Creepers, Page 2

  “Maybe you belong in the University of Iowa’s creative-writing department,” Rick kidded him.

  “Okay, okay, but each of you knows what I mean.”

  Cora nodded. “I felt it, too. That’s why we asked the professor to keep us in mind for other expeditions, even after we graduated.”

  “Each year, I choose a building that I feel has unusual merit,” the professor told Balenger.

  “Once we infiltrated an almost-forgotten sanitarium in Arizona,” Rick said.

  “Another time, we got into a Texas prison that was abandoned for fifty years,” Vinnie added.

  Cora grinned. “The next time, we snuck onto an abandoned oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. Always excitement. So what building did you choose this year, Professor? Why did you bring us to Asbury Park?”

  “A sad story.”

  Asbury Park was founded in 1871 by James Bradley, a New York manufacturer, who named the community after Francis Asbury, the bishop who established Methodism in America. Bradley chose the ocean resort’s location because it was convenient to get to from New York to the north and Philadelphia to the west. Methodists established summer homes there, attracted by the shaded streets and the grand churches. The city’s three lakes and numerous parks were ideal places for strolls and family picnics.

  By the early 1900s, the mile-long boardwalk was the pride of the Jersey shore. When thousands of vacationers weren’t lying on the beach or splashing in the water, they ate salt-water taffy and visited the copper-and-glass carousel house or else the Palace Amusements building, where they rode the Scooter, the Twister, the Tunnel-of-Love boat, a merry-go-round, and a Ferris wheel. Ignoring the Methodist foundations of the community, many also went to the ornate casino that now occupied the southern end of the boardwalk.

  Through the first World War, the Roaring Twenties, the Depression, and most of the second World War, Asbury Park flourished. But in 1944, symbolizing what was to come, a hurricane destroyed much of the area. Rebuilt, the resort strove for its former greatness, straining to keep it during the 1950s and almost retaining it during the 1960s when rock concerts filled the boardwalk’s Convention Hall. Walls that had felt the swaying chords of Harry James and Glenn Miller now reverberated with the pounding rhythms of The Who, Jefferson Airplane, and the Rolling Stones.

  But in 1970, Asbury Park could no longer resist its decline. While rock and roll was a force of the times, so were Vietnam, anti-war protests, and race riots. The latter stormed through Asbury Park, smashing windows, overturning cars, looting, and setting fires that spread until the flames gutted the community. Thereafter, local families fled the devastation while vacationers migrated to newer spots along the shore. In their place came the counterculture: hippies, musicians, bikers. Then-unknown Bruce Springsteen often played in local clubs, singing about the desperation of the boardwalk and the urge to head down the road.

  In the 1980s and 1990s, political instability and real-estate bankruptcy doomed efforts to rebuild the community. As more residents fled, entire blocks became uninhabited. The Palace Amusements building, dating back to 1888, practically synonymous with Asbury Park, succumbed to the wrecking ball in 2004. The decaying boardwalk was deserted, as was the famous Circuit in which bikers and hot-rodders once cruised north on Ocean Avenue, sometimes at sixty miles an hour. In the old days, they veered west for a block, then roared south on Kingsley Avenue, slid east for a block, and resumed their race north on Ocean. No more. Gone. A visitor could stand all day in the middle of Ocean Avenue and never fear being struck.

  The rubble and ruin resembled the aftermath of a war zone. Although 17,000 people claimed to be residents of Asbury Park, it was rare to see any of them in the blight of the beach area where, a hundred years earlier, a multitude of vacationers frolicked. In place of carousel music and children’s giggles, a loose piece of sheet metal banged in the wind, a clang of doom from an uncompleted ten-story condominium building. Evidence of the city’s dismal renewal effort, the project ran out of money. Like the historic buildings around it—the few that remained—the development was abandoned.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  Clang.

  Balenger watched the professor unfold a map, then tap a finger on a section two blocks north.

  “The Paragon Hotel?” Cora asked, reading.

