Scavenger (3 page)

“Frank Balenger.”

“Amanda Evert.”

“Of course. You’re the couple who had the coin. The newspaper article about the auction mentioned your interest in history. I thought this lecture would be perfect for you.”

“You’re not by chance having a fundraiser, are you?” Amanda asked.

“Well ...” Karen looked embarrassed again. “We always welcome donations. But you needn’t feel obligated.”

Balenger ignored Amanda’s knowing look. “Hey, we’re glad to contribute,” he said.

“The invitation promised refreshments. What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? A soft drink?”

“Coffee,” Balenger told her.

“Same here,” Amanda said.

They followed Karen along a corridor that displayed sepia-tinted photographs of Gramercy Park, with cards next to them indicating that the photos were from the 1890s. Faded images showed horse-drawn carriages, men wearing hats, suits, ties, and vests, and women wearing dresses that came down to their buttoned shoes.

Old carpeting muffled Balenger’s footsteps. The air retained the musty smell of the past. Turning to the right, Karen led them into a long room that had rows of folding chairs. Sepia-tinted photographs decorated these walls, too.

Balenger glanced at a screen. A laptop computer sat on a lectern, linked to a projector. He switched his attention to a half-dozen people who sipped from Styrofoam cups and took bites from quartered sandwiches.

Karen pointed. “Let me introduce you to Professor Murdock.”

She guided them to a gray-haired, gray-mustached man who held a portion of a sandwich and spoke to a man and woman in their thirties. He looked thinner than in his photograph. Although he wore a suit, the couple he spoke to were dressed in jeans, as Balenger and Amanda were.

“... term wasn’t used until 1939. Before that, they were called boxes or safes or even caskets. And then, of course, there’s the famous . . .” The man interrupted himself to nod at Balenger and Amanda.

“Professor, I’d like you to meet . . .” Color again rose in Karen’s cheeks. She evidently failed to remember their names.

“Frank Balenger.”

“Amanda Evert.”

They shook hands.

“I was just explaining about the Crypt of Civilization,” the professor said.

“The
what
?” Balenger wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

“That’s the name of arguably the most famous time capsule. Of course, I’m biased because it’s located at Oglethorpe University where I teach.”

“Did you say ‘the Crypt of Civilization’?” Balenger asked.

“Interesting name, don’t you agree? The Crypt’s the reason the International Time Capsule Society is at Oglethorpe.”

“There’s a time capsule society?” Amanda sounded amazed.

More people entered the room.

“Excuse me,” the professor said. “I need to make sure everything’s ready for my presentation.”

As he went to the lectern, Karen Bailey brought their coffee. “Cream and sweetener are on that table. The sandwiches are catered. Please, try one.” She walked to the front of the room and pulled the draperies shut.

Balenger studied the sandwiches. Their crusts were cut off. He picked one up and bit into it. “I don’t normally like tuna salad, but this isn’t bad.”

“It’s the lettuce,” Amanda said.

“Lettuce?”

“It’s crunchy. The mayonnaise tastes homemade. The bread’s still warm.” Amanda took another bite.

So did Balenger. “I hope he talks about this Crypt of Civilization.”

8

The professor stood in shadows at the lectern and pressed the laptop’s keyboard. On the screen, an image appeared, showing a long, shiny metal tube that reminded Balenger of a torpedo. A group of solemn, whitecoated men stood next to it.

“Even though the practice dates back to antiquity, this is the first object to be called a time capsule,” Professor Murdock said. “It was created for the 1939 New York World’s Fair. Its sponsor was Westinghouse, an appliance corporation with a reputation for quality. Because the time capsule wasn’t due to be opened for five thousand years, the implication was that Westinghouse products were designed to last. Why five thousand years? Because it was assumed that recorded history was five thousand years old. Thus, the World’s Fair was midway between the past and the future. The capsule’s designers announced, ‘We choose to believe that men will solve the problems of the world, that the human race will triumph over its limitations, that the future will be glorious.’ Of course, the horrors of the Second World War would soon make them feel differently.”

