Scavenger

by David Morrell

  “Why don’t you go to hell?” Derrick told him.

  “An example of the independence that typifies this group. Good. You’ll disappoint me if you don’t show spirit. To answer your question, I can’t go to hell. I’m already there.”

  The dining room became silent.

  “Derrick and Viv were hired to lead an expedition to the top of Mount Everest,” the voice resumed. “The company organizing it set a price of sixty thousand dollars for each person who wanted to join. Eight adventurers were willing to pay. For this particular expedition, they certainly got their money’s worth. It takes almost two weeks just to trek to the base camp. After that, progress upward from camp to camp is increasingly slow. The altitude, the wind, the cold. Everest is more than twenty-eight thousand feet high. By the time the expedition reached twenty-five thousand feet, only two of the original adventurers remained. The others surrendered to exhaustion and the elements, returning to base camp. Derrick and Viv stayed with the two remaining climbers. At twenty-six thousand feet, a storm hit—then an avalanche. The amateur climbers were buried. Derrick and Viv managed to dig them out, but the climbers were injured too seriously to be able to move under their own power. The two-way radios were lost in the avalanche. There was no way to send for help. The injured climbers needed medical attention. In a struggle that lasted twelve hours, Derrick and Viv each took charge of one of the casualties, lowering them by rope, climbing down to join them, dragging them along icy ridges, lowering them again. At one point and at that debilitating altitude, Derrick even found the strength to carry one of the injured climbers for an astonishing twenty feet that must have felt like miles. When they reached a tent in a camp they’d earlier abandoned, Derrick stayed with the casualties while Viv descended to get help. A second storm hit, but Viv managed to guide rescuers back to the tent while Derrick did everything he could to keep the survivors alive. It’s an amazing accomplishment, and yet Derrick and Vivian look uncomfortable as I describe it.”

  Viv scowled toward the cameras, pursing her lips at the sound of the name she hated.

  “Neither they nor Bethany nor Ray are proud of what they achieved. Isn’t it interesting that what strikes others as remarkable behavior is minimized by those who lived through it? At the time, they weren’t being heroic. They were just desperately trying to stay alive. Fear is an ugly emotion. No one wants to remember it.”

  8

  “Amanda Evert.”

  Throughout, Amanda’s heart had pounded increasingly faster. Each time her name wasn’t called, she felt relieved, but then her dread increased as the voice ended one account and paused before beginning another.

  “No,” Amanda said.

  “But yours is the only story I haven’t told.”

  “Please, don’t talk about it.”

  “How can I make my point otherwise?”

  “Don’t talk about the Paragon Hotel.”

  But the voice persisted. “Around ten at night, Amanda got off a train in Brooklyn on her way home from working late at a book store in Manhattan.”

  “No.” Amanda pressed her hands over her ears. But even then, she dimly heard the voice.

  “Amanda’s abductor hid in an alley and used a drug-soaked cloth to overpower her. She regained consciousness on a bed in the Paragon Hotel.”

  The memory of her terror brought tears to Amanda’s eyes. They streamed down her cheeks.

  “That Asbury Park landmark was built in 1901, but after a series of disappearances, its doors were sealed in 1971. For five months, Amanda was held prisoner until a group of urban adventurers broke into the hotel to explore its historic corridors. But they soon discovered that some buildings are abandoned for a reason. Only a few survived the wrath of Amanda’s abductor.”

  Amanda tasted the salt of her tears as the voice spoke of Frank Balenger, her rescuer, and the agony he endured to save her.

  Frank, she thought. Where are you?

  A flame of anger swelled inside her.

  “Balenger’s heroism was astonishing,” the voice enthused. “It’s difficult to imagine how a man can push himself so long and so hard, to overcome so many obstacles and still manage to survive—not just survive but to save Amanda and a companion in the process. Do you see the theme? Determination and ingenuity, discipline and self-reliance. These are the virtues you share. That is why I brought you here.”

