Scavenger

1

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

Amanda felt as if she floated upward from a deep pool.

“The second most-wanted time capsule is at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.”

Amanda drifted to the surface.

“In 1939, MIT engineers sealed various objects in a container and deposited it under a huge cyclotron they were building. The cyclotron was eventually deactivated, but the time capsule was forgotten for more than fifty years.”

Her eyes opened.

“It might as well have stayed forgotten. Short of tearing the building apart, no one knows…”

Amanda discovered that she lay on a bed.

“… how to remove the capsule from under its eighteen-ton shield.”

She felt groggy and nauseous. Her head throbbed. But its rhythm didn’t match the sudden, frantic pounding of her heart.

“The third is the M*A*S*H Capsule.”

Amanda jerked upright. Where’s Frank? she thought. Stifling a moan, she scanned the room. Beamed ceiling, stone fireplace, log walls, wooden floor. Sunlight streamed through a window, hurting her eyes. In the distance, she saw jagged mountains capped with snow. She feared she was going insane.

“In 1983, cast members of the popular television program M*A*S*H put costumes, props, and other items related to the series into a capsule and buried it on the Twentieth Century Fox film-production lot.”

The voice belonged to a man and came from everywhere around her.

“But the studio changed so much in the intervening years that no one can identify the capsule’s location. Possibly it lies under a hotel constructed on property the studio once owned.”

Amanda rolled from the bed. She realized that the voice came from audio speakers hidden in the ceiling and walls.

“The fourth is George Washington’s Cornerstone. In a Masonic ceremony in 1793, George Washington supervised the placement of a time capsule into the cornerstone of the original Capitol Building.”

Amanda looked down at her clothes. She wore the same jeans, white blouse, and gray blazer that she remembered putting on. Straining to focus her jumbled thoughts, she sensed that she’d been unconscious for quite a while. But her bladder didn’t ache with the need to relieve it, which meant that the drug she was given, like a date-rape drug, allowed her to obey commands. Someone must have carried her to the bathroom, taken her pants off, and coaxed her to urinate.

“The Capitol has grown so much since then that the first cornerstone and its unknown contents have never been recovered.”

Her arms and legs trembled. Her stomach felt heavy. She was as overwhelmed as she’d felt a year earlier when she’d regained consciousness and found herself in the Paragon Hotel. Again, she thought. My God, it’s happening again.

“The fifth is the Gramophone Company Capsule. In 1907, in Middlesex, England, the Gramophone Company placed audio discs into a time capsule in the cornerstone of its new factory.”

The voice was sonorous. Despite her grogginess, she guessed she was hearing the continuation of the speech Professor Murdock delivered at the Manhattan History Club. But the voice did not belong to the professor.

“These recordings included music by several their famous opera stars. During demolition sixty years later, the capsule was found. But before the recordings could be played for an audience, they were stolen, the irreplaceable voices on those discs never to be recovered.”

Amanda fought to control her breathing. Frank? she thought. Where are you? She started toward a door, only to whimper when the voice returned to an earlier part of the lecture.

“Of the thousands of time capsules that have been misplaced…”

Amanda almost screamed.

“… five are considered the most-wanted.”

Chest contracting, she realized that the voice was on a recorded loop. While she was unconscious, it must have played repeatedly. That explained why the words seemed familiar, even though she had no memory of having heard them.

“The first is the Bicentennial Wagon Train Capsule.”

I’m in hell, Amanda thought. She ran to the door and grabbed the handle, fearful that it wouldn’t budge.

“On Independence Day, 1976…”

The handle moved when she pressed down. Heart pounding faster, she yanked at the door.

“… a capsule containing twenty-two million signatures was driven to Valley Forge, Pennsylvania.”

When she pulled the door open, she found a log-walled corridor. She peered to the left and right, seeing doors and paintings of cowboys.

“President Gerald Ford was scheduled to officiate.”

She eased out and shut the door, the only sound a muffled continuation of the recording.

A long carpet occupied the middle of the corridor. On her right, Amanda saw a dead end. She crept silently to the left, hearing the faint voice behind the doors she passed.

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

2

She came to a staircase. Its fresh smell of wood and varnish suggested that the building was new. At the bottom, a large open area led to a door with a window on each side.

She hurried down, reached the door, and grabbed its handle.

Electricity jolted her, knocking her backward. Her mind went blank. The next thing she knew, she landed hard, slamming her head on the floor. Pain shot through her. She groaned and managed to focus her vision.

“Jesus,” someone said.

Turning toward the sound, she saw a man charge down the stairs. Mid-twenties. Short, dark hair. Gaunt, rugged features. Beard stubble.

She raised her hands to defend herself, then realized he wasn’t attacking her.

