Scavenger Page 11

  “You keep telling us we’ve only got forty hours, and now you’re wasting our time,” Ray said. “Make your point.”

  “I think that’s what he’s doing,” Amanda said. “He’s giving us clues to the game. Right?” she asked the voice. “You told us we’re in an obstacle race and a scavenger hunt.”

  “You’re becoming my favorite player.”

  “Swell,” Ray said. “Now she’s got an advantage.”

  “I’m right, though, aren’t I?” Amanda told the Game Master. “At each stage, you give us a problem to solve and a threat to evade. Then you reward us with information we need to know to win the game. Is that what you meant by learning how to play the game as we go along?”

  “You must play the game to learn the rules.”

  “But how do we win?” Ray yelled.

  “Why don’t you tell us, Amanda?” the voice asked.

  She rubbed one of her bruised arms.

  “Amanda, have you figured it out?”

  “The words on the altar.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Sepulcher of Worldly Desires.”

  “Yes?” The Game Master sounded eager.

  “Nothing’s here by accident. That’s another clue.”

  “But what does it mean?”

  “Sepulcher? Sounds like a grave,” Derrick said.

  6

  Police officers ran up the stairs.

  “Do you have any idea how large this building is?” a library administrator asked. “It’ll take hours to search it.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” Balenger said.

  “Is this woman dangerous? She’s not a terrorist, is she? You don’t suppose she has explosives or weapons.”

  “I have no idea if she’s armed.” Balenger thought about everything that had happened. “But, yes, she’s dangerous.”

  More police officers ran across the huge lobby and up the stairs.

  Ortega hurried toward Balenger. “No sign of her.”

  “Maybe she left the building before the police arrived,” Balenger said. “Or else she’s hiding on the third floor. That would explain why no one saw her running down the stairs.”

  The reading-room guard was with them again. “Hell, I didn’t see her either.”

  “But she was right there at the entrance to the room,” Balenger insisted.

  “My back must have been toward her. When you jumped up and ran from the table, you were the only person I noticed. You made quite a commotion. She could easily have slipped away.”

  “But why would she show herself and then run?”

  “Good question,” Ortega said.

  “Maybe she wanted me to follow her. But if that’s the case, why did she hide? Why didn’t she give me a glimpse of her so I could keep chasing her?”

  “More good questions.”

  “Something bothering you?” Balenger asked.

  “I don’t know yet. I’m still waiting for answers to another part of the investigation.”

  “Another part?”

  “I’ll talk to you about it later.”

  Puzzled, Balenger glanced at his watch. Almost four o’clock. Time, he thought. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the numbers for information.

  “Who are you calling?” Ortega wanted to know.

  Simultaneously, a computerized voice asked Balenger what city he wanted. He stepped back from the noise of the hurrying police officers.

  “Atlanta.”

  “What listing?” the voice asked.

  7

  “Oglethorpe University,” the female receptionist said.

  “I need to speak to someone in the history department,” Balenger said into his phone.

  His heart beat faster as he waited.

  “History department.”

  Balenger remembered that the fake professor had mentioned something about a time-capsule society at Oglethorpe University. He prayed that wasn’t a lie. “I don’t know if this is the right place. Does anybody there know anything about time capsules?” It was a measure of how drastically his world had changed that he felt his request made perfect sense.

  “I’ll transfer you.”

  Balenger’s hand sweated against his phone.

  “International Time Capsule Society,” a male voice said. “This is Professor Donovan.”

  “I’m trying to get information about an object you might have a record of.” To escape the noise in the library, Balenger stepped outside. Instantly, the din of Fifth Avenue made him press the phone closer to his ear. “Its name reminds me of the Crypt of Civilization.”

  “Which is here at Oglethorpe, of course,” the voice responded enthusiastically.

  “Just a second. I’m calling from Manhattan, and the traffic noise is awful.” Balenger stepped back into the library’s vestibule. “Have you ever heard of the Sepulcher of Worldly Desires?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You have?”

