Darkside (13 page)

“So it's a matter of scale?”

“This place takes four years to develop naval officers who can take the heat, who can stand up to steady pressure and not only perform but perform in a superior fashion. Ultimately, it becomes a matter of pride: Keep dumping stuff on my head—the academic load, the required athletics program, the physical tests, the whole plebe year, the constant inspections, the competition for class standing, responsibility for leading the lower classes—and I can not only hack it but do it well. Because I want to, and because I'm going to show them.”

“You've been to hack-it school, as my first ex used to say.”

“Precisely. It's competitive across the board, from admission to commission, and we're always being tested. Strong men and women, with strong character, visible moral courage, a clear sense of ethics. We consciously address issues of right and wrong. It's a black-and-white world we live in, or at least that's what the system tries to accomplish.”

“And you're saying that gays can't fit into that mold?”

“It's not being gay that's the problem, Ms. DeWinter,” Julie said softly. “It's the
system
to cope with gays that doesn't fit here. The policy you just mentioned. The don't ask, don't tell policy. It ducks the question. It's basically an evasion. Evasion violates our principles.”

“Ah,” Liz said. “And so, if someone is suspected of really being gay, he or she could be in trouble.”

“Oh yes.”

“How do you personally feel about gay people?”

“Poor them,” Julie said.

Liz let out a long breath. “Let me try a hypothetical: Is it possible that Dell was suspected of being gay, and that someone or some group threw him out a window? Like some kind of antihomosexual vigilante group?”

“No,” Julie said emphatically. “No. Look, when the subject comes up, what you hear is that individuals mostly don't care if someone is gay. What nobody wants to have is some queer hitting on you, whether you're male or female. Plus,
there's the practical problem. We're all headed for commissions. Picture a bunch of gung ho Marines taking orders from their second lieutenant if they think he's a fairy. I don't think so.”

“And Dell?”

“Dell was a little guy. Not short, but, like, not much heft to him. A diver, not a swimmer. From the few times I worked with him, he was too passive. Not assertive. Not effeminate, either, but maybe just scared. I could see why people might think he didn't belong here.”

“But wouldn't it take some balls to sneak into an upperclassman's room and steal underwear?”

“Guys with balls don't wear panties,” Julie snapped. “Besides, we don't know that he did that, Ms. DeWinter. Hell, the laundry might have done it. Sent back something of mine in his laundry bag by mistake. I've gotten other women's things back in my laundry. It happens. I told my father that I thought Brian was weak, not gay.”

“Brian?” Liz asked softly.

“His classmates called him Brian,” Julie said. “And best I know, that wasn't the rap on Dell. And, no, there aren't any Brigade vigilante groups. Against gays or anyone else.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because everyone's too damned busy,” Julie said patiently. “It would have to be firsties who'd run something like that, and firsties have only one thing on their minds at this stage of the game.”

“Which is?”

“Getting the
fuck
out of here,” Julie said with a vehemence that surprised Ev. Liz apparently had had the same reaction, and Julie caught it. “Well, you know what they say, Ms. DeWinter. This is a four-hundred-thousand-dollar education, shoved up your ass a penny at a time.”

“Yes,” Liz said softly. “Your father mentioned that one to me.”

“My father?” Julie asked. “When did he tell you that?”

“At dinner last night,” Liz said. Ev held his breath when he heard that. He felt Liz looking at him.

“Oh,” Julie said.

“Your father is paying the bills here,” Liz said. “I promised to keep him in the loop as to what I was doing. But we did have a nice evening, nonetheless.”

Ev sensed what was coming next when all Julie said was “Oh” again.

“How do you feel about your father and I seeing each other, Julie?”

“Seeing each other?”

“Yes. Seeing each other. You know exactly what I mean. He's very worried that you'll be upset if he starts seeing someone.”

Holy shit, Ev thought, and finally looked over at Liz, aware that he was blushing. There was the hint of a smile on her face.