When the professor touched the computer, another image appeared on the screen. This one showed a futuristic-looking building, part of what presumably was the 1939 World’s Fair. A banner in the background proclaimed THE WORLD OF TOMORROW. People lined up to enter. Balenger was struck that, even though going to the fair would have felt like a holiday, most of the men wore jackets, ties, and dress hats.

“The capsule was made from an extremely hard, copper alloy resistant to moisture,” the professor said. “After being filled, it was lowered into a shaft during the autumnal equinox in what was almost a religious atmosphere, complete with Chinese gongs. The shaft had a cap from which a periscope projected, allowing visitors to see the time capsule interred fifty feet below them. After the fair concluded, the shaft was filled and sealed, then covered with a concrete marker. ‘May the Time Capsule sleep well,’ the Westinghouse chairman said. Because more capsules have been lost than have ever been found, Westinghouse prepared
The Book of the Record of the Time Capsule
. Thousands of copies were printed on acidfree paper with fade-resistant ink and dispersed to libraries and monasteries throughout the world, even in Tibet. Among other information, the book contained the latitude and longitude for the capsule’s location, a wise precaution because the concrete marker in Flushing Meadows, where the fair took place, has been reduced in size over the years.”

Another image appeared, showing an array of various objects.

“And what did the capsule contain?” Professor Murdock asked. “What were the precious items that the designers felt would best show a society five thousand years in the future the things that made 1939 significant? An alarm clock. A can opener. A fountain pen. A nail file. A toothbrush. A Mickey Mouse cup.”

Someone in the audience laughed.

“There were numerous other items, but these examples suggest how difficult it is to decide what’s important in any society. Will there be can openers in the future? Alarm clocks and nail files? Perhaps the things we take most for granted are what a future world will find most incomprehensible. To echo the title of a novel that was placed in the capsule, all cultures eventually vanish, gone with the wind. The 1939 World’s Fair was proud to tell the future what the world was like at that moment in history. But there’s a desperation in the thoroughness with which the capsule was prepared, as if the designers were afraid they’d be forgotten.”

A new image showed what appeared to be a sprawling castle.

“This is the campus at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta, where I teach,” Professor Murdock said. “The idea for the Westinghouse capsule originated there in 1936. Oglethorpe’s then-president, Thornwell Jacobs, drained an indoor swimming pool and filled it with thousands of items, including microfilmed pages from encyclopedias along with everyday objects such as a toilet brush, a lipstick, a grapefruit corer, a fly swatter, Lincoln Logs, and an ampule of Budweiser beer. The project was so ambitious that Jacobs didn’t complete it until 1940, one year after the World’s Fair. As a result, Westinghouse received credit for creating the first time capsule, even though the idea was borrowed. Jacobs used a burial metaphor and called his project the Crypt of Civilization.”

Balenger heard a noise behind him. Turning in the shadows, he noted that a man and woman were leaving. At the exit, they whispered to Karen Bailey. The man pointed to his watch. Karen nodded with understanding.

The flash of a new image made Balenger look forward. He saw Nazi soldiers frozen in mid-goose-step. The image became a series that showed the rubble of bombed buildings, tanks marked with swastikas, piles of bodies in death camps, and the mushroom cloud of a nuclear bomb.

“When Jacobs conceived of the Crypt of Civilization, it’s possible that the ravages of the Great Depression made him skeptical about the future of civilization. Perhaps his goal wasn’t to brag to the future, as the Westinghouse time capsule did, but rather to preserve something he feared was in danger of being lost. Certainly, by 1940, when the Crypt was sealed, pessimism was rampant as the German army stormed through Europe. In a document Jacobs placed in the Crypt, he said, ‘The world is engaged in burying our civilization forever, and here in this crypt we leave it to you.’”

Balenger heard other movement behind him. Again turning, he noticed a second couple leaving the shadowy room. He frowned.

“The Crypt survived, but most aren’t that fortunate,” Professor Murdock continued. “Their containers aren’t water resistant, or else their contents include organic substances that rot. Moreover, the accidents of human nature defeat the best intentions. An ambitious town in California deposited a total of seventeen time capsules and lost every one of them. At a high school in Virginia, six graduating students helped prepare a time capsule and buried it somewhere on campus. That was in 1965. The school has now been torn down, and those six former students have a total memory gap about what they put in the capsule and where they buried it. It’s as if the event never happened to them. These communities are now engaged in what amounts to a hide-and-hunt scavenger game.”

