Creepers

2

The motel had twelve rooms. Only unit 4 was occupied, a pale yellow light seeping past its thin curtain. The exterior was run-down, as much in need of paint and repair as all the other buildings in the area. Balenger couldn't help wondering why the group had chosen it. Despite the hard times the community had suffered, there were still some decent places in which to stay.

The cold breeze made him tug the zipper on his Windbreaker all the way to his neck. A broad-shouldered man of thirty-five, he had short, sandy hair and an experience-etched face that women found appealing, although there was only one woman he cared about. He paused outside the room, wanting to control his thoughts, to prepare his emotions for the role he needed to assume.

Through the flimsy door, he heard a man's voice. It sounded young. "The guy's late."

A woman's voice, also young. "Maybe he isn't coming."

A second man, much older. "When he contacted me, he was enthused by the project."

A third man. Young, like the first two. "I don't think it's a good idea. We never took a stranger with us before. He'll get in the way. We shouldn't have agreed."

Balenger didn't want the conversation to proceed in that direction, so he decided he was as focused as he was going to get and knocked on the door.

The room became quiet. After a moment, a lock was freed. The door came open the length of a security chain. A bearded face peered out.

"Professor Conklin?"

The face nodded.

"I'm Frank Balenger."

The door closed. A chain rattled. The door came open again, revealing an overweight man of sixty silhouetted by light.

Balenger knew the man's age because he'd researched him thoroughly. Robert Conklin. Professor of history at the State University at Buffalo. Vietnam War protestor during his graduate-school years. Jailed three times at various political events, including the 1967 march on the Pentagon. Arrested once for possession of marijuana, the charge dismissed for insufficient evidence. Married: 1970. Widowed: 1992. One year later, he became a creeper.

"It's after nine. We began to wonder if you were coming." The professor's gray hair matched his beard. His glasses were small, his cheeks heavy. After a careful look outside, he shut and locked the door.

"I missed the earlier train from New York. Sorry to hold you up."

"Quite all right. Vinnie was late arriving also. We're getting organized."

The professor, who looked out of place in jeans, a sweater, and a Windbreaker, indicated a thin man of twenty-four, who also wore jeans, a sweater, and a Windbreaker. As did the two other young people in the room. As did Balenger, who'd followed the instructions he was given, including the directive to make certain the clothes were dark.

Vincent Vanelli. B.A. in history: State University at Buffalo, 2002. High school teacher in Syracuse, New York. Unmarried. Mother deceased. Father unable to work, suffering from smoker's-related emphysema.

Conklin turned toward the remaining two people, a man and a woman. They too were twenty-four, Balenger knew from his investigations. The woman had ponytailed red hair, a sensuous mouth that some men would have worked not to stare at, and a figure that the sweater and Windbreaker couldn't hide. The good-looking man next to her had brown hair and a solid build. Even if Balenger hadn't researched his background, he'd have known that the man enjoyed exercise.

"I'm Cora," the woman said, her voice pleasantly deep, "and this is Rick."

Again, only first names, although Balenger knew that their last name was Magill. They had B.A.s in history from the State University at Buffalo, 2002, and were now in the graduate history program at the University of Massachusetts. Met in 2001. Married in 2002.

"Pleased to meet you." Balenger shook hands with everybody.

An awkward moment ended when he pointed toward objects laid out on the worn bedspread. "So these are the tools of the trade?"

Vinnie chuckled. "I guess, if the wrong person came in here, he'd get suspicious."

It was an amazing array of equipment: hard hats with battery-powered lights attached to them, flashlights, candles, matches, spare batteries, work gloves, knives, knapsacks, rope, duct tape, water bottles, hammers, a crowbar, digital cameras, walkie-talkies, trail mix, energy bars, and several small electronic devices Balenger couldn't identify. A Leatherman all-in-one tool (pliers, wire cutters, various types of screwdrivers) sat next to a first-aid trauma kit in a red nylon bag. The kit, labeled Pro Med, was the equivalent to what SWAT teams and military special-operations units carried, Balenger knew.

"Anticipating trouble? Some of these could be considered burglary tools."

"The furthest thing from our minds," Professor Conklin said. "Anyway, there's nothing to steal."

"As far as we know," Cora said. "Not that it would make a difference. We look but don't touch. Of course, that's not always possible, but that's the general idea."

"To quote the Sierra Club," Rick said, "'take nothing but photographs; leave nothing but footprints.'"

Balenger removed a notebook and pen from a Windbreaker pocket. "How long have you been creepers?"

"I hope you're not going to use that word in your article," Vinnie objected.

"But it's part of the slang, isn't it? 'Mice' are law-enforcement officers, right? 'Ball busters' are large pipes you're forced to straddle to get over. 'Poppers' are the crowbars you use to pry up manhole covers. And 'creepers' are-"

"'Infiltrators' is an equally dramatic term, with a less harsh connotation, although it does imply we're breaking the law," Professor Conklin admitted. "Which, strictly speaking, we are."

"Why not call us urban explorers or urban adventurers?" Cora said.

Balenger kept writing.

"City speleologists," the professor suggested. "Metaphoric cave investigators descending into the past."

"We'd better set some rules," Rick said abruptly. "You work for-"

"The New York Times Sunday Magazine. They brought me on board to write features about interesting cultural trends. Movements on the fringe."

"On the fringe is exactly where we'd like to stay," Cora said. "You can't identify us in your article."

"All I have are your first names," Balenger lied.

"Even so. This is especially important for the professor. He's got tenure, but that doesn't mean his dean won't try to take it away if the university finds out what he's doing."

Balenger shrugged. "Actually I'm way ahead of you on that point. I have no intention of using your names or specific details of your backgrounds. It'll add to the supposed danger if I make it sound like you're members of a secret group."

Vinnie leaned forward. "There's no 'supposed' danger about this. Some creepers have been seriously injured. Some have even died."

"If you identify us," Rick emphasized, "we can go to jail and pay heavy fines. Do we have your word that you won't compromise us?"

"I guarantee none of you will be damaged because of what I write."

They glanced at each other, uncertain.

"The professor explained to me why he thought the article deserved to be written," Balenger assured them. "He and I think the same. We've got a throwaway culture. People, plastic, pop bottles, principles. Everything's disposable. The nation's suffering from memory disorder. Two hundred years ago? Impossible to imagine. A hundred years ago? Too hard to think about. Fifty years ago? Ancient history. A movie made ten years ago is considered old. A TV series made five years ago is a classic. Most books have a three-month shelf life. Sports organizations no sooner build stadiums than they blow them up so they can replace them with newer, uglier ones. The grade school I went to was torn down and replaced by a strip mall.

Our culture's so obsessed with what's new, we destroy the past and pretend it never happened. I want to write an essay that convinces people the past is important. I want to make my readers feel it and smell it and appreciate it."

The room became quiet. Balenger heard the clang clang clang outside and the waves crashing on the beach.

"I'm beginning to like this guy," Vinnie said.