“Mom's death hit us both pretty hard,” Julie was saying slowly. “But I'm out of here in a few weeks. I don't want him living all alone in that big house, so I've got zero problems with him seeing you or anyone else. You've been married before, Ms. DeWinter?”

“Yes, twice,” Liz said. “And it's Liz.”

“Then you must know what you're doing,” Julie said. Ev heard an element of challenge in Julie's voice.

“Meaning?” Liz replied evenly.

“Meaning he's a bit fragile right now. Don't you dare toy with him.”

It was Liz's turn to say nothing. Ev tried to imagine the scene in the conference room, the two women glaring at each other. This was a side of Julie he'd not seen or heard before. Liz finally spoke.

“Not that it's any of your business, Julie, but I do understand that your father's been through a rough time. And I don't trifle with men I like.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Ms. DeWinter,” Julie said. “Have I answered all your questions? I need to get back.”

There was a clicking noise as Liz leaned forward to hit stop and rewind. “I guess I'd never thought much past the smart uniforms, pretty dress parades, drums and bugles, and
football game rallies in Tecumseh Court,” she said. “I didn't realize that day-to-day life inside that big building is so intense. Or that the midshipmen themselves know what they are doing.”

“I think Julie's a cut above in considering all that,” Ev said, still somewhat aghast. “But she's right: Civilians have no idea. I've often thought about how life at the Academy begins a separation between the officers who come out of there and the American taxpayers, who pay the bill.”

“‘Civilians'? Aren't you a civilian?”

“Nope. Never will be, either. Not in my mind. I'm an Academy grad who was also a Navy fighter pilot. Even after all these years in academia, I'm still not a civilian.”

“How interesting.”

“The place changes you. Julie's right, in a way. If you didn't go there, you probably can't understand just how much it changes you. Or the intense pride one has in getting through it.”

She sipped some wine while gazing out over the creek, where twilight was softening the individual features of trees, docks, and houses. She was obviously going to skip right past that part of the discussion involving him. Ev saw her make a token effort to tug on her skirt, but that only made things more interesting. He found himself suddenly very aware of her, physically, and he hadn't experienced that feeling in some time. He felt a sudden urge to pick her up. She was tiny, but oh, my. The silence lingered.

“You graduated when?” she asked finally.

“Class of '73. Seems like a century ago.”

“I loved my time at college, law school less so. Would you describe your time at the Academy as being happy?”

“Happy? No. But the Academy's not college. I majored in aeronautical engineering, so I felt as if I had a creditable degree, but the degree was almost a sidebar. Getting through the four years, getting commissioned, that was the accomplishment.”

“If Brian Dell had been gay, do you think that would be a reason for someone or some group to kill him?”

Ev shook his head. “No, I wouldn't think so. If he was gay, and groped somebody, he'd get his clock cleaned and be separated. If they caught him doing homosexual acts, they'd separate him. We had two guys in my class who got caught playing drop the soap in the gym. Both gone the next day. One other guy said he was gay, but the word was he just wanted out without having to serve out his obligation in the fleet as a white-hat. But throwing a kid out the window for being gay? Nah. Is that the current theory?”

“I don't know. I was just speculating. You know, the underwear thing.”

“But the homicide angle—you think that's real?”

“My source does. I asked the NCIS people what motives there might be for murder in Bancroft Hall. He said the usual: money or love.”

“Not many people in Mother Bancroft have money,” Ev mused.

“Right. Which leaves love. An Academy romance gone way off the tracks.”

“One assumes boy-girl. I suppose in this modern age, it could have been boy-boy.”

They were interrupted by the doorbell. Ev left her in the kitchen to go get the pizza. When he came back, he found her looking at a collection of Markham family pictures on a shelf beneath the cookbooks. She was holding one picture in her hand, a group photo of Ev, Joanne, and Julie at about age thirteen, based on the awkward posture and the hint of the good looks to come. Ev, taller than both, was beaming with pride, his arm around both wife and daughter. Joanne was spectacular in this picture, a glowing brunette, wide-eyed, perfectly proportioned face, luxuriant figure, looking back at the camera with practiced ease, knowing that she was beautiful, and apparently comfortable with it. Liz put the picture back as he walked in, then cleared some mail off the counter to make room for the pizza.

