Darkside (7 page)

But not tonight. I'd called my little Johnnie vampire over on campus. You don't know her, but you'd like her, I think. Well, maybe not. She's just a little bit bent. Heavy into magic mushroom just now, and not the kind they serve in the mess hall. Made the cell call right after evening meal. Did it right in front of two plebes I had sweating bullets while plastered against the wall in their room. Made a little torment drill out of it, talking so they could hear, purring out some highly suggestive sweet nothings about her underwear. They couldn't hear her, but they sure as hell could hear me. A little phone sex routine, just to bother them, kept it going even after she'd hung up. But not before she set things up for after midnight, her room, of course, candles, some of that dismal shrieking shit they call Goth music, and with maybe a few friends to watch…. Goths love to watch. And so many of them are so stone-ugly that watching is all they'll ever get.

Anyhow, the Yard's a ghost town at that hour. Mother Bancroft at darkened-ship except, if you look closely, you can see the occasional flicker of flashlights where some poor bastards were sweating out a 2.0 average. I don't have that problem, of course. I study. Well, actually, there's a little bit more to it than that. It's what I study that makes the difference. I always get the Gouge. I am a master of the Gouge. Three, four times a day, I'm out there on the Academy intranet, sifting for fast-moving intelligence about the next day's quiz, or past patterns of questions. And: news flash! I
actually study the material assigned by the profs. What a concept, huh? See, I've figured out which profs telegraph their test questions in their homework assignments. And which ones are too lazy to create a whole new quiz or exam, which means they go back to previous exams. All of which have to be approved. Via the faculty intranet. Where I have learned to lurk.

But you know, the system here is pretty straight-ahead. You work like hell to get the good grades going early on, and then ride the expectations train, with a little help from some selective hacking. After awhile, the profs expect me to do well, and then grade accordingly. That's how I have a 3.69 cume after almost four years. I do get help from the profs, of course. It's just that they don't always know they're helping me….

So, where was I? Oh yeah, jogging down the road along Santee Basin, listening to the Academy sailboats bouncing around on a light evening chop coming in from the bay, their halyards clinking in time on their masts. Isn't that poetic? Easing on down to Dewey Field, which always smells like fresh-cut grass and dead fish. Then the obligatory recce run: jogging around the perimeter, scoping things out. They've got all those big light towers out there, but the rich people across the river bitched about the lights being left on all night, so now they shut 'em down, which is perfectly cool for us night runners.

But of course I wasn't out there for any exercise. I was on the lookout for the Jimmylegs. Funny-ass name. Apparently in days gone by, really gone by, the Academy's civilian police wore white lace-up leggings on the bottoms of their trou. Now, of course, they drive around in small pickup trucks, one, sometimes two to a truck, patrolling the entire Yard and the housing areas. Looking for A-rabs, probably. That's why I start out a tunnel run with a little topside jog, because the cops wouldn't care about a lone jogger, assuming they could even see me out here in the darkness along the river. Us mid coolies are supposed to be locked up for the night, of course, but sometimes guys come out to decompress from a bad day,
and there have been lots of those over the past years, haven't there? This whole place is mostly a succession of bad days. You know what they say: This place sucks so bad, there's a permanent low pressure system over Annapolis.

Like today. Some plebe offed himself. Now that was news all right. No Gouge today on the LAN. Everybody with verbal E-diarrhea, sending shitloads of E-mail, bogging down the system. And the officers: oh, yeah. The officers were all stone-faced. Big trouble on the Dark Side. Made me smile, watching them today. Made me show my big teeth. And there are rumors. Man, are there some interesting rumors. Serious scuttlebutt moving down the wires. But you probably know all about that by now.

So here's the drill! I jog around until I see the headlights, then step over to stand next to a light standard, right on the seawall. Gray on black. Invisible when the security truck comes around Rickover Hall and goes down Holloway Road. Drive right on by without a pause. Gotta improve that situational awareness, guys, A-rabs in the bushes, get you killed someday if you don't. Every Marine knows that. Anyway, once the truck goes by, I hop the seawall. Last night, I had a nice high tide, which is cool—we sharks like deep water. I untied the rope from around my waist, hooked it up, and then climbed down onto that grating that covers the big storm drain. Which you've probably never seen, because it's usually underwater. The seawall stones are slippery and smell of dead fish and crabs. Yuk-os. If all those Save the Bay tree-huggers are doing such a great job, how come the bay always smells of dead fish?

