Darkside (27 page)

“Is she breathing?” Liz asked.

As if in reply, the woman turned sideways, vomited a huge amount of water all over the deck, and then went into a paroxysm of coughing and heaving while they both held her. She was a small woman, fully dressed in slacks, a blouse, and flat tennis shoes. She was very pretty, Ev realized, even though she was barely on the plus side of a drowning equation. The
Not Guilty
, with no one at the helm, began to wallow as her head fell off into the seaway.

“I put the little girl down below,” he told Liz, who immediately went down into the main salon. She appeared back on deck a moment later with the little girl still swaddled in that huge life jacket. The girl tottered over to her mother, shouting, “Mommy, Mommy,” and Ev helped the woman to sit up and embrace her daughter. The boat began to roll heavily as she came fully sideways to the running seaway, and Liz hurried back up to the pilothouse to straighten her out and ease the ride. The woman was getting some color back in her face and had begun to breathe more normally as she realized she was finally safe.

“My husband,” she began, but then stopped, staring at her daughter's wet head, and bit her lip as if she'd said something wrong.

“Let's get you below where you can dry off,” he said. “We'll stay in the area and look for him.” But even as he said
it, he knew whose life jacket the child had been wearing. The woman gave him a long, bleak look that told him she knew, too, but she didn't say anything. He took them below and into the master cabin. He made them both lie down, wet clothes and all, right on the rumpled bedclothes where he and Liz had made love only a few hours ago.

“Just rest for a few minutes,” he said. “We need to contact the Coast Guard, let them know we have you, and set up a search. What was the name of your boat?”

“Windsong,”
she said, her voice low. She said it again, louder. “Just the three of us on board.”

She had anticipated his next question. He pulled a blanket over them both, told them to sit tight, and went back topside to the pilothouse. Liz had the boat pointed in toward Annapolis harbor.

“There was a man on board,” he announced. “I think the kid had his life jacket. We need to tell the Coast Guard.”

“I marked the position,” she said, pointing to an
X
in grease pencil on the chart. “But I didn't see him.”

“I told her we'd do a search,” he said, feeling suddenly a little weak as his adrenaline began to crash. Liz glanced at his face.

“Okay, now you sit down. We'll hang around the area until they show up. Although it's pretty hopeless.”

“Are we okay in this shit?” he asked, looking at the solid green waves coming at them like white-capped infantry, angry at losing their prey.

“Hell yes,” she said. “This is nothing. This is a trawler hull, basically. Tarted up inside, but she's a pretty tough sea-keeper. You did quite a job out there today. You okay?”

“A little winded, but, yeah, I'm fine. It was the sex that wore my ass out, I think.”

She grinned and gave him a thumbs-up, then brought the yacht around to head back to the area where the boat had sunk. Ev saw the flashing lights of a Coast Guard boat behind them. It was banging through the waves, sending up dramatic
V
's of spray. Liz switched over to the emergency band and checked in with the approaching boat. Ev was con
tent just to sit there in a corner of the pilothouse. And Sundays used to be such quiet, peaceful days, he thought. Then he remembered that there were a woman and child down below, a child who had probably just lost her daddy. He heaved himself upright and went below decks.

Down in the master cabin, the survivors were huddled together under all the blankets and sheets on the bed. Ev wondered if he should find the air-conditioning thermostat and turn it off, but they were probably experiencing the cold of exhaustion. The little girl appeared to be asleep, but her mother was staring fixedly at nothing when he came in. He sat down gently on one corner of the bed.

“Can I get you anything? Some water? Coffee? A drink?”

She shook her head. The boat was corkscrewing now as Liz took her across the seas toward the sinking datum. Being inside wasn't pleasant.

“The Coast Guard boat is almost here,” he said. “We're staying in the area for a search. They'll probably send a helo out, too.”

The woman reached down and put her hand over her daughter's upturned ear. “He's gone,” she whispered. “I saw him go down. He put his jacket on Lily. Then the mast hit him, right on the head. Hard. His eyes rolled up and he was gone. I couldn't reach him and still hang on to her.”

He sighed and nodded. “How long were you in the water?” he asked.

“Forever,” she said, still speaking softly, not wanting to wake the child. “I didn't thank you, did I?”

“No need. It was Liz who saw the sail. Liz DeWinter. This is her boat. We almost went right on by.”

“Several boats did. They couldn't see us, I suppose.”