  “Built in 1901,” Conklin said. “As its name indicates, the Paragon claimed to be the model of excellence. The finest amenities. The most painstaking service. A marble-floored lobby. Exquisite porcelain dinnerware. Gold-plated eating utensils. A telephone in each room at a time when the only phones would normally have been in the lobby. A heated indoor swimming pool when that was a rarity. A steam room, which wasn’t common either. An early version of a whirlpool spa. A ballroom. An art gallery. An indoor roller-skating area. A primitive air-conditioning system based on forced air being blown over ice. Also, a full heating system, which was unusual, even for the finest beach hotels—after all, their clients were summer visitors wanting to get away from the heat. Four recently invented, gearless electric elevators with push-button controls. Room service was available twenty-four hours a day. The elevators plus a system of electric dumbwaiters guaranteed prompt delivery.”

  “Throw in some cocktail waitresses, and you’ve got Las Vegas,” Vinnie said with a grin.

  Balenger tried to blend with the group by looking amused.

  “The Paragon was designed by its owner, Morgan Carlisle, who inherited the family fortune after his wealthy parents died in a fire at sea.” The professor’s explanation made Vinnie’s grin dissolve. “Carlisle was only twenty-two, eccentric, withdrawn, given to fits of anger and deep depression, but he also showed brilliance in whatever he tried. He was a genius constantly verging on a nervous breakdown. It’s ironic that a steamship line was the source of his fortune and yet he had a morbid fear of traveling. He was a hemophiliac, you see.”

  The group peered up from the map.

  “The bleeding disease?” Cora asked.

  “Sometimes called the ‘royal disease’ because at least ten male descendants of Queen Victoria were afflicted with it.”

  “The slightest bump or fall causes almost uncontrollable bleeding, right?” Balenger asked.

  “That’s correct. Basically, it’s a genetic disorder in which blood fails to clot properly. Without showing symptoms, females pass it on to males. Often the hemorrhaging isn’t external. Blood seeps into joints and muscles, with crippling pain that forces the victim to stay in bed for weeks.”

  “Is there a cure?” Balenger made a note.

  “No, but there are a few treatments. In Carlisle’s youth, an experimental procedure involved blood transfusions that temporarily supplied him with clotting agents from normal blood. His parents were terrified that an accident might cause him to bleed to death, so they kept him under strict control, almost a prisoner, supervised by the servants. He was never allowed outside the family home in Manhattan. His mother and father loved to travel, however, and frequently left him alone. It’s been estimated that they stayed away six months every year. They returned with photographs, paintings, and stereoscope images showing him the wonders they’d seen. He was so programmed to stay indoors that he developed agoraphobia and couldn’t bear the thought of going outside. But after his parents died, he mustered all his frustration, courage, and anger, and vowed that for the first time in his life, he’d change locations. He’d never set foot on the Fifth Avenue sidewalk outside his home, but now he was determined to design a hotel and live in it, at a fabulous, beyond-imagining ocean resort that all Manhattan was talking about: Asbury Park. The model he used came from one of those stereoscope images his parents brought him. A Mayan ruin in the jungles of Mexico.”

  Balenger noticed how intense the group’s eyes became.

  “Carlisle decided that if he couldn’t see an actual Mayan pyramid, he would build one for himself,” the professor continued. “The structure was seven stories tall: the height, width, and depth of the or
iginal pyramid. But he didn’t slavishly imitate. Instead, he decided that each level would be set back, the upper floors getting smaller, until only a penthouse stood at the top, a modified pyramid shape that anticipated art-deco buildings in the 1920s.”

  Rick frowned. “But if he had agoraphobia…”

  “Yes?” Conklin studied Rick, waiting for him to draw the logical conclusion.

  Cora was quicker. “Professor, are you telling us that Carlisle moved into the hotel, lived in the penthouse, and never left?”

  “No, you just told me.” Conklin put his hands together, pleased. “One of the elevators was for his private use. Day or night, but mostly at night, when the guests were asleep, he had a small version of the world at his disposal. Given the cost of the hotel, the enterprise never had a chance of making a profit. Even the rich would have balked at the prices Carlisle would have needed to charge. Those with moderate means would have stayed away entirely. So Carlisle made his prices competitive. After all, the point was to surround himself with life, not make a profit.”