Do you know the drain I'm talking about? No, of course you don't. It's made of concrete, and it's, like, five feet in diameter. I have to stoop over to make it. There's always a little bit of water running down the center. Condensation from all those steam tunnels up ahead—you know, the ones that crisscross under the Yard. I do my usual knee-capping running drill. It's fifteen hundred feet, almost exactly. I know the tunnels, you see. Really know them. You'd be amazed at what's down there. The graffiti, for instance. Guys have been
going down there for a long time. Playing games. Wonderful games, some of them.

Last night, my objective was what I call “Broadway,” that big tunnel that runs under Stribling. The storm drain's dark, but Broadway has lights. You get a nice burn in your thighs, bent over like that, high-stepping up a slope that goes three football fields. But, hell, I'm, like, tough as nails; I could run that particular tunnel all night. It takes 210 steps before you hit the flap doors. You have to count—it's pitch-black until you open the flap doors.

Everything's different when you're underground, you know. Well, you're a norm. Semi-norm? Maybe you don't. But I do. For one thing, the air doesn't move much. It's always warmer than you expect, especially around the steam lines. A peculiar smell, steam. Actually, it's all the old lagging that smells. Steam's just hot water. You get a hint of it in the storm drain, but once you get into Broadway, it's really strong.

Broadway is the main drag of the tunnel system. Ten feet square. Overhead lights in those little metal cages. Filled with steam pipes, telephone lines, electric power cable bundles, compressed-air lines, and even the sewer and water mains servicing Bancroft Hall. They have these underground concrete chambers that branch off of Broadway all along its route, where they have these huge chillers for air conditioning. Cross passageways that branch out to all the main academic buildings, the administration building next to the chapel, and the chapel itself. A whole world down there. My world.

Did you know I've been running those tunnels since the middle of youngster year? I have. A teammate on the swim team—guy was a serious sex hound—showed me something that not too many people know about: Ever since the Academy moved the power plant out of the Yard, every one of those utility lines eventually runs out into dear old Crabtown. Now, of course, as a firstie, I get town libs, but, hell, that's no fun. And besides, my time is the deep night-
time. Begins at midnight, because that's when my little vampires come alive over in town. What a guy won't do for true love, huh? Goth love. Now that's a game to die for, right? So to speak
.

There was a phone message from Liz DeWinter waiting when Ev got back to his office from his Tuesday-morning seminar. He'd left the kitchen the previous night to give Julie some privacy when she had talked to Liz, so he'd been expecting this call. He answered a couple of questions for a waiting firstie, then closed the door to return Liz's call. From out in the Yard came the boom of the saluting cannon, signaling the arrival of a visiting foreign admiral. He reached a secretary, who put him through to Liz.

“Morning, Ev,” she said. “I talked to Julie last night. Any further developments?”

“Not that I've heard,” he said.

“Good. Oh, I need to fax you a client-representation form.”

“Why don't I come out into town to get it, if that's okay? I don't want to use the office fax for that.”

“Of course. Walk up Maryland Avenue to State Circle, turn left, go down Beale Street and look for number one oh seven. Two-story Georgian with black iron railings. I've got to get over to court right now, so I'll just leave the paperwork with Mary Angeles, our legal secretary.”

He hesitated before asking her a question but then decided to go ahead. “Did she—I mean, did you get the im
pression that there was something going on? Like between her and that plebe?”

When she didn't answer right away, he wondered if he'd suddenly strayed into attorney-client privilege territory. “No,” Liz replied, “I got zero indication of any personal relationship. She sounded mostly baffled by all the attention. Except of course for that bizarre underwear business.”

“Yeah, that's weird, isn't it? Julie's such a straight-arrow girl. Wearing academic stars, top swimmer, popular without working at it, and, as best I can tell, accepted by her classmates as one of them and not some damn complaining girl.”

“Good for her,” Liz said. “But of course, you're a parent.”

“You mean she could have taken a walk on the wild side and I'd be clueless?”

“Clueless, yes. Synonymous with
parent
among the college-parent set.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I guess that's always possible. Ever since my wife died, I've probably been looking at Julie through rose-colored glasses.”

“Julie's your only child?”

As in, she's all you've got left of your family. His voice failed him for a moment. She seemed to sense she'd intruded. “Look,” she said briskly, “I still just want to see what develops, if anything. I told her not to mention that I was in the picture unless someone really started to hassle her. That you would drop that shoe when you thought it necessary.”

