Expiration Date (64 page)

“Jason. Man, am I glad to see you!” Clay caught up his son in a hug.

Peering beyond, he saw Jenni step into view. Did he dare perceive her grin as anything personal? Could he risk a moment of hope? Physical and emotional numbness threatened to bog him down; he could feel them like weights on his limbs.

“Jenni.” He resisted an overload of reactions. “Are you okay?”

Her voice was rough. “I can hardly talk … the smoke.”

“Smoke?”

“We have a lot to tell you.”

Clay cringed at the thought of detecting any more numbers, but he could not let this moment pass. He would not. With a hesitant smile, he held out his arms and gathered her in so that the three of them were mashed together
in a soggy embrace. His hands ran through her hair. He flinched as his fingers brushed the soft skin along the back of her neck.

At first he felt nothing.

And then he felt everything.

Scandinavian Festival, August 2004

With Jason’s hand firmly in his own, Clay jostled through the Friday night crowds. He greeted old friends. Nodded. Waved.

He wished he could have his wife at his side, but Jenni had opted for a quiet evening with relatives in Eugene. Despite mutual words of reconciliation, he knew they faced a long road ahead as a couple—rebuilding trust, opening new lines of communication, dealing with past rejection. At least she was willing to give it a chance.

By God’s grace. After twelve years of detachment, it’s more than I deserve
.

“Can we buy one of those?” Jason tugged at Clay’s arm.

He noted the long line for the perennially popular hollow pancake balls. He watched a server add cinnamon and sugar. “You betcha, Jason. We can’t come to the festival and miss out on aebelskivers.”

“Can I give the lady the money?”

“Whatever you want. You’re getting to be a big kid.”

Waiting to order, he could not shake his despair over Kate Preston’s death. He’d heard about it only hours ago. Young Kenny had been at his uncle’s house while his mother went on her weekend retreat, and according to an officer’s report, the news had torn the boy apart. At least he had nearby family; for now, he’d remain under his uncle’s care. Still, Clay knew he would need to go visit first thing tomorrow.

Maybe Jason can befriend him. They might do each other good
.

Clay turned his concerns to the upcoming performance on the Festival Park Stage. Half an hour from now he would meet with Sarge and Josee for the show in which Mylisha, Wendy, Digs, and Father Patrick would all be dancing. Any sort of disaster could wreak havoc; along these constricted walkways,
chaos would rule. To contact the police would be counterproductive. After the fiasco of August tenth, they would only scoff at Clay’s interference.

What’s to stop Asgoth from trying something? He could be here. Now
.

With Scandinavian desserts in hand, Clay led Jason through a group of craft booths displaying red vests and knitted sweaters, plastic Viking helmets and Nordic jewelry. One booth boasted nature prints and a swivel rack with an assortment of postcards.

Clay stopped. “You’ve gotta be kiddin’.”

He picked out a card with a photograph of cross-country skiers in Norwegian garb standing before a sparkling snowbank along a cabin at Odell Lake. On the backside in neat print, he saw the words: SNL Photography.

Spinning the rack, he found seven more postcards produced by Sam and Lyndon, his friends from the Pacific Crest Trail. Each card was startling in its clarity and beauty. The guys were talented, no doubt about it.

Clay bought every card available—hey, what were friends for?—investing in Sam’s and Lyndon’s earthly existence while depositing a prayer for their eternal ones.

Clay took Jason along side streets to avoid the crush of pedestrians. Muffled by buildings and trees, the sounds of partying and music seemed vacuous, as though the festival was a charade of good cheer meant to fool the outside world. Clay sniffed at the air wafting from the beer garden. He shook free of it and held tighter to his son’s hand.

At Fifth and Holly, they found the Finnish locomotive standing sentinel.

“You remember this train?”

“Mm-hmm.” Jason chewed on his aebelskiver.

Outlined by the festival lights, Engine 418 was an ominous reminder to Clay of all that had gone on in recent weeks. He wondered if Henna would ever find the wooden tube and the black chess king lying at the bottom of Crater Lake. She had the GPS coordinates; nevertheless, a salvage operation would be expensive.

Would such an endeavor be worth it?

Of course, odds had it that soon Henna would be in police custody—as soon as she began leaving a trail of marked fifty-dollar bills.

From the stage area, traditional Norwegian music kicked in to indicate the play’s opening act. Amid melodious chords, Clay thought he heard a soul-wrenching scream.

Asgoth’s remaining time in JC was short lived. He had failed. Clay Ryker was still alive, and Henna Dixon was hiding out with over a hundred thousand dollars and a Garmin GPS unit. According to Consortium informants, she had “given up the ghost.”

The phrase brought a wry grin to Asgoth’s mouth.

What do I have to lose now? I’ll go out with a bang!

He meandered unseen through the crowd, reached the Festival Park Stage, where crew members were taping down a cord before the grand performance of “Hardanger Wedding.” He ducked through an access panel into the darkness below the stage. He would wait another ten minutes or so until the show started. Until families and friends filled the stands in colorful displays of their Scandinavian roots.

The carnage would be beyond anything this city had experienced.

“I know what you’re thinking, Asgoth.”

