Darkside (21 page)

Ev nodded and drank some wine. The room was filling up, with even some midshipmen coming in now. Firsties were allowed to patronize the Officers Club on Saturdays, and a few had brought along their dates, who appeared to be nervous. The waitress tried her best to put them at ease as she took orders and discreetly checked ID cards. Liz was glancing at her watch.

“Big date tonight?” he asked.

She finished her scotch and looked at him with an amused expression. He flushed and apologized for intruding. She leaned forward and put her fingers over his. “Are you ever going to relax around me?” she asked.

Acutely aware that the faculty couple across the way was watching, he withdrew his hand and ran it through his hair. “I feel like a teenager,” he said. “When you came into the bar all dressed up, I wondered where you were going and with whom, and then I kicked myself mentally. Like it was any of my business.”

She smiled openly then. “You're right, it's none of your business. But I'm edified that you care. I like you. I think you're a nice guy who's been kicked in the teeth by what happened to your wife and now you don't know what the hell to do. You know those people over there?”

Surprised, he almost glanced over at them. He said, “Yes, they knew Joanne.”

“I thought I detected some vibes of disapproval,” she said. “I've got to run. I'll call you when I hear something. And you call me if Julie squawks.”

“I will,” he said, suddenly reluctant to see her go.

“Or just call me,” she said quietly as she stood up to
leave. He smiled up at her. She then walked over to where the faculty couple was sitting, leaned down, and said something to the woman, then left the lounge with an exaggerated stride that had every man in the room watching her go. Ev saw the woman's face turn very red, and he wondered what Liz had said. Don't ask, he thought, and then found himself grinning despite himself.

Just call me. Okay, counselor—excuse me, Liz—I will definitely do that. Liz was the only ray of light in his life right now.

 

Jim listened to a movie themes CD while he waited for Agent Branner in his truck. He was parked in the small lot in front of Alumni Hall. It was just after 10:30 Saturday night, and there was barely any traffic around the Yard. A partial moon shone through fleeting clouds. There was a dance over in Dahlgren Hall, so most of the traffic was down at the other end of the Yard.

He'd caught up with the commandant late that afternoon and given him a quick debrief on what he'd learned about the Dell case, which, of course, wasn't very much. He did not tell the commandant anything about the tunnel runner incident, nor did Robbins seem to know about the fire alarm of the night before. He'd told Jim to keep plugging and then hurried away. If he was pleased with what Jim had told him, he gave no sign. Probably just expected his orders to be carried out, with hardly a thought to the possibility that they wouldn't be. The confidence of command. Or maybe the arrogance.

Branner knocked on the driver's side window, startling him. He hadn't heard or seen her vehicle approach, but there it was, parked right next to his. He rolled the window down and shut off the CD.

“Ready?” she asked. She was dressed as he'd recommended: dark slacks, a sweatshirt, black gloves, a ball cap with NCIS emblazoned across the front, and a dark-colored
NCIS windbreaker. She had a utility belt with flashlight, her weapon, extra rounds, cuffs, and some odds and ends in Velcro pouches.

Jim nodded, swung out of the truck, and locked it up. He was dressed as he had been for his previous excursions, with a different windbreaker to replace the one trashed by the spray paint. He carried a small tool bag with the motion detectors, and he was also wearing a utility belt.

“The grate's over there, behind Mahan Hall,” he said. “You okay with being underground? Not claustrophobic?”

“Not thrilled with confined spaces, but I'm not anything-phobic,” she said. “Mood I'm in, I hope your bat bird does show up tonight.”

“How's Bagger?” he asked as they walked over toward the grate. A fine mist of steam was wafting up through the steel grating.

“Hanging in there,” she said, looking hard at the shadows around the underground entrance, unconsciously touching her sidearm. “They've got the swelling problem controlled. Now they're waiting for him to surface.”

“Getting whacked in the head—it's not like the movies, is it?” Jim said as he lifted the grate. Branner didn't answer as she inspected the steel stairs leading down into the concrete pit. Jim asked her to pull the grate closed behind her as he led the way down.