“Good. I told her the same thing.”

“For what it's worth, it just sounds to me like a standard investigation,” she said.

“Thanks, Liz. I'll be by in about a half hour to do those papers. Oh, and should I bring a check?”

“'Fraid so,” she said, and named her retainer figure. He gulped mentally, thanked her, and hung up. He had time to go into town during his lunch break, but first had to call his bank.

Jim Hall watched sympathetically as the Public Affairs staff scrambled to prepare the admiral's morning briefing. The executive staff was gathered in the superintendent's conference room on the second floor of the administration building, waiting for the supe, Admiral McDonald. Captain Robbins was meeting privately with the supe, but most of the department heads were present: Operations, Administrative, Public Works, Supply, Management, and the staff JAG. Technically, Jim worked for Operations, but because of the NCIS involvement, he had been asked to sit in. The mood in the conference room was grim; this was not going to be a routine meeting. The Public Affairs officer, a harried-looking aviator commander named, interestingly enough, Berry Springer, was continuously running his hand through his nonexistent hair as he turned sideways in his seat, listening intently to two assistants as they briefed him in stereo.

“Gentlemen, the superintendent,” announced Admiral McDonald's rather imperious executive assistant. The admiral came through the door, followed by Captain Robbins. McDonald was a distinguished-looking officer, tall, with bushy eyebrows, keen blue eyes, and a ruddy face that belied the submariner's gold dolphins he wore on his uniform. He went to his chair at the head of the table and nodded at the Public Affairs officer, who went to the podium. Someone dimmed the lights and then the PAO went through a review of press articles and other media interest in the plebe's death. It was not a pretty picture. Normally, when there was an untoward incident at the Academy, the supe would let the press briefing go on just long enough to get the flavor. This time, he let the PAO go through all the articles. No one spoke when he was finished.

“Tell me again how we are characterizing this?” the admiral asked.

“Under investigation; initial speculation from ‘informed sources'—that's me—is that it was an accident.”

“At that hour of the morning.”

“Well, yes, sir, Admiral, but the alternatives are suicide, or worse.”

The admiral nodded. “Okay, so how about suicide? Any indicators?”

“None, sir,” the commandant said. “He wasn't a star, but the company officer says he wasn't a total goat, either. His roommate discounted suicide immediately. He said Dell was making it. Barely, but making it.”

“And this, um, other aspect?”

Robbins shrugged. “We've got NCIS into it, Admiral. The rumor's out. Some questions on it, but Public Affairs says nothing until NCIS completes their investigation.”

“They buy that, Berry?”

“So far, anyway, Admiral.”

The supe looked over at Jim, who was never sure whether or not Admiral McDonald knew who he was. “Mr. Hall? You were at the scene?”

“Unfortunately, yes, sir, I was.”

“No knives sticking out of his back, or other indications of foul play?”

“The body was no longer thick enough for anything to be stuck in it, Admiral.”

This comment provoked an embarrassed silence.

“Okay, troops,” the admiral said wearily. “We have a dead plebe. We have an NCIS investigation. We have lots and lots of wonderful press coverage. We have the Board of Visitors coming between now and graduation, and we have the vice president of the United States here on commissioning day to make the graduation speech. What we need now is damage control until we have some answers. Berry?”

“Sir?”

“Refresh the executive staff, in writing, about how this works when we're under siege. One point of contact. One source of information. No sidebars with anybody. No speculation as to what happened. Rumor control within Bancroft Hall. You know the drill.”

“Yes, sir, I'll have it out today.”

“Dee,” he said, turning to the commandant, “Let's see if we can get inside the NCIS investigation somehow. I don't want them spooling up any bigger deal than is necessary, and I'd really like to keep it local.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the commandant replied, then made some notes. Jim thought Robbins hated being called Dee.

“Senior chaplain, I want to call the parents and reassure them that we're going to find out what happened here just as quickly as we can. Set that up for me, please. And make sure they have a warm body down in Norfolk to hold their hands.”

The senior chaplain, a Navy captain, nodded and made his own notes.

