Scavenger

1

He no longer called her by his dead wife’s name, even though the resemblance was strong enough to make his heart ache. Sometimes, when he woke and found her sitting next to his hospital bed, he thought he was hallucinating.

“What’s my name?” she asked.

“Amanda,” he was careful to answer.

“Excellent,” a doctor said. The watchful man never mentioned his specialty, but Balenger assumed he was a psychiatrist. “I think you’re ready to be released.”

2

The taxi entered the Park Slope district of Brooklyn. Trying not to stare at Amanda’s long blonde hair and soft blue eyes that reminded him so much of Diane, Balenger forced himself to peer out the window. He saw a huge stone arch with a statue at the top: a winged woman with flowing robes.

“Grand Army Plaza,” Amanda explained. “You like history, so you’ll appreciate that the arch commemorates the end of the Civil War.”

Even her voice reminded him of Diane.

“All those trees — that’s Prospect Park over there,” she continued.

Down a narrow street, the taxi stopped in the middle of a row of four-story brownstones. While Amanda paid the fare, Balenger mustered the effort to get out. He felt the cold bite of a late October wind. His legs and ribs throbbed as did the abrasions on his hands.

“My apartment’s on the third floor.” Amanda pointed. “The one with the stone railing.”

“I thought you said you worked in a book store in Manhattan. This is an upscale district. How can you afford—” The answer quickly occurred to him. “Your father helps.”

“He never stopped hoping, never stopped paying the rent all the months I was missing.”

As Balenger climbed the eight steps, which felt like eighty, his knees became unsteady. Even though the wooden door was freshly painted brown, it gave the impression of age. Amanda put a key in the lock.

“Wait,” Balenger said.

“Need to catch your breath?”

In fact, he did, but that wasn’t his motive for stopping her. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Do you have another place to go, anyone else to take care of you?”

In both cases, the answer was “no.” During the previous year, while Balenger searched for his missing wife, he stayed in cheap motel rooms and could afford to eat only once a day, mostly sandwiches from fast-food restaurants. His savings account was drained. He had no one and nothing.

“You barely know me,” he told her.

“You risked your life for me,” Amanda responded. “Without you, I’d be dead. What else do I need to know?”

Neither commented that at the time Balenger believed the woman he saved was his wife.

“We’ll try it for a few days.” Amanda unlocked the door.

3

The apartment had one bedroom, a living room, and a kitchen. The ceiling was high, with molding around it. The floors were hardwood. Although everything looked bright and well-maintained, Balenger again had the sense of age.

“While we were in the hospital, my father stocked the refrigerator and the cupboards,” Amanda said. “Do you want something to eat?”

Balenger sank onto the leather sofa. Before he could answer, exhaustion overwhelmed him.

When he woke, it was dark outside. A blanket was over him. Amanda helped him to reach the bathroom and return to the sofa.

“I’ll heat up some soup,” she told him.

Afterward, she changed his bandages and dressings.

“While you were asleep, I went out and bought some pajamas for you.” She helped him put on the top, frowning at his injuries.

4

A nightmare jerked him awake, memories of shots and screams. Through frightened eyes, he saw Amanda hurry from the bedroom. “I’m here,” she assured him. In the pale light from a corner lamp, she looked even more like Diane, making him wonder if impossibly Diane’s spirit had merged with Amanda’s. She held his hand until his heart stopped racing. “I’m here,” she repeated. He lapsed back into a troubled sleep.

A cry from the bedroom jolted him upright. Wincing, he mustered the strength to rise from the sofa and struggle through the doorway, where he saw Amanda thrash beneath the covers, fighting her own nightmares. He stroked her hair, trying to tell her she was safe from the darkness and violence and fear, safe from the Paragon Hotel. Clang. In the back of his haunted memory, a flap of sheet metal slammed against the side of an abandoned building, clang, the mournful, rhythmic toll of doom.

He fell asleep next to her, the two of them holding one another. The next night was the same. And the next. They always had a light on. They kept the bedroom door open. Closed rooms gave them the sweats. Two weeks later, they became lovers.

5

He managed increasingly long walks. One gray December afternoon, as he returned from the snow-covered monuments in Grand Army Plaza, two men got out of a car in front of the brownstone. They wore somber overcoats. Their faces had pinched expressions. The cold air made their breath white with frost.

“Frank Balenger?” the taller man asked.

“Who wants to know?”