Balenger tensed as two more people left the room.
What’s going on?
he wondered.

“Of the thousands of time capsules that have been misplaced,” Professor Murdock said, “five are considered the most wanted. The first is the Bicentennial Wagon Train Capsule.”

The professor’s voice seemed to lessen in volume. Balenger leaned forward to listen.

“On Independence Day, 1976 . . . ”

The shadows seemed to thicken.

“. . . a capsule containing twenty-two million signatures was driven to Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, in a caravan of vehicles known as the ‘bicentennial wagon train.’ President Gerald Ford was to officiate in a ceremony commemorating the U.S. War of Independence.”

The professor’s voice became fainter.

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

Balenger’s eyelids felt heavy.

“The second most-wanted time capsule is at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. In 1939, MIT engineers sealed various objects in a container and deposited it under a huge cyclotron they were building. The cyclotron was . . . ”

9

Clang.

Balenger drifted toward consciousness. The harsh, persistent tolling seemed to come from a fractured bell.

Clang.

It matched the agonized throbbing in his head.

Clang.

He managed to open his eyes, but darkness surrounded him. A chill breeze made him shiver. He heard waves crash. The breeze carried a hint of burnt wood and ashes.

A light suddenly blazed. Groaning, he raised a hand to shield his eyes. His forearm ached.

“Buddy, you’re not supposed to be here,” a gruff voice said. “On your feet.”

All Balenger could do was groan.

“You heard me. Get moving.”

“Where ...” Balenger’s throat felt raw. He could barely get the word out.

“I won’t tell you again. Move!”

“Where am I?” Balenger squinted toward the glare. He suddenly realized that he lay on sand.

“For God’s sake, you screwed yourself up so bad, you don’t even know where the hell you are?” a second gruff voice demanded. “Asbury Park, buddy. The same place you passed out.”

Clang.

Balenger struggled to stand. The stark flashlight beam illuminated the jumbled wreckage of a building. The smell of burnt wood was stronger. “Asbury Park?”

Clang.

Balanger’s mind cleared enough for him to recognize the sound from his nightmares: a flap of sheet metal banging against the side of an abandoned building. A cold shock of fear seized him.

Clang.

“The city’s working to rebuild the area. Guys like you aren’t welcome here.”

“No,” Balenger said. “Is that . . .” Frantic, he pointed toward the chaotic stretch of debris. “Don’t tell me that’s ... ”

Clang.

“The Paragon Hotel,” the voice explained. “What’s left of it. When all those killings happened and it burned down, we said, ‘Enough!’ We’re gonna bring this beach back to life. So scram before we put you in jail!”

Emotion made Balenger shake.
The Paragon Hotel?
he thought in a panic.
How did I get here?

“Hold it a second. Eddie, this guy looks familiar. Hey, aren’t you—”

“Balenger,” the other man said. “Frank Balenger. Yeah, that’s who he is. Jesus, man, what’re you doing back here? I’d expect this was the last place you’d ever want to see again.”

“Amanda,” Balenger whispered.

“I can barely hear you.”

“Amanda.” Balenger’s voice was hoarse.

“Who’s Amanda? Somebody’s with you?”

“Wait, Eddie. I think I . . . Amanda . . . Last fall when the hotel burned down. What was her last name? Evert. Amanda Evert. Is that who you mean, Frank? The woman you saved?”

Clang.

“Amanda!” Balenger screamed. “Where are you?” His vocal cords threatened to burst. He staggered through the burned wreckage, searching.

“Frank, talk to us. For heaven’s sake, what are you doing here?”

10

“The Manhattan History Club?” Jeff Cochran frowned. A heavy man with red hair and freckles, he was Asbury Park’s police chief. Two years earlier, before Balenger quit the department to search for his missing wife, Balenger had worked for him. “Time capsules?”

“That’s the last thing I remember.” Balenger rubbed the back of his neck, working to relieve his headache. “Look, you’ve got to keep searching the beach area. Amanda might still be–”