Expiration Date (40 page)

And all he does is ask for a second date. What? Is he low on confidence?

Rhea Deering stood at her front door, key in hand, and watched her date drive away. On the back bumper one of those little fish symbols caught the light.

Was he a do-gooder? Or was his age bracket the problem? These middle-aged guys had loads of emotional baggage, same as she did, and now they thought they could find true love. Well, they’d already blown their good years chasing the pretty young things, never thinking they would be left high and dry once they passed forty.

Welcome to the real world, guys
.

Although years of smoking had deadened her taste buds and sense of smell, Rhea caught a whiff of something. She lifted her nose. Turned on the step. Something made her look to her left, where she spotted a figure in an argyle vest skirting the streetlight’s glow.

Looks like they’ve let out the town weirdoes. Gotta make sure to lock my door
.

Across the street on her neighbor’s porch, an old man and woman were puffing together on hand-rolled smokes. Was that her future?

She dug into her leather jacket, found her keys and her pack of Camels. She pushed inside, flicked her Bic—just like the old ads used to say—held the flame to her cigarette as she moved toward the kitchen.

Billowing without visible form, swelling without a sound, reaching from the forgotten stove burner, the natural gas found the fire at Rhea Deering’s fingertips.

There would be no second date.

Clay heard about the explosion from Digs.

In blue uniforms they stood side by side at the sandblasting chamber. Clay had been keeping his gloves on, afraid of what the headstones might reveal. The past two days Wendy had made every effort to avoid eye contact with him, and his other co-workers acted as though his absence had gone unnoticed.

Midweek at Glenleaf Monument Company. Another death, another dollar.

“Woman was a good friend o’ mine,” Digs said. “Met Rhea at the Raven. Gosh, she’s waited tables there it seems like forever.” He pulled down a pair of goggles, stood at the Plexiglas viewing slot as he turned on the blaster. “Real heart o’ gold.”

“I met her.”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about then.”

“Not really. Just bumped into her at the bar one night. She was working.”

Clay thought of the numbers, Rhea Deering’s expiration date. In his drunken state, he’d called it out irreverently. It matched that headstone he’d brushed with bare hands here in the warehouse a few weeks back. And there’d been that other guy, the bouncer. Same date as Rhea’s.

“I … was worried about her,” Clay said.

“About Rhea? Ain’t nobody worried over her. She was a survivor.”

“Is this one of your attempts at humor?”

Digs shook his head, then opened the door into the blasting chamber and removed a headstone. “Wouldn’t joke about Rhea.” He heaved the stone onto a table, blew away dust with an air hose. “ ’Specially after two tragedies in the same week. That poor Mako kid.”

“Who?”

“Worked with Rhea. A bouncer at the Raven. He caught wind his girl was foolin’ around, went to tear the guy up.” Digs ran the air hose over his
ears, blasted dust from his hair tufts. “Didn’t work out. Mako took a bullet in the chest, ended up dyin’ Tuesday morning at Sacred Heart.”

The news was a stone around Clay’s neck.

7.2.0.0.4 … Two more deaths while I sat by
.

“I’m going to the police,” he told Digs.

“Why? You know somethin’ about it?”

“I think I do.”

“What about the bossman? Blomberg’s gotcha ridin’ probation already, doesn’t he? You’ll lose your job, sure as canaries can sing.”

“I’ve got another job to do, Digs. Saving people’s lives.”

“What about payin’ the bills? You got a kid. A wife.”

“Yeah.”

“Still gotta send off a check, don’tcha? What about their lives?”

“I don’t have all the answers.”

“Sounds like our boy Ryker is confused. Am I wrong? Lemme ask you this, whassit like out there on the Pacific Crest Trail? What I hear, it’s a mighty long haul.”

“Only did a hundred miles or so.”

“Musta learned somethin’ in them hundred miles. About yourself or your family? Maybe God? You tell me.”

“I did.” Clay mulled it over. “I learned that my time here’s not up.”

Digs grinned. “Now if that’s not the same thing I was just sayin’. There, grab hold o’ that end, and help me get this stone back into the blaster. We got work to do. The police, they ain’t goin’ nowhere. They’ll still be there after our quittin’ time.”

“Clay’s in there now?”

“Yes, A.G.”

“This goes against all we had planned. Do we even know what he’s doing?”

“I have theories, but I’ll need to observe him further. I would’ve followed him inside if it weren’t for that lady at the front desk.”

Asgoth marched higher up the JC Library’s handicapped ramp. From this
vantage point, he’d be able to see Clay Ryker’s departure from the police station. Monde stood below, pensive in his corduroy jacket.

The library door swung open, and a man in a jogging outfit stopped, nose to nose with Asgoth. He blinked, chose to go the other direction down the steps. A moment later a little girl exited. She paid Asgoth no mind. Spreading her arms, she ran with squealing delight down the incline.

Oh, to have that sort of freedom. Henna shows flashes of it
.

Asgoth thumbed his tan trousers. He was more than ready for a change.

“I thought we had him at Crater Lake, Monde.”

“As did I.”

“He seemed … very close. Considering your skills, I thought it would be easier.”

“The human psyche’s not as fragile as one might suppose.”

Asgoth tapped against the ramp’s railing. “Of course, if Sergeant Turney hadn’t snuck into the picture, it might’ve been a different story. For that, I hold you responsible. Your old nemesis is once again giving you trouble.”

Monde stood silent while his black eyes roved.

“You have nothing to say?”