  Balenger asked the logical question. “How long did he live?”

  “To the age of ninety-two. The general misconception about hemophiliacs is that they’re weak and sickly, and indeed some are. But one treatment involves keeping physically active. Non-contact exercises such as swimming and stationary bicycling are encouraged. A muscular torso supports painful joints. Mega-doses of vitamins with iron supplements are recommended to prevent anemia and strengthen the immune system. Steroids are sometimes used to add muscle mass. Carlisle pursued all these with a vengeance. By all accounts, he had an arresting physical presence.”

  “Ninety-two years old,” Cora marveled. A sudden thought struck her. “But if he was twenty-two in 1901, then he lived until—”

  “Add seventy more years. 1971.” It was Rick’s turn to complete Cora’s thought. Balenger noticed that, even this early in their marriage, they shared that trait. “Carlisle was there when the riots and the fires happened the year before. He probably watched them from his penthouse windows. He must have been terrified.”

  “‘Terrified’ is an understatement,” the professor said. “Carlisle ordered shutters to be installed on the inside of every door and window in the hotel. Metal shutters. He barricaded himself inside.”

  Balenger lowered his notepad, sounding intrigued. “For more than three decades, it’s been boarded up?”

  “Better than that. Carlisle’s reaction to the riots did us a favor. The interior shutters worked better than any outside boards would have. Vandals and storms have destroyed the glass on the windows. But in theory, nothing got in. This is a rare opportunity to explore what may be the most perfectly preserved site we’ll ever find. Before the hotel’s destroyed.”

  “Destroyed?” Cora looked puzzled.

  “After Carlisle’s death, the hotel became the property of the family trust with instructions to preserve it. But after the stock market crashed in 2001, the trust suffered financial problems. Asbury Park seized the building for unpaid taxes. A developer bought the land. Next week, a commercial salvager will come in to strip the hotel of whatever’s valuable. Two weeks after that, the Paragon has an appointment with a wrecking ball. But tonight, it’ll have its first guests in decades. Us.”

  Balenger sensed the excitement in the group as they turned on their walkie-talkies. The crackle of static filled the room.

  Conklin pushed a button. “Testing.” His distorted voice came from each of the other units.

  In sequence, Rick, Cora, and Vinnie did the same, making sure that their units could send as well as receive.

  “The batteries sound strong,” Cora said. “And we’ve got plenty of spares.”

  “Weather?” Rick asked.

  “Showers toward dawn,” Conklin said.

  “No big deal. It’s time,” Vinnie said.

  Balenger shoved work gloves, trail food, water bottles, a hard hat, an equipment belt, a walkie-talkie, a flashlight, and batteries into the final knapsack.

  He noticed the group studying him. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re really coming with us?” Cora frowned.

  Balenger felt pressure behind his ears. “Of course. Wasn’t that the idea?”

  “We assumed you’d back out.”

  “Because crawling around an old building in the middle of the night doesn’t appeal to me? Actually, you’ve got me curious. Besides, the story won’t amount to much if I’m not there to report what you find.”

  “Your editor might not be pleased if you get arrested,” Conklin said.

  “Is there much chance of that?”

  “Asbury Park hasn’t seen a security guard in this area in twenty years. But there’s always a possibility.”

  “Sounds like a slight one.” Balenger shrugged. “Hemingway went to D-Day with a fractured skull. What keeps me from doing a little creeping?”

  “Infiltrating,” Vinnie said.

  “Exactly.” Balenger picked up the last item on the bed. The folded Emerson knife was black. Its handle was grooved.

  “The grooves insure a tight grip if the handle gets wet,” Rick told him. “The clip on the handle attaches the knife to the inside of a pants pocket. That way you can find it easily without fumbling in your pocket.”

  “Yeah, just like a military expedition.”