She asked few questions as he gave her the grand tour for the next hour. He took her all the way out to the St. John's grate and then back under the utility tunnels serving Bancroft Hall. He showed her where the rocket had left char marks on the concrete, the territorial graffiti, which remained unchanged from the previous night, and where he'd been surprised by the paint-spraying vampire. He noticed that, despite her statement to the contrary, she did seem to be uncomfortable being down in the tunnels. The tunnels weren't exactly claustrophobic, in his opinion, what with the lights and ample room to walk around without bending over, even for someone of his height. Nor was it particularly spooky. Just a collection of pipes, cables,
conduits, equipment cabinets, and steel doors leading to vaults along the sides. The air was close and warm; maybe that was doing it.

He set up the first motion detector in the main tunnel, pointing back toward Bancroft Hall. He set it high so as to not detect any rodents that might be operating down here. Branner made a face when he mentioned rodents, but she helped him string the tiny transmitter wire through the overhead conduit brackets back to the T junction with the Mahan Hall grating access. The second one went into the tunnel aimed at the Annapolis utility tunnel access, a few blocks from the St. John's campus, with its transmitter wire coming back to the same point as the first one. He took the steam-tight globes off the two lights illuminating the junction and unscrewed the bulbs. Then they moved into the short tunnel leading back to the Mahan Hall grating, set up the receiver-indicator box, ran the box through its self-test, and sat down on some equipment cabinets to wait. The only sounds came from the steam pipes, with the additional rumble of a vehicle out on the street in front of Mahan Hall.

“Can he get directly out into town, down at the other end?” she asked, speaking quietly. “Down by those old brick arches under Dahlgren Hall?”

“He could, except I locked out the interchange doors last night after that rocket. Assuming he has the regular series lock key, the new locks will defeat him, so he'll have to come out via St. John's.”

“And the other detector will get him coming back in, assuming he's already out there?”

Jim nodded. “It being Saturday night, this may be a waste of time,” he said. “If this is a firstie, he could just come back through the gates.”

“Not dressed up as a vampire, one assumes,” she said.

Jim shrugged. “Yeah, but if he's operating with those Goth freaks, he may have a base of operations in the student ghetto somewhere. My guess is that he'll be in costume in the tunnels only if he's on the run. Like after busting some civilian heads in an alley. And it's a little early for that shit.”

“How do these things work?” she asked, indicating the receiver box for the detectors.

“The sensors themselves are out there in the tunnels. They get a hit, they send a signal here over those wires, and we get a channel light. Tells us which one is getting the hit.”

“Why wire? Why not a transmitter?”

“A wire signal can't be detected. If the detector used a radio to get back to this receiver, it could be intercepted.”

Branner was skeptical. “You're assuming your mid would have some pretty sophisticated gear,” she said.

“They get to play with sophisticated gear in the double-E labs all the time. You go to any of the football games?”

She nodded.

“You catch the Navy–Air Force game last year? The bus drivers like to put on a falconry display at halftime. The falcons are their mascots. Last year, some mids built a high-powered radar transmitter dish. Mounted it on the back of a pickup truck, with a parabolic antenna and an optical tracking telescope. Parked it outside the stadium, out with the tailgaters. When the falcon started doing his thing, they turned it on, locked a tracking beam on the bird, and drove it nuts. Damn thing went up into the light towers and wouldn't come down.”

“Damn.”

“Well, we don't especially like the Air Farce. But all of that gear, that was just bench stuff from a missile fire-control lab. Homework assignment. So, yes, he could have a detector that could pick up the fan beams from my motion detectors, if he's worried about stuff like that. I don't think so, though.”

“You think he's getting overconfident?”

“I'm hoping so. Although he did surprise me fairly easily, and he had to have preplanned that rocket business.”

“He won't surprise me,” she said. “And if he comes up with any bullshit like that rocket, I'll cap his young ass.”

Jim grinned. “The objective is to apprehend subject young ass, not blow holes in it. Got enough dead mids this week already.”