  “Possibly it’s a legend. But assuming it’s real, it would be on the list of the most-wanted time capsules.”

  “Tell me everything about it.”

  “That’ll take a while, I’m afraid. The Sepulcher’s a mystery, but there’s plenty of historical context. I’ll check the files. If you call back tomorrow—”

  “I don’t have time! I need to find out today!”

  “Sir, I’m about to leave the office for an appointment. This’ll need to wait until…Did you say you’re calling from Manhattan? Maybe you can find out today. The person who knows the most about the Sepulcher of Worldly Desires teaches at New York University.”

  8

  Washington Square South. The shadows in the faculty building contrasted with the sunlight on the grass and arch in the park outside. Feeling the increased rush of time, Balenger got off an elevator at the seventh floor and hurried along a corridor until he reached a door with a name plate: PROF. GRAHAM, HISTORY DEPARTMENT.

  Beyond it, he heard gunfire. When he knocked, no one replied. Breathing quickly, he knocked again, and this time, a distracted female voice said, “Come in.”

  Opening the door, Balenger heard the gunfire more clearly. He saw a woman in her early sixties, small, with short, white hair and a narrow, wrinkled face. She wore a pale blue blouse, the two top buttons of which were open. She sat at her desk, captivated by her glowing computer screen, fiercely working the mouse and keyboard. The shots came from her computer speakers.

  “Professor Graham?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I’m Frank Balenger.”

  She nodded, but whether it was in response to his name or what was on her screen, he didn’t know. Given her age, she manipulated the mouse and keyboard with amazing speed. The shots were rapid.

  “I phoned a half hour ago,” Balenger continued.

  She kept pressing buttons.

  “What I need to talk to you about is important.”

  The shots abruptly ended.

  “Shit,” Professor Graham said. She slammed down the mouse and scowled. “Broke it. That’s the second mouse I destroyed this week. Why can’t they make them stronger? I mean, how much strength can these old fingers have?” She showed the fingers to Balenger. They were bony with slack skin and arthritic knuckles. “You said you’re a police officer?”

  “Used to be. In New Jersey.”

  “Ever play video games?”

  Balenger was desperate to get the information he needed, but his experience as a detective warned him to establish rapport and not rush the person he was interviewing. He had to work to seem calm. “They never appealed to me.”

  “Because you think they’re mindless?”

  Balenger shrugged.

  “I had the same bias,” Professor Graham said, “until, several years ago, one of my students made me an enthusiast. Sometimes, students are smarter than their professors. That particular student changed my life. Forget the content of video games, many of which are indeed mindless. Concentrate on the skills required to win. These games dev
elop our reflexes. They teach our brains to work quicker and master parallel thinking. Some people claim multitasking is bad, but if I can learn to do a lot of things simultaneously and do them well, what’s the harm?”

  “The two kids who shot those students at Columbine High School in Colorado were addicted to violent video games.”

  “So are a lot of other kids. But out of millions of them—”

  “Millions?”

  “The video-game industry takes in more money than the movie business. Half the people in this country are players. Out of millions of kids who like violent video games, only a few go on shooting sprees. Clearly other factors turn them into killers. You were a police officer in New Jersey? Where?”

  “Asbury Park.”

  “I ice-skated in competition there when I was a kid.” The white-haired woman seemed to stare at something above Balenger’s head. “A long time ago.” Her gaze refocused on him. “Anyway, since you were in law enforcement, I’m surprised you don’t play video games. The one I was playing just now is called Doom 3. It’s a version of one of the games the Columbine shooters were addicted to. It’s a type called ‘first-person shooter.’ Basically, the player sees everything in the game from behind a gun. I’m a space marine on Mars on a base overrun by demons. When a threat jumps out, I blast it. They jump out often, and they’re very fast. I feel trapped in a labyrinth. Ceilings collapse. I never know what horrors wait behind locked doors.”