“Everybody else: We're very close to the end of the year. I'm saddened and deeply disappointed that we've lost a mid this close to the end. I want everyone to strike a balance, however, between handling this incident and ending the year properly so that the class of 2002 goes out with an appropriate bang. The commandant's office will be the focal point of all incoming information on this matter. The PAO's office will be the focal point of all
outgoing
information. Having the vice president here is almost as big a deal as having the president, from the standpoint of security, protocol, and logistical planning, especially after last year in New York. We want to show proper deference to the Dells' family tragedy, while still keeping the commissioning week train on the tracks. Any questions?”

There were none, or at least none anyone wanted to put to the admiral.

“Okay, let's get to it,” the admiral said as he got up.

 

Ev pushed away the remains of a microwave dinner and vowed once again never to eat another one. He pitched the plastic tray into the trash and went to answer the phone. It was Julie. Finally.

“Dad,” she said without preamble. “I think they searched my room.”

“
What?
Who? And how do you know?”

“The second class in the room next door. They said they saw those two NCIS people coming out of my room with the OOD just as they were getting back from their last class. Those people who interviewed me.”

“Did they take anything?”

“Not that I can tell. Melanie's still checking her side.” Melanie Bright was Julie's roommate. He thought for a moment. “This may be serious, Julie. Your cell phone up? You got minutes left?”

She said she did.

“Call Liz DeWinter. Tell her what's happened. If she's willing to come after hours, we can meet here. I'll drive over and get you.”

Julie called back forty-five minutes later, confirming that Liz was willing to meet right away. Ev drove over to get Julie, meeting her near the chapel. As he drove up, he saw that she was talking to another midshipman. They had their heads close together, but the mid walked away when he saw the approaching headlights.

“Who was that?” Ev asked as Julie got in.

“Tommy Hays. You remember Tommy. Classmate. Swim team. No sweat—he's cool.”

Ev wanted to ask if they'd been talking about what was going on, but he decided not to pursue it. Ever since Joanne had died, Julie had become somewhat secretive about her social life. She gradually stopped bringing other mids home on the weekends, and sometimes took a weekend without telling him where she was going—or with whom. He was pretty sure Tommy Hays was or had been a regular. But everyone on the faculty knew that spring of first class year was a stressful time for Bancroft Hall romances. With graduation, commissioning, and first duty orders rapidly approaching, they either signed up for one of the assembly-line marriages in the chapel at the end of commissioning week or
they never saw each other again as they scattered to fleet training schools all over the country. Ev drove Julie back to the house in worried silence.

 

Liz arrived fifteen minutes after Ev returned home with Julie. She showed up wearing designer jeans, an oversized Columbia University sweatshirt, and carrying what looked like a fat day planner. Ev heard the car in the drive and went to the porch to meet her. He could tell from her expression as she looked around that she was probably surprised by the size of the lot and the house. People who didn't know him wondered how a Naval Academy professor could afford a place like this. She locked the Mercedes and headed for the front porch, where she saw Ev waiting for her in the lighted doorway and waved. He greeted her and led her to the spacious study, where Julie, still in her working blues, was waiting with a worried look on her face. Ev asked Liz if she'd like a drink, but she declined and turned directly to Julie. “Okay, Julie, tell me again what happened.”

Ev fixed himself a scotch while Julie talked to Liz. “And no one's contacted you?” Liz was asking. “No official summonses to front offices?”

“Not a word. Since we talked last night, I've been going to classes, working out with the swim team, formation—the usual stuff. Our company officer didn't know anything about this visit, either.”

“Or so he said.”

Julie thought about that for a moment and then shrugged. “I guess that's possible. But when I signed out in the batt office this evening, no one seemed to care.”

Liz turned to Ev, who was sitting on the brick apron of the fireplace.

“I'll take you up on that offer of a drink now,” she said.

“I have some single malt,” he said. “Straight up?”

“Perfect,” she said, apparently surprised that he remem
bered from the boat party. As he fixed her drink, she looked over at Julie. “Now that you're a suspect, you want a drink, too?”

“What!” Julie exclaimed, her eyes widening. Ev brought Liz her drink and then sat down in one of the upholstered chairs.

“If federal police did in fact come in and search your room,” Liz said, “it means they may have a federal search warrant with your name on it. Did they go into your computer?”

“Gosh, I don't think so, but then—”

“Right, you'd have no way of knowing.”

“Warrant?” Ev asked. “Based on what?”

“That's the million-dollar question,” Liz said. “Until they charge her, they don't have to tell her anything. But they must have something that implicates Julie in that plebe's death, something more than the underwear thing.” Then she stopped. “Unless—”