Darkside (15 page)

He retraced his steps into the Hanover Street tunnel and then back into the Academy precincts. He closed the fire door between the town and government tunnel, making no attempt to be quiet now, as there was no one down here. Then the overhead lights went out.

He immediately dropped down on one knee to reduce his silhouette against the lights, however dim, that were still on in the city tunnel behind him. He had looked down the tunnel all the way through the junction with the Decatur Road leg, and it had been empty. So whoever had just switched off the lights had done it when he'd heard the city tunnel's door clanging shut. He scuttled forward, staying low, until he came to a small alcove on the right side, which led to an electrical junction panel. The alcove was set back into the tunnel wall about three feet, offering enough room for him to squeeze his tall frame under the panel. He wanted to get his body out of the line of sight of anyone looking around the corner, which was about a hundred feet down the tunnel. He felt the comforting lump of the Glock pressing into the small of his back, but then he snorted softly. If this was a midshipman, he wasn't likely to be packing. Remember, this tunnel shit's a game, he told himself. But what if it isn't? his edgy mind asked.

He waited until his legs began to cramp, but there were no identifiable sounds coming from the tunnel system. Just the occasional clinking of the steam pipes, and the periodic rush of water in the lines beneath the steel deck plates. A large vehicle rumbled overhead out on the city side, reminding him that he was most definitely underground. And not alone. He tried to remember where the lighting switch box was for this branch of the tunnel, but he didn't know the layout that well. It had never occurred to him that he might have to operate the lighting system. He decided to remain where he was. Whoever had heard him close that door would have a decision to make. He could keep coming, on the assumption that the door closer had gone out into town, or he'd go back to Bancroft Hall if he suspected someone was waiting for him. He adjusted his legs to a more comfortable position and waited. After twenty minutes, he had about decided to get up and head down the tunnel with flashlight in hand, when he saw a red laser beam probing the tunnel in front of his face.

He froze and blinked his eyes several times. The beam was intermittent but unmistakable. Then he realized that the beam was only visible because of the light mist in the tunnel atmosphere. Otherwise, he would never have seen it.

Them, not it. There were two beams, flashing red lines like he'd once seen at a rock concert. Then suddenly, the beams disappeared. And then they came back, still probing, hitting the top, bottom, and sides of the tunnel, refracting occasionally off the edges of cable brackets or the bright, shiny surfaces of the cable-identifier tags. His own face was only inches from the edge of the alcove, and he could almost feel the cool lances of light when they flashed along his side of the tunnel. He didn't dare look around the corner without knowing the type and power of the laser. Some of those things could blind you with a direct hit in the eye. And yet, whoever was out there had to be visible now, with at least his head and one hand sticking out into the tunnel from the dogleg turn down the slope. He longed to snatch out the Glock and pop a round down the tunnel.
See how long the laser stayed on. But this was almost certainly a mid, not a serious bad guy. Some upperclassman who'd lifted a couple laser pointers from the lecture hall, or built them as a project in the physics lab. And as long as he did not move, the mid would have to come up the tunnel to find out if he was alone.

The beams disappeared again, and Jim felt his breathing relax. It's just a harmless, pretty light, he told himself, but it had been uncomfortable to have those ruby red beams probing the misty darkness in the tunnel. Especially since one other possible explanation was that they had come from the laser pointer on a handgun. But a mid with a gun? No way. Get a grip, James. Mids run the tunnel in search of after-hours booze and late-night women. Just like you used to do. The lasers are just toys—some guy playing at
Star Wars.

No, he decided. Stay put, see if he comes up the tunnel, and then scare the living shit out of him. He settled back against the wall and waited, focusing his brain to listen for any sounds of movement down the tunnel, and trying not to dwell on the other possibility, that this wasn't a midshipman.

What he finally heard was the sound of steam. Just a light hiss at first, then a steadier pressure, sounding like a distant jet passing at altitude. Now what the hell? he thought. The noise didn't increase, but it didn't decrease, either. He's cracked open a drain valve on one of the steam lines. He could picture the valve arrangement: The decals on the pipes indicated a hundred psi in the line. There were drain lines under every valve and at major junctions in the pipes to allow for condensed water to be removed from the lines after any service evolution. Two valves on each drain line: one isolation, one for operation. The big cutoff valves had been chained and locked in their open position, but the drain valves were not locked.

