Expiration Date (13 page)

Bathrobe-clad, Clay stood rooted in the middle of the yard. The unidentified kid on the bike had vanished down the road, leaving him here with a jacket, an envelope in hand, and a series of numerals burning along his nerve endings.

7.1.1.0.4 …

Each digit carved its presence. The sum total, once again, was thirteen.

He knew he shouldn’t be surprised; in fact, he should be used to it. He
had to admit, Summer’s passing had shaken him. Sure, he’d known her only casually, yet he’d seen her, spoken with her, touched her.

And she had died soon after, her numbers matching those on her tombstone.

A blue Escort zipped by, and Clay realized how ridiculous he must look out here in his plaid robe. He shuffled back to the porch, wincing at a sliver that poked through his dew-soaked socks.

7.1.1.0.4 …

That would be July 11, 2004. A week from tomorrow.

Hopping on one leg, he picked out the sliver, but his mind was on the paperboy. Was the kid in danger? Were the numbers a dire omen? If the dates could be matched up like this, what about that old guy in the hardware store? His numbers would’ve translated to July 2. The day before yesterday.

Clay was relieved that his mother’s numbers implied a date years away.

He tamped the thought down, convinced his imagination was getting out of hand. He couldn’t be responsible for every stranger he met. Maybe this was all part of his need to punish himself, his drive to pay for the death at the riverbank.

“I’m trying to start fresh,” Clay told himself. “I refuse to do this to myself.”

He tore the envelope, doubled it, started to tear again. Wait. Maybe he’d be better off saving these clues for later. He collected the pieces and stuffed them into a pocket.

Guilt was a blade at his throat, holding him hostage, forcing him back to this momentous spot. Clay brought the Duster to a stop on rutted mud and pebbles, then set the hand brake. The engine idled, ready for a getaway.

He glared at the ripped envelope on the seat, contemplating a reaction.

Here at the riverside, the blade pressed deeper, sharpened by the view of these waters. At this place one nightmarish incident had stripped him of his golden-boy aura, disturbed the course of his career, bled into his marriage.

For Clay, returning to JC had been an effort to regain his confidence, to
rediscover his potential. Instead, he felt inadequate—as he had in college. A jump shooter who had lost his touch.

Except now I have more touch than I want!

Still in his robe, Clay leaned over the steering wheel and stared up at the railroad bridge. The sun was drilling through the fog, skipping along the river’s surface, and riveting the girders with refracted sparkles. This is where it had happened.

Up there. Clay flicked his eyes. And down there.

He hated what he had done, hated that someone was now throwing it back in his face. The mysterious author of the notes had an ax to grind, no doubt about that, but Clay wouldn’t just roll over and die. If only he could uncover this person’s identity.

“It’s not gonna work,” he told the river. “I’m not giving in that easy.”

Near the bank the daylight pointed out a knotted stump caught in an eddy. The misshapen wood, bleached by water and sun, brought back to mind a spine-tingling sight. There, not ten yards from the stump’s present position, Clay had stood over his friend’s body—bloodied, naked, facedown in the water.

“Gonna be late for work, Son.”

“I’m not going.”

“Thought you worked Saturdays.”

“Not today.”

“Does Blomberg know this?”

“I’ll call right now.” Clay brushed past his father’s place at the dining nook and dialed from the kitchen phone. He left a curt message on Mr. Blomberg’s voice mail.

Although Gerald’s censure went unspoken, he ripped the lid from his blue travel mug and downed the coffee. Storm brewing; small craft advisories. With the urgency of a yachtsman trimming his sails and battening down the hatches, Gerald gathered the front section of the newspaper, then stalked to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

Watching the storm pass, Clay knew his mother would discern the source of shifting weather and come to check on him.

Sure, he desired comfort after the past few days’ events—preferably, though, from others of the female persuasion. Such as Jenni. Or Mylisha.

On the table the regional section of the
Guard
offered distraction. Clay moved back his father’s bowl with its residual Cream of Wheat ring. In respect for Summer’s death, he scanned the obituaries, but he was sure he was a few days late. At the job site, Mr. Blomberg had been the one to tell the particulars of the hit and run, how Summer’s head had struck a fence, how she’d died after a few comatose days in the hospital.

The culprit was yet to be apprehended.

How many people had been at her funeral? he wondered. Was she buried on the hillside by her parents and her sister Milly? No wonder she’d never called again.

Now Mylisha’s call made sense; she must’ve been crushed by this loss.

Trying to shake off depression, he panned to the section’s quaint back page where local yokels could see their names in lights, where years ago his future exploits had been bandied about with such confidence.

Human interest, they called it. Hometown heroes. Sports stars. Little old ladies with the courage to face down intruders.

Today’s picture did show an elderly woman. Smile lines creased her cheeks, underscoring the contentment she felt at her husband’s side. Mr. and Mrs. Coates, the story stated, had farmed acreage on Dane Lane and served the community as man and wife for nearly five decades before the tragic events of July 2.