  “Frank,” Amanda whispered. Her eyes felt raw, blurred from weeping. “Frank,” she said stronger. She stood with such force that her chair toppled. Fists clenched, she yelled toward the ceiling, “What have you done with him, you bastard? Frank was the hero! I didn’t do anything, except get rescued!”

  “Modesty is an over-praised virtue. You did far more that night than you give yourself credit for.”

  “Damn it, where’s Frank? Why isn’t he here?”

  “Would you change places with him?” the voice wondered. “Would you want him to be here instead of you?”

  “He saved my life! I’m proud to take his place! But Frank’s the hero! There’s just one reason I can think of why you didn’t bring him here! You killed him, you son of a bitch!”

  The only reply was the sound of breathing.

  “Admit it!” Amanda yelled.

  “I haven’t included this conversation in your forty hours. But the time will soon begin. I suggest you control yourself, or else you’ll be worthless to the group.”

  Ray snapped his lighter shut. “Forty hours? He mentioned that before.”

  “All of you, reach under the table.”

  “Why?” Bethany demanded.

  They looked warily at one another. Slowly, they obeyed.

  Amanda was the last. Her emotions so ravaged her that everything seemed distant. She felt a wiry object attached to clips. She pulled it free.

  “Earphones?” Viv asked.

  Each streamlined headset was identical. A thin, curved metal band had a small ear bud at either end. A piece of metal projected from above the left ear bud.

  “A microphone,” the voice explained. “I need to remain in communication with you when you step outside.”

  “You’re letting us go?” Viv sounded hopeful.

  The voice ignored the question. “The batteries on these units are strong. They’ll last the necessary forty hours.”

  “Forty hours? Why do you keep talking about—”

  “There’s something else under the table.”

  Puzzled, Derrick sank to his knees and peered under it. Metal scraped as he pulled something free. He showed the group a small object.

  Amanda thought it was a cell phone. Emotionally exhausted, she didn’t realize she’d said it out loud until Derrick looked at her.

  “No.” He frowned. “It’s a global positioning satellite receiver. We use them on climbing expeditions.”

  “And for sailing,” Bethany added.

  “And flying,” Ray said. “But the GPS units in jets are considerably more sophisticated.”

  “Some new cars have them, also,” Viv said. “But why do we need—”

  “There’s one for each of you,” the voice told them.

  Amanda watched the others reach under the table. Apprehensive, she did the same. The object her fingers unclipped was silver gray. It had a screen similar to a cell phone, but there wasn’t an array of buttons. Instead, just a few buttons protruded on each side. The top had an image of a globe, then the word ETREX. The name of a particular model? Amanda wondered. At the bottom was another word that she guessed identified the manufacturer: GARMIN.

  Viv noticed her confusion. “Never used a GPS receiver?”

  “No.”

  “It has maps, an altimeter, and a compass. When you turn it on, it orients itself to the signals from global positioning satellites. Then you enter map coordinates to chart a course or find a location. Hey!” Viv yelled at the ceiling. “What are we supposed to do with these?”

  The voice ignored the question. “Go to your rooms. Each closet has a change of clothes
. Return to the front door in ten minutes.”

  “And then what?”

  “The forty hours begin.”

  9

  “This is what I learned so far,” Detective Ortega said.

  Tortured by his emotions, Balenger sat rigidly at a desk in the Missing Persons office of Manhattan’s One Police Plaza. The echo of phones and conversations filled the corridor outside.

  “First, I called Oglethorpe University in Atlanta,” Ortega said. “They never heard of a professor named Adrian Murdock. Not in the history department. Not in any department. I described the man you spoke to: gray hair, gray mustache, thin. That fits a lot of professors. Oglethorpe agreed to email faculty photographs for you to look at.”

  “The man I saw won’t match any of them,” Balenger said.

