Expiration Date (46 page)

“Lot on my mind. I know you’re just trying to be a friend.” In a show of nonchalance, Clay threw out his hand and clapped Digs’ bare forearm. He mumbled a thanks, but his mind was focused on the results.

Skin to skin. Numerals … 
8.1.0.0.4

Now I’m convinced of it. The numbers must be wrong!

For whatever reason, it appeared they had locked up, jammed on one date in particular. Or maybe his ability had departed altogether, leaving only a residue. Yep, that must be it. What else made any sense?

He parked at the market. “What’re you having, Digs? I’m buyin’.”

“Now there’s a quick turnaround for ya. Let’s see, how ’bout a Butterfinger.”

Clay left his gloves in the car, hesitated at the beer cooler, chose an Arizona Iced Tea instead. He collected a few other snacks and plunked them on the counter. He was feeling expansive. He was free from worry. Now that the ability had taken a nosedive, he realized the amount of pressure it had been exerting on him.

“How goes it?” He nodded at the teenage girl behind the counter.

“Okay. Yourself?”

“It’s a great day.” Clay handed over his cash, made a purposeful effort to let his hand touch hers. He had nothing to fear, no responsibility and no worries.

But he was wrong. Her expiration date was over two years away.

Which meant the numbers were not stuck; they had not malfunctioned. The other dates must be as accurate as ever, precursors of doom and destruction.

August tenth was going to be a very bad day.

Asgoth patrolled the streets, gauging, plotting. Soon festival booths on these sidewalks would channel thousands of pedestrians from fried delicacies to crafts to clog dancing and face painting. On the Scandi-Fest’s edge, the Finnish locomotive would stand watch.

Just as I will. Watching. But no longer waiting
.

For twelve years he had labored in this obscure principality. Few of these citizens knew he still walked among them, but they would find out soon enough.

Yes, one bad worm could work its way through an entire barrel.

He wondered how things were going north of here in Corvallis. Screws were being tightened, and it was only a matter of time before secrets came to light. With the Consortium’s aid, Monde was shadowing the Russian and others in the Brotherhood, and his latest message had confirmed the location of a woman Monde knew all too well.

Josee Walker. She’d caused Monde trouble before.

Let Mr. Monde deal with her while Asgoth pursued a strategy of his own.

“Josee’s a feisty little character. She’s lived and worked here with me for less than a year, but what a true gift she’s been. A fine employee, as well.”

“So she also has interest in the Fabergé eggs?”

“Yes,” Suzette said. “Quite definitely.”

Dmitri made appropriate sounds as Suzette Bishop showed him around her art gallery, pointed out trinkets, thumbed through clothbound catalogs that creaked with age. In a circular case, jeweled Fabergé imitations—“Fauxbergé,” some called them—sparkled on fabric beneath a band of lights. One or two bore marked resemblance to the genuine
objets de luxe
, demanding a second look. Was it possible? Nyet. This would be silly for Josee to hide her treasure in the open rather than in a locked vault.

“Why is she so curious, do you think?”

Suzette’s nose twitched at the question. Between long, limp curls of hair, her eyes were almond shaped and pretty. “Well, Josee’s naturally inquisitive, and once she sets her mind to something, it’s not easy to pry her away.”

“Like a bulldog.”

“Yes. But a cute bulldog.”

“Forgive me, it was an improper joke of mine.”

“You’re fine, you’re fine.” Suzette giggled as she moved back behind the glass counter. In a bowl of Nez Percé pottery, ivory business cards sported maroon calligraphy. “Perhaps it was an inquiry by one of our customers that set Josee on her search. She’s been preoccupied with it, that’s for certain.”

“As a Russian, I also have much interest. The Fabergé treasures were made special for the Romanov family, Easter gifts each year for three decades. They are important to my people, Mother Russia’s glory and past.”

“They’re exquisite, from what I’ve seen of them.”

“But foreign money has stolen many away. King Farouk of Egypt, J. P. Morgan, and Dr. Armand Hammer, even your President Roosevelt—FDR, I think you say—they have owned our treasures. For us, it’s a national shame.”

“That’s so sad,” Suzette commiserated. “I’ve never thought of it that way, but I can understand that you’d have a sense of loss.”

“Our people are torn. We have many troubles already, with Chechnya and terrorists, crime, inflation. I hope to bring change.”

“Oh, Dmitri, you’re right, you’re so right. We have it easy here.”

“You see now why I need to know.”

She wrinkled her eyebrows. Again her nose twitched.

“I need to know,” he said, “where is the missing Fabergé egg?”

“And this search brings you to Oregon of all places? How strange.”

“These are symbols of new life, rebirth. It is what my country needs. After the young Tsarevich, Alexei, was discovered with a blood defect—”

“Hemophilia.”

Dmitri nodded. “When this happened, Tsar Nicholas and Alexandra turned to Rasputin for a cure. He placated them with brief breaks in the disease’s symptoms. Miracles, he claimed. He misguided them on the political path, causing rumors and shame. The blood defect brought distorted thinking to the Tsars, and later Lenin took advantage of this unrest. Alexei’s illness opened the door for revolution.”

“I’ve heard that said before. The Romanovs’ story is indeed a tragic one.”

“So, Suzette.” Dmitri set his cell phone on the counter’s wood molding. “I seek a particular egg from 1917. It bears rose diamonds, indicating that it’s one of the last gifts created.”

“As an art lover, I adore such details. Tell me more.”

