Expiration Date (50 page)

He moved up the crooked stairs on the backside of the video store, his adrenal glands kicking into overdrive. Henna was not to be taken lightly. She was a woman scorned, ruthless and conniving, according to Mylisha’s account.

At Alsea Falls, Mylisha had jolted Clay with details from their shared past.

Years ago, as a freshman, Henna had dated Bill Scott in an attempt to get closer to Clay. When that failed, she had tried to break up Clay and Mylisha’s relationship by convincing Bill to get his own little taste of brown sugar. More than willing, Bill had cornered Mylisha against the lockers and tried to make advances, which she resisted with a knee in the groin and a fist to the gut.

It did not end there. Some of Mylisha’s account Clay refused to dwell on.

Bill had begun leaving threatening notes. Predatory. Lecherous. He’d taunted Mylisha. Then to poke at her weak spots, he began messing around with Shanique. With the help of an adult supplier from the nearby lumberyard, he funneled drugs to this girl who had no means of paying for them.

At least not with cash. But Shanique found other ways.

Desperate, Mylisha worked longer hours after school to cover Shanique’s debt. She made Bill swear to leave her sister alone once the money was paid off. So it was, on a particular weekend, she went to his house to buy back her sister’s soul.

As arranged by Henna through Bill, Clay showed up minutes later.

At the top of the crooked stairs, Clay now revisited his rage …

He was a senior. Walking into Bill’s family room. Finding his friend and his girlfriend in one another’s arms. Hearing Bill’s chuckles amid Mylisha’s
cries of innocence. Some freshman chick was also in the house, one who’d been hanging around Bill a lot. She tried to offer Clay her own brand of comfort. He turned without a word. Closed the door softly. Drove to the gym, where he shot three hundred jump shots before collapsing in his bed that night. The next day Bill gave a joking apology. And Mylisha swore nothing had happened. Clay said it was no big deal, but his anger simmered, building beneath the surface.

Until that fateful day on the bridge.

A prod … a push … a shove.

They were all really the same, weren’t they?

The stairs ended in a pool of darkness. Clay curled around the railing to face the far corner unit. He saw no signs of life, no flickering candlelight.

Nothing to fear.

His footsteps brought harsh protests from the weatherworn walkway. On the road below, trees swayed, and a streetlamp thrust daggers of light between the rails.

Clay checked his perimeter. He saw no movement in either direction. He tilted his ear to the apartment door until his thick hair was pressed against the painted wood. In his hand the flashlight waited for duty. He could hear nothing but his own breathing. He stood straight again. Caught by a loose numeral on the door, a hair twanged from his scalp, and he tried to hold back his reaction.

Still no movement or sound or light or any apparent reason for concern.

Clay gripped the doorknob. Turned it. The unlocked door squealed as he pushed inward. He stretched his long legs inside, snapped the door shut. He wasn’t sure how he would explain himself, but now that he had entered the space, he intended to explore.

With his hand over the lens, Clay flipped on the flashlight. Turning on the apartment lights was out of the question, certain to alert those on the street below.

His senses embraced their detective work—tasting stale smoke in the air; smelling incense and candles; sighting gold carpet that looked dingy in the pale illumination through the curtains.

He turned along the wall, adjusting to the darkness, listening for anything other than the faint voices downstairs and a slow water drip from the kitchen area. He bumped into a wall clock. On the window sill, his fingers found ashes, incense sticks, strands of melted wax. In the middle of the living room, his light revealed a bundled blanket, a group of folding chairs, paper plates.

No furnishings or decorative elements.

The hall, the bathroom, the bedroom—they all lacked signs of long-term occupation. This renter lived a grim existence.

Why, he wondered, would Henna waste her time here?

The kitchen was a black cube, split by the light that chopped through the window. Spots on the walls indicated spattered cooking grease. Red candle wax fingers reached across the dining table and curled over the edges. As Clay leaned closer, one of the fingers poked at his leg. He flinched.

Etched into the wax, six letters formed a word. A name.

Asgoth
.

As Clay’s flashlight panned further down, he thought his heart would punch the eyeballs from his skull. Beneath the table, a jogging shoe rested on the tiles.

An Osaga KT-26.

The Osaga athletic company had folded years ago, but Clay would never forget the last time he’d seen this product on a person. Twelve years ago. At the riverbank beneath the bridge. Clay had yelled and pounded his chest, then shed his shirt and shorts for the coming plunge into the Willamette. Bill Scott had done likewise, tossing old and weary Osagas onto their pile of discarded clothes.

Clay Ryker was afraid to touch it.

Crouched in the dark kitchen, with his shoulder butted against the wax-entangled table, he stared at the prodigal shoe and deliberated. Under normal conditions he would’ve discounted its presence as a coincidence or strange twist of fate. Tonight, however, the circumstances prompted wild speculation.