  “You know how this works—keep asking questions, keep getting information, even if it eliminates a possibility. I contacted the city clerk’s office. Up until 1983, that property was indeed owned by someone named Victor Evans. I checked with the phone company and got the numbers for all the people with that name in the New York City area. One of them turned out to be the man who owned the building back then. But he doesn’t know a Philip Evans, and he never had a son.”

  Balenger looked dismally at the cardboard cup of tepid coffee in his hand.

  Ortega checked his notepad. “Yesterday afternoon, my partner and I spoke to people who live on that block of Nineteenth Street. They say a truck arrived Saturday morning and unloaded the chairs and tables. Late in the afternoon, the truck came back to take the furniture away.”

  “That’s when Amanda and I were removed from the building,” Balenger said.

  “Probably. If a date-rape drug was used, no one would have needed to carry you. You’d have been marginally conscious and able to walk. True, you’d have been unsteady. But the truck would have blocked the view from the opposite side of the street, and the tables and chairs being carried out would have distracted anybody watching from the buildings on either side. You and your friend would have seemed just a couple of people being helped into a car.”

  “More likely a van. Something without windows.” Balenger’s hands felt cold. “A lot of people were involved. The woman who called herself Karen Bailey.”

  Ortega read a description from the notebook. “Matronly. Fortyish. No makeup. Brown hair pulled back in a bun. Plain navy dress.”

  Balenger nodded. “Plus, the people who showed up for the lecture.”

  “You said several of them walked out during the presentation?”

  “Yes.” Balenger concentrated, remembering. “A lot of people,” he emphasized, “too many to keep a secret. Maybe the audience didn’t understand what was really happening. Maybe they were paid to stay only for a limited time. The delivery people. All they needed to be told was a man and woman felt ill and were being helped into a van. It’s possible only the professor and Karen Bailey actually knew what was going on.”

  “The delivery people.” Ortega indicated a list on his, desk. “My partner and I are contacting all the companies in the city that rent tables and chairs for events. We’ll eventually find the company that delivered to that address. Maybe they can give us a description of whoever hired them.”

  “Any bets they were hired over the phone and paid with a check in the mail?” Balenger asked.

  Ortega studied him with concern.

  “And any bets the bank account was established for the sole purpose of paying the Realtor and the rental company and maybe some of the people who showed up for the lecture?” Balenger added. “That bank account won’t be used again, and whoever established it no doubt gave a false name, address, and social security number.”

  “You know,” Ortega said, “this is something new for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never had a case in which someone with law-enforcement experience reported a loved one missing. I feel like I’m a magician trying to work with another magician. You’re familiar with the procedures. You realize what goes on behind the curtain. While I was making inquiries with Oglethorpe University, the city clerk’s office, and the residents of that block on Nineteenth Street, I heard about someone else who made the same inquiries. That wouldn’t have been you by any chance?”

  “I couldn’t bear just sitting and waiting.”

  “I hope you didn’t imply to those people that you’re still in law enforcement.”

  “I did nothing illegal.”

  “Then the best thing you can do right now is make yourself sit and wait a little longer. You’re too emotionally involved to go around questioning people. Don’t try to do my job.”

  “The thing is,” Balenger said, “I realize how hard this is for you. You and your partner have plenty of cases, and there’s only so much time in a day, and speaking of magicians, you and I know magic doesn’t exist.”

  “Okay, show me how to do my job. If you were me, where would you look to find the people who attended the lecture?”

  “I was about to suggest they played their parts with such assurance, maybe that’s what they do for a living. Maybe they’re actors,” Balenger said.

  10

  “There’s the son of a bitch.” Balenger gestured toward a photograph in a glassed display. “Minus the mustache and with darker hair.”

  He and Ortega stood outside the Bleecker Street Playhouse in Greenwich Village. They’d spent the previous hour phoning talent agencies and actors’ groups, asking about anyone hired for a Saturday afternoon gig on East 19th Street.