“Are you hurt?” He helped her up.

“Sore.” She wavered, dazed, grateful not to be alone.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“I have no idea.” Amanda stared at her tingling hand. “But I don’t recommend touching that door handle.”

“The voice in my room… The last thing I remember…” The man’s haunted eyes scanned the area around them. He struggled to concentrate. “I was in a bar in St. Louis.”

“I was at a lecture in Manhattan,” Amanda told him, baffled. “About time capsules.”

“Time capsules? The same as the recording in my room. What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m afraid to imagine.”

“There’s got to be a way out.”

An archway beckoned on the right. They went through it and reached a long dining table flanked by chairs, everything rustic. Windows provided a view of more mountains. Through a further archway, Amanda saw an old-fashioned wood stove, a refrigerator, other windows, and a door.

Her companion hurried toward the latch.

“Don’t touch it,” Amanda told him. “We’ve got to assume all the doors are electrified.”

“Then we’ll break a window.”

A shadow appeared at the entrance to the dining room. Amanda swung around.

3

In the archway, a woman stared at them. She wore camel slacks and a taupe blouse, highlighted by an expensive-looking necklace, watch, bracelet, and several rings. In her thirties, she was taller than Amanda, thin in a manner that suggested she was a compulsive dieter. Her auburn hair was pulled behind her ears. Her tan features were handsome more than beautiful. Her expression was stark.

“What is this place?”

Amanda gestured in frustration. “We don’t know.”

“How did I get here? Tell me who you are.”

“Ray Morgan.”

“Amanda Evert.”

“Who drugged us? I was at a cocktail party. A boat show in Newport Beach. Suddenly I was in that bed upstairs.” The woman shook her head. “I heard that recording. Time capsules? This doesn’t… Who on earth would do this?”

“I’m getting out of here before I find out,” Ray said. He grabbed a chair and swung it toward a window.

Amanda jerked her arms up to shield her face from flying glass, but all she heard was wood cracking. Twice. Three times. Louder. Ray grunted with effort. When the pounding stopped, Amanda lowered her arms and saw that a leg on the chair had broken off but the window remained intact.

“The glass is reinforced.” Ray studied it. “Almost as thick as a jet canopy.”

“Jet canopy?” The comparison seemed odd.

“I was a Marine aviator in Iraq.”

His tone suggested he meant to impress her, but all the reference to Iraq did was send a further spasm of fear through her. For Frank. It reminded her of the terror he’d endured there. Frank. She was certain that he too had been drugged. Otherwise, if he was conscious, he wouldn’t have let anything happen to her. Where was he?

“You haven’t told us your name,” Ray said to the woman.

“Bethany Lane.” She frowned at her bracelet and watch. “Whatever this is about, it isn’t robbery.”

“That doesn’t encourage me,” Amanda said.

Two more figures appeared behind the woman in the archway.

Ray picked up the broken chair leg, holding it as a weapon.

“It’s okay,” a man said. He raised his hands to show they were empty. “I heard what you said. I don’t know anything more about this than you do.”

A woman was with him. “And we’re just as scared.”

The man was black. In his twenties, he had thick, black hair and a lean build. The woman was Anglo, the same age, with cropped brown hair. She too was lean. They wore khaki pants with numerous extra pockets down the sides. Camping clothes.

“Derrick Montgomery,” the man said.

“Viv Montgomery,” the woman said. She wore a wedding ring. “The last thing I remember, we were drinking tea next to our tent, getting ready to go to sleep.”

“In Oregon,” Derrick said. “But that’s not Oregon out there. This looks like Colorado or Wyoming.”

“Stand back.” Ray grabbed another chair and stalked past them into the front hall, where he swung the chair at the window to the left of the door. He struck repeatedly. The impacts made the window vibrate but otherwise had no effect.

“Son of a bitch,” Ray said.

Derrick reached for the latch.

“No,” Amanda warned. “It’s electrified.”

Derrick jerked back his hand.

“Find the electrical panel,” Bethany said. “Shut off the juice.”

“I like the way you think.” Ray went through the dining room toward the kitchen.

“We shouldn’t split up,” Amanda told them.

They hurried to follow Ray and found him standing in the kitchen, staring down at a trapdoor handle.

“Maybe it’s electrified, too,” he said.

“I’ve got an idea.” Amanda pulled a hair from her head, wetted it with saliva, and eased it toward the handle. When it touched the metal, she felt a tingle and jerked her hand away. “Yes, it’s electrified.”

“Test the handle on the cupboard under the sink,” Viv told Amanda.

Wondering why the cupboard was important, Amanda obeyed. “I don’t feel any current.”