She grimaced at the reference to Dell.

“My chief said he'd heard some stuff about the postmortem. Said that was where the homicide vibes were coming from.” He kept his voice casual, his eyes on the receiver.

“It's cumulative,” she said, suppressing a yawn. “There was the panties bit, plus some, um, anatomical aspects that might indicate the kid was no stranger to wearing panties, if you catch my drift. Main thing was the bruising. Upper arms grabbed from the front, probably right before he died. One interpretation would be that he was lifted and thrown. But there are some S and M situations that could cause those bruises.”

“Wow,” he said. “What's ambiguous about all that?”

“Well, there you are, Mr. Security Officer,” she said. “That's why we're looking into it as if it might be a homicide. Tell me, are you technically a cop?”

“Nope. Government civilian, grade twelve. I supervise the people who have police jurisdiction in the Yard and on other Academy property, but I personally don't have a badge. I pack a Glock on occasions like this, but probably not legally. That help?”

She frowned. “Can you make arrests?”

“Not normally. If I get into that situation, I'd be calling the Yard cops, or maybe even you guys. But, no, I'm not a cop. I'm technically an administrator.”

“So what've you been doing down here chasing this shitbird? Why not your own cops?”

“Because he made it personal?”

She stared at him for a moment and then nodded. Personal, she understood. “Okay,” she said. “So if we catch this guy tonight, and especially if he did Bagger, he's mine, right?”

“Absolutely. As long as you don't shoot him right off. We won't
know
he's the guy who did Bagger until there's been an arrest and some questions asked, right?”

“Right,” she said, touching her weapon again. “But if it is…”

“We subdue him, cuff him, you take him into custody, read him his rights, and
then
you can shoot him. But do it over in your holding cell, not one of ours, okay? Ours doesn't have a drain.”

She grinned, although it wasn't a pleasant sight just now, Jim thought. Then the receiver beeped, and the channel from the detector pointed at Annapolis lighted up.

“Hello,” Jim said softly. He moved up to the edge of the tunnel junction, with Branner right beside him. The nearest overhead light was fifty feet down the main tunnel, in the direction of the St. John's campus. Branner had her weapon out. Jim saw it and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “You fire that thing down here in a concrete tunnel and it's as likely to get you as him,” he said.

“Only if I miss,” she whispered back. “I'll go down that way. Let him go by; then yell halt. If he rabbits, he'll run right into me.” With that, she slipped into the main tunnel, turned left, and hurried silently down to a dogleg turn fifty feet toward Bancroft, where she disappeared around the corner.

Okay, I guess we now officially have a plan, Jim thought. Although it would have been nice to have had a vote. On the other hand, she was a trained police agent, and he was not. He waited.

One minute stretched into two, and then three. Shouldn't have taken the guy this long. He reviewed the layout of the tunnel complex to see if there was another branch he could have taken, and decided there wasn't, not if he was headed back to Bancroft. Four minutes. Then he heard a distant clang of metal, as if one of the interchange doors was being closed.

More silence. Three vehicles in succession bumped over the road above his head. Five minutes. He wanted to look around the corner toward the sound of that door, but he held back. The guy would probably see him as he went by the entrance to the branch tunnel, but by then, Jim would be coming at him. He touched the Glock but decided not to draw it. Once he called the guy out and Bran
ner made her presence known, a mid would give it up for Lent. Six minutes.

Then a soft shuffling sound to his right. Something coming down the tunnel. He crouched into a ready stance and drew out his big Maglite. Nothing like a little white light to disorient his quarry for a crucial second or two. Another sound. Closer. Then silence. Then a very soft giggle.

Giggle? Before he could even blink, a stumpy figure in flowing black robes slipped by the entrance to his tunnel, a smallish figure, with a painted white face. He got only a momentary glimpse, then stood up and roared for her to halt just as she went out of sight to his left. He jumped into the main tunnel, saw the figure's back ten feet away, and snapped on the Maglite just as the girl spun around. It was one of those Goth girls, looking like some kind of alien in the harsh blue-white beam.