Expiration Date (2 page)

“Well then, get back to work.”

As the engineer turned away, the revolutionary slipped the tube from his pocket. He could not risk its detection in the event he was searched; it held the key to relics and riches. He poked the object into a crevice between brass and iron, swiped a finger through grease at the base of the tender box, then molded the sludge over the hiding spot.

He examined his work. Adequate for now.

Brakes screeched, and the engine belched smoke as it dragged its load between Belo-Ostrov’s barbed wire and guard stations. Beneath light bulbs wearing misty halos, soldiers approached with hand signals and shouts.

“Stay back,” the engineer said, “as I perform my duties.”

The revolutionary nodded, pressing himself into the shadows while the engineer uncoupled the locomotive and guided them to a water tower. The tower’s belly burbled as it emptied into the boiler tanks. The revolutionary felt a matching uneasiness in his own gut, an atypical show of nerves.

Again, he thought of Rasputin’s occultism and the alleged curse on those who tampered with the tube: “misfortune and grief to all but the innocent.”

He snorted. Such nonsense still infested the Romanovs’ minds.

“Papers!” A militiaman clomped up the steps and cast a hard eye at him. Slung over the shoulder of the wool uniform, a rifle pointed at the star-studded sky.

“Here.” The revolutionary relinquished his pass. “The night is cold,
nyet
?”

“Comrade Ivanov, you are a factory worker?”

“At Sestroretsk, sir.”

“Why then are you here? You’re also a stoker?”

“I stay warm and get paid. I cannot complain.”

The militiaman studied his smudged face, then returned the papers.

The revolutionary pocketed them. “Thank you … 
spahseebah
.” He watched the soldier stride toward the station. He waited, expecting a group of guards to rush him.

“Vladimir llyich Lenin!” they would call out. “You are under arrest!”

Yet five minutes later the locomotive was chugging into Finland.

Without further incident, the night passage led to Terijoki Station, where the train slowed to a halt beside a pine-planked platform. The engineer bid Vladimir Lenin farewell and surrendered him to a cluster of woodsmen, who clambered aboard to greet their leader with bearlike embraces and alcohol-scented kisses.

Lenin pretended the fanfare was an annoyance, but allowed himself to be manhandled good-naturedly toward packhorses tethered among the trees. His comrades’ whispers of a local tavern hinted at the source of their ebullience.

Behind them, the locomotive gathered steam and proceeded on its way.

“The engine car. Oh no!”

One of the woodsmen turned in his saddle. “What is it you say?”

“Foolishness!” Lenin reined his mount to a halt. “I’m not thinking straight.”

“What’s wrong, comrade?”

Lenin squinted, but the woods blocked the station from view and muffled the clattering of the train’s huge wheels. “This is not good, not at all.”

“It can wait, I’m sure. Tell us up ahead in the pub.”

“But it’s already too late!”

“In your country, perhaps. Bah. Not here. Never too late for a drink.”

“Don’t you understand? If you hadn’t rushed me, if you—”

“Come, old man. Take it slow. The night is patient with our bucolic ways.”

Vladimir Lenin raised a fist skyward, a gesture which only multiplied his frustration. Why blame a god whose existence he denied? He shifted his vitriol to the woodsman. “I let fear and excitement distract me. I let you distract me! I left something behind on that train.”

“A woman, no doubt. What was her name?”

“Nyet. Far more important.”

“If it can’t keep you warm at night, it’s of no concern. As for vodka and women, they’re always in demand.” The woodsman pointed through the trees. The tavern’s light was coy and golden, tiptoeing over the snow to meet them.

“You miss my point. On that train engine, I hid an object that’d make Rasputin turn in his grave.”

“Bah. Let the old devil rest in peace.”

“You think the devil’s work is done?” Lenin hesitated, disturbed by the idea that the curse might be to blame for his loss of the wooden tube. “This is a plague on the mind!” he bellowed. “Nicholas and Alexandra Romanov cling to Rasputin’s mysticism while we freeze. They refuse to see that electricity’s the new god.”

“Soon they’ll understand.” The woodsman’s gloved hand thumped against Lenin’s back. “With or without your object, you’ll return to St. Petersburg and clear the entire
ektenia
from this path of revolution. Am I wrong?”

Lenin knew the ektenia well. Listing the entire Romanov family, it was prayed over weekly in Russian Orthodox services.

“Their blood will be upon my hands,” he vowed.

“Then relax. For one night at least, the local spirits can ease your mind.”

Willamette Valley, June 2004

Enough with the melodrama. He’d had his fill.

Clay Ryker crossed his arms, pressed his forehead to the window of the Greyhound bus, tried to think of anything other than his wife of ten years and his nine-year-old son. Heaven had slipped through his fingers, and hell crouched on the outskirts of his approaching hometown.

This town. Junction City …

Like it or not, the place was in his system. Twelve years ago, it’d fashioned him, emboldened him, sent him off a hero. The graduation accolades, the city paper headlines, even the coach of his basketball rivals had lifted him on wings of destiny. With a full scholarship, he’d headed off for the University of Wyoming. He was going places, doing things. He would change the world.

And it was all a lie. I can’t even change my wife
.

One head thud against the glass.

Ex-wife. Or soon to be
.

Thud
.

“Hey.” A voice made Clay turn. “Yeah, you. I’m trying to sleep back here.”