They pulled out identification: UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF THE TREASURY.

“Sign this.” When they reached the apartment, the heavier agent handed Balenger a pen and a document.

“It’d be nice if I could read it first.”

“It says you relinquish any claim to evidence you gave the Asbury Park police.”

“The double eagle,” the taller agent said.

Now Balenger understood. He disliked them even more.

“The Gold Reserve Act of 1933 makes it illegal to use gold coins as currency,” the heavier agent said. “It does permit citizens to own them as collectibles. But you can’t own something if you stole it.”

“I didn’t steal it.” Balenger felt heat rise to his face. “The original owner died in 1939. The coins were hidden in the Paragon Hotel. For all these years, nobody owned that coin until I put it in my pocket.”

“The only coin that survived the fire. Did you take a close look?”

Balenger worked to steady his voice. “I was a little preoccupied, trying to stay alive.”

“It’s dated 1933. Before the government made it illegal to use gold as currency, the mint manufactured the double eagles for that year. All the coins needed to be destroyed.” The taller agent paused. “But some were stolen.”

“Including the one you put in your pocket,” the other agent said. “Which means it’s the property of the U.S. government. They’re so rare, the last time we got our hands on one, it was auctioned at Sotheby’s.”

The first agent added, “For almost eight million dollars.”

The number had so much weight that Balenger didn’t trust himself to speak.

“Because of legal technicalities, we gave the person we got it from a portion of the money,” the agent continued. “We’re prepared to offer you a similar deal. We’ll call it a finder’s fee. Something generous enough to get a lot of publicity and encourage collectors to surrender similar illegally acquired coins, no questions asked.”

Balenger tried to sound casual. “What kind of fee are we talking about?”

“Assuming this coin sells for as much as the previous one? You’ll keep two million dollars.”

Balenger needed to remind himself to breathe.

6

A glorious Saturday in May. Sweating after a long jog around Prospect Park, Balenger and Amanda unlocked the brownstone’s front door and sorted through the mail the postman had shoved through the slot.

“Anything interesting?” Amanda asked as they climbed the stairs.

“More financial advisors eager to tell me what to do with the money we got from the coin. Pleas from more charities. Bills.”

“At least, we can pay them now.”

“Weird,” Balenger said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Take a look.”

Outside their apartment, Balenger handed her an envelope. Its old, brittle feel made Amanda frown. She raised it to her nostrils. “Smells musty.”

“It ought to. Check the stamp.”

“Two cents? That’s impossible.”

“Now look at the postmark.”

It was faded with age but readable.

“December thirty first?”

“Keep reading.”

“Eighteen ninety-nine? What the…” Amanda shook her head. “Is this a joke?”

“Maybe an advertising gimmick,” Balenger said.

After they entered the apartment, Amanda tore open the envelope and removed a sheet of paper. “Feels as brittle as the envelope. Smells as musty.”

The message was handwritten in thick strokes. Like the postmark, the ink was faded with age.

“Time capsules?” Amanda looked bewildered. “What on earth?”

“The first Saturday of June?” Balenger leaned into the kitchen and glanced at a calendar. “That’s next weekend. The Manhattan History Club?”

“You’re right. It’s got to be an advertising gimmick.” Amanda examined the paper. “Sure seems old. It ought to, considering it comes from a history club. They’re probably looking for new members. But how did they get our names and address?”

“Last fall, when everything happened, the newspapers indicated you live in Park Slope,” Balenger said.

“The club waited an awfully long time to get in touch with us.”

Balenger thought about it. “When the coin was auctioned last month, there was more publicity. The media dredged up what happened at the Paragon Hotel. They mentioned my fascination with history. Maybe this guy thinks he can persuade me to give his club a donation.”

“Sure. Just like those financial advisors eager to get commissions from you,” Amanda decided.

“Time capsules.” Balenger’s tone was wistful.

“You sound like you’re actually tempted to go.”

“When I was a kid…” He paused, transported by the memory. “My father taught high-school history in Buffalo. His school was tearing down an old classroom building to make space for a new one. There was a rumor about a time capsule — that a graduating class from years earlier put one in the foundation when the building was new. After the demolition workers went home each day, a couple of kids and I used to search for the capsule in the wreckage. Of course, we had no idea what something like that would look like. It took me a week, but by God, I finally spotted a big stone block in an excavated corner of the building. The block had a plaque that said CLASS OF 1942. ALWAYS TO BE REMEMBERED. AT THE THRESHOLD OF OUR FUTURE. What happened was, over the years, grime covered the plaque. Shrubs grew in front of it. People forgot.”

