I looked silly, but I … I was worried about her.”

“Worried?”

“Not to upset you. In fact, I’d rather you not say anything to her about this.”

“For heaven’s sake, what is it?”

“I’ve seen her around town a few times, bumped into her here and there.
In this close-knit community, it’s been hard to ignore her new set of, uh … acquaintances. I’m not saying she and I were close friends in school or anything, but—”

“You would’ve been, Clay, if she’d had any say. She had quite the crush on you.”

“She did?”

“She even dated your friend Bill Scott for a time—”

“I thought she was just bummin’ with him.”

“She was using him to get close to you, if you want the truth. Anyway, their relationship was short-lived.” Mrs. Dixon paused. “Oh, forgive my poor choice of words. Bill’s accident was a terrible misfortune, and the police showed little concern for your feelings through it all, did they? But at least that’s all water under the bridge.” She gasped at her second faux pas.

“Don’t worry about it,” Clay told her. “I’m trying to let it go.”

“Maybe you should speak with my daughter. You’re right. She has been out and about lately, keeping strange hours and providing flimsy excuses. She drops Serene here, expects me to fulfill my grandmotherly duty. Not that I mind, but I did raise my daughter to take care of her own. It’s a sad thing, actually.”