Scavenger Page 4

  “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 explai
n.”

  “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.”