“Sir?” Asgoth jolted at Mr. Gerde’s sudden appearance.

“It would be a temporary setback at best,” the Consortium member emphasized. “Unless timed perfectly, violence tends to unite humans and redirect their attention to spiritual matters. Is that what you want?”

“I wasn’t thinking of doing anything.”

Gerde’s fleshy features nearly hid his piggish eyes. “Then why’re you crouched beneath this stage?” The demonic breath came in gaseous waves.

Asgoth diverted his gaze.

Gerde gestured toward shadows where cobwebs swayed over coiled electrical lines. “It’s time for these good sirs to deliver you to your new wandering place.”

Claws dug into Asgoth’s ghostly fabric, although he could see no sign of
his captors. Overhead, shoes clomped on wood, and klieg lights sliced between the boards while dancers moved into position. The crowd noise dropped to a murmur.

“You’ve been a wretched failure, Asgoth, botching your opportunities with Rasputin, Bill Scott, and finally Clay Ryker. This town could be useful to us, but we’ve learned more subtle methods than those you seem to favor. You’ve been nothing but a nuisance to the Consortium. You’ll be receiving that which you deserve.”

“What about Monde? Shouldn’t he get the same treatment?”

“How very noble of you, turning against your partner.”

“Where’re they taking me?” Asgoth’s struggle was in vain.

“Hell’s Canyon.” A wheezing laugh followed Gerde’s words. “It’s in eastern Oregon, near some old Indian burial grounds. You’ll be miserable. I guarantee it.”

The play’s soundtrack kicked through the speakers, muffling Asgoth’s scream as infernal claws took hold and whisked him away.

Clay and Jason had squeezed into saved bleacher seats beside Sergeant Turney and Josee. They enjoyed the play’s drama and humor but especially the dancing. At the conclusion, their enthusiastic cheers brought smiles to the troupe’s faces.

Clay let his eyes meet Digs’s, and he gave his co-worker a slight nod.

Digs nodded back.

Clay then smiled at Mylisha. She reciprocated, her face golden and vibrant under the stage lights. She seemed infused with fresh energy. Spinning around, she exited the Festival Park Stage with a sense of purpose in her step.

The crowd began to disperse.

“Clay,” Sarge said, “you gotta meet Josee.”

“So you’re Josee.”

“The one and only.”

“Sarge’s told me about you.”

“Better have been good.” Despite her tough exterior, Josee’s words were
playful. She wore her black hair short and choppy; a silver ring hung from her eyebrow, and a vial dangled from a string necklace. Her turquoise eyes hinted at wisdom and pain beyond her years.

“He didn’t tell me you were so short,” Clay said.

“Hey now.”

“Then again, everyone looks short to me.”

“Guess I’ll let you slide this time,” Josee said.

In loose black jeans and a buttoned striped shirt, Sarge looked more relaxed than Clay had ever seen him; even at the Steamboat Inn, the investigative consultant had been focused on the job.

Sarge slid his hand into Josee’s. “How ’bout we all get somethin’ to eat? My treat. I bet our buddy Jason here is ready for some food.”

Jason perked up. “Food? Yeah!”

“You two’ve had a rough day.”

“A rough year,” Clay amended. “I’m just glad to have my son with me. The good thing is, it’s finally over.”

“Hmm, maybe not.” Sarge winked. “Let’s walk on over to DQ and find ourselves a place to talk. I’ve got a confession to make, and Josee’s got something to show ya.”

Once they had ordered and settled into a booth by the back door, Clay instructed Jason to wash up in the rest room. With his son out of earshot, Clay surrendered to his curiosity. “Okay, Sarge, let’s hear it. What’s going on?”

“Well, this ain’t easy to admit.”

“Come on. No stalling.”

“You remember your dive into Crater Lake? ’Course you do. Afterward you wanted to know if I’d found a wooden tube, the one from Engine 418.”

“Yeah. You asked me if an old cork counted.”

“That’s right, I found a cork. But I must’ve forgotten to mention that the cork was attached to the tube you wanted.”

“Forgot? You mean you lied to me.”

“I just left off some of the truth.” Sarge shrugged. He glanced across the Dairy Queen lobby, then tugged the smooth, carved wood from his pants pocket. “Just tryin’ to protect you, partner. Plus, I knew this artifact might be directly linked to an item of Josee’s. As it turns out, I was right.”

Clay took hold of the object, removed the cork. He found himself transfixed anew by the black king that slid onto the table. Tall and distinguished, the chess piece had an ornate cross atop its crown and Cyrillic text etched into stone.

“What does it say? Do you know?” he wondered aloud.

“Tmu Tarakan,” Josee replied. “It’s Russian, meaning a ‘place of desolation.’ We think it refers to a chamber where Rasputin hoarded ancient relics.”

“I’ve heard rumors of such a place. Does anyone know where it is?”

“Not yet,” Sarge said. “But we have some solid clues locked away in a vault.”

Josee spoke in a whisper. “The black king is key.”

With the chess piece at his fingertips, Clay felt a tingle brush over his skin.

“Hey, Dad, that’s cool.” Jason slid in beside Clay. “Where’d you get it?”