Scavenger (6 page)

“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 mixedrace 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!”