Amanda gestured for him to continue.

“Anyway, the block had a hole in it,” Balenger explained. “I saw a metal box inside. When I ran home and told my father, at first he got angry that I was playing in a demolition area and could have gotten hurt. But when he learned what I’d found, he made me take him there. The next morning, he asked the workers to pry open the block. ”For God’s sake, don’t damage what’s inside,“ I remember him saying. The workers were as fascinated as we were. In fact, a lot of teachers and students heard what was happening and came over, too. A worker used a crowbar and finally pulled out a metal box about the size of a big phone book. It was rusted shut. The students urged the worker to break it open, but my father said we should make a ceremony of it and have a fundraiser. People could buy tickets to watch the time capsule get opened. The money would pay for library books. ”Great idea,“ everybody said. So the principal called the newspaper and the radio and TV stations to publicize the event, and the grand opening was scheduled for a Sunday afternoon in the school auditorium. TV cameras were there. A thousand people paid a dollar apiece to watch.”

“What was in it?” Amanda asked.

“Nobody ever found out.”

“What?” Amanda looked surprised.

“The principal had the time capsule locked in a cabinet in his office. The night before the grand opening, someone broke into the office, pried open the cabinet, and stole the box. You can imagine how disappointed everybody was. I always wondered what those students from 1942 thought was important enough for the future to see.”

7

The building was one block south of Gramercy Park, on East 19^th Street, in the area’s historic preservation district. Saturday traffic was quiet. An overcast sky made the air cool enough for light jackets. Balenger and Amanda stood outside the brick row house and studied a weathered brass plaque that read 1854. Above the entrance, another plaque read MANHATTAN HISTORY CLUB.

They climbed steps and entered a shadowy vestibule that felt as if it hadn’t changed in its century and a half. A poster sat on an easel, showing a distinguished-looking, gray-haired man with an equally gray mustache. He was thin, with lines creasing the corners of his eyes. He wore a conservative suit and held a metal cylinder in his hands.

Balenger heard voices beyond the vestibule.

A matronly, fortyish woman in a plain dark dress entered the corridor from a room on the right. When she noticed Balenger and Amanda, she smiled. “I’m glad you could join us.”

“Well, the invitation was so clever, we couldn’t resist,” Balenger said.

The woman blushed. The rising color in her cheeks was emphasized by her lack of makeup. Her brunette hair was pulled back severely in a bun. “That was my idea, I’m afraid. Our lectures haven’t always been well-attended, so I thought a little drama was in order. I never dreamed how much work it would take for the committee to deliver the invitations. I’m Karen Bailey, by the way.” She offered her hand.

“Frank Balenger.”

“Amanda Evert.”

“Of course. You’re the couple who had the coin. The newspaper article about the auction mentioned your interest in history. I thought this lecture would be perfect for you.”

“You’re not by chance having a fundraiser, are you?” Amanda asked.

“Well…” Karen looked embarrassed again. “We always welcome donations. But you needn’t feel obligated.”

Balenger ignored Amanda’s knowing look. “Hey, we’re glad to contribute,” he said.

“The invitation promised refreshments. What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? A soft drink?”

“Coffee,” Balenger told her.

“Same here,” Amanda said.

They followed Karen along a corridor that displayed sepia-tinted photographs of Gramercy Park, with cards next to them indicating that the photos were from the 1890s. Faded images showed horse-drawn carriages, men wearing hats, suits, ties, and vests, and women wearing dresses that came down to their buttoned shoes.

Old carpeting muffled Balenger’s footsteps. The air retained the musty smell of the past. Turning to the right, Karen led them into a long room that had rows of folding chairs. Sepia-tinted photographs decorated these walls, too.

Balenger glanced at a screen. A laptop computer sat on a lectern, linked to a projector. He switched his attention to a half-dozen people who sipped from Styrofoam cups and took bites from quartered sandwiches.

Karen pointed. “Let me introduce you to Professor Murdock.”

She guided them to a gray-haired, gray-mustached man who held a portion of a sandwich and spoke to a man and woman in their thirties. He looked thinner than in his photograph. Although he wore a suit, the couple he spoke to were dressed in jeans, as Balenger and Amanda were.