Okay, he's cracked open a steam valve. To do what? Mask his own sound? Create a fog bank in the tunnel? Based on the sound, there wasn't enough steam escaping to fill the
tunnel, or at least not for a long time. Besides, the tunnel walls were cold concrete; any steam might create a mist, but then it would condense on the walls. So he was masking sound.

His own sound.

Which meant he was coming up the tunnel.

Jim lifted the big Maglite off of his belt and tried to position himself so he could lunge out of the alcove. He turned his body in tiny, silent increments to face down the tunnel, flexed his cramped muscles as he began deep breathing, trying to keep as still as possible.

He'd been wrong about the mist effect: The atmosphere in the tunnel was solidifying before his eyes. He blinked to make sure, because the only light was coming from a single bulb thirty feet back up the tunnel. The mist stank of old iron and wet concrete. It was accumulating on the walls and even on the steel cabinet under which he was hiding. He felt a drip of condensation tap the back of his neck, and then a second one.

He put his finger on the Maglite button. His plan was to blind the guy with the powerful flashlight from his crouched position, then to stand up and confront him. The mist swirled visibly now in the murk of the tunnel. Something coming? Had to be. He got ready to snap on the light. The light from up the tunnel was diminishing rapidly, becoming a yellow glow that seemed to suffuse the mist in every direction.

He felt rather than saw a presence, a gathering mass in the mist. Then it disappeared. He almost moved but then froze as he felt it again. There was something wrong: It wasn't down the tunnel; it was behind his left shoulder. The guy hadn't been coming up the tunnel, the guy had been
behind
him, in the city tunnel! Forcing his head to turn as slowly as possible, he saw a definite darkness in the fog, a solidification, shapeless but clearly there. In an instant, he turned the flashlight, pointed it up, and snapped it on. To his shock, he had illuminated a horror mask: a painted face, dead white, with glaring red-rimmed eyes, carmine lips, and
huge teeth exposed in a terrible rictus. The face had no edges, but it seemed to disappear into a black-on-black penumbra. He was absolutely paralyzed for half a second by the sight, but just as his brain came back on line, he was blinded by a blast of something sticky spraying into his face, his eyes. He dropped the Maglite to shield his eyes, but the stuff was all over his face and then his hands. He lurched out from under the cabinet and tried to stand up, but something swept his feet out from under him and he fell heavily onto the deck plates, the impact knocking the breath out of him. He heard a horrible fun-house laugh, and then he felt the black mass stepping over him to disappear down the tunnel toward the Academy.

He wiped at his eyes, then stopped when he realized he was making it worse. Suddenly, he recognized the strong smell: paint fumes. The bastard had hit him with a can of spray paint. Wiping his hands clean on his coveralls, he extracted the plastic bottle of water from his backpack, struggled to rip off the top, and then squeezed water into his eyes until the stinging stopped and he could see. After a fashion, that is, for the tunnel was still full of condensing steam, and the lights were still out. He got up and stumbled down the tunnel.

Half an hour later, he emerged from the grating behind Mahan Hall. He hoped he wouldn't encounter a passing police patrol, because he suspected his face would be really something to see. As he secured the grating, he remembered something the chief had mentioned that morning—that bit about the “vampire” thrashing those town boys. Whoever this guy was who'd attacked him, he'd been decked out like Bela Lugosi on a midnight ride. He had to admit that, for a moment there, this guy had managed to scare the shit out of him. And since it had sounded like he'd taken off into the Academy precincts, he was probably a midshipman.

He paged the chief to let him know he was out of the tunnels. He didn't really expect Bustamente to call him back, but when he got back to his pickup truck, he found a mes
sage waiting for him on his government cell phone:
CALL THE CHIEF
, it read.

“Didn't need you to call back,” he said when the chief picked up. “Just wanted to let you know I was out of the tunnels.”

“It go okay? No bad guys?”

“Not exactly,” Jim said, and told him what had happened. The chief whistled in surprise.

“I wonder if that's the same guy who trashed those people over in town. That one guy's still in the hospital.”

“He came up from behind me when I was coming back; I was looking down the tunnel, not behind me. He looked like every vampire I've ever seen in the movies, and I have to tell you, that shit stopped me for a second.”

“I haven't seen any of those since I quit drinking,” Bustamente said.

“Since when did you quit drinking?”

“I mean
drinking.
Look, I'll talk to Allan Wells, chief of D's in town. Tell him what happened. Maybe we can catch this sick fuck.”

