Expiration Date (56 page)

And the same set of numbers was present on headstone after headstone.

“Remember what I told ya last night,” Digs said, cutting through Clay’s despondency. “You’ll let me know if ya need my help, won’tcha?”

Clay bobbed his head.

“Be my pleasure, Ryker. Seems to me someone’s lookin’ out for ya.”

“Wish I had your confidence. But, yes, I’ll let you know. Thanks.”

“Me and Wendy, we’ll be gone the rest o’ the afternoon. Got rehearsal.”

“At the festival?” A question spilled into Clay’s mind.

“Don’tcha say a word. I happen to think my costume’s snazzy.”

“Hey, if you’ve got the ability to dance in public, more power to ya.”

“What does he see in her?” Henna wanted to know.

“Don’t start now. You’re cranky after a long night’s drive.”

From the Subaru, Asgoth could see Jenni and Jason Ryker at a window table inside an Idaho diner. The tourist spot was run-down, with tumbleweeds surrounding the modular building like regulars at a bar. A hand-painted plywood sign leaned against the fence: Biggest Burgers Within a Hundred Miles.

Thanks to the Consortium’s network, Asgoth had never doubted his ability to locate Jenni and Jason. When mother and son deviated from Interstate 80 earlier in the day, they did so before watching eyes.

“I’m serious,” Henna persisted. “Am I missing something here?”

Asgoth watched Jenni’s hair part around her fingers, liquid gold in shiny waves. Light freckles danced across her nose. No wonder Clay was upset about his divorce; this was a nice little specimen of a woman. She reminded Asgoth of licentious moments in his past.

“Beauty and brains,” he said. “That’s what she has.”

“Like I said, what’s she have that I don’t?”

Asgoth took this opportunity to stir up emotion. “She has Clay’s heart.”

“Then we’ll have to cut it out.”

“First, get ahold of young Jason, and don’t let him run off the way Kenny Preston did. That’s why you brought the handcuffs. Once Jason’s secured here in the car, Jenni will do anything we ask. We’ll lead her to our friend’s trailer in central Oregon, where we’ll keep the two of them locked up until our plans on the thirteenth.”

Clay had suspected this would be the case. Despite numerous attempts Wednesday and today, his calls to Jenni’s cell had gone unanswered. He wanted to know his wife and son were safe. He tried dialing from a pay phone at the Chevron station so that her caller ID wouldn’t recognize him. Still, she never picked up.

Was she there? Ignoring him? Or …

Stop. Don’t even think about it, Claymeister
.

Getting ready for work, Clay tucked his phone and GPS unit in his work pants. He expected a call from Henna. Tonight he was to meet with her.

And with Bill Scott.

It was a mind-twisting concept that went against the memories he’d experienced, catalogued, and avoided. He considered calling the Scott home. Mr. and Mrs. Scott might be able to give him insight.

No. He screwed his eyes shut against the idea. What would he say? “Hi, this is Clay Ryker, the one who was drinking and bridge diving with your son. You know, the last one to see him alive. Sure it’s been twelve years, but I think Bill’s back in town. Has he contacted you?”

Okaaay then. They would think I’ve gone psycho
.

Clay faced the time clock, breathed a sigh, and punched in for the day. On the corkboard to the right, fliers and handbills advertised local restaurant specials and upcoming events. He tugged a pizza coupon from its pushpin, and a tan brochure dropped free as well. He bent to retrieve it.

Skin to paper. A fresh tattoo with the latest refrain … 
8.1.3.0.4

Who was the victim to be this time?

He walked to his workbench. Pulled on his gloves. With his fingers, he flattened the brochure and found the name of Kenny Preston’s mother printed across the front. Kate’s church was coordinating a weekend retreat along the McKenzie River, and newcomers were welcome. Kate was listed as
the information person, with a phone number that looked like a church extension.

Was this what she did for a living? Or was it volunteer work?

Clay told himself it wouldn’t matter if she didn’t live past tomorrow.

Trolls and farmers and Scandinavian lovers. Asgoth liked this tale. He’d seen “Hardanger Wedding” performed here before.

He and Monde wove themselves among the crowd of parents and performers. Portable bleachers faced the Festival Park Stage, where Scandinavian-garbed dancers of all ages twirled and stepped to traditional folk music. Starting today, they would put on their show for standing-room-only crowds.

The Scandinavian Festival was in its final preparations.

“Here we have our lovely pairs dancers,” Monde said.

Asgoth peered around a knot of gossiping mothers. “I see them.”

Digs and Wendy dipped, stepped, dipped, and spun. Following them across the stage, Father Patrick and Mylisha mirrored the choreography.