“… term wasn’t used until 1939. Before that, they were called boxes or safes or even caskets. And then, of course, there’s the famous…” The man interrupted himself to nod at Balenger and Amanda.

“Professor, I’d like you to meet…” Color again rose in Karen’s cheeks. She evidently failed to remember their names.

“Frank Balenger.”

“Amanda Evert.”

They shook hands.

“I was just explaining about the Crypt of Civilization,” the professor said.

“The what?” Balenger wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“That’s the name of arguably the most famous time capsule. Of course, I’m biased because it’s located at Oglethorpe University where I teach.”

“Did you say ‘the Crypt of Civilization’?” Balenger asked.

“Interesting name, don’t you agree? The Crypt’s the reason the International Time Capsule Society is at Oglethorpe.”

“There’s a time capsule society?” Amanda sounded amazed.

More people entered the room.

“Excuse me,” the professor said. “I need to make sure everything’s ready for my presentation.”

As he went to the lectern, Karen Bailey brought their coffee. “Cream and sweetener are on that table. The sandwiches are catered. Please, try one.” She walked to the front of the room and pulled the draperies shut.

Balenger studied the sandwiches. Their crusts were cut off. He picked one up and bit into it. “I don’t normally like tuna salad, but this isn’t bad.”

“It’s the lettuce,” Amanda said.

“Lettuce?”

“It’s crunchy. The mayonnaise tastes homemade. The bread’s still warm.” Amanda took another bite.

So did Balenger. “I hope he talks about this Crypt of Civilization.”

8

The professor stood in shadows at the lectern and pressed the laptop’s keyboard. On the screen, an image appeared, showing a long, shiny metal tube that reminded Balenger of a torpedo. A group of solemn, white-coated men stood next to it.

“Even though the practice dates back to antiquity, this is the first object to be called a time capsule,” Professor Murdock said. “It was created for the 1939 New York World’s Fair. Its sponsor was Westinghouse, an appliance corporation with a reputation for quality. Because the time capsule wasn’t due to be opened for five thousand years, the implication was that Westinghouse products were designed to last. Why five thousand years? Because it was assumed that recorded history was five thousand years old. Thus, the World’s Fair was midway between the past and the future. The capsule’s designers announced, ”We choose to believe that men will solve the problems of the world, that the human race will triumph over its limitations, that the future will be glorious.“ Of course, the horrors of the Second World War would soon make them feel differently.”

When the professor touched the computer, another image appeared on the screen. This one showed a futuristic-looking building, part of what presumably was the 1939 World’s Fair. A banner in the background proclaimed THE WORLD OF TOMORROW. People lined up to enter. Balenger was struck that, even though going to the fair would have felt like a holiday, most of the men wore jackets, ties, and dress hats.

“The capsule was made from an extremely hard, copper alloy resistant to moisture,” the professor said. “After being filled, it was lowered into a shaft during the autumnal equinox in what was almost a religious atmosphere, complete with Chinese gongs. The shaft had a cap from which a periscope projected, allowing visitors to see the time capsule interred fifty feet below them. After the fair concluded, the shaft was filled and sealed, then covered with a concrete marker. ”May the Time Capsule sleep well,“ the Westinghouse chairman said. Because more capsules have been lost than have ever been found, Westinghouse prepared The Book of the Record of the Time Capsule. Thousands of copies were printed on acid-free paper with fade-resistant ink and dispersed to libraries and monasteries throughout the world, even in Tibet. Among other information, the book contained the latitude and longitude for the capsule’s location, a wise precaution because the concrete marker in Flushing Meadows, where the fair took place, has been reduced in size over the years.”

Another image appeared, showing an array of various objects.

“And what did the capsule contain?” Professor Murdock asked. “What were the precious items that the designers felt would best show a society five thousand years in the future the things that made 1939 significant? An alarm clock. A can opener. A fountain pen. A nail file. A toothbrush. A Mickey Mouse cup.”

Someone in the audience laughed.

“There were numerous other items, but these examples suggest how difficult it is to decide what’s important in any society. Will there be can openers in the future? Alarm clocks and nail files? Perhaps the things we take most for granted are what a future world will find most incomprehensible. To echo the title of a novel that was placed in the capsule, all cultures eventually vanish, gone with the wind. The 1939 World’s Fair was proud to tell the future what the world was like at that moment in history. But there’s a desperation in the thoroughness with which the capsule was prepared, as if the designers were afraid they’d be forgotten.”