“I couldn't see you until we were damn near on top of you.” The boat began to roll again as Liz slowed and turned parallel to the seas. Ev could hear the deep-throated engines of another boat close by. “Get some rest,” he said. “There's no point in transferring you to the Coast Guard boat. We'll take you in. I'm sorry about your husband.”

“Thank you,” she said almost mechanically. “I don't think it's really penetrated yet.”

“I lost my wife two years ago,” he said. “To a drunk driver.”

“And this Liz DeWinter? Who is she?”

Ev looked down at her, startled by the question and the vaguely disapproving expression on the woman's face. The yacht hit a large wave and shuddered.

“Right now, she's saving my life,” he said. “Now get some rest.”

He got up and turned out the lights. As he was shutting the cabin door, he thought he heard her say she was sorry. You don't know the half of it, he thought. But you will.

Jim Hall wrote a quick note at his desk, sealed it into an official envelope, marked it “Eyes only, personal-for RADM-Select Robbins,” and asked a secretary to give it to the commandant's admin assistant. Then he went to meet Oberst-sturmbannführer Branner over in Mother B.

Branner was waiting for him in the rotunda. She was wearing another tight short skirt outfit, and she was tapping one high-heeled foot impatiently. There was a fat briefcase sitting on the marble floor beside her. Two firsties walking by gave her an unabashed once-over until she looked back at them, at which point they found an urgent reason to pick up the pace.

“We have a development,” she said without preamble when he joined her. “It seems that Midshipman Markham turned up having some of Dell's clothes in her room.”

“And how did we find that out?” he asked. He was conscious of the fact that their voices were echoing around the cavernous room.

“Room inspection,” she said. “Apparently one of those random things. Markham was in charge of the room for last week. She was placed on report for having nonregulation gear in the room. They called me this morning just before I left to come over here.”

“Was it truly random, or did you put a word in to the Exec Department?”

“Moi?”
she asked sweetly. “Actually, no. Fortuitous, but random. We're meeting with Dell's roommate in five minutes.”

She picked up the briefcase and they headed for the commandant's conference room. “What do you want me to do in there this time?” he asked.

“I'll ask the questions. If you think of something, chime in. This kid's not a suspect. I'm going to concentrate on what he knew about Dell, not the incident. I will tape it, so you'll need to ID yourself at the appropriate time. Otherwise, follow my lead.”

“Anywhere,” he quipped as they stepped behind the partition. She ignored the remark. They went into the commandant's outer office and the secretary led them into the conference room, where Midshipman Antonelli was waiting nervously. He stood up to attention and sounded off when they entered the room. He was a tall, rangy kid with heavy shoulders, a bony face, crooked nose, acne, and the regulation buzz-cut hair of a plebe. Jim guessed he played sprint ball.

“Midshipman Fourth Class Antonelli, sir!” the plebe shouted. Then he realized that one of them was a woman. “Uh, ma'am. Sir!” He blushed furiously, staring straight ahead, hands pressed flat to his sides, tucking his chin in even harder.

“Please sit down, Midshipman Antonelli,” Branner said.

“Yes, ma'am!” Antonelli all but shouted.

“And carry on, plebe,” Jim said in a calm voice.

“Sir, aye aye, sir!” the boy replied. He sat down in one of the side chairs and folded his hands in his lap. He still sat semirigidly. Branner took the chair at the head of the table, and Jim sat down next to her. They brushed knees for an instant, and Jim moved his chair, trying to ignore those shiny stockings. Branner fished the tape recorder out of the big briefcase and set it up.

“Midshipman Antonelli, I need you to relax, please,” she said. “We're here to talk about Midshipman Dell, but not about what happened to him, understand? You are not a suspect or even a formal witness. We're just trying to find out
more about Dell as a person. What kind of a roommate he was. What kind of guy. How you two got along. Like that, okay?”

“Yes, ma'am,” the plebe said, lowering the volume just slightly and giving Jim a sideways look.

“And this is Mr. Hall, the Academy security officer; he's helping me with my inquiries. Now, I'm going to tape this, so we'll do the introductions all over again for the tape.” She saw him frown and moved to reassure him. “The tape's no big deal—it just keeps me from having to take a bunch of notes, okay?”

The plebe nodded and then Branner took him through the audio ID process. “So, Mr. Antonelli, tell us about Brian Dell. What kind of guy was he?”