“After the discovery of Alexei’s condition,” he explained, “the color of blood was not allowed on Fabergé’s imperial creations. Red was forbidden since it could bring anguish to his parents. This rose-diamond egg proves what has been suspected, that Rasputin believed he had obtained a true cure at last.”

She held up a hand. “But he died in late 1916, if I remember correctly.”

“Poisoned, shot, and drowned.”

Suzette gave an involuntary shudder and took a step back.

“Rasputin gave an idea to Fabergé’s work master, Henrik Wigstrom. In the design he included the forbidden color. It was a surprise for the Romanovs, for the coming Easter celebration. He would present this gift along with the cure for Alexei.”

“Yet they never received it. Is there any happiness in this story?”

“Nyet. The egg disappeared, Bolsheviks killed the imperial family, and my country still mourns.” Dmitri straightened his jacket. “Do you know when Josee will return? I wish to speak with her about such matters.”

“Now this is scary, Clay.”

“Scary how?”

He held the passenger door for Mylisha French. She settled into the Duster with a daypack on her lap. She looked good in her dark green sweatpants and T-shirt, Nike hiking shoes, and one half of a “Best Friends” necklace. The other half, Clay felt certain, was with Summer Svenson beneath the headstone he had prepared.

“Hard to believe this thing’s still running, that’s how.”

Behind the wheel Clay pumped the gas twice and turned the key.

“We had our first date in this, you remember?” She patted the dash. “Guess it outlasted us, hmm?”

No suitable comments came to mind. Clay didn’t trust his mouth at this juncture. A friendship, he reminded himself; that’s how their relationship had started, and that’s how it should remain. Before God and family he had made vows to be a faithful husband. That hadn’t changed yet. Not irrevocably.

The Duster carried them out of town. Clay was glad to see a clear sky overhead, a perfect Sunday afternoon for their hike at the falls. With the window down, he adjusted the side mirror and noticed a vehicle trailing them toward Monroe.

“You think you’re ready for this, Clay? You up for a good hike?”

“It was my idea. You’ll be wishing you could keep up.”

Mylisha chuckled into her hand. “Can’t fool me, boy. Straight up, we’re both older now. And the way I hear it, you’ve been a desk jockey. Is that true?”

“Yep. Had my own business, a satellite mapping service.”

“Act as if I don’t have a clue.”

“Uh, basically, you establish the coordinates of any given location by using a grid of GPS dots, global satellite positioning. When you translate and lay it all out, the information has numerous applications, especially for emergency
services. If they need to pinpoint where a hunter’s disappeared, for example, these maps can save a life.”

“What got you into it?”

“Wish I knew.” Clay noted the car still behind them. “When things didn’t work out with my b-ball career, I finished up at college, then moved with Jenni and Jason to Cheyenne. I borrowed money from my grandfather, leased a new car and an office on the second floor of a building downtown, hired a secretary. Tried to make a run at it.”

“You always did have ambition.”

“Well, it never got off the ground. Couldn’t compete with the bigger guys.”

“So here you are.”

Mylisha’s statement held no judgment. True to form, she went straight to the issue—he was here and that was what mattered. He focused on the road. Two more miles to their turnoff. In the mirror the trailing car was growing larger.

“What about you, Mylisha? Summer told me you haven’t had any real serious boyfriends. Is that true?”

“She said what?”

“The night I got into town she stopped by to chat. Didn’t stay long, though.”

“Mm-hmm, my girl had a thing for you. Thought you were a regular hottie.”

“Nothing happened, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Not like it’s my business. But yeah, she told me it was all innocent.”

“How’d she do that?”

“In a card, which she must’ve written minutes before the accident. They found it in the glove box.” Mylisha’s head swiveled. Lustrous and shiny, her permed hair draped over her eye. “You know where it happened?”

“It was a hit and run, right?”

“Yeah, but you know where?”

“In town, wasn’t it?” When Clay saw grief curl her lips into a sneer, he realized he was slipping up. “Uh, I don’t know.”

“Outside my own apartment!”

“On Maple? Where I picked you up?”

“Yes, Clay. Why’re you asking stupid questions? She was right outside, and I didn’t even know it.” A tear splashed onto the leg of her sweatpants. “If I’d been out there, maybe I could’ve done something. Instead I ended up next to her hospital bed for three nights. She was pretty well gone, but I sat there praying she’d come back. Told her I was sorry, that I hoped she knew the Lord as her Savior, that I should’ve been a better friend.”

Clay considered putting a hand on her shoulder but stopped himself.

I’m not ready to deal with Mylisha’s death date on top of everything else
.

“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” she continued. “Waiting in that hospital room, feeling so useless. You know how that feels? Do you have any idea?”

“I know exactly.” He locked eyes with her. “It sucks.”

Mylisha cracked open her window, and the perfume that traced across the front seat teased him with her nearness. Although this was a bad time for it, he wanted to spill all, to tell her about his theory of the numbers, about Summer and the Coates couple. He’d intended to bring her into his confidence, but she had toils of her own; she didn’t need to be dragged into his nightmare.

A turn in the road led him over railroad tracks toward the falls, and Clay’s surreptitious glance told him that the trailing vehicle had continued on in the other direction. So he’d been acting paranoid—surprise, surprise.

“Hey, you know what?” He tried to sound lighthearted. “You never did answer me on the boyfriend issue.”

“Clay.” She pursed her lips. “Now you’re just talkin’ silly.”

“See? You’re trying to avoid the question.”