Expiration Date (47 page)

“Not avoiding it. Just don’t see how it’s your concern. No, I haven’t had any boyfriends. For real. I’m taking classes a couple days a week and working salary at Safeway, which means whenever and however long I’m needed.”

“But that’s just it, Mylisha. You are avoiding stuff, and you know it.”

“Like me not calling you? If that’s what you’re thinking, that just goes to show how self-centered Mr. Ryker’s little world has become.”

“I’m talking about your world. I know you. Since when’ve you cared about business degrees or doing time on the corporate level?”

“Called paying the bills,” she said. “Helping my sister, watching after her kids.”

“I saw Shanique.”

“Not at the club, I hope.”

“Huh? No, it was a few weeks back, downtown JC. I don’t think she saw me. She almost ran into this kid—it was his fault as much as hers—then she got out and started yelling at Henna.”

“Who?”

“Henna Dixon.”

“Hannah? As in, thin with dark hair? She was a few grades behind us?”

“That’s her. She’s a fake blonde now. I hardly even remembered her. You know how it is when you’re an upperclassman—no time for the little people.”

“Hmm. I’m supposed to talk to you about that.”

“About what?”

A baby blue envelope rested on Mylisha’s knee. She curled it, slid it back into her purse on the floor mat. “It’ll wait. We have our own catching up to do.”

“There you go, avoiding the question again.”

“Clay?”

“Yeah?”

“Talk to the hand.”

Detective Freeman launched his boat after setting his bike in the hull. He weighed anchor, then splashed back through the shallows to park and lock his truck. He winched in the heavy-duty boat straps. Made sure he had his ice chest of food, his bucket of bait and tackle.

Fishing wasn’t the point. Drifting downriver? Now that was a day off.

He set his things in the aluminum boat, hitched himself over the lip onto a bench. With oars fitted into the locks, he rowed out into the current. The McKenzie River prodded, tugged, twisted the vessel around. His dipped oars made adjustments.

Sizzling on his neck, the sun followed him beyond the rapids, past a spot
where a trio of inner-tubers waved and hollered in greeting. He looked at the boy on the lead tube and was reminded of himself as a youngster. Oh, to be carefree again.

Detective Freeman didn’t wave back. He wasn’t here to socialize.

With the riskier stretch behind him, he pulled his fishing hat down over his eyes and let the river have its way with the boat. He thought about eating the egg sandwich he’d packed in the ice chest. Considered the chips and cold cola. But he was too tired to lift a finger.

A shadow moved across the sun.

He opened his eyes and saw he was passing beneath a bridge. Usually right about here he shifted over into the deeper pools and dangled a line. The fish liked hiding in this section beneath submerged boulders and tree stumps. After an hour or two, he would tie the boat at the next landing and cycle back to get his truck and trailer.

The thing that really killed him about all this was how tense he felt.

Sunlight, nice breeze, beautiful river, and solitude … Some called it God’s country.

And I’m wound tighter than a kite! Darn Ryker and his dreams of being a hero. I don’t need anyone but myself
.

Detective Freeman’s boat popped out from the bridge’s shade, and the sun stabbed him in the eyes. Pain detonated behind his retinas—sharp, yet short lived; like an itchy finger on a hair trigger, it fired off the fatal aneurysm in his brain.

His boat made a lazy, uncorrected circle and continued downriver.

They parked, then stepped into the forest’s leaf-filtered heat. As they neared the rocks, the water’s minty breath greeted them in a frosty rush. Clay bounded from one rock to the other, bobbled, then pounced on the opposite bank. Mylisha, with a raised eyebrow, folded her arms and cocked a hip.

“You need a hand?” he goaded.

Now that he had succeeded, he knew she’d make it across; she was no slouch, and her female pride would heighten her determination.

“Oh no you didn’t. Mr. Ryker thinks I need his help?”

He eased up. Walking a delicate line between friendly concern and confidence in her athleticism, he turned his back and followed the path through the trees. He heard a splash and a grunt, and soon Mylisha trotted up behind him with a show of energy. He pretended not to notice that her sweatpants were wet up to the knees.

During the next two hours, Clay caught up on old news and shared the basics of his courtship with Jenni, plus the escapades of young Jason. Mylisha was a gracious listener. She probed only so far, allowing him to expound as he wished.

With the trail as his focus, he grew less aware of her appearance and more attuned to her attributes as a friend. Mylisha was more introspective than she’d once been, yet she was much the same woman who had attracted him years ago.

The trail crossed back over the river and returned them to Alsea Falls.

“Ready to eat?” he asked.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Within the spray of cascading water, a flat rock acted as their table. Mylisha stretched out on the bank and leaned back with her face lifted to the sun. Clay joined her, and they unpacked the snacks. Cold drinks never tasted better.

“Clay, I’m sorry about my reaction in the car.”

“Which one?”

“There he goes again.” Mylisha dipped a hand in the water, flicked her nails at him. “I mean the envelope I was carrying. It’s a card that Summer wrote me. There are things she wanted me to pass on to you.”

