Expiration Date (53 page)

“And,” Sarge carried on, “they’re linkin’ the ballistics from the shooting in JC to homicides in Fort Lauderdale and Orlando. Been a busy man, I take it.”

“I have a task to fulfill. For Mother Russia. For Almighty.”

“Hmm. Guess that’s where you messed up. When you came trippin’ into my girlfriend’s gallery, didn’t take me long to put the pieces together. ’Specially after you tried to get Russian artifacts from that train in Junction City.”

“Engine 418.”

“You’re all outta luck, partner.”

“I am going now,” Dmitri said. “I am not stupid. Surely you’ve pressed an alarm and wish me to talk until more police come.”

“You’re free to go.”

With his cell phone aimed at the sergeant’s head, Dmitri eased on by. He clung to the felt bag. Small backward steps carried him along as his eyes shifted over his shoulder. He had what he wanted; he would not risk further confrontation. In the bank’s lobby, he saw worried tellers duck behind their counters. Customers crouched in wide-eyed horror; no doubt, words of a robbery and a gun had buzzed through here.

Dmitri tucked the Fabergé bag and sprinted out the bank’s doors.

Leaving behind the lies. The falsehoods.

I must keep the faith. It’s my destiny. And I have the Fabergé egg!

Tyrone and Tawnique were at the gumball machine, inserting coins and squealing over the assorted colors that dropped into the chute. Shanique’s head was turned, rested on her hand, so that her smoke-scented hair hid her face from Mylisha.

“You okay?”

Shanique’s head bobbed twice.

Mylisha gazed at the beach scene painted on the wall of Johnny Ocean’s hamburger joint. She wished she could step onto the sand and run away. Instead, she bit into an old-fashioned burger and chased it down with a thick strawberry shake.

“You remember Mama bringing us here, back in the day?”

Shanique nodded again. Sucked at the straw in her chocolate shake.

“So you gonna punish me the rest of the morning?” Mylisha asked.

“Oh, don’t even. Mylisha, you’s the one punishin’ me, and don’t I know it.”

“I love you, Shanique. I just need to start living the life God gave me, you know what I’m sayin’? And you need to live yours. Ty and Tawnie, they need you. I can’t be the one to take up all the slack, enabling you each step of the way. You love them, for real, but they’ll be all grown up before you know it.”

“Okay, dat’s how it’s gonna be? Yeah, I see. Point da finger at li’l sister.”

“I’m pointing the finger at myself as well. High school hurt us both in different ways. You jumped into life, the good and the bad. I chose the sidelines, figuring I’d be safe if I stayed away from the action. But I was wrong. Living safe is just dying slow.”

“And I be dyin’ fast? Hmm? Dat whatcha think?”

“Girl, would you stop it. I’m talking about me, not you.”

“Sure ’nuff, I believe dat.” Shanique dipped a finger in her shake and licked it.

“You want me to talk about you? Okay, let’s do that. You already know what Mama thinks about your job. Daddy doesn’t even know. It’d kill him, straight up. You’re a smart girl. Maybe not book smart, but head smart. And look at you, with your long legs and your neon smile. Like Daddy used to say, you’re as ‘pretty as the day is long.’ But it’s eatin’ you up, girl. Little by little.”

“You don’t know nothin’.” Shanique’s chin jutted forward. “I got
cash
to watch after my babies, a place o’ my own, a new
ride
. I be krunk.”

“And when gravity kicks in, what then?”

“Surgery, baby.”

“Shanique, here’s what I’m sayin’. I care about you. Don’t wanna see you
chewed up and spit out by the nightlife. We grew up together, had our ups and downs, but we’ve always been there. You feelin’ me?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I’ll still help with the kids. You know I will. But I’ve gotta make some changes.”

Shanique blew air from the side of her mouth. She leveled her eyes into Mylisha’s. “You a good sister. You just don’t know nothin’ ’bout my life, do ya? Ain’t so easy as you say. But you do whatcha gotta. I be awright.”

She stood, tossed a twenty on the table, called Tyrone and Tawnique to her side as she marched out the door.

With eyes on the wall mural, Mylisha sighed. She knew it was time to make the switch. Earlier this morning she’d peeked at her horoscope, but even then she’d known changes were in motion. For years she’d moved barely an inch, waiting for direction, for some sign in the sky. She’d prided herself on this patient faith.

Stepping out blindly, though? That was a different sort of faith.

Faith in a pair of walking shoes.

Lord, I’m scared. Can’t see what’s ahead, but I’ll take that first step. Please just let me feel you at my side
.

She finished the last fries in the burger basket. Pulled a brochure from her purple brushed-leather purse. Started planning an escape from the safe life. Back at home she solidified her intentions by dumping into the trash her old shoebox of Clay’s letters and cards. It was the first step.

Dmitri could taste blood in his mouth. That stupid girl, Josee.

He clipped his phone to his belt, jumped into the rental car with the felt bag in his lap. Even as he turned the key, he played over the scenario.

Sarge had tracked him down, he’d planted himself there as a security guard, and Josee Walker had led Dmitri into the trap.

I won’t make that mistake again. I’m too close now to finding the Tsar
.