“We got along,” Antonelli said after first licking his lips. He was obviously very nervous. Jim wondered how much of it was due to having to do an interview in the commandant's office with NCIS, and how much of it was due to what had happened to his roommate. Branner looked over at Jim as if to say, You take it.

“Tell us about your plebe year,” Jim said.

“We were getting through it,” the plebe said. “I mean, like, there were three of us in the room at the beginning of plebe year. Frankie Browning dropped out at Christmas, so then it was just the two of us. That made it a little tougher.”

“I understand,” Jim said. “I graduated in '93. Went Marine option and then got out. So I understand what plebe year's all about and what you've been going through. What was Dell's plebe year like?”

Antonelli shrugged. “Tough, I guess. He wasn't very big. Kinda quiet. Kept his head down and his mouth shut, like most of us.”

“You go out for sprint ball, by any chance?”

“Yes, sir,” Antonelli said with obvious pride.

“But Dell—he wasn't a big jock, was he?”

“No, sir. Kinda small. He had some trouble with that. I mean, with all the phys ed classes. Boxing. Wrestling. Hand to gland.” He reddened when he realized what he'd just
called the self-defense course, but Branner just gave him a neutral smile. “But swimming, that he could do. Actually, he was a competition diver. He even went out for the varsity swim team. Got cut but stayed on as a manager.”

“How about academics?”

“Brian was a math geek,” Antonelli replied. “Otherwise, he kept a two-nine, three-oh QPR. He saved my ass in math.”

Jim nodded. “Did you ever get the impression that the upperclassmen were actively singling Dell out when they ran the plebes in your company? You know what I mean? Like when they really come down on a guy? Hound his ass until he puts his chit in?”

Antonelli hesitated but then nodded. “I know what you mean, sir,” he said. “Brian had to go roaming for a coupla weeks, during dark ages.”

“What's that mean, ‘roaming,' ‘dark ages'?” Branner asked Jim.

“Plebes are assigned to company tables in the mess hall,” he explained. “They rotate once a week to a new table, but always within the company. That way, the upperclassmen get a shot at all the plebes. When you go roaming, you report to a new table for every meal, and these are tables outside your company area.”

“So?”

“Well, every meal means hitting the wall with hostile strangers, who all know that you had to be something of a screwup to get sent around the world in the first place. That's what it was called when I went through. Trust me, it's very unpleasant.”

“I see. And ‘dark ages' refers to the time right after Christmas leave?”

“Right,” Jim said. “January and February in Annapolis. Dark and dreary. When it seems like plebe year will never, ever end, right, Antonelli?”

“Seems that way still,” the plebe said, relaxing a bit when he heard Jim speaking in familiar terms.

“How many days till you climb Herndon, then?”

“Ten and a wake-up, sir!” Antonelli replied, the volume back up.

“And was there anyone in the company who was especially hard on Dell?” Branner asked.

The plebe thought about it for a moment. He shook his head.

“That mean all the upperclassmen ran him the same as everyone else?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Who was his squad leader for this striper set?” Jim asked.

“Mr. Edwards,” Antonelli said.

“He and Dell get along?”

“Um. Not that good, sir.”

“You're saying that Dell's own squad leader disliked him?” Branner asked.

The plebe was obviously uncomfortable with the question. “Well, ma'am, Mr. Edwards, he's kinda hard-core.”

“What did Dell do on hundredth night?” Jim asked.

“I was kinda busy on that night, sir. But I doubt Brian would have done much at all. Especially to Mr. Edwards. Like I said, Edwards is hard-core. He's going Marines.” The expression on his face said that that explained everything.

“You going Marines, Antonelli?” Jim asked.

“Hope to, yes, sir,” the plebe said, squaring his shoulders. Jim repressed a grin.

“Did Dell ever talk about the swim team? Personalities on the team? Anyone he might be buddies with?”

“He'd tell me about the meets, especially the away meets. How they did. Who the power guys were. The best divers. I went to some of the meets here. You know, yell for Navy. Support my roomie.”

Jim looked over at Branner, who asked the next question: “Did he ever mention a Midshipman Markham?”

Antonelli nodded. “Yes, ma'am. He said they called her ‘Hot Wheels.'” He stopped, looking from Branner to Jim in sudden embarrassment. “I mean, they all did. She almost always won her event, and she—she…”

Branner sat back in her chair, crossed her legs dramati
cally, and then smiled at the struggling plebe's red-faced reaction. “And she has a magnificent rack and all the guys who see her in a competition swimsuit fantasize about her? Is that about right?”