Viv yanked the doors open and groped under the sink. She pushed aside a long-handled brush, a bottle of dish detergent, and a box of scouring pads. “Yes!” She straightened, holding a pair of long yellow gloves, the kind used for washing dishes.

Rubber gloves, Amanda realized.

Viv put them on and went directly to the kitchen door. She hesitated, then tapped the handle with a gloved hand. Nothing happened. “We’re out of here.” But when she pushed on the handle, it wouldn’t move.

“There’s no key hole,” Bethany said. “It must have an electronic lock.”

“Which takes us back to the trapdoor and trying to find the electrical panel,” Ray said.

With her hand protected, Viv lifted the trapdoor. They stared at the darkness below.

“I don’t see a light switch.” Amanda turned toward the counter next to the sink and put the strand of hair against the drawer handles. When she didn’t feel a tingle, she yanked at the drawers.

One contained a hammer, a screwdriver, wrenches, and a flashlight.

Derrick aimed the light through the open trapdoor, revealing a short, wooden ladder and a dirt floor. “Not deep enough to be a basement.”

“To move around down there, you need to be on your hands and knees,” Bethany added.

“Any volunteers?”

No one answered.

“Hell, I’ll do it.” Ray crouched. “Anything to get out of here. Give me the flashlight.”

“Wait,” Amanda said.

“What’s the matter?”

Amanda studied the ladder. “Shine the light over there.”

It revealed an electrical wire attached to a rung in the steps.

“Change of plan,” Viv said. “Back to the door. With the gloves protecting me, I can use the hammer and a screwdriver to take the hinge pins off.”

“Excellent.”

But none of them had said that word.

“Who…” Derrick peered up.

From the ceiling, the voice continued, “Really, I’m impressed.”

4

Amanda’s heart lurched.

“Jesus,” Ray said.

Everyone jerked toward the side of the kitchen and gaped above them.

“I never expected you to demonstrate your problem-solving talents so quickly.” The voice belonged to a man.

It was deep, sonorous, like a TV announcer’s. Amanda recognized it from the recording that had wakened her.

“A speaker hidden in the ceiling,” Bethany said.

“But how did he know what we…” Ray studied the upper corners of the room. His eyes narrowed. “Cameras. They’re small, but once you know what you’re seeing…”

Amanda concentrated and saw tiny apertures in each corner, near the ceiling. She went through the archway into the dining room and frowned upward. “Cameras here also.” Something seemed to turn over in her stomach. “The house must be lousy with them.”

“Welcome to Scavenger,” the voice announced.

“Scavenger?” Derrick asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Please, go into the dining room and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll explain.”

“To hell with that.” Viv grabbed the hammer and screwdriver from the drawer. Still protected by the gloves, she rammed the screwdriver under a hinge pin in the kitchen door and whacked the hammer against it. As metal rang, she knocked the pin free.

“Please, go into the dining room,” the voice repeated.

Viv knocked another pin free. She started on the third.

“This isn’t productive. You have only forty hours,” the voice said. “Don’t waste time, Vivian.”

“I’m Viv! Nobody calls me ‘Vivian’! I hate it!”

“Step away from the door.”

Amanda felt cold. “I think we’d better do what he wants.”

“Listen to her, Vivian,” the voice suggested.

“Stop calling me ‘Vivian’!”

“Leave the door alone,” Amanda said. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“If you knock that third pin free and attempt to pry the door open…” the voice said.

“Yeah? If I do, what’ll happen?” Viv demanded.

“The building will explode.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The voice became silent.

“You’re lying!” Viv shouted.

The silence deepened.

“Yeah, why don’t we go into the dining room?” Ray suggested.

Viv kept glaring toward the ceiling.

Derrick went over and touched her shoulder. Her glare softened only a little. “It won’t hurt to let him tell us what this is about,” he said. “If we think we don’t have an alternative, we can always pry open the door later.”

The voice broke its silence. “Oh, I guarantee you’ll have an alternative.”

5

Wary, they entered the dining room and sat at the table, glancing nervously at each other and then at the ceiling.

Ray took a Zippo lighter from a pocket. He fidgeted, opening and closing its chrome lid. “Anybody got a cigarette?”

Amanda and the others shook their heads.

“Too much to hope for.”

“Let me tell you about Raymond Morgan,” the voice said.

Ray stopped snapping the lighter’s cap.

“Former lieutenant. United States Marine Corps aviator. Raymond is a hero.”

“No,” Ray said.

“His story was widely reported in the media,” the voice continued. “He was flying a reconnaissance mission when a shoulder-launched missile struck his aircraft. This took place in a mountainous area of Iraq with a strong insurgent presence.”