  Balenger couldn’t help thinking of the Paragon Hotel.

  Professor Graham considered him. “I’ve heard that police officers play first-person shooter games as a way of maintaining their reflexes when they’re not on the shooting range, and they often play them to prime themselves before they go on a raid.”

  Balenger’s impatience must have showed.

  “Sorry. My enthusiasm often gets the better of me. On the phone, you said that Professor Donovan suggested I could help you. My specialty’s the American frontier, but I’m as fascinated by time capsules as he is. What do you want to know?”

  Balenger was conscious of how fast his heart pounded as he told her what happened during the lecture in the row house on 19th Street.

  “The Manhattan History Club,” she said when he finished. “I never heard of it.”

  “Because it doesn’t exist.”

  “The coffee was drugged?”

  “That’s right. When I regained consciousness, my friend was gone.”

  “Your left forearm. What’s the matter? You keep massaging it.”

  Balenger peered down. The impulse had become reflexive. “While I was unconscious, someone injected me with a sedative. The place where the needle went in is red and swollen.”

  “Sounds like it’s infected. You ought to see a doctor.”

  “I don’t have time.” Balenger leaned forward. “Professor Donovan says you know a lot about something called the Sepulcher of Worldly Desires.”

  She looked surprised. “Where on earth did you hear about that?”

  “Whoever took my friend left those words as some kind of clue. I think it’s part of a game, an extremely deadly one.” Balenger couldn’t help glancing at the computer.

  “The Sepulcher of Worldly Desires.” Professor Graham nodded. “It’s fascinated me for years. On January third, 1900, a man named Donald Reich staggered into a town called Cottonwood near the Wind River mountain range in central Wyoming. He was delirious. Not only was the temperature below zero, but snow had been falling for several days. He was taken to the local doctor, who determined that his nose, ears, toes, and fingers had frostbite and would need to be amputated before gangrene spread through his body. In Reich’s few lucid periods, he told an amazing story about traveling on foot from a town called Avalon. The place, located in a valley within the Wind River range, was once a mining town. But after the mine stopped producing, Avalon fell on hard times. It was a hundred miles from Cottonwood, and Reich claimed to have set out on New Year’s Eve, traveling that distance in some of the worst weather in years.”

  Balenger listened intently.

  “Reich was barely coherent,” Professor Graham continued, “but the doctor was able to learn that he was Avalon’s minister and that the purpose of his desperate journey wasn’t to summon help for the town. He wasn’t seeking medicine to fight an epidemic or trying to get food for a starving community. No, Reich’s motive was to escape.”

  Balenger straightened. “Escape from what?”

  “Reich kept talking about the new century. Recall the date I gave you. January third, 1900. Three days earlier, the 1800s became the 1900s. The start of the new century terrified him. He kept babbling about being a coward, about how he should have stayed and tried to help, about how he’d damned his soul by surrendering to his fear and running away.”

  Balenger felt a nervous ripple in his stomach. “But what on earth so frightened him that he abandoned his congregation and fled a hundred miles in the dead of winter?”

  “The Sepulcher of Worldly Desires.”

  9

  Balenger’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. Amanda, he thought. I need to find you.

  “My book The American West at the End of the Nineteenth Century has a chapter devoted to end-of-century hysteria.” Professor Graham went to a bookshelf, pulled out a volume, and flipped through it until she found the section she wanted. “Take a look at the indented material. It comes from Reich. He had handwritten pages stuffed in his clothing.”

  Balenger read what she pointed at.

  Dec. 31, 1899

  The year hurtles to an end. So does the century. I fear I am losing my mind. I do not mean “losing my grasp of reality.” I know perfectly well what is happening. But I am powerless to prevent the outcome. Each day, I have less strength of mind to resist.

