Scavenger by David Morrell Page A

glanced toward the back. “They’re here,” she said, her voice echoing.
    The tall, thin man turned toward Balenger and Ortega. “Please, come down and join us.”
    Concealing his agitation, Balenger was conscious of the sound of his footsteps in the deserted aisle. The theater exuded a sense of gloom, the old seats unnaturally empty, desperate to be filled with applause.
    Ortega introduced himself and showed his badge. “I believe you’re already familiar with Mr. Balenger.”
    Balenger recognized them. The tall, thin man was Professor Murdock. The four people on the stage had been at the Saturday lecture.
    “I certainly remember you ,” the man with the pointer said, “and the young woman you were with. Her name was . . .” He glanced up, searching his memory. “Amanda Evert.”
    “And your name was Adrian Murdock, except I’m sure it isn’t.”
    “Roland Perry. The professor’s name was assigned to me.”
    “Is something wrong?” the young man on the stage asked.
    Ortega addressed Perry. “On the phone, you said your group was hired to be at that house on East Nineteenth Street.”
    “That’s right. The event was described as performance art.” Perry’s voice sounded vaguely British. “I was given a speech to deliver. Our playhouse actors received directions about how to behave, plus a description of Mister Balenger and his friend. We were told this would be a practical joke of sorts. Throughout my lecture, the audience would gradually leave. Then I’d stop talking. As the visual demonstration continued, I’d step into the shadows and leave the building. After that, the images would stop, and Mister Balenger and his friend would find themselves alone in the room.”
    “Doesn’t sound like much of a joke,” Ortega said.
    “It was supposed to involve a surprise birthday party. As Mister Balenger and his friend wondered what on earth was going on, friends hiding upstairs would shout ‘Happy birthday!’ Food and drinks would be carried down. The party would start.”
    Ortega looked at Balenger, then asked Perry, “How much were you paid?”
    “For the group, for what amounted to an hour’s work, we received two thousand dollars. It was a much-needed contribution to our remodeling efforts.”
    “How were you approached?” Balenger asked.
    “A woman phoned and arranged to meet me here at the playhouse.”
    “Did she give a name?”
    “Karen Bailey. The woman you met at the lecture.”
    “I had the feeling she was part of your group,” Balenger said.
    “Not at all.”
    “Do you have a contract?” Ortega asked. “An address or a signature I can look at?”
    “No. It didn’t seem necessary. The arrangement was unusual, yes, but the two thousand dollars couldn’t have come at a better time. We were thankful for the windfall.”
    “But why are you here?” the older woman asked. “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing for you to worry about.” Ortega gave Perry his business card. “If she contacts you again, let me know.”
    “Karen Bailey did leave a photocopy of something,” Perry said. “She told me to give it to Mister Balenger if he came to the theater.”
    “A photocopy?” Balenger frowned. “Of what ?”
    “I put it in my script bag.” Perry tucked his pointer under an arm, went to a worn canvas bag next to a seat, and searched through it. “Here.” He offered Balenger a folded piece of paper.
    But before Balenger touched it, Ortega said, “Wait.” He removed the latex gloves from his sport coat. After putting them on, he opened the paper.
    Balenger stood next to him and looked down at it. The paper had streaks from a photocopy machine. It showed a book page on which everything was matted out, except one paragraph and an imprint of a stamp: NYPL HUMANITIES & SOCIAL SCIENCE LIBRARY. The stamp was faint.
    Ortega read the paragraph out loud.
    “It is a wonderful place, the moor,” said he, looking round over the undulating downs, long green rollers, with crests of