  “You’d be surprised how handy a knife can be if your jacket gets caught on something when you’re crawling through a narrow opening or when you need to open the seal on a fresh set of batteries and you’ve got only one hand to do it. See the stud on the back of the blade? Shove your thumb against it.”

  The blade swung open as Balenger applied leverage with his thumb.

  “Useful if you need to open the knife one-handed,” Rick said. “It’s not a switchblade, so in case you’re caught, it’s perfectly legal.”

  Balenger made himself look reassured. “Good to know.”

  “If we were exploring a wilderness area,” the professor said, “we’d tell a park ranger where we planned to go. We’d leave word with our friends and families so they’d know where to look if we failed to contact them at a specified time. The same rule applies to urban exploration, with the difference that what we’ll be doing is against the law, so we need to be circumspect about our intentions. I’ve given a sealed envelope to a colleague who is also my closest friend. He suspects what I’ve been doing, but he’s never put me on the spot by asking. If I fail to phone him at nine tomorrow morning, he’ll open the note, learn where we’ve gone, and alert the authorities to search for us. We’ve never had an emergency requiring that to happen, but it’s comforting to know the precaution’s there.”

  “And, of course, we have our cell phones.” Vinnie showed his. “In an emergency, we can always call for help.”

  “But we keep them turned off,” Conklin said. “It’s hard to appreciate the tempo of the past when the modern world intrudes. Questions?”

  “Several.” Balenger was anxious to get started. “But they can wait till we’re inside.”

  Conklin looked at his former students. “Anything we’ve neglected to do? No? In that case, Vinnie and I will go first. The three of you follow five minutes later. We don’t want to look as if we’re in a parade. Walk to the street, turn left, and proceed two blocks. There’s a weed-choked lot. That’s where you’ll find us. Sorry to get personal,” he told Balenger, “but please make sure you empty your bladder before you leave. It isn’t always convenient to attend to bodily functions after we infiltrate, and it violates our principle of not altering the site. That’s why we carry these.” The professor put a plastic bottle into Balenger’s knapsack. “Dogs, winos, and crack addicts urinate in old buildings. But not us. We don’t leave traces.”

  In the darkness to Balenger’s right, the crash of the waves on the beach seemed louder than when he’d arrived. His heart beat faster. The October breeze strengthened, blowing sand that stung his face. Clang. Clang. Like a fractured bell, the strip of flapp
ing sheet metal whacked harder against a wall in the abandoned building two blocks farther north. The sound wore on Balenger’s nerves as he, Cora, and Rick surveyed their desolate surroundings. Cracked sidewalks. Weeds in ravaged lots. A few sagging buildings silhouetted against the night.

  But in the foreground were the seven stories of the Paragon Hotel. In the starry darkness, it did resemble a Mayan pyramid. As Balenger approached, the hotel seemed to grow, the symmetry of its receding levels capped by the penthouse. In moonlight, it so resembled art-deco buildings from the 1920s that Carlisle seemed to have been able to peer into the future.

  Balenger turned toward his companions. “You said the three of you were in Professor Conklin’s history class in Buffalo. Do you still keep in touch between your yearly expeditions?”

  “Not as much as we used to,” Rick answered.

  “Holidays. Birthdays. That sort of thing. Vinnie’s in Syracuse. We’re in Boston. Stuff gets in the way,” Cora added.

  “But in those days, we sure were close. Hell, Vinnie and Cora used to date,” Rick said. “Before she and I got serious.”

  “Wasn’t that uncomfortable, the three of you hanging out together?”

  “Not really,” Cora answered. “Vinnie and I were never an item. We just had fun together.”

  “Why do you suppose the professor chose the three of you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Over the years, he must have had plenty of other students to choose from. Why you?”

  “I guess I always assumed he just liked us,” Cora said.

  Balenger nodded, thinking, And maybe the professor liked Cora in particular, liked to look at her, invited her then-boyfriends to make her feel comfortable and disguise the interest of an aging man whose wife was dead.

  Balenger tensed, seeing a figure rise eerily from the weeds. It rose straight up and stopped at stomach level, as if materializing from the earth.