“Oh.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Sorry.”

Clay leaned back and imagined Jenni’s face: blond hair and green eyes; freckles dotting a thin nose; a slight indentation in the center of her lips. She’d filed the divorce papers months ago. Would she drop his name too?

He tilted his head and watched grass seed swirl in the wake of the passing bus. During his senior year in Wyoming, a season-long slump had soured the interest of NBA scouts and ended his athletic dreams. Nevertheless, he’d
earned his diploma, moved Jenni and Jason from Laramie to Cheyenne, started his own business, worked seventy-hour weeks, took on a second mortgage to keep afloat—and lost everything in the process.

Here he was, back where he’d started. Moving in with Mom and Dad at the age of twenty-nine.

On the window, Clay’s breath blossomed in random patterns, like Rorschach inkblots from his counselor’s office.
What do I see, Dr. Gerringer? I see a dollar bill all wadded up and stuffed through a wedding ring. Oh, and it’s on fire … The next one?
Pause.
Nope, just a mess of ink. What do you want me to do? Lie?

In fact, he had lied; he had seen something.

A face along a riverbank. Bloated and wet, with sightless eyes.

Clay relived the nightmare from twelve years ago. One impulsive act, followed by whispers and suspicion. The memory of that day still lingered, a specter of guilt that had haunted his endeavors and pried at the seams of his marriage.

Clay Ryker would never forget. Above all, he could never tell.

“You having a pity party?”

“A what?”

A boy wearing jeans tucked into stubby boots crawled into the seat beside Clay, stared up with big blue eyes. “Pity party. That’s what my grandpa calls it when I put my head against the window and pout. Am I bugging you? Grandpa said not to bug anyone.” The kid looked back at a snoozing elderly man.

“You’re fine,” Clay said.

“Nothing to do on this bus. I hope we stop soon. You’re tall, aren’t you?”

“For a grownup.”

The kid smiled. “Over six feet?”

“Six three. Hundred and ninety-nine pounds.”

“Wow! Two hundred pounds.”

“One ninety-nine,” Clay underscored. Occasional drinks had softened his washboard stomach, but it was nothing he couldn’t remedy in the gym.
Ripped abs, corded arms, legs like tree trunks—he was only weeks from regaining his former glory.

“Maybe one ninety-eight,” he heard himself say.

“I’m big, too,” the kid boasted. “I’m seven and a half. My name’s Bobby.”

“Hi, I’m Clay.”

Bobby kicked at the metal footrest. “Are you married? My mom and dad’re divorced, but Grandpa says it’s not my fault. Says grownups get confused and make mistakes.”

“You have a smart grandpa.”

“Grandpa’s divorced too.”

“Oh.” Clay looked down at Bobby. “I can see why you’d be upset.”

“I’m not upset.” The kid sniffed, then punched his fist into the seat between his legs. “Don’t you know anything? Boys aren’t s’posed to cry.” With eyebrows knotted, he moved down the aisle and flopped from sight at the back of the Greyhound.

Clay stayed put, ears ringing with his own son’s words from four months ago:
Why’d you make Mommy cry?

Jason and Jenni now lived in a two-bedroom condo on the outskirts of Cheyenne, supported by Jenni’s new job as a sports massage therapist. She’d been screening calls, ignoring Clay’s messages. A few weeks ago when a male picked up, Clay had stared at the receiver before slowly setting it down. After a stint at the bar, he’d found himself on Jenni’s doorstep, belligerent and unsteady. The intensity of his voice had brought neighbors to their windows. City police converged on the scene. Corralled into a patrol car, Clay festered with rage.

He realized in that moment he was capable of things he’d regret—things against his wife, against himself. Hadn’t he studied and worked hard? For what? He’d put almost ten years into his marriage. A decade.

Sounded too much like
decayed
.

Since that night a judge had granted temporary orders to Jenni’s attorney, restricting Clay’s time with his son and requiring monthly support payments.

Now, with the bus humming along Highway 99, Clay told himself this change of location would do him good. Better to get away, to shut down and succumb to the numbness. He let his forehead hit the window, then gave a laconic laugh.

I feel no pain
.

Thud
.

I feel nothing at all
.

Asgoth knew he was homely and misjudged. Even feared. Outfitted in tan trousers, a pale yellow shirt, an argyle vest and matching socks, he skulked across Holly Street toward Founder’s Park. With a stiff finger, he scratched at his head.

Looks are deceiving
, he consoled himself.

At least he no longer wore the plain black robes and that golden cross.

Along the park’s perimeter, Asgoth found leafy refuge behind a tree and watched two tall women stroll along a path in hip-hugging jeans and belly shirts.

Mylisha and Summer. Black and white versions of one another. They spent their waking hours oblivious to his existence in their small community.

This town. Junction City …

Like it or not, there was no getting rid of him. For twelve years, its citizens had avoided, teased, and toyed with him. They’d foiled his plans and brought him low in the eyes of the Consortium. Quaint churches marred every other block, and Scandinavian families worked the land. Despite its name, this place was but a dot on the map. A dead end.

Junction City sorely needed new blood. Spilled blood.

Asgoth crept back across the street, climbed uneven steps to his second-story apartment. A neighbor, descending, looked right through him. They all did. He’d learned to live with it, to let it fuel his determination.