Again, the reference to Iraq made Amanda think of Frank. Where was he? What happened to him? She prayed he wasn’t dead.

“The missile strike occurred at dusk. In fading light, Raymond parachuted to the ground. This was both good and bad. Dusk prevented the insurgents from aiming at a clear target. But the poor light made it difficult for Raymond to see where he landed. He struck a rocky slope and rolled, severely bruising himself and spraining his left ankle. Regardless of his pain, he hobbled all night to escape the insurgents. Just before dawn, he covered himself with rocks. Throughout the day, he remained motionless under their weight while the heat of the sun scorched him. Judging from sounds, he estimated that the insurgents came within fifty feet of him. As long as they hunted him, Raymond didn’t dare activate a homing device that would have brought rescue helicopters. After all, the signal would have lured the rescuers to the insurgents. Thus began an ordeal of hide-and-hunt in which Raymond hobbled from ridge to ridge each night and buried himself each day. He made the rations in his emergency kit last as long as possible. After that, he ate bugs. When his canteen was emptied, he drank water from stagnant pools. These made him feverish, but he never gave up. Through determination and ingenuity, discipline and self-reliance, he persisted for ten days until he finally outmaneuvered his hunters. U.S. intelligence sources later determined that the insurgents decided he was dead because no one could possibly have survived as long as he did. Only after he reached territory that wasn’t dangerous to the rescue helicopters did he activate his location transmitter. He lost thirty pounds and received a Silver Star. That was three years ago. Raymond is now a pilot for a regional air service in Missouri.”

Ray stared down at his lighter and snapped it shut. “Not a hero,” he said bitterly. “Friends of mine got shot down and killed. They were heroes.”

6

“Bethany Lane,” the voice said.

Bethany squirmed.

“Your story was widely reported, too. Bethany sells luxury sailboats. She’s based in Newport Beach, where some of her clients are also her friends. A year ago, she was invited to accompany a group sailing to Bali. Her ex-husband encouraged her to enjoy an overdue vacation. Four days into the voyage, a storm capsized the vessel. Bethany and a twelve-year-old girl were the only survivors. Buoyed by life jackets, they managed to cling to a rubber lifeboat until the water calmed enough for them to crawl in. They had a compass and emergency rations stored in the lifeboat. They had their foul-weather clothes in addition to their life jackets. Bethany pulled wreckage from the water and made a primitive lean-to that protected them from the sun. She had no idea of their location, but she knew mostly open water lay to the west whereas if she headed east, she couldn’t fail to miss the coastline of the United States or Mexico. The trick was to get there. So she used her foul-weather coat to rig a sail, and she used more wreckage to make a rudder, and when the wind didn’t cooperate, she rowed. Tell your acquaintances about how you handled the emergency rations, Bethany.”

Bethany’s cheeks reddened with embarrassment.

“Don’t be modest,” the voice said. “This is the time for everybody to get to know one another. Tell them about the rations.”

“Well, I…”

“Do it,” the voice emphasized. “Tell them.”

“I’ve never been much of an eater.”

“That’s an understatement. You’re anorexic, Bethany.”

“Damn you!”

“No secrets,” the voice said.

“All right,” she yelled. “I’m anorexic. So what? I was fat when I was a kid. People mocked me, and my mother never stopped nagging about my weight. Food makes me sick to look at it. In that damned rubber boat, I told myself, ”Hey, it’s no big deal about the rations. I hardly ever eat anyhow.“ So I divided the food into daily amounts, and I gave the little girl most of it. I needed to be awfully lightheaded before I allowed myself to eat.”

“Now tell them about the water.”

Bethany stared at her hands.

“Don’t be modest.”

Bethany stayed quiet.

“Very well,” the voice said. “I’ll do the honors. When the meager supply of water was gone, they faced a bigger emergency than the dwindling food supply. A person can survive three weeks without food but only three days without water. Bethany and the little girl had plenty of water around them, of course, but the salt content would eventually have killed them. Their only hope was rain, but the sun blazed relentlessly. Bethany deflated her life jacket and tied it over her head as a sunguard while the little girl lay under the shelter Bethany had rigged. At last, Bethany didn’t have the strength to row. The meager sail provided their only momentum. They drifted for two weeks before a container ship en route to Los Angeles noticed them. But how did you survive that long, Bethany? How did you solve the water problem?”

“You know so much about this. Why don’t you tell them?”

“I’m sure they’d rather hear it from you.”

Bethany studied the group and sounded exhausted, as if suffering the ordeal yet again. “I used the little girl’s foul-weather coat to make a soft pail. I put seawater in it. Then I covered the pail with her deflated life jacket. I held the edges tight with my hands. God, it hurt. After doing that all day, my hands ached so bad, I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep the seal tight.”