Clay was munching on a handful of Doritos.

“You know what? She accused me of letting the Lord hold me back.”

“You, Mylisha? That’s hard to believe.”

“She was right. I’ve been waiting since high school, maybe longer, to know God’s will. I prayed for a scholarship, but then Shanique got the free ride to UCLA. I was stuck here, wondering where I missed my cues. Did I do something wrong? So I kept on praying, which turned into wishing, and then it became nothing more than a daydream now and then.” She flicked a half-nibbled chip into the riverside undergrowth. “And nothing’s changed.”

“Timing’s everything, right?”

“I’m in my late twenties, Clay. Still taking classes at the community college … Now
there’s
a quick road into the world of indie filmmaking! And worst of all—”

“There’s more?”

“Boy, now you’re mocking me.”

“Only trying to liven things up and put a smile on your face.”

She gave him a closed-lip grimace. “See, that’s what I’m talking about.”

“You lost me.”

“I am boring. It’s like the kiss of death.”

“No!” Clay said. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“But Summer was right. I’ve been waiting for God to do something, and in the meantime life’s been passing me by. So recently I took matters into my own hands, started checking into astrology.” Mylisha set her forehead against her crossed arms. “I don’t mean to unload this on you. What with Summer’s funeral and you back in town, just seems I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Maybe I’ve been acting the fool.”

“Mylee.”

She turned her head, rich brown irises glowing through long ebony hair.

He said, “I’ve always admired your belief in God. Seems so real to you.”

“Mmm. Well, look at me now.”

“Look at us. A recovering stargazer and a soon-to-be-divorcé.” He could add other things to his own list, but he refrained. “God’s latest poster children.”

“Two more people in need of his healing, dat’s the truth.” Mylisha sighed. “I know I’ve been wrong, won’t even debate it. Just tired, I guess. Weary of trying to do the right thing.”

“Is that any surprise? I mean, nobody finishes a race without getting weary.”

“Listen to you, Clay. Glory hallelujah! We’s havin’ church now.”

Clay let out a laugh.

With dialogue flowing and snacks depleted, he sensed she was ready to dip into Summer’s well of secrets. To push now, though, would be to close
her off once more. He restrained himself, and within a minute his strategy paid off.

Mylisha French began to share. Clay Ryker stared into the distance with mounting horror.

On the way back to the car, Clay’s mind reeled.

“Clay, watch out for—”

A tree root snaked from the forest floor and ensnared his boot. Stopped cold in his tracks, he dropped to his knees, felt something dig into his skin.

“Shoot, what an idiot!”

“Tried to warn you,” Mylisha said. “You did that with true white-boy style.”

“Hey now. No racist remarks.”

“By the looks of it, boyfriend, you’ve lost what little coordination you had.”

“Please. Enough.” Clay extricated his foot. “How much to make you stop?”

“How much you got on you?”

“What if I told you there were no empty seats for the ride home?”

Mylisha wagged her finger. “Oh no, that ain’t right.” She dropped the finger to point at his knee. “Look, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

She snorted. “You haven’t changed, Clay. That’s a fact.” Before he could rise, she had a leaf in hand and started brushing dirt from the abrasion. “My dad used to do this with a square of sandpaper. Said it cleaned up the wound so it’d scab faster.”

“No thanks.” Clay tried to stand. “It’ll heal on its own.”

Back away! The twelve-inch rule. Please, don’t touch me
.

Her fingers slipped into his, pushing down. “Stay put, Mr. Ryker, and let me finish. What now? Please tell me it’s not sprained. Where does it hurt?”

His groans, however, were expressions of something deeper. He snagged
his hand back, angered by his verbal reaction. He should know better. Time to shut his trap and inject himself with a full dose of detachment.

Mylisha French … August 10, 2004
.

“You can do away with the tough guy act,” she said. “I know you’re in pain.”

He pulled himself upright. She was wrong. He felt no pain, felt nothing at all.

A key jiggled in the lock. Henna, no doubt. Asgoth knew she was one of the few with access to this place. He waited at the kitchen table in the dark blue shadows of dusk and watched her slip inside.

“A.G.?”

He noted the renewed timidity in her voice, a schoolgirl’s desire to please.

“I’m here,” he said. “What’d you bring me?”

Henna moved forward and spread her findings over the table’s spilled wax ridges.

“You couldn’t find his GPS unit?”

“I tried,” she said. “I did what I could with the time and privacy allotted.”

“We need that absolutely. At Crater Lake, Sergeant Turney turned in a piece of cork he found, which tells us the object went down. That GPS is our one link to its position.”

She set her hands on the wood, closed her eyes. “Please, can I get a little positive feedback?” She rolled her neck in a circle, moaned in appreciation as he applied warm pressure to her muscles. “Ah, that’s better. I should do more of these deep breathing exercises. All my stress seems to go to my back.”

“What else did you find, Henna? Anything we can use against him?”