“Mr. Coates sustained gunshot wounds to the chest …”

Clay studied the photo, bug-eyed.

July 2, 2004 … 7.2.0.4
.

“No! Tell me this is a joke.”

He choked on the details, shoved the paper away. His father’s bowl teetered at the table’s edge before crashing into pieces on the floor. Deaf to the rush of feet from the hallway, Clay bolted from his chair and tried to block out the image of Mr. Coates. The man from Ace Hardware. Hairy forearms. Canvas pants and work shirt.

This couldn’t be right. It was impossible!

In two separate cases now, the sets of numbers coincided with dates of death.

“I’m being punished.”

On his bed Clay ground his face into his hands until sparks of light exploded behind his eyelids, yet the terror of the newspaper column remained. Were the numbers intentional or accidental? Was this somebody’s idea of a joke?

“What the hell is going on?”

He groaned.
Hell … That’s exactly what this is. The penalty for my sins
.

With palms opened before his eyes, he studied the unique whorls, the
individual scars and lines, the epidermal layer. He flexed his fingers. Somehow, here at his fingertips, he could discern numbers.

Expiration dates.

This was more information than he wanted. He touched his fingers to his own skin, waiting for the branding iron to sizzle the newest numerals into place.

Nothing.

Apparently he was numb to his own demise. Not that he really wanted to know. What had the lady on the bus said? “God works in many different ways …” Had Henna passed this gift on to him? The newfound ability felt more like a curse.

“Clay.”

Motionless, he let his mother assume he was napping.

“Doll, you have a phone call.”

Probably Mr. Blomberg. Or the credit-card people catching up with him.

Della lowered her voice. “It’s a woman, dear. Her voice was so full of melancholy, I told her you’d take the call.”

“Hi, Clay. Guess who?” Mylisha sat up against her headboard. She’d been mourning Summer’s death and now felt the pillow’s sogginess under her thighs. “I can’t believe you’re here, back in JC.”

“Me neither. It’s been a couple of years.”

“Please tell me you haven’t gone bald and pudgy.”

“Who me? White men can’t do bald. Least not the tall, skinny ones.”

She chortled. “You wouldn’t look right. Dat’s for real.”

“I heard you called a few nights ago. Things okay?”

“Do I need an excuse?” She tried to block out Summer’s face. “Would’ve called back sooner, but I’ve been busy with work and my classes at LCC.”

“Didn’t even know you were going to school again. What’re you taking?”

“Guess.”

“Filmmaking. Like you always talked about doing.”

“You think you’re pretty sharp, boy.” She closed her eyes. “Actually, I’m working on business management credits.”

“If you say so.”

“It’s more interesting than it sounds.” She pulled back. Why should she explain herself? She’d already caved by calling him first, so now she’d wait for him to take the lead in the conversation. Mr. Ryker’s turn.

“Sounds like you’re staying busy.” He cleared his throat. “Man, Mylisha, it’s good to hear from you. Sorry I haven’t kept in contact. After I got married, it just seemed like a line I shouldn’t cross. Jenni wouldn’t have minded. She’s pretty mature about that kind of stuff. Just felt strange. Does that make any sense?”

“I stopped trying to make sense of you the day you left.”

“Yeah, I was stuck in my own fantasy world. Had nothing to do with you.”

“Apparently not.”

“No, Mylisha. I mean, it wasn’t your fault. I was an idiot in high school, pretty self-centered. You’re probably glad I didn’t go all the way to the pros with basketball. Serves me right, huh?”

“That’s just stupid talk.”

“Turned out to be human after all.”

“Always were human, one of your best attributes. What’re you goin’ on about? I wanted you to make it, Clay, wanted you to reach your dreams. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”

“Well, I’ve made a mess of things now. Ruined my marriage, lost my business, got bills piled higher than MJ can jump.”

“MJ’s retired.”

“Cut me some slack here.”

Mylisha sighed. “You moved on. That was your choice. No need to explain. You had your opportunities and ran after them. Can’t blame you. Not like I’ve sat around cryin’ over the tall, fine point guard who got away. I do have a life.”

“Fine?” Clay’s pleasure was evident. “That sounds so … old-fashioned.”

“I’m old school, getting set in my ways now that I’m all grown up. My girl Summer, she said I was boring. You believe that?”

“Summer Svenson.” Clay seemed to catch his breath. “You know, Mylisha,
I can still see the two of you working the ball downcourt. You were smooth on those fast breaks. Practically unstoppable. Did you still hang together after high school?”

“Mm-hmm, for the most part.”

“Mylisha, I’m sorry. I heard what happened. Not that it helps any, but I’ve been thinking about you, about what you must be going through.”

“Why weren’t you at her memorial service?” Mylisha’s tone turned harsh.

“I didn’t even know till yesterday,” he said. “No one told me.”

“Don’t blame me. Just like the old days, you never called back.”

“I’ve been completely out of touch. Had to get the facts from my boss over at Glenleaf Monument, where I’ve been working. A hit and run, right? He said she probably felt no pain, probably went into a coma the moment she hit her head.”