“And why was a tight seal important?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Because it gives you nightmares, Bethany? But talking might help. Think of this as therapy.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Someone with the power to let you out of this building. Why was a tight seal important?”

Bethany murmured something.

“Say it so the others can hear you, Bethany. You can see they’re interested.”

“Evaporation.”

“Yes.”

Bethany exhaled audibly. “The heat of the sun on the pail and the life jacket caused vapor to rise from the sea water. The vapor collected on the underside of the life jacket, where it was wrapped over the pail. I waited a long time. Then I eased the jacket away. There were usually about ten drops of water clinging to the underside. I had to be gentle turning it, or else the drops would fall. The point is, the collected vapor didn’t have salt in it. The little girl and I took turns licking the drops. I can still feel the rough surface of the jacket on my tongue. I can still taste the bitterness.”

“Who taught you to get water that way?”

“No one.”

“You just figured it out?”

Bethany didn’t reply.

The voice marveled. “And you did it for days and days.”

7

“Derrick and Vivian Montgomery. I beg your pardon. I mean Viv. They, too, were featured prominently in the news. The fact that they’re a mixed-race couple added a further dimension to the story.”

Derrick’s features hardened. He worked to keep his anger under control.

“They’re two of the finest mountain climbers in the world. In fact, that’s how they met three years ago — on an expedition in the Himalayas. Odd that they went so far before they met — because they both grew up in Washington State. They’ve been climbing a lot of the same mountains since they were children. Famous climbers can earn a reasonable income by endorsing equipment, teaching at mountaineering schools, and organizing expeditions for wealthy adventurers. Indeed, Derrick and Viv were already well known in the climbing world before an incident last year thrust them into global prominence, no doubt with beneficial effects on their income.”

“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 undipped 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 19^th 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.

But before Balenger touched it, Ortega said, “Wait.” He removed the latex gloves from his sport coat. After putting them on, he opened the paper.

Balenger stood next to him and looked down at it. The paper had streaks from a photocopy machine. It showed a book page on which everything was matted out, except one paragraph and an imprint of, a stamp: NYPL HUMANITIES & SOCIAL SCIENCE LIBRARY. The stamp was faint.

Ortega read the paragraph out loud.

“It is a wonderful place, the moor,” said he, looking round over the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of jagged granite foaming up into fantastic surges. “You never tire of the moor. You cannot think the wonderful secrets which it contains. It is so vast, and so barren, and so mysterious.”

The passage was so bewildering it made Balenger lightheaded. “Karen Bailey told you to give this to me if I came to the theater?” he asked Perry.

“Yes.”

“Did she say why?”

“No. I assumed it was part of the practical joke.” Perry tapped his pointer on the floor. “What’s the problem? Why won’t you tell us why you—”

“I smell smoke,” Balenger said.

11

Spinning toward the back of the theater, Balenger saw wisps of gray drifting through the seams in the double doors.

“No,” Perry moaned.

Balenger heard the four actors scramble down steps from the stage, but all he paid attention to were the strengthening tendrils of gray. He and Ortega ran up the aisle, stopping when they saw light flicker beyond the middle of the doors. Something crackled on the other side.

Perry and the other actors rushed to them.

“The paint supplies.” Drawing a breath, Perry inhaled smoke and stifled a cough. “Somehow they must have caught fire. Rags in a can. Some kind of spontaneous—”

“Or maybe they had help,” Balenger said.

“Help? What on earth do you—”

Behind them, the stage lights went out. As darkness enveloped them, an actress screamed. At once, battery-powered emergency lights glared from the corners.

“Give me your pointer.” Ortega took it from Perry and used its thick end to push the door open.

Smoke gushed through the opening. Beyond it, orange rippled among the gray clouds, flames licking toward the pointer.

Ortega yanked the pointer away, letting the door swing shut. As Perry stumbled back, he bumped into one of the actresses, who bent over, coughing.

“Where’s a fire exit?” Balenger demanded.

“One’s over there.” Perry gestured toward a door halfway down the right aisle. Next to it was a small red fire-alarm box.

Amid thickening smoke, Balenger helped the coughing woman to straighten and guided her along a row of seats. Ahead, the actors banged against arm rests and reached the aisle on the right, where Ortega pushed a bar on the fire door.

The door didn’t budge. Ortega rammed his shoulder against it, but the door remained firm. “Who the hell locked this?”

“Nobody! It always works!” Perry insisted. “The door must be jammed on the other side!” The director tugged open the alarm’s cover and pulled a lever, groaning when the alarm didn’t sound. “It’s supposed to be linked to the fire department, but if we can’t hear it, the signal isn’t being transmitted!”