Monde rolled his shoulders back so that his jacket flapped about his angular frame. He snapped his neck one direction, then the other. “This situation requires a revised strategy. Viewed properly, it’s not a setback. It’s a fresh opportunity.”

Detective Freeman sat Clay in an interview room. Asked him to write down what he remembered: dates, details, descriptions. Clay fidgeted under hazy memories of his binge at the Raven but copied them down the best he could.

“So you think you can tell when people are going to die?”

“By touching them, yes.”

“Touching them.” The detective scribbled on his pad. “Explain how that works.”

“I can feel … numbers.”

“I can see dead people.” The man smirked. “Like that Bruce Willis flick.”

“For example, if I shook your hand, I’d know the exact day you’re gonna die.”

Freeman’s eyes widened. “Oooh. Scary.” He glanced up at the camera fixed in the corner. “I’m going to die. You heard it first from Mr. Clay Ryker.”

“Sounds crazy, I know. But it’s been right every time.” Clay indicated the three pages of notes that’d taken nearly forty minutes to write. “You’ve already got it on record from the bartender. I predicted Mako’s and Rhea Deering’s deaths.”

“You were pretty well snockered, from what I hear.”

“I’m not gonna deny it.”

“Maybe you had a hand in their misfortunes. Anything to get off your chest?”

“Your partner just finished questioning me, so you know the answer. I was on the Pacific Crest Trail during the shooting. And I’ve never even been to Rhea’s house.”

“Not a pretty sight after the explosion.”

“Bottom line is, I’m hoping we can help each other.”

“How would that work exactly?”

“I’d warn you in advance, then you’d provide protection for the possible victims.”

“Victims. Mr. Ryker, you say that as if we’ve got a sociopath roaming the streets, as if there’s some scheme behind this.”

“Well yeah, that’s the weird part. So far, all of the expiration dates have added up to thirteen. That can’t be mere coincidence.”

“Thirteen? Really?” Freeman lifted an eyebrow, then pushed his left elbow across the small table. “What about me? Come on, don’t be shy.”

“Am I gonna get in trouble for this? Touching your arm?”

“Only if you’re assaulting me. The last crackhead tried it. Of course, that voluntary urine test you took will determine whether that’s your problem.”

“I’m clean. Listen, whatever it takes to convince you I’m sincere.”

The detective toggled his elbow, enjoying this masquerade.

Clay let his exasperation take over. He stretched forward, rested his fingers on the ruddy, mole-dotted skin. The numbers transferred within milliseconds. As always.

“The verdict, Mr. Ryker. Let’s say it loud enough for the camera.”

“You have till the first of August, Detective.”

“And then I bite the big one?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Okay then. Am I supposed to carry you around in my back pocket, my own little guardian angel?” Freeman guffawed. “Here’s the way I read this, Mr. Ryker. In the past few months you’ve experienced a bankruptcy, a divorce, and the loss of personal friends. You’ve exhibited a sporadic work record here in town, been tossed out of a bar, shown self-destructive tendencies. And suddenly you’re a superhero?”

“A what? No, that’s not the—”

“We all long for purpose, don’t we? A natural desire. And you’ve fabricated this alternate reality to restore meaning to your life.”

“Whatever, Dr. Gerringer.” Clay pushed away from the table.

“Who? Where’re you going?”

“I came in voluntarily, remember? Shouldn’t have wasted my time.”

“You can’t leave now,” the detective ribbed. “I’m about to die.”

Clay wanted to strangle the man himself. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. If God had a plan, if this was a gift, why was he facing this ridicule? What could he do for those who refused to listen? Maybe free will wasn’t such a good thing.

“I’m going to pray for you, Detective Freeman.”

“Ah. A praying man.”

“Used to be. Trying to be.”

“Well, listen to this,” the detective growled. He hunched over the table and whispered so quietly that Clay had to lipread to understand. “You tell that God of yours to leave me alone. Got the tests back last month. The doctors say I’ve got a brain aneurysm, nothing they can do. Only a matter of time—couple days, couple weeks or months at best. In a split second it’ll be over. Haven’t told a soul.”

Clay’s faith cowered in a corner of his mind, but he had to offer something. A lifeline.

“Let’s pray right now, Detective. What could it hurt?”

“Screw that!” Freeman hissed. “I’d rather die.”

On Friday, Clay’s paycheck came with an admonition from Mr. Blomberg.

“Ryker, I’m not going to belabor this point, so listen and listen close. You skipped out on me once, threw my schedule into a tailspin, and cost me money. That’s not something I easily forget, you hear me? Plus, I’ve got my own troubles on the home front. I suggest you deposit this check, pay off some bills, and lay off the sauce.” He held up a hand. “Yes, Wendy told me about your little escapade at the Raven.”

“Sir, I made a mistake.”

“Sure did, mister. Your father’s made it plain that he expects no more favors. You do something like that again, even a minor thing, and you’ll be canned.”

“That’s more than fair. You’ve got a business to run.”

Blomberg combed thick fingers through his red hair. “I still can’t figure whether you’re a first-class brown-noser or just an ignorant punk still growin’ up.”

“Still growin’ up, sir.”

“See now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. You think you’re some kind of wise guy? You just remember what we talked about a couple of weeks back. God’s got a plan. That’s a fact. And you’d best get outta the way of it.”

“Yes, Mr. Blomberg.”

Sitting in the bank’s drive-through lane, Clay played over that last bit. Should he be getting out of God’s way? He’d tried it for the past few months, and it’d brought nothing but confusion. Maybe the opposite was true; maybe he should be getting in line with God’s sovereign design.