“Sick fuck is right. I'm having trouble seeing a mid do this. Dress up, scare people, maybe. But assault and battery on civilians—that's different.”

“Why don't you let me handle the reporting side?” Bustamente said. “I'm thinking in particular of Public Works. Those guys who work underground all the time aren't gonna like this vampire shit.”

“Oh, hell, Chief, it's some guy playing dress-up.”

“Yeah, but you see what I'm sayin' here. Those guys who work underground, they tend to be superstitious. We need to be careful. Yard cops start talking vampire shit, ain't nobody gonna go down there. The Johns're gonna back up in Mother Bancroft till the end of time, we're not careful here.”

Jim, grinning in the dark, rolled his eyes. Big mistake: The residual paint came after him in stinging waves. “I need to get this paint out of my face. I'll stop over at your office in
the morning. Oh, hey, I need to talk to you about this jumper case, too.”

“I've heard from a second source that this may not be a jumper case.”

“Yeah, that's what I need to talk to you about.”

On Friday morning, Jim stopped by the Academy dispensary to get some help removing the paint from his eyes. The nurse used a vile mixture of stinging substances to dab the last flecks out of his eyelashes. Looking in his rearview mirror when he got back to his truck, Jim decided that
he
looked like the vampire now. The gate guards gave him a decidedly funny look.

The chief was waiting in his office with tiny cups of espresso coffee ready; he kept a machine right there next to his desk. Jim closed the door and inhaled the strong vapors gratefully.

“Interesting makeup,” Bustamente said. “And if that's not makeup, there's lots more coffee. You said you wanted to talk about the Dell incident.”

Jim sipped some coffee and felt his heartbeat quicken almost immediately. “Yeah. I have a mission, directly from the dant.”

“Should you choose to accept it, Jim,” the chief intoned with a perfectly straight face.

Jim tried to give him the fish eye, but his lashes were still sticking. “Not exactly,” he said. He explained what the commandant had asked him to do.

“You ever get close to Branner?” the chief asked. “Now, you wanna talk about your vampire…”

Jim grinned. “I suspect nobody gets close to Branner, other than perhaps her Calvin Kleins.”

The chief grinned back. “You noticed.”

“She lets you look, but I suspect you better not even think about touch. But to answer your question, no, I don't know her or her sidekick. Young black guy—what's his name?”

“Special Agent Walter Thompson. Nice kid, plays everything cool and loose, but he's no dummy. You should see him shoot. Stands there on the range all casual like, kinda bored, holding the nine down along his leg, and then—badda-boom—his target silhouette's got a see-through heart. Spooky.”

Jim looked over at the chief, but Bustamente waved it off. “I know, you can't use that word. But Thompson's cool. Somebody gets racial with Bagger, he can handle it.”

“Bagger?”

The chief shrugged. “That's how he introduced himself to me. I believe he's partial to the demon rum.”

“Well, he seems easier to deal with than Branner. I'm thinking of maybe taking this tunnel-runner thing over there. Use that as a back-door way to insinuate myself into the Dell investigation. The dant, of course, is worried about NCIS squawking command influence.”

Bustamente nodded. “If it weren't for this homicide firefly, I think they'da ruled it a DBM from day one. You know, dumb-ass plebe, screwing around up there on the roof, some kind of plebe year antics, who knows what, falls off. Like that.”

“That's what the dant thinks, too. He said homicide was ‘inconceivable.' But even with that, if it wasn't suicide, they'd feel compelled to chase down whichever upperclassman incited him to go up there. There has to be accountability.”

“There does?” the chief asked, looking skeptical.

“Yeah, there does,” Jim said. “The dant is into damage control, of course, but the supe is ultimately accountable for
everyone here. I can't feature Admiral McDonald sweeping anything under the rug.”

The chief shrugged. “If you say so.”

 

Hey. It happened. That security guy came downstairs last night. Down to my little world. Playing at setting traps. Only he was the one got himself trapped. And a paint job, too. I left him looking like a black guy trying out for the white guy's part in one of those vaudeville shows. Introduced him to the joys and power of steam in confined spaces. I studied that at length, segundo year. And, did I say I was in costume? Was. The vampire Dyle. It had the same shock effect on him that it does on the drunks. Just enough to give me a split-second advantage. And trust me, that's all I need. They say that's the difference between the fighting abilities of a regular Marine and a recon Marine—about a half second.