In the back of the theater, the smoke was now so thick it obscured the doors. A crackle of flames became a roar. The paint and turpentine were acting as accelerants, Balenger realized. “Sprinklers? Does the theater have—”

“Yes! I don’t understand why they aren’t working!”

One of the actors pointed toward the back. “The fire got through the doors!”

Balenger spun, his skin prickling when he saw smoke and flames climbing toward a balcony. For a terrible moment, he reeled from déjà vu, as if he were trapped in the inferno of the Paragon Hotel. It’s happening again, he thought. “Where’s another emergency door?”

“Backstage!” Perry shouted.

The smoke had a harsh greasy taste that made Balenger cough. A couple of the actors seemed paralyzed with fear. For a moment, Balenger too felt overcome with terror, his previous nightmares seizing him. “Move!” he found the strength to yell.

Boards rumbling, they hurried up the steps to the stage. Behind a side curtain, an emergency light glared above another exit. Ortega pushed the bar and crashed against the door, but it didn’t open. Balenger joined him, slamming his shoulder against it.

Someone pointed toward the back. “The fire’s on the ceiling!”

Smoke spreading toward him, Ortega noticed circular metal stairs. “What’s on the upper floor?”

“A fire escape off a dressing room!” Perry charged toward the spiral steps. They vibrated as he scurried up. But he suddenly stopped, clinging to the trembling hand rail. When Balenger reached the stairs, he saw what made Perry gape. Smoke obscured the top.

“We couldn’t breathe up there,” someone said. “We couldn’t see where we’re going.”

The staircase went down through the floor.

“What about the basement?” Balenger asked.

“Three windows!”

“Go!”

As their footsteps clattered on the metal, Balenger stared down toward the gloom and hesitated. A basement, he thought. There’s always a basement. Sweat oozed from his forehead, only partly because of the accumulating heat. He saw a flashlight attached to a bracket beside a control panel. Grabbing it, he forced himself down the stairs.

The air became cool. Off-balance from repeated turns, he reached a stone floor. Light struggled through a row of three narrow windows along the right wall. Close to the basement’s ceiling, the dusty panes showed the dirty brick wall of a narrow alley.

The legs of a table screeched as Ortega dragged it toward a window. Balenger switched on the flashlight and aimed it along the length of the basement, revealing painted backdrops of a hill, trees, and sky stacked against a wall.

“It won’t open!” Ortega tugged at the window. “It’s painted shut!”

“Break the glass!” Perry shouted.

“The opening’s too small!” the older, heavyset actor moaned. “I won’t fit through!”

Balenger kept scanning the flashlight, searching for another way out. He saw tables, chairs, and other stage furniture. Costumes hung on poles. Wigs perched on plastic heads. Everything was protected by clear plastic sheets. But not for long, Balenger thought.

He heard glass breaking, Ortega smashing the window with a cane Perry handed him.

“I’m telling you, I can’t fit through that narrow opening!” the heavy actor insisted.

“I can’t, either!” the other actor said.

The flashlight beam reached the wall under the stage. Stacked boxes partly obscured an old door.

Balenger grabbed Perry. “Where does that door lead? Another building?”

“No! A sub-basement!”

“Sub-basement? Why does this building need a—”

“It doesn’t! Not now!” Perry trembled from the heat and roar of the approaching flames.

“What do you mean ‘not now’? Don’t look at the fire! Just tell me about the sub-basement!”

“It’s from an earlier building! Way back, there was a stream!”

“What?”

“A long time ago, Greenwich Village had a lot of streams.” Perry rushed on. “Drainage tunnels kept the buildings from sinking. The stream’s dry now, but in the old days, you could get water from it.”

Balenger ran to the door, shoved the boxes away, and tugged a rusted handle.

“No!” Ortega warned. “We’d suffocate down there!” Even with air streaming through the broken window, the detective bent over and coughed from the smoke.

Wood scraped against stone as Balenger pulled harder on the door. Rusted hinges protested. He managed to open it enough to aim his flashlight through. He saw cobwebs across dust-covered stone walls and steps.

“The flames’ll absorb all the oxygen down there!” Ortega yelled.

Glancing behind him, Balenger saw Ortega finish smashing the glass from the window. The detective helped the older actress climb onto the table and lifted her toward the opening. She squirmed halfway through and got stuck.

“Squeeze in your stomach!” Ortega shouted.

“I’m cut!”

Ortega pushed her hips, and abruptly, the actress moved, struggling the rest of the way through.

As Ortega helped the other actress onto the table, the writhing wall of flames shifted closer.

“I’ll never fit!” the older actor insisted.