  On this last day, it is supposedly dawn, but outside there is only the darkness of a howling blizzard. The swirl of shrieking snow matches my confusion. I pray that writing these pages will give me clarity. If not, and if the world impossibly survives for another hundred years, you who find this within the Sepulcher will perhaps understand what I cannot.

  Balenger lowered the book. “Sounds insane.”

  “The doctor found a dozen scrawled pages in Reich’s clothing. What you read comes from the start of the manuscript.”

  Balenger indicated the last sentence. “Reich mentions the Sepulcher.”

  “But not its full name. That comes later in the manuscript.”

  “What’s this about ‘If the world impossibly survives for another hundred years’?”

  The professor spread her aging hands. “Apocalyptic fears are often part of end-of-century hysteria.”

  “So, in a failing town in a valley in the middle of nowhere, this minister let his imagination get the better of him. But why did he run? Surely Reich didn’t think he could escape the end of the world by fleeing to another location.”

  “In my research, I sometimes come across apocalyptic fears associated with specific locations: a flood that will destroy a particular area or a hill where the Second Coming will occur,” Professor Graham said. “But I don’t believe Reich was afraid the world would end. As the manuscript continues, what he really seems afraid of is the Sepulcher of Worldly Desires—and a person. Another minister, in fact. A man named Owen Pentecost.”

  “Pentecost?”

  “In the Bible, when the Holy Spirit descended on Christ’s apostles, they had visions. The transcendent experience was called Pentecost.”

  “Good name for a minister. Too good to be true, I bet. Sounds like he made it up.”

  “Reich’s manuscript describes how Reverend Owen Pentecost, who was tall and extremely thin and wore black, who had long hair and a beard that made him look like Abraham Lincoln, walked into Avalon nine months earlier, in April. There was a terrible drought. Winds caused dust storms. Pentecost seemed to materialize from one of the dust clouds. A man looking for a cow that wandered from its pen saw him first, and the first words o
ut of Pentecost’s mouth were ‘The end of the century is coming.’”

  “Sounds like he had some theatrical training,” Balenger said.

  “Or else he was crazy. When he reached Avalon, the first thing he did was march down the main street and up a hill to the church. Reich wasn’t there. He was taking care of a sick child. The next people to meet Pentecost were a man and woman who ran the general store and supervised the upkeep of the church. They found Pentecost praying in front of the altar. He had a sack with him. It squirmed.”

  “Squirmed?”

  “We learn why it squirmed in a later section of the manuscript. In the coming weeks and months, Reich spoke to everyone who had contact with Pentecost. He summarizes conversations. When the couple in the church asked Pentecost if they could help him, the newcomer explained that he had come a long way. He could use food and water, but first he needed to know if anyone in town was ill. They told him that a boy was very sick with sharp pains in his lower right abdomen. The boy also had a fever and was vomiting.”

  “Sounds like appendicitis,” Balenger said.

  “Indeed. At the time, appendicitis was almost a death sentence. Few physicians had the surgical skills to remove the diseased organ. Even if a physician knew how to perform the operation, anesthetic in the form of ether was hard to find on the frontier. An operation without it risked killing the patient because of pain-induced shock. Avalon didn’t have any ether.

  “When Pentecost reached the sick boy, he found Reich praying with the boy’s father. Because Avalon’s doctor left a year earlier, Reich also functioned as a sort of male nurse because of medical knowledge he acquired in his years of administering to sick members of his church. But appendicitis was far beyond Reich’s skills. Basically, Reich and the father were on a death watch. Pentecost asked if there was a forest nearby. In the mountains, Reich told him, but how would that help the boy? Was there anything closer? Yes, there was a grove of aspen by the lake. Reich, who was curious about the newcomer, accompanied Pentecost to the aspens, but there, Pentecost told him to wait and entered the trees by himself. A short while later, Pentecost returned with herbs he’d gathered. At the boy’s home, he made a tea from the herbs and encouraged the boy to drink it. The boy fell into a stupor. Pentecost then operated on him.”