But he was waiting for me—of that, I'm certain. So now it's officially a game. I love games, don't you? Well, maybe not like I do. Anyway, he'll be back. And so will I. Only he doesn't know the tunnels like I do. And he doesn't have the facilities that I do, either. And now that plebe year's almost over, I'm going to focus on this guy for my fun. Stay out of town, except for the occasional run for Gothic love. But see if I can seduce this guy to come back down to play again. He has no idea of the things I can do down there. It's a lot more fun than terrorizing plebes. Although there was one plebe…but I'll tell you about that later. Or maybe I won't. Depends on what the Dark Side does about the case. I'm betting they'll sweep it. What do you think? You think they'll sweep it? Or maybe they'll tag somebody for it? If they do, they'll be so wrong. So very wrong.

 

Jim met with Agent Thompson right after lunch Friday at the NCIS office. The formidable Agent Branner had gone up to NCIS headquarters at the Washington Navy Yard. She was
supposedly on her way back. Thompson showed Jim into a small conference room and offered coffee.

“Coffee'd out, thanks,” Jim said, sliding into a side chair, his ears still ringing from the chief's espresso. Thompson sat down and raised his eyebrows.

Jim described his recon work of the past few months in the tunnels, presenting a comprehensive picture of what he'd been doing, leaving out only the fact that he had been messing with the tunnel runner's graffiti. “I didn't consider this any big deal, beyond the obvious security implications that there were ways into and out of the Yard that just about anybody who knew about them could use.”

“You've never caught anyone using the tunnels?” Thompson asked.

“Negative. But there are clear signs that they are being used by someone other than the diggers and fillers. I've been assuming that it was just some mids, probably firsties, indulging in some after-hours party times.”

“You go to the Academy?” Thompson asked, eyeing Jim's big gold ring. He had been taking notes, but he looked up when he asked this question. Jim suddenly felt like a suspect.

“Yeah, class of '93. Went Marine option. I was CO of the MarDet here a coupla years back. Got out, and walked into this job.”

Thompson let the obvious question hang in the air. Shit, Jim thought. This is turning into an interview. Chief was right. “Sure, I ran the tunnels,” he said. “Back then, we didn't have town liberty like the guys do now. But let me tell you what happened last night.”

When he'd finished describing the attack with the spray paint, the laser pointers, and the vampire getup, Thompson was writing busily in his notebook.

“Thing is,” Jim said, “Chief Bustamente mentioned something about some kids being attacked in town. By a ‘vampire,' according to the one who was most seriously injured.”

Bagger got a pained look on his face. “A vampire.”

“Yeah, well, some guy dressed up like one. Big guy, too,
from what I saw. That's what those townies said, too. Big motherfletcher. Came up behind them, surprised them. Clapped their heads together while they were gawking. Then he beat up the third guy.”

“And you saw this guy?”

“I mistook the direction from which those laser beams were coming. You know, lasers: They're instant light. He came from the town side of the tunnel. I was hiding down under a cabinet, and he surprised me. I flashed a Maglite into his face, trying to blind him. Instead, there's fucking Dracula. In the flesh. In the moment it took me to get my brain around it, he'd blasted a can of spray paint into my face. Then he ran down the tunnel.”

“Why come to NCIS?” Thompson asked, still writing.

“Guy ran back into the Academy side of the tunnels. This is probably a mid.”

“Ah,” Thompson said. “But it could also have been a townie, who ran the opposite way to confuse you into thinking he was a mid.”

Jim shrugged. “That's possible.”

“And were you able to follow, to see where he actually went?”

“Nope. Had an eyeful of paint.”

“And he was made up like a vampire?”

“He was indeed. I have to tell you, when I got that one look, it didn't register as makeup. It registered as just what it looked like. Big white face, really red lips, a mile of teeth, red eyes. Too many movies, I guess. But man!”

Thompson nodded. “I'da just plain shit my pants, I saw something like that,” he said. “Don't much care for vampires and ghost shit.”

“Not that we believe in such things, right, Special Agent Thompson?”

“Call me Bagger,” Thompson said. “And I don't know what the hell I believe anymore, comes to shit like that. I didn't believe it was possible to have a homicide here at the Naval Academy, either, Mr. Hall.”

Jim seized the opening. “It's Jim. And I heard that rumor, via Chief Bustamente. They really have something solid that indicates this kid was murdered?” He used the word
they
to keep his focus ambiguous.