Nightmarish memories of the Paragon Hotel almost overwhelmed Balenger. He squeezed through the gap in the door. Aiming the flashlight, his footsteps echoing, he brushed away cobwebs and hurried down the uneven stairs.

He reached a stone chamber. A rat squealed and darted out of sight. Balenger stumbled back. He listened to his hoarse breathing, fought to keep control, and used his flashlight to study his surroundings. The rough, vaulted enclosure was about six feet long, wide, and high. It forced him to stoop. A trough in the stones showed where the stream had gone through. To the right and left, arches of crumbly bricks provided the openings through which the water had come and gone. Even after a century and a half, the air still carried a hint of fetid dampness.

Balenger heard shouting above him. He listened to the fire’s roar and felt air rush past, the fire sucking it upward. He put a hand against a stone wall, suddenly realizing how unsteady he felt.

“I’ll never get through!” The voice above him sounded more panicked.

Balenger knelt and aimed the trembling flashlight through the arch on the right. Five feet inside, part of the ceiling had collapsed, a pile of dirt and broken bricks impeding the way. Several red eyes reflected the light.

Fear cramped Balenger’s chest. He shifted the flashlight through the archway on the left. As far as the light stretched, nothing blocked the way. He came dizzily to his feet, feeling the air rush toward the basement above him.

A man screamed up there.

Balenger mustered his strength and charged up the steps, seeing the rippling reflection of the fire. He no longer needed his flashlight. The approaching blaze showed Ortega’s frenzy when he pushed a tall, thin man — Perry — through the broken window. That left two men, along with Ortega and Balenger.

“Can we get through?” Balenger shouted.

“I don’t think so!” Sparks swirled over Ortega.

“This way!” Balenger told them. “There’s a chance!”

The heat from the fire roared so near that they didn’t hesitate. The three of them squeezed past Balenger. He pushed the door shut, trying to block the outflow of air, and ran down to join them.

“To the left!”

The young actor hesitated. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Crawl!”

“I just saw a rat!”

“Which means there’s a way out! Crawl! I’ll come last and aim the flashlight ahead of everybody!”

Smoke drifted down the steps.

“No choice!” Balenger shouted.

“I’ll go first!” Ortega drew his pistol.

The heavy actor gaped. “What do you need the gun for? How big do those rats get?”

Ortega dropped to his knees, then his chest. While the detective squirmed through the low archway, Balenger told the others, “Go, go, go, go, go!” He shoved the men to the ground, urging them forward. “Move!”

Amid the rush of air, Balenger sank to his chest and squirmed over the stones. Aiming the flashlight forward, he crawled into the archway. The shadows seemed to get heavier. The stones under him changed to dirt. He heard the echo of clothes scraping, of harsh breathing, and the man ahead of him murmuring what might have been a prayer.

Cobwebs clung to Balenger’s hair. The brick archway sank lower. He felt it against his back and pressed his chest against the dirt.

“I don’t think I can get through here, either,” a man ahead moaned.

“Push the dirt to the side,” Ortega ordered from in front. “Deepen the channel.”

The line stopped. Air rushed past them toward the fire.

“What’s the matter?” Balenger called. Dust filled his nostrils. His claustrophobia squeezed his chest so tight he feared he’d pass out.

“I thought I saw…”

“Thought you saw what?” Balenger leaned to the side and angled the flashlight beam as far forward as he could.

“A shadow moving.”

“If it’s a rat, shoot it!” the older actor said.

“No!” the other actor warned. “The sound might collapse these bricks!”

“Then why don’t you stop yelling?”

“Bricks,” Ortega told them. “I reached some fallen bricks.”

Dirt trickled onto Balenger’s neck. He had trouble breathing. After a pause, he heard bricks being stacked to the side.

“Okay, I’m moving forward,” Ortega said.

More dirt trickled onto Balenger’s neck. Faster, he thought.

The man ahead of Balenger started crawling again. Pulse racing, Balenger painfully followed.

“Hold it!” the man ahead of him blurted.

“What’s wrong?”

“The back of my belt’s caught against a brick in the ceiling.”

Balenger tensed. In the semi-darkness, he heard strained movement.

“Got it,” the man said. “I’m free.”

Balenger heard scraping sounds as the man resumed crawling.

“I reached some old steps!” Ortega called.

Thank God, Balenger thought, unable to catch his breath. Tasting dust, pressing his stomach to the ground, he squirmed forward.

His heart twitched when something held him back. His jacket was caught on a brick above him.

“Keep the flashlight steady!” Ortega called back.

“Yeah, steps!” the man behind Ortega cheered. “I see them!”

Balenger felt the brick move against his back.

“We’ll soon be out of here.” The actor in front of Balenger squirmed ahead.

The brick came loose, weighing on Balenger. More dirt trickled.