A new image showed what appeared to be a sprawling castle.

“This is the campus at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta, where I teach,” Professor Murdock said. “The idea for the Westinghouse capsule originated there in 1936. Oglethorpe’s their president, Thornwell Jacobs, drained an indoor swimming pool and filled it with thousands of items, including microfilmed pages from encyclopedias along with everyday objects such as a toilet brush, a lipstick, a grapefruit corer, a fly swatter, Lincoln Logs, and an ampule of Budweiser beer. The project was so ambitious that Jacobs didn’t complete it until 1940, one year after the World’s Fair. As a result, Westinghouse received credit for creating the first time capsule, even though the idea was borrowed. Jacobs used a burial metaphor and called his project the Crypt of Civilization.”

Balenger heard a noise behind him. Turning in the shadows, he noted that a man and woman were leaving. At the exit, they whispered to Karen Bailey. The man pointed to his watch. Karen nodded with understanding.

The flash of a new image made Balenger look forward. He saw Nazi soldiers frozen in mid-goose-step. The image became a series that showed the rubble of bombed buildings, tanks marked with swastikas, piles of bodies in death camps, and the mushroom cloud of a nuclear bomb.

“When Jacobs conceived of the Crypt of Civilization, it’s possible that the ravages of the Great Depression made him skeptical about the future of civilization. Perhaps his goal wasn’t to brag to the future, as the Westinghouse time capsule did, but rather to preserve something he feared was in danger of being lost. Certainly, by 1940, when the Crypt was sealed, pessimism was rampant as the German army stormed through Europe. In a document Jacobs placed in the Crypt, he said, ”The world is engaged in burying our civilization forever, and here in this crypt we leave it to you.“”

Balenger heard other movement behind him. Again turning, he noticed a second couple leaving the shadowy room. He frowned.

“The Crypt survived, but most aren’t that fortunate,” Professor Murdock continued. “Their containers aren’t water resistant, or else their contents include organic substances that rot. Moreover, the accidents of human nature defeat the best intentions. An ambitious town in California deposited a total of seventeen time capsules and lost every one of them. At a high school in Virginia, six graduating students helped prepare a time capsule and buried it somewhere on campus. That was in 1965. The school has now been torn down, and those six former students have a total memory gap about what they put in the capsule and where they buried it. It’s as if the event never happened to them. These communities are now engaged in what amounts to a hide-and-hunt scavenger game.”

Balenger tensed as two more people left the room. What’s going on? he wondered.

“Of the thousands of time capsules that have been misplaced,” Professor Murdock said, “five are considered the most wanted. The first is the Bicentennial Wagon Train Capsule.”

The professor’s voice seemed to lessen in volume. Balenger leaned forward to listen.

“On Independence Day, 1976…”

The shadows seemed to thicken.

“… a capsule containing twenty-two million signatures was driven to Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, in a caravan of vehicles known as the ‘bicentennial wagon train.” President Gerald Ford was to officiate in a ceremony commemorating the U.S. War of Independence.“

The professor’s voice became fainter.

“But before the ceremony occurred, someone stole the capsule from an unattended van.”

Balenger’s eyelids felt heavy.

“The second most-wanted time capsule is at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. In 1939, MIT engineers sealed various objects in a container and deposited it under a huge cyclotron they were building. The cyclotron was…”

9

Clang.

Balenger drifted toward consciousness. The harsh, persistent tolling seemed to come from a fractured bell.

Clang.

It matched the agonized throbbing in his head.

Clang.

He managed to open his eyes, but darkness surrounded him. A chill breeze made him shiver. He heard waves crash. The breeze carried a hint of burnt wood and ashes.

A light suddenly blazed. Groaning, he raised a hand to shield his eyes. His forearm ached.

“Buddy, you’re not supposed to be here,” a gruff voice said. “On your feet.”

All Balenger could do was groan.

“You heard me. Get moving.”

“Where…” Balenger’s throat felt raw. He could barely get the word out.

“I won’t tell you again. Move!”

“Where am I?” Balenger squinted toward the glare. He suddenly realized that he lay on sand.

“For God’s sake, you screwed yourself up so bad, you don’t even know where the hell you are?” a second gruff voice demanded. “Asbury Park, buddy. The same place you passed out.”

Clang.