“Arrgh,” she said when she saw the anchovies.

“I know,” he said, “But it's half-and-half. I was going to abstain, but I happen to love the little stinkers.”

“Aptly put,” she said, wrinkling her nose. He laughed at her.

“I'm going to switch over to beer,” he said. “Your half okay?”

“It's fine. I rarely eat pizza, so when I do, it's always good. Although hell on the girlish figure.” He got out some plates and silverware, and she helped herself to a slice well away from the offending anchovies.

“Nothing wrong with the girlish figure from where I'm standing,” he said, cracking open a Coors.

“One of these days, I'm going to give up and just let myself…expand.”

Ev laughed as they moved back to the counter.

“Is there a chance Julie might know more about this Dell business than she's telling either of us?” she asked.

Ev felt a protective impulse rise in his chest. Liz kept coming back to this. She saw his concern.

“You want to know why I keep asking,” she said. “I sense there's something wrong over there in Bancroft Hall. This is the Naval Academy. Four thousand straight-arrow men and women, the best and the brightest, duty, honor, country, pick your slogan. And yet someone's killed a plebe?”

He stared at her, then down at his pizza. He pushed it away and concentrated on his beer while trying to marshal his thoughts. “You think Julie's lying to you?” he asked.

“Not exactly. I mean, I don't think she had a hand in the boy's death, of course. But I do think she's not telling me everything. I'm just a civilian, you see. She's one of…them.”

“Them. Right.” He nodded slowly, still not looking at her. He was aware of the lights reflecting in small dazzling patterns across the creek. The house was very still.

“I hired you to protect Julie,” he said slowly.

“That's correct.” She seemed to be waiting for him to understand something important.

“But you can't do that if she's holding back on you, can you?”

“Bingo.”

“And you'd like me to do what, exactly?”

“I'd like you to reinforce the notion that if she does know something about this incident, she needs to tell me, and preferably before those G-persons do. Maybe point out that precisely because she's
not
a civilian, the government's investigators might not play nice.”

He steepled his hands in front of his face, then nodded again, making up his mind. He'd been on the verge of getting angry, but he then saw the logic in what she was saying. “You've got my attention, counselor,” he said. “I'll try to think of something.”

“Liz,” she said. “So far, I can't get either one of you to call me by my first name.”

He laughed. “Liz it is.”

They finished their pizza, and Ev made some coffee. They took it into the study.

She stirred her coffee for a moment. “Julie indicated that sometimes there's a collective decision made that a plebe isn't worth keeping. That he's a ‘shitbird.' What happens then?”

“Pretty much what she described. In my day, he'd become a target for the entire company's upperclassmen. After a month or so of that, he'd crash and burn and then resign. Nowadays, though, my impression is that the system steps in. The company officers, the kid's academic adviser, his squad leader, his mentoring youngsters, even his sponsor, maybe. That said, they do lose a couple hundred by attrition during plebe year.”

“I guess what I'm trying to understand is how much power do the upperclassmen have? Julie implied it was a lot. Even if the executive staff and the faculty get into it, can the upperclassmen run a guy out?”

Ev shrugged. “I'm twenty-eight years out-of-date. When I went through, the answer would have been yes. But he'd really have to be a shitbird. Someone who bilged his classmates, skirted the honor system, or was suspected of stealing—that kind of stuff. It wouldn't happen just as a matter of unpopularity.”

“Sounds like extra work for the upperclassmen.”

“Actually, they'd set in motion the ultimate sanction: Get the guy's own classmates to shun him. The upperclassmen can run a guy ragged, but if his classmates see that as unfair persecution, they'll help him, carry him even. But if
they
dump him, he's meat.”