“Solid?” Bagger said, putting down his pen and closing his notebook. “Forensics have some indications. Indications of restraint. Of course, these marks could have been made under different circumstances. You see what I'm sayin'?”

Jim nodded. “Maybe some kind of sexual fun and games that involved the kid wearing panties.”

“There you go,” Bagger said. “Branner thinks it could even have been some kind of sex domination. Then maybe the kid got so humiliated, he offed himself afterward. But it's also possible someone threw his ass off the roof.”

“He was alive when he went down, though.”

“That's the indication. You view the body?”

“Vividly.”

“Well then, you can understand the forensics problem. Plus, there's major political and media heat. The dant wants accident, death by misadventure, even suicide, anything but homicide.”

Jim shook his head. “Whole thing is pretty sordid,” he said. “When I was here, we didn't have time for much of anything except studying, classes, sports, and endless tests.”

“And yet you ran the tunnels,” Bagger said.

“Weekends, first class year, and not many of them,” Jim said. “But it was a game, a way of beating the system. Gave you bragging rights, but you kept that within the company classmates you could trust.”

“What would have happened had you been caught?”

“Class-A conduct offense, going over the wall. Unauthorized absence. A bunch of demerits, restriction, shitty grease grade.”

“‘Grease'?”

“Mid slang for military aptitude. Guys who worked hard at pleasing the officers in Bancroft Hall were known as being ‘greasy.'”

Bagger smiled.

“So what happens next with the Dell thing?” Jim asked, trying to keep it going.

“Who wants to know?” a woman's voice asked from the doorway. Uh-oh, Jim thought. The Branner is back. He saw Bagger tense up a little when she strode into the room. Her face was colorfully made up this time, but she was wearing a severe-looking pantsuit as if to compensate. No leg show today, Jim thought as she slipped into a chair at the head of the table. Her hair was copper-colored in the office light. “Bagger and I were talking about how life at the Academy has changed since I went through,” he said, trying to deflect any questions on the Dell case.

“Why are you here, Mr. Hall?” she asked.

“Came to report a vampire attack in the tunnels under the Yard,” Bagger said with a perfectly straight face.

Branner leaned back in her chair and cocked her head. “A what? Did you say vampire?”

Jim realized that the window of opportunity to talk about the Dell case had just slammed shut. But maybe he could keep something going with Bagger Thompson.

“Bagger here has all the details,” he said, pushing back in his chair. “You guys decide whether or not you want to work it. Although I know you're busy just now with this Dell thing.”

“I'll call you,” Bagger said before Branner could say anything. “Maybe you can show me where it all went down.”

Jim handed him one of his cards. “Right. Be glad to take you down there. If this is a mid, we need to catch his ass.”

Branner was looking from Jim to Bagger, obviously in the dark and not happy about that. “If this relates to the Dell case,” she said, “then please remember we have exclusive jurisdiction.”

Jim nodded. “Absolutely, but this has nothing to do with the Dell matter. Bagger, thanks for your time.”

Bagger nodded pleasantly and Jim let himself out the conference room door. He pulled it almost all the way shut and walked down the hall, but slowly. He heard Branner ask
her assistant angrily what he'd revealed about the Dell case. Didn't fool her, did we? Jim thought as he left the building. Plus, she knows for whom I work. But maybe if I can get young Bagger there to run the tunnels with me, I can get him talking again.

He got into his official security officer's car out in front of the old postgraduate school building. Next stop, the town cops. See what they had on the vampire incidents. But first, he should call the chief. No point in going through channels if Bustamente could get him straight through to the right guy.

 

At 3:30 Friday afternoon, Jim got a call from Branner, asking him to meet her at the commandant's office in Bancroft Hall. She and Agent Thompson were going to reinterview Midshipman Markham, and she wanted Jim present as an observer. Jim checked it out with his boss, who shrugged. Jim walked over to Bancroft Hall, where he found Branner and Thompson getting set up in the commandant's conference room. Somewhat to his surprise, Branner had changed clothes. She was still wearing visible makeup, but now she had on a see-through blouse, which revealed layers of frilly underwear, and a tight short skirt. Thompson, on the other hand, was positively drab in a plain dark brown suit. Branner greeted Jim politely and told him that they would do the talking.

“What, if anything, do you want me to do or say?”