Balenger struggled to stand. The stark flashlight beam illuminated the jumbled wreckage of a building. The smell of burnt wood was stronger. “Asbury Park?”

Clang.

Balanger’s mind cleared enough for him to recognize the sound from his nightmares: a flap of sheet metal banging against the side of an abandoned building. A cold shock of fear seized him.

Clang.

“The city’s working to rebuild the area. Guys like you aren’t welcome here.”

“No,” Balenger said. “Is that…” Frantic, he pointed toward the chaotic stretch of debris. “Don’t tell me that’s…”

Clang.

“The Paragon Hotel,” the voice explained. “What’s left of it. When all those killings happened and it burned down, we said, ”Enough!“ We’re gonna bring this beach back to life. So scram before we put you in jail!”

Emotion made Balenger shake. The Paragon Hotel? he thought in a panic. How did I get here?

“Hold it a second. Eddie, this guy looks familiar. Hey, aren’t you—”

“Balenger,” the other man said. “Frank Balenger. Yeah, that’s who he is. Jesus, man, what’re you doing back here? I’d expect this was the last place you’d ever want to see again.”

“Amanda,” Balenger whispered.

“I can barely hear you.”

“Amanda.” Balenger’s voice was hoarse.

“Who’s Amanda? Somebody’s with you?”

“Wait, Eddie. I think I… Amanda… Last fall when the hotel burned down. What was her last name? Evert. Amanda Evert. Is that who you mean, Frank? The woman you saved?”

Clang.

“Amanda!” Balenger screamed. “Where are you?” His vocal cords threatened to burst. He staggered through the burned wreckage, searching.

“Frank, talk to us. For heaven’s sake, what are you doing here?”

10

“The Manhattan History Club?” Jeff Cochran frowned. A heavy man with red hair and freckles, he was Asbury Park’s police chief. Two years earlier, before Balenger quit the department to search for his missing wife, Balenger had worked for him. “Time capsules?”

“That’s the last thing I remember.” Balenger rubbed the back of his neck, working to relieve his headache. “Look, you’ve got to keep searching the beach area. Amanda might still be—”

“They’re checking for the second time. I promise I’ll do everything I can. You went to this history club when?”

“Is today Saturday?” The overhead light was oppressively harsh.

“Not anymore. It’s past midnight.”

“Saturday was…” Balenger fought to concentrate, to get the correct date. His left forearm remained sore. “June second?”

“That’s right. Man, whatever they gave you sure fouled up your memory. Some kind of date-rape amnesia drug maybe.”

“In the coffee and the sandwiches.” Balenger shook his head, aggravating his headache. “But everybody else drank and ate… The woman… What was her name? Come on, come on. Karen! That’s what she called herself. Karen Bailey. She brought coffee to us. That’s when it happened.”

“You said she pulled the drapes shut and turned off the lights.”

“Yes.” Balenger felt sick to his stomach. “So the professor… Murdock. That was his name. So Professor Murdock could deliver a lecture and show photographs on a screen. After a while, people started leaving. The room seemed to get darker.”

“Why do you keep massaging your left forearm?” Cochran asked.

“It aches.” Balenger took off his sport coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve. The middle of his forearm was red and swollen. Something had punctured his skin.

“Looks like somebody gave you an injection,” Cochran said. “More drugs to keep you sedated while they brought you here.”

Hands trembling, Balenger felt in his pockets. “I’ve still got my wallet. They didn’t take my watch. This wasn’t robbery.”

“Your cell phone?”

“I didn’t bring it with me. Amanda’s just about the only person I talk to on it. Since she was with me, it didn’t seem necessary to carry it.”

Cochran shoved the office phone across the desk. “Does she have a cell phone?”

Balenger touched numbers. Palm sweating, he pressed the phone to his ear.

An electronic voice told him, “The number you are calling is out of service.”

The voice must have been loud enough for Cochran to hear it. “Try your home,” the police chief said. “Maybe she’s waiting for you, worried about where you are.”

“But it doesn’t make sense that someone would drug us, put me in Asbury Park, and take Amanda to our apartment.”

“So far, none of this makes sense. Try home,” Cochran urged.

Balenger quickly touched more numbers. His hand was now so sweaty that it slicked the phone.

“Hello,” Amanda’s voice said.

Thank God, Balenger thought. Abruptly, his spirit sank as he realized what he heard.

