Creepers

5

Balenger watched the professor unfold a map, then tap a finger on a section two blocks north.

"The Paragon Hotel?" Cora asked, reading.

"Built in 1901," Conklin said. "As its name indicates, the Paragon claimed to be the model of excellence. The finest amenities. The most painstaking service. A marble-floored lobby. Exquisite porcelain dinnerware. Gold-plated eating utensils. A telephone in each room at a time when the only phones would normally have been in the lobby. A heated indoor swimming pool when that was a rarity. A steam room, which wasn't common either. An early version of a whirlpool spa. A ballroom. An art gallery. An indoor roller-skating area. A primitive air-conditioning system based on forced air being blown over ice. Also, a full heating system, which was unusual, even for the finest beach hotels-after all, their clients were summer visitors wanting to get away from the heat. Four recently invented, gearless electric elevators with push-button controls. Room service was available twenty-four hours a day. The elevators plus a system of electric dumbwaiters guaranteed prompt delivery."

"Throw in some cocktail waitresses, and you've got Las Vegas," Vinnie said with a grin.

Balenger tried to blend with the group by looking amused.

"The Paragon was designed by its owner, Morgan Carlisle, who inherited the family fortune after his wealthy parents died in a fire at sea." The professor's explanation made Vinnie's grin dissolve. "Carlisle was only twenty-two, eccentric, withdrawn, given to fits of anger and deep depression, but he also showed brilliance in whatever he tried. He was a genius constantly verging on a nervous breakdown. It's ironic that a steamship line was the source of his fortune and yet he had a morbid fear of traveling. He was a hemophiliac, you see."

The group peered up from the map.

"The bleeding disease?" Cora asked.

"Sometimes called the 'royal disease' because at least ten male descendants of Queen Victoria were afflicted with it."

"The slightest bump or fall causes almost uncontrollable bleeding, right?" Balenger asked.

"That's correct. Basically, it's a genetic disorder in which blood fails to clot properly. Without showing symptoms, females pass it on to males. Often the hemorrhaging isn't external. Blood seeps into joints and muscles, with crippling pain that forces the victim to stay in bed for weeks."

"Is there a cure?" Balenger made a note.

"No, but there are a few treatments. In Carlisle's youth, an experimental procedure involved blood transfusions that temporarily supplied him with clotting agents from normal blood. His parents were terrified that an accident might cause him to bleed to death, so they kept him under strict control, almost a prisoner, supervised by the servants. He was never allowed outside the family home in Manhattan. His mother and father loved to travel, however, and frequently left him alone. It's been estimated that they stayed away six months every year. They returned with photographs, paintings, and stereoscope images showing him the wonders they'd seen. He was so programmed to stay indoors that he developed agoraphobia and couldn't bear the thought of going outside. But after his parents died, he mustered all his frustration, courage, and anger, and vowed that for the first time in his life, he'd change locations. He'd never set foot on the Fifth Avenue sidewalk outside his home, but now he was determined to design a hotel and live in it, at a fabulous, beyond-imagining ocean resort that all Manhattan was talking about: Asbury Park. The model he used came from one of those stereoscope images his parents brought him. A Mayan ruin in the jungles of Mexico."

Balenger noticed how intense the group's eyes became.

"Carlisle decided that if he couldn't see an actual Mayan pyramid, he would build one for himself," the professor continued. "The structure was seven stories tall: the height, width, and depth of the original pyramid. But he didn't slavishly imitate. Instead, he decided that each level would be set back, the upper floors getting smaller, until only a penthouse stood at the top, a modified pyramid shape that anticipated art-deco buildings in the 1920s."

Rick frowned. "But if he had agoraphobia…"

"Yes?" Conklin studied Rick, waiting for him to draw the logical conclusion.

Cora was quicker. "Professor, are you telling us that Carlisle moved into the hotel, lived in the penthouse, and never left?"

"No, you just told me." Conklin put his hands together, pleased. "One of the elevators was for his private use. Day or night, but mostly at night, when the guests were asleep, he had a small version of the world at his disposal. Given the cost of the hotel, the enterprise never had a chance of making a profit. Even the rich would have balked at the prices Carlisle would have needed to charge. Those with moderate means would have stayed away entirely. So Carlisle made his prices competitive. After all, the point was to surround himself with life, not make a profit."

Balenger asked the logical question. "How long did he live?"

"To the age of ninety-two. The general misconception about hemophiliacs is that they're weak and sickly, and indeed some are. But one treatment involves keeping physically active. Non-contact exercises such as swimming and stationary bicycling are encouraged. A muscular torso supports painful joints. Mega-doses of vitamins with iron supplements are recommended to prevent anemia and strengthen the immune system. Steroids are sometimes used to add muscle mass. Carlisle pursued all these with a vengeance. By all accounts, he had an arresting physical presence."

"Ninety-two years old," Cora marveled. A sudden thought struck her. "But if he was twenty-two in 1901, then he lived until-"

"Add seventy more years. 1971." It was Rick's turn to complete Cora's thought. Balenger noticed that, even this early in their marriage, they shared that trait. "Carlisle was there when the riots and the fires happened the year before. He probably watched them from his penthouse windows. He must have been terrified."

"'Terrified' is an understatement," the professor said. "Carlisle ordered shutters to be installed on the inside of every door and window in the hotel. Metal shutters. He barricaded himself inside."

Balenger lowered his notepad, sounding intrigued. "For more than three decades, it's been boarded up?"

"Better than that. Carlisle's reaction to the riots did us a favor. The interior shutters worked better than any outside boards would have. Vandals and storms have destroyed the glass on the windows. But in theory, nothing got in. This is a rare opportunity to explore what may be the most perfectly preserved site we'll ever find. Before the hotel's destroyed."

"Destroyed?" Cora looked puzzled.

"After Carlisle's death, the hotel became the property of the family trust with instructions to preserve it. But after the stock market crashed in 2001, the trust suffered financial problems. Asbury Park seized the building for unpaid taxes. A developer bought the land. Next week, a commercial salvager will come in to strip the hotel of whatever's valuable. Two weeks after that, the Paragon has an appointment with a wrecking ball. But tonight, it'll have its first guests in decades. Us."