“Frank!” Ortega called back. “What’s wrong?”

Balenger didn’t dare speak for fear the vibration would dislodge more bricks.

“Why did you stop?” Ortega’s voice echoed.

Another brick weighed on him.

“My God, does it ever feel good to lift my head,” the actor in front of Balenger said. “I see a door!”

“Frank?” Ortega called.

As panic seized him, Balenger almost shrieked. A third brick shifted. Dust filled his nostrils. He eased forward an inch. Dirt pressed against his shoulder blades.

“Frank?”

The roof squeezed down on him. He needed more strength to pull forward. Bricks sank onto him. Abruptly, he couldn’t bear the weight any longer. The air was so stale, he feared he’d suffocate. Inwardly wailing, he squirmed faster, and suddenly more dirt fell. He crawled in a frenzy, bricks striking his legs, dirt collapsing, and he was shrieking out loud now, shoving with his knees, pulling, digging with his elbows, lunging, his legs feeling crushed, the noise of the collapse louder than his scream. Hands grabbed him, dragging him upward. The flashlight wavered in his trembling grasp. Dust swirled. He felt smothered.

Moaning, he reached stone steps, charged up, and crashed against a wooden door. It trembled. He crashed into it again. The door was so old it broke off its hinges. But even then it didn’t open. Something blocked it on the other side. Ortega joined him, the two of them slamming against it, and suddenly, it tilted, objects clattering beyond it.

Amid choking dust, Balenger saw lights beyond the door. When he and Ortega gave the door a final desperate thrust, it toppled, knocking more objects over. Fighting to clear his lungs, Balenger crawled over the door and found himself in a basement filled with old furniture. On wooden steps, a spectacled man in a suit gaped at them.

12

Balenger lurched past him. At the top of the stairs, he encountered more old furniture, a roomful of it, and continued to feel squeezed. Sunlight through a front window prompted him to hurry toward a door. Outside, he almost bumped into someone rushing along the sidewalk. He bent over, coughing. Only after the spasms passed and he raised his head did he notice a sign on the door: GREENWICH ANTIQUE FURNITURE.

Ortega came out, holding a handkerchief to his mouth. He lowered it and pointed toward the store’s interior. “The owner says he likes to take his customers down to the sub-basement. Evidently, that touch of history makes his furniture seem extra old and valuable,”

Balenger slumped against a light pole. “Thank God for antiques.”

“Yeah, well, he claims we ruined about thirty-thousand dollars worth of those antiques when we knocked them over, breaking down the door.”

“Now we know the price of our lives.” Balenger glanced at the store’s entrance, where the spectacled man frowned. “Will you take a check?”

“For thirty-thousand dollars? I don’t think he’s the type to appreciate a joke,” Ortega murmured.

“I’m serious. Sometime, I’ll tell you about a coin I found.” Balenger turned toward the owner. “Whatever your insurance doesn’t cover, I’ll pay for.”

Balenger heard sirens. Smoke drifted over the rooftops. People ran along the sidewalk toward the blaze.

“We need to get over there and tell the fire investigators what we know,” Ortega said.

“But it’ll take hours before they finish with us! You know as much as I do. Tell them I couldn’t stay.”

“Couldn’t stay? What are you talking about?”

“There’s too much to do. Report for both of us. I’ll talk to them later if they still have questions.”

“When you were in law enforcement, is that how you handled things? You let your witnesses tell you to report for them?”

“All right, all right, I hear you.” Balenger struggled to catch his breath. “Did you manage to keep that piece of paper?”

“In my pocket.”

“Can we use your photocopy machine?” Balenger asked the owner.

The man seemed to think this was the most reasonable question in the world. He nodded.

Balenger swatted dirt from his jeans and sport coat. They smelled of smoke. “We’ve got a piece of paper we need to photocopy so we can read what’s on it without leaving fingerprints.”

Ortega studied him. “You look exhausted. Talking to the fire investigators will at least give you a chance to rest.”

“When I find Amanda, that’s when I’ll rest.”

It took barely a minute to make photocopies and return to the street, but in that brief time, the crowd increased dramatically. Balenger folded one of the photocopies and stuck it into his jacket pocket. He and Ortega struggled through noisy spectators. Ahead, more sirens wailed.

“Police,” Ortega said. “Let us through.”

A few onlookers made space, but three steps later, others blocked the way. Balenger felt squeezed. There’s no time for this, he thought.

“Police!” Ortega yelled as more people jostled him.

No time, Balenger decided. A determined man shoved in front of him, allowing him to hang back. When three others elbowed past, Balenger used them for cover and ducked away through the crowd.

“Frank, where are you?” he heard Ortega shouting.