Creepers

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."

6

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 Vi

"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," Vi

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," Vi

"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 pla

"And, of course, we have our cell phones." Vi

"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, Vi