“At the tone, please leave a message.” Amanda’s recorded greeting ended.

Balenger forced himself to speak. “I don’t know what happened,” he said into the phone, alarmed by the unsteadiness of his voice. “If you get this message, call the Asbury Park Police Department.” He dictated the number on the phone. “Ask for Chief Cochran.”

“In that case—” Cochran motioned for Balenger to slide the phone to him. “—let’s see what the Manhattan P.D. can find out.”

11

Balenger’s head throbbed as Cochran steered onto East 19^th Street. The Sunday morning light, free of workday traffic exhaust, was so clear that it hurt Balenger’s sleep-starved eyes. The dashboard clock showed 8:11.

“The next block,” he told Cochran. “There. The middle row house.”

Balenger saw a tall, thirtyish, Hispanic man in a tie and sport coat standing in front of the building. Next to him was a severely thin woman in a designer pantsuit. Her hair was platinum. Her excessive lipstick and eyeliner made it difficult to tell how old she was.

Cochran managed to find a parking space at the end of the block. Balenger hurried toward the row house.

“Chief Cochran?” the Hispanic asked.

“That’s me,” Cochran said, catching up to Balenger.

“Detective Ortega.” The man shook hands. “This is Joan Dandridge.”

“Frank Balenger. That sign wasn’t here yesterday.” Apprehension swelling inside him, Balenger indicated the top of the stairs, where a FOR SALE sign was attached to the door. The sign read KNICKERBOCKER REALTY and provided a phone number.

“That’s my company,” Joan said. She dropped a cigarette to the pavement and stepped on it.

Balenger stared toward the empty space above the door. “There was a bronze plaque up there.”

“What?” Her voice became sharp.

“Above the door. With the words MANHATTAN HISTORY CLUB.”

Joan climbed the steps, pulled spectacles from her purse, and stared toward the bricks above the entrance.

“My God, I see holes where the plaque was attached. He promised he wouldn’t damage the building.”

“He?” Cochran asked.

“The owner bought this place on spec and wants too much for it,” the realtor complained. “I keep telling him, the boom’s over, the price is too high. So when I got a call from somebody offering to rent the building for a day, I encouraged the owner to accept. I negotiated a very nice rate.”

“Rent the building?” Balenger felt off-balance. Amanda, he thought, desperate to get inside.

“For a reception. The man said he lived here until his parents sold it when he was a teenager in the 1980s. He happened to drive by, noticed it was for sale, and decided to have a surprise birthday party for his father, who always regretted selling the place. I kidded him, ”Never mind renting it for a day. Convince your father to buy it back.“ He laughed and told me, ”Nostalgia isn’t worth four million dollars.“”

Balenger quickly asked, “What did he look like?”

“I never met him.”

“You never—?”

“We made all the arrangements over the phone. The contract went through the mail. His check didn’t bounce. I got a security deposit and a fee. That’s all I cared about. I did find out who owned the property in the 1980s. Victor Evans. The man who signed the rental contract is Philip Evans. The same family name. As far as I was concerned, everything looked legitimate.” She pulled a key from her purse and scowled again at the holes above the door. “This is a historical district. The damage deposit might not be enough to pay for the repair.”

She unlocked the door.

“Wait here,” Ortega said.

“But I need to find out if anything else is damaged.”

“After we make sure no one’s inside.”

Ortega, Balenger, and Cochran entered. The vestibule smelled musty.

“There was an easel here,” Balenger told them. “A poster with the professor’s photograph was on it,”

They followed the corridor. All the old photographs of Gramercy Park were gone.

Balenger gestured to the right. “The lecture was there.”

They went into the long room. The folding chairs were gone. So were the photographs, the draperies, the lectern, the screen, and the tables for the coffee, tea, and sandwiches.

Ortega cautiously opened a door at the back and looked inside a room. “Empty.”

Balenger listened to the building’s silence. “Amanda!” he shouted.

The echo died. No one answered.

Massaging his forearm, he returned to the corridor and peered up the stairs. Its dark carpet led toward shadows.

“Amanda!”

Still, no answer.

The stairs creaked as Balenger hurried up.

“I’m coming with you,” Cochran said.

“You’d better let me go first.” Ortega caught up to them.

“I know how to do this,” Balenger said. “I used to be a police officer.”

“But are you armed?”

“No.”

“Chief Cochran?”

“I’m out of my jurisdiction. I didn’t bring my gun.”