“Y-y-yes, ma'am,” Antonelli stuttered, looking even more miserable. Jim could empathize. He had done a little fantasizing himself. Markham was gorgeous.

“What we need to know,” Jim said gently, “was whether or not Dell had a thing for Midshipman Markham, or she for him, something that went beyond what any normal red-blooded American male would think about when he sees a beautiful woman?”

Antonelli looked horrified. “But she's a firstie,” he said. “That would be serious dark-siding. No way, no day. Sir.”

They had their answer. “Did Dell get a sugar report from anyone on a steady basis?” he asked. “He have a girlfriend back home somewhere?”

Antonelli shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “He got mail once a month from his 'rents. They'd usually spot him a twenty, you know, gedunk money. But if he had a girl, I didn't know anything about it. He kept to himself pretty much in that department. It's not like we had a lot of free time. It's only now slowing down a little.”

“Who was his youngster?” Jim asked.

“He didn't have one, not since Christmas leave. Guy didn't come back. Put his chit in and went back to CivLant.”

“Interesting. So would it be fair to say that Dell was a loner? I mean, where did he go during his free time? Who'd he hang out with?”

“Free time, sir?” Antonelli said, as if Jim had asked about Dell's Rolls-Royce.

Jim smiled. “Point taken,” he said. Plebes didn't get any free time, except during study hours. And even then, stuff could happen.

“Would you say that he had been depressed over the past few weeks?” Branner asked.

Antonelli hesitated again. “You're asking if he was suicidal?”

“No, not that extreme,” she said. “But was he unusually down?”

The plebe thought about it but didn't answer.

“Did he say anything that might lead you to believe he was in trouble?” Jim asked. “Like he was wondering if he was going to make it through the year?”

Antonelli shook his head slowly. “He was getting by,” he said. “Head down, mouth shut, counting days to Herndon. Just like the rest of us.”

“So who sent him roaming, then?” Jim asked suddenly.

“Uh, actually, I think it was Mr. Edwards, sir,” Antonelli said. He looked embarrassed again.

“Anybody outside your company running him, then?”

Antonelli frowned again. “Brian'd sneak out at night sometimes. I always thought it was to study. Guys do that, get together in somebody's room after taps, hold a Gouge session. I'd see him go, but not come back. Sometimes, next morning, he'd be kinda down.”

Jim gave Branner a look. She raised her eyebrows, but he shook his head. Then she thanked the plebe for his help, told him they might want to talk to him again, and asked that he not discuss any part of the interview with anyone until the investigation was completed. She switched off the tape once he'd gone.

“What?” she said.

“A plebe's own squad leader sends him roaming? There had to be a major problem there somewhere. Usually, it would be someone else, and his squad leader would be in that guy's face, raising hell about it. You look after your plebes. That's the whole point.”

“So we need to talk to this Edwards guy, then?”

“Absolutely.”

She checked her case notes and discovered that they had already interviewed Edwards. “He didn't come up with anything unusual,” she said. “Typical dumb-ass plebe, lower than whale shit, et cetera, et cetera. But we didn't detect any personal animus.”

“I'd have asked about that roaming thing. And whether or
not he knew about the late-night Gouge sessions. Antonelli assumed that's what they were.”

“Okay, maybe we'll pull that string again. What was that ‘hundredth night' stuff?”

“A hundred nights before graduation, the plebes and the firsties reverse roles for a few hours. The plebes get to run the firsties. Like payback time. It gets real noisy.”

“Is plebe year over after that?”

“Nope.”

“So one would have to be careful how far he went with that?”

“Very.”

“I think I'm glad I asked you to get involved in this. I'd have never caught that bit about the roaming.”

“Some of it's the blue-and-gold wall,” he said. “But you saw his reaction when we suggested there was something between Markham and Dell?”

“As in, Never happen,” she said. “Hot Wheels. I love it.”

“It's a good thing you never went through here,” he said with a grin, glancing at her legs.

She gave him an arch look. “Eyes in the boat, sailor,” she said. “And right now, I want to get Markham back in here. I want an explanation for those clothes.”

He shook his head. “Interesting timing with those clothes, don't you think?” he said. “Look, I've got paperwork piling up. Call me when you round her up, and I'll come sit in again. By the way, how's Bagger?”