“They’re all healthy as can be. I liked the bait-and-switch idea, Monde. I’ll give credit where it’s due. I do think we’ve got Clay Ryker flustered, but we can’t let him survive like he did at Crater Lake. I need him. He’s the signature on my paycheck.”

“Rest assured, Dmitri Derevenko will present no complications. Like so many dreamers, he viewed himself as indispensable. Now he’s dead, shot by his partner Oleg. And of all things, Sergeant Turney and his girlfriend lent me a hand. Unwittingly, of course.”

“Turney? Your hated foe?”

“They fooled Dmitri. Now Oleg’s off on a hunt of his own.”

Asgoth hushed him. “More later. This is one of my favorite scenes.”

Against the painted backdrop of deep blue fjords and jagged crags, the young lovers pranced over a makeshift bridge, unaware of the lurking troll beneath.

“If I had to guess,” Monde said, “I’d say this is where you stole your idea.”

“Nothing wrong with a little inspiration.”

“It does fit nicely.”

Asgoth found his gaze sweeping along the stage, the props, the performers’ exit points. The lurking troll here in his scenario would be of a more explosive nature.

He was confident in Henna’s ability to penetrate this low-security area; he had other friends who would execute their duties, but she would be the fire to the fuse. The Oklahoma City bombing had demonstrated the staggering destruction of a homemade device consisting of, in part, standard fertilizer ingredients.

In a rural community such as JC, there had been little difficulty obtaining the correct components. Rigged properly, the Festival Park Stage would erupt in a superheated blast.

During Friday night’s nine o’clock performance, if all went as scheduled.

“Look,” Asgoth whispered. “One of them’s arrived.”

Monde followed his partner’s gaze to a red-nosed individual who waddled along on hoglike legs. The tailored suit and silk tie only distorted his size.

“Is he with the Consortium?”

“He is. Come on, Monde, I’ll introduce you.”

Clay slipped into St. Helen on his morning break, peered about the empty chapel area. Votive candles and holy icons graced the walls. A reverential silence blanketed the pews, providing cool yet detached comfort.

Was God here? Was he personal enough to meet one frantic soul?

I used to believe it
.

Although raised Catholic, Clay had taken his father’s lead and held faith at arm’s length. Della displayed her devotion, but it seemed more sentimental than heartfelt. In Wyoming, Clay had surrendered to a relationship with a personal God. He and Jenni had attended an interdenominational church that encompassed Protestants and Catholics alike in loving, corporate communion with Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Like his old man, though, he had started to distance himself.

How could he come boldly into the presence of the all-knowing God?

Here now in St. Helen, he found himself on his knees with hands folded over the back pew.
You know the things I’ve done. You’ve seen my anger, my pride, my lust. Well, here I am. Take a good look. I need you, Jesus. I can’t do this on my own, and now I’m stuck without a wife. I’ve tried paying for my own sin … and even failed at that!

He thought of Sergeant Turney. His rescuer. A whale sent to save him.

God had extended forgiveness and a second chance.

A whisper of feet caused Clay to lift his face. Father Patrick stood above him, set a hand on his. Clay tried to keep from recoiling, but his skin burned with the tattoolike etchings of five numerals.

Tomorrow. Father Patrick’s date had also shifted.

“You’re welcome to stay. You’re Gerald and Della’s son, is that right?”

“That’s me.”

“I’ll be gone most of the day, but don’t let me stand between you and God.”

“Where are you going? I mean, not that I’m trying to be nosy.”

“The Scandi-Fest. Opening day. I’ll be dancing on the Festival Park Stage.”

“You?”

“Is that a problem? I’m already accustomed to wearing robes.”

They shared a moment of laughter.

“From what I understand, you used to be … good friends with my dance partner.”

Clay’s cheek twitched. “Oh yeah?”

“Mylisha French. A beautiful young lady. Please don’t accuse me of trying to fit her into a box when I say she has more rhythm than the majority of us on that stage.”

As a festival participant, Mylisha had requested time off from Safeway. After speaking to her LCC guidance counselor, she headed from Eugene to the Scandi-Fest.

En route, an automated billboard flashed the lottery’s latest jackpot amount. She shook the temptation from her head. Things were looking up. Changes were in store.

In the backseat, a leather camera case provided evidence of that.

She pulled into a parking spot at Ralph’s Drugs and trekked across the main thoroughfare to the changing rooms at the Festival Hall. Amid pale Danes, Swedes, Norwegians, and Finns, she was hard to miss in her bonnet, apron, and dress, but she’d earned her place with the dancers. She heard few complaints.

None to her face, anyway. Nobody was that stupid.