“Then I’ll go first,” Ortega emphasized. At the top, he checked a murky room, then proceeded along a corridor.

Balenger went into the room. Its carpet had imprints where a bed, a dresser, and a chair once stood. The closet door was open, revealing a couple of hangers on a rod.

The second room contained two empty packing boxes.

On the next floor, all they found were a few more hangers and a strip of bubble wrap.

Ortega opened the final door. “The attic.”

No one moved for a second. Then they braced themselves and went up a narrow stairway, where the creaking was louder than on the main stairs. Balenger followed Ortega, dust irritating his nostrils. He heard Cochran behind him.

Sunlight struggled through a grimy window. The pitched ceiling was so low that Balenger needed to stoop. He studied an uneven pine floor and an exercise mat, torn at one edge. “A long time ago, this was probably the servants’ quarters.”

“Sort of like a cave,” Ortega said. “I bet kids would enjoy playing up here.”

Cochran pointed. “What’s that in the corner?”

“Looks like a couple of CD cases,” Balenger said.

Ortega pulled latex gloves from his suit-coat pocket, leaned into the corner, and picked up the cases. “Not CDs. Video games. I never heard of the first one, but the other is Grand Theft Auto. My kids play it. I told them to stop — a cop’s kids playing games about stealing cars and beating up prostitutes — but I’m sure they keep playing it behind my back.” Ortega opened the cases. “No wonder they got left behind. The discs are missing.”

Balenger’s forearm continued to ache. The small talk hadn’t eased his tension. “We’re not finished searching.”

“I know,” Ortega said. “There’s always the basement.”

12

Descending, Balenger felt his chest cramp so hard that he had trouble breathing. Dankness surrounded him. The basement was a single, long area, poorly lit, with old brick walls and cobwebbed pipes. The concrete floor had cracks. The furnace was covered with grit. Rust lay under the water heater.

“Four million dollars for this place?” Cochran murmured. “It ought to be condemned.”

The attempt at small talk still did nothing to calm Balenger. No matter how thoroughly he looked, there wasn’t any sign of Amanda.

“When was the last time you checked your home?” Ortega asked.

“The chief drove me there first. I picked up a photograph.” Balenger pulled it from a jacket pocket. It came from a shoebox Amanda kept on a closet shelf. It showed her playing with her parents’ Irish setter in their backyard in Connecticut.

Ortega studied it. “How tall is she?”

“Five six. A hundred and twenty pounds.” Balenger’s throat tightened. When he rescued her from the Paragon Hotel, she’d been gaunt. It had taken a lot of encouragement to get her to eat enough to regain a healthy weight.

“Eye color? It’s hard to tell in the photo.”

“Blue. Soft. Kind of translucent,”

“Hair. Would you call it straw-colored?”

Balenger nodded, overwhelmed with emotion. He gazed longingly at the joyous smile in the image. Shoulder-length hair. Lovely chin and elegant cheekbones. He had an anguished memory of a similar conversation with a detective when his wife disappeared.

“I need to tell you something,” Balenger said.

“Oh?”

“This happened to me once before.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My wife disappeared, too.”

The dim lights in the basement didn’t hide Ortega’s surprise.

“She looked like Amanda.” The dankness penetrated Balenger’s core, making him shiver. “Chief Cochran told you about the Paragon Hotel when he phoned you.”

Ortega nodded somberly.

“I found my wife in that hotel. Dead.” Confronting his memories made Balenger’s hands and feet numb. His rapid breathing caused him to feel lightheaded. “I also found Amanda there.”

Ortega’s gaze intensified.

“The physical resemblance isn’t coincidental.” Balenger rushed on, unable to control the speed of his words. “We know who kidnapped my wife. The same man who kidnapped Amanda a year ago. He was fixated on young women with blond hair, blue eyes, and similar features. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he did this. But I saw Amanda beat him to death with a two-by-four. After it broke, she used it as a stake and rammed it into the bastard’s heart. I keep having nightmares about him. But he couldn’t have done this.” Balenger felt desperate as he turned toward Cochran, needing reassurance.

“Right. That’s all he is — something in nightmares,” Cochran said. “I saw the corpse on the beach. I saw it in the morgue. I saw it in the autopsy. Later, I spoke to witnesses who saw it cremated.”

Balenger’s anguished voice reverberated through the cellar. “So what other son of a bitch would want to make this happen a second time?”