Dmitri slipped the car into reverse. He looked over his shoulder and in one moment made two new observations: one, Oleg’s Chevy pickup was
parked on the lot’s far end, and, two, Oleg’s shiny, stubble-free face was rising from the seat behind him.

“Oleg!”

Snaking over the seat, the crime lord’s arm clamped on the buttons of Dmitri’s phone. The first bullet carved through Dmitri’s hip, tearing at his angel wing.

He arched back. Screamed.

Sirens sounded in the background, but he was a momentary prisoner to his pain. His wounded leg jammed down on the accelerator, and the car lurched backward. He was in no position to fight Oleg, but he could use the automobile to throw off the man’s weight. He pulled on the wheel, bringing the car around in a tire-screeching slide.

The heavy front end’s momentum whipped it into a parked vehicle.

Metal shrieked. Glass crumbled in jagged sheets.

Somewhere between the violent snap of his head and the second fiery bullet trail—this time through his abdomen—he realized his angel had forsaken him. Dmitri Derevenko had walked destiny’s path. He’d wrestled with angels.

The demons had come for him nonetheless.

Cackling, Oleg shook glass from his hair. He plucked the bloodstained Fabergé bag from Dmitri’s lap. “Spahseebah. Thank you for the treasure, Dmitri. You’ve been good to find it for me. We are not so different. Money is my god, and the Tsar is yours. But I’m afraid the Tsar is dead.”

A curtain of red was falling over Dmitri’s vision. Sirens were wailing.

Oleg’s voice hit a piercing note. “Nyet! What did you do with it?”

Dmitri registered the man’s words but had no strength to respond.

“It’s a trick! This is not the real egg!”

Sprawled back in the driver’s seat amid glass and blood, Dmitri’s last living memory involved a whisper of felt and an oval-shaped object dropping onto the seat beside him. As part of her subterfuge, Josee Walker had managed to make the switch, most likely while huddled on the vault’s marble floor.

This was not the Tmu Tarakan egg.

This, according to the sticker, was a “Fauxbergé” priced at $89.99.

“Eight ball.” Digs pointed with his cue stick. “Bank shot, corner pocket.”

“Look at the champ go.”

“No gripes, Ryker. I’m kickin’ in for pizza afterward.”

With marked enthusiasm, Clay accepted his loss. “Bank it in! Go, Digs.”

Earlier here in the Harrisburg billiard hall, Digs had worked his way through the tourney’s entrants to claim a purse of five hundred dollars. With white hair glowing beneath the neon beer signs, he’d chalked his stick and called his shots, shown finesse and power, used English to twist the cue ball to his will.

“Ain’t half-bad for an ex-con, eh?”

“You learn to shoot like this in prison?” Clay asked.

“Nah. Learned from my kid sister. She hustled her way through Cal Berkeley.”

“You’re just full of surprises.”

“Most people are by the time they reach the big five-o. Life fills up your plate in a hurry. That’s a fact.” Digs dismantled his personal cue stick and laid the pieces in a case. “Let’s go. This old man’s ready for some grub.”

“Is there anyplace still open?”

“Right next door. They’re open late ’cause of the tourney.”

Midnight was only ten minutes away. August tenth was almost in the bag.

8.1.0.0.4 …

Six hundred seconds to safety.

Throughout the day, Clay had prayed like never before. He’d even stopped in at St. Helen after a long day at Glenleaf and knelt between the pews in petition.

With his cell phone, he had tracked Jason and Jenni from this morning on. They had packed, then left Cheyenne with french toast sticks from Burger
King. Jason told Clay about crossing the Continental Divide and about a dead cow he saw on the side of the road. Once evening hit, they holed up at a Holiday Inn, and Jenni agreed, with mild protests, to keep Jason from going to the swimming pool.

With the time change, Clay had confirmed their safety less than an hour ago. They had survived. Clay had rushed into the billiard hall rest room and splashed water over his face to disguise the sudden tears of relief.

Jason was safe. His son had made it into another day.

Officer Kelso’s updates assured Clay the local targets were unharmed as well.

Wendy, after a day of work, had stopped by for happy hour at the Raven, dropped in at Safeway for groceries, locked herself in her home for the night.

Mylisha, after a morning class at LCC, had run by her apartment, reappeared in her Safeway uniform, worked at the customer-service desk, dealt with a disgruntled employee who refused to mop the recycling center’s floor.

Father Patrick, after morning Mass at St. Helen, had studied in his parish office, heard confession, gone into Eugene for a visit to Pier One Imports, come home, and settled himself on his back porch, comfortable in his new wicker armchair.

“Pizza sounds great,” Clay said. “With your prize money, heck, you could feed us all for weeks.”

“Don’t push your luck, Ryker.”

On the way out, Clay nodded at the undercover officer at the bar. He was grateful for the officer’s presence—for Digs’s sake and for his own. Clay could do without the entire burden of other people’s lives.

No thanks, God. You can have this job
.

“It feels like home,” Asgoth said.

Henna was settled, with blond hair fanned across her pillow. She still used this pink canopy bed from her childhood. She looked like a princess in repose, waiting for the prince and fairy-tale life that would never be hers.

Serene, her teen daughter, slept in the next room.