After tackling and tossing aside theory after theory, Clay ran headlong into one that refused to go down. This idea had wriggled about in his mind for weeks now, but the shoe gave it the courage to walk out into the open.

What if Bill Scott had survived?

What if his friend had been severely injured and floated to the surface in an unconscious state, kept alive by a trace of a pulse?

Clay thudded his forehead against the table’s edge.

But I watched him go under, saw his bloodied body. I ran for help
.

Clay bent low, stretched his fingers to grab the Osaga. He drew it across the kitchen tiles and noticed a rolled white envelope tucked down inside.

“As usual, Sergeant Turney’s making a nuisance of himself.”

“I fear he’s connecting the loose ends, A.G. He was at the rental car place in Eugene earlier today. After that, he visited the FBI office.”

Mr. Monde and Asgoth watched Sergeant Turney hitch up his pants, tuck in his shirt, and walk across the Blombergs’ driveway. Out of sight they trusted the night to protect them, but the big man turned as though alerted to their nearness. He clamped a hand over his upper arm, muttering fervent words. A prayer of protection.

“Surely he can’t see us,” Monde whispered.

Asgoth remained frozen beneath the juniper branches.

Turney swung around to ring the doorbell. He coughed, hitched his pants again, and tightened his belt a notch. He looked back over his shoulder, deep-set eyes raking the shadows. Only the sound of an automatic garage door diverted his gaze.

Light crept over the driveway as the door lurched upward. Behind it, two cars and a motorcycle were at rest for the night.

“Yvonne, whatcha think you’re doing? Close that thing, you hear!” A large, red-haired man stood with hands braced on his hips, stock-still until the garage door came down. A half minute later, he reappeared at the front screen door. “Who’s there?”

“Good evenin’. Sergeant Turney, but just Sarge’ll do.”

“We got people trying to sleep, so I don’t much appreciate you showin’ up on my doorstep unannounced.”

“Stan Blomberg?”

“That’s right.”

“You got a daughter stayin’ with ya? Name of Victoria?”

“Vicki. Yeah, she’s here.”

“I’m sure she’s upset, what with her boyfriend’s passing and all.”

“Whaddya know, Sarge? You’re pressin’ on some sore spots.”

“I know losin’ a loved one’s hard on the emotions. Sometimes it helps just knowin’ that what you say can make a difference. I’m here in the role of investigative consultant. Not makin’ any arrests, nothing like that. Just need to jot down some info. Was hopin’ you could help me out.”

Blomberg’s shoulders fell and his belly extended. “Can’t it wait till mornin’?”

“It can, I s’pose, but I’m closin’ in on the person responsible. I need to verify some details with your daughter. We’d hate to let him get away.”

“Five minutes—that’s whatcha got to work with. C’mon inside.”

At Asgoth’s side, Monde gave a nervous twitch like a bird ruffling its feathers.

Twelve years ago Clay had attended William “Bill” Scott’s memorial service. There had been no viewing of the body, no physical proof of death in the form of a corpse. Yet to think that his companion could’ve pulled off such a hoax …

It was mind staggering. What about Bill’s parents? And the local law?

What about me? I touched his cold skin!

Clay sniffed foot decay and shoe leather as he lifted the Osaga’s tongue to remove the envelope. He unfurled the white generic paper. Although the inclusion of his name was superfluous, it confirmed that his visit here had been anticipated.

The handwriting matched the others, as did the vanilla and cherry scent.

He folded and slipped the envelope into his back pocket, chewed on the words, mumbled them twice into the kitchen’s stillness. Was the note issuing a threat against his relationship with Jenni? What was the price?

Clay fell back against the wall, shuddering at this latest development. He was worried about the note’s meaning but equally concerned about its form of delivery.

Henna’s writing … her Avon pen … a note stuck in one of Bill’s old shoes.

Was Bill Scott alive?

Clay cupped his hands over his eyes. He must’ve been avoiding the truth all this time. Must’ve been blind. The more his mind pushed at this mystery’s elements, the tighter they came together. The puzzle was becoming complete.

Henna Dixon … a jilted high school girl.

Bill Scott … a victim of Henna’s ploys and Clay’s jealous rage.

The pair must’ve heard of Clay’s divorce and impending return to JC, then plotted revenge by arranging deaths on dates that added up to thirteen—matching the date at the river, Friday the thirteenth.

They’d conspired against him. They wanted him to pay by doing himself in.

Clay shook his head, his breath pressing through his lips in short gasps. He’d faced determined foes before, on the basketball court, in the business world, and elsewhere. Loss was part of life; no one was immune to its anguish or rejection.