  Leaving the noise of traffic, they entered a small, dingy lobby, where they paused to assess their surroundings. The box office was behind them. On the left, Balenger saw a coat closet, on the right a counter for refreshments. The stained carpet looked worn, although not much of it was visible because of folded tarpaulins, stacked scaffolding, paint cans, buckets, and brushes. The smell of turpentine hung in the air.

  “Definitely needs an overhaul,” Ortega murmured, glancing toward a water stain on the ceiling.

  “I hate old buildings,” Balenger said.

  Straight ahead, past a double door, muffled voices spoke unintelligible words.

  Ortega opened one of the doors and went inside. After a moment, he came back and motioned for Balenger to follow him. The door swung shut behind them. They stood in an aisle that descended past rows of seats toward a bottom area illuminated by overhead lights. On stage, the curtains were parted. Two couples, one middle-aged, the other young, held scripts and recited lines. A tall, thin man stood before the stage, motioning with a pointer to let them know where to stand.

  Looking small down there, the young woman glanced toward the back. “They’re here,” she said, her voice echoing.

  The tall, thin man turned toward Balenger and Ortega. “Please, come down and join us.”

  Concealing his agitation, Balenger was conscious of the sound of his footsteps in the deserted aisle. The theater exuded a sense of gloom, the old seats unnaturally empty, desperate to be filled with applause.

  Ortega introduced himself and showed his badge. “I believe you’re already familiar with Mr. Balenger.”

  Balenger recognized them. The tall, thin man was Professor Murdock. The four people on the stage had been at the Saturday lecture.

  “I certainly remember you,” the man with the pointer said, “and the young woman you were with. Her name was…” He glanced up, searching his memory. “Amanda Evert.”

  “And your name was Adrian Murdock, except I’m sure it isn’t.”

  “Roland Perry. The professor’s name was assigned to me.”

  “Is something wrong?” the young man on the stage asked.

  Ortega addressed Perry. “On the phone, you said your group was hired to be at that house on East Nineteenth Street.”

  “That’s right. The event was described as performance art.” Perry’s voice sounded vaguely British. “I was given a speech to deliver. Our playhouse actors received directions about how
to behave, plus a description of Mister Balenger and his friend. We were told this would be a practical joke of sorts. Throughout my lecture, the audience would gradually leave. Then I’d stop talking. As the visual demonstration continued, I’d step into the shadows and leave the building. After that, the images would stop, and Mister Balenger and his friend would find themselves alone in the room.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a joke,” Ortega said.

  “It was supposed to involve a surprise birthday party. As Mister Balenger and his friend wondered what on earth was going on, friends hiding upstairs would shout ‘Happy birthday!’ Food and drinks would be carried down. The party would start.”

  Ortega looked at Balenger, then asked Perry, “How much were you paid?”

  “For the group, for what amounted to an hour’s work, we received two thousand dollars. It was a much-needed contribution to our remodeling efforts.”

  “How were you approached?” Balenger asked.

  “A woman phoned and arranged to meet me here at the playhouse.”

  “Did she give a name?”

  “Karen Bailey. The woman you met at the lecture.”

  “I had the feeling she was part of your group,” Balenger said.

  “Not at all.”

  “Do you have a contract?” Ortega asked. “An address or a signature I can look at?”

  “No. It didn’t seem necessary. The arrangement was unusual, yes, but the two thousand dollars couldn’t have come at a better time. We were thankful for the windfall.”

  “But why are you here?” the older woman asked. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about.” Ortega gave Perry his business card. “If she contacts you again, let me know.”

  “Karen Bailey did leave a photocopy of something,” Perry said. “She told me to give it to Mister Balenger if he came to the theater.”

  “A photocopy?” Balenger frowned. “Of what?”

  “I put it in my script bag.” Perry tucked his pointer under an arm, went to a worn canvas bag next to a seat, and searched through it. “Here.” He offered Balenger a folded piece of paper.