This Enemy Town (21 page)

Monday morning, early, I dressed in my recently
acquired jogging gear, jammed a wool cap over a hopeless hairdo, and jogged stylishly off to the Academy, leaving Paul to finish his coffee and newspaper in peace.

At Gate 3, I fished the chain holding my ID out of my cleavage and showed it to the Marine guard, who studied the ID briefly before waving me through. “Have a good day, Mrs. Ives.”

“Oh, I intend to, Marine.”

Classes were already in session when I let myself in through the door of Sampson Hall and wound my way quickly up the stairs and down the corridor that connects Sampson with Mahan. Once inside Mahan, I made a bee-line for the tech room and opened the refrigerator.

Because the show had ended its run, most of the soft drinks had been consumed, but a handful of Cokes, Diet Cokes, and Gatorades remained, some still with labels:
BILL G, KAREN
—
YOU TOUCH-A, YOU DIE
. I found none of Adam Monroe's favorite Dr Peppers.

I closed the fridge and looked around.

In the corner by a television set and a stack of videotapes sat a black plastic garbage bag. I'm not terribly fastidious, but the thought of rooting through several days of adolescent garbage with my bare hands made me gag. I
swallowed hard, undid the plastic ties, spread the bag open, held my breath and peered into its depths.

Starting with the pizza boxes, I removed the contents of the bag one item at a time, gingerly, sorting them into neat piles around me. By the time I got to the bottom of the bag, I had collected five pizza boxes, approximately twenty miscellaneous twelve-ounce soda cans, ten sixteen-ounce plastic soda bottles, exactly seven wine cooler bottles in assorted flavors (a dismissal offense, but I'll never tell), and a single, plastic Dr Pepper bottle with
ADAM MONROE, HIS DRINK
scrawled in black magic marker across the label.

I also found a surprise: an empty blister pack that had once contained ten tablets of Zofran, Dorothy's antinausea medication. I sniffed the empty package. It smelled like strawberries. Adam Monroe would never have detected the medicine in his already spicy, fruity Dr Pepper.

As far as I was concerned, it was an open-and-shut case. Dorothy had set a trap for the midshipman playing the Beadle, not knowing the young man had been stricken with mono and that Kevin had already been tapped to sing in his place. But unfortunately, Kevin had drunk the Dr Pepper intended for Adam, with near tragic consequences.

Holding the Dr Pepper bottle by the mouth with my thumb and forefinger, I set it carefully on a shelf along with the empty blister pack, then started shoving the garbage back into the bag. I was making so much noise that I didn't hear someone come in behind me.

“What are
you
doing here, Hannah?”

I tucked the pizza box I was holding into the garbage bag and turned around ten times more calmly than I felt. “Good morning, Dorothy. I was so busy picking up in here that I didn't hear you come in. How's Kevin this morning?”

Dressed in jeans and a blue and gold Naval Academy jacket, Dorothy glared at me from the top of the stairs. Under the baseball cap she was wearing, her face grew
dangerously red, and I realized, too late, that mentioning her son's name had been a terrible mistake.

“He's at Bethesda,” she snapped. “His eye is infected. But you wouldn't care about
that
!”

“Infected? But I thought the doctor said his eye would be fine.”

“Hah!” Dorothy snorted. “What do they know? I told you Kevin needed a specialist! This morning the whole side of his face was hot and swollen, and his eye was glued shut. Kevin reported to sick bay, and the duty driver rushed him to Bethesda, and they've diagnosed—” Dorothy stopped to catch her breath. “He's got peri something, peri … peri … periorbital cellulitis! That's what it is.”

She took two steps down, then paused on the third. “They did a CT scan and found orbital involvement. Kevin could go blind, Hannah, and it's all your fault! If you hadn't insisted on taking me to that goddamn hospital, Kevin would never have been hurt!”

As irrational as Dorothy seemed, I couldn't fault her logic on that one. “I guess you're right about that,” I confessed. “But you were very ill, Dorothy. You wouldn't be able to stand where you are today, bitching at me like this, if I hadn't taken you to a doctor for help.”

“If anybody had bothered to tell me that Kevin was going on for Beadle Bamford,” she continued coolly, “I could have retrieved the soda. Kevin would never have drunk it.”

“You put your Zofran into the Dr Pepper, didn't you, Dorothy? That's why you didn't take your medicine. You didn't have any left. You'd put it all into Adam Monroe's Dr Pepper.”

Dorothy ignored me. She drifted down the remaining stairs and crossed the room to the wall where members of the cast of
Sweeney Todd
had painted their names, joining the names of countless other midshipmen who had, over the years, acted in Academy musical produc
tions. “See that,” she said, pointing to a spot about ten feet up the wall where Kevin had printed
KEVIN HART
, “
JONAS
,” 2004 in crimson paint.

“Kevin was wonderful in the role,” I gushed. “Better than the guy who did it on Broadway, if you ask me.”

Dorothy turned furious eyes on me. “Don't you
dare
patronize me, Hannah Ives.”

I raised both hands in an attitude of surrender, but in the time it took me to say, “Sorry,” Dorothy's hand dove into her bag and came out holding an object that flashed silver in the light streaming down from the ceiling fixtures. “You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you, Hannah? I had everything under control, then you came along to screw things up.”

I backed away. “What's that in your hand?” I asked stupidly. It looked like one of Sweeney's prop straight-edge razors, it was so large and shiny.

Without warning, Dorothy lunged.

I staggered back. Something pricked my arm, and when I looked down, I saw that Dorothy had sliced open the sleeve of my brand new jogging outfit. I rubbed my arm where it stung, and when I pulled my hand away, I noticed a dark stain creeping along the edges of the cut.

Dorothy's arm swung up again, and as it began to descend, it suddenly registered that the razor was all too real. Dorothy had attacked me with a box cutter.

I didn't stay to argue with her. I turned and ran.

Behind me, I heard Dorothy's bag hit the floor with a
plomp
as she lightened her load, preparing to take off after me.

I raced up and out of the tech room, crossed the stage and stumbled down the stairs on the opposite side, heading for the door that opened into the hallway near the water fountain. I skidded to a halt in the stairwell. Some damn fool had piled the folding chairs used by the orchestra against the door, blocking the exit.

I turned back to the stage door, but Dorothy was blocking it, box cutter in hand, her face incandescent with rage.

The only way out was up.

I flew up the marble staircase, taking the steps two at a time, with Dorothy hot on my tail. When I reached the first landing, I considered running around the balcony, but I knew I'd have to scramble over theater seats and negotiate the narrow aisles in order to reach the opposite side. It'd slow me down.

Could I hang from the balcony and drop? Not if I ever wanted to use my legs for walking again.

I took a deep breath and continued up, flight after flight.

As I ran, the stairway narrowed. The marble became linoleum. Dorothy was still behind me, but her footsteps seemed to be slowing. Even though I was outpacing her, she and her deadly box cutter still stood between me and the outside world.

At the next landing, I paused and leaned over the banister, gasping for air. Sunlight poured from the skylights over my head, illuminating the stairwell below and Dorothy's bright green hat, two flights down, moving relentlessly upward.

To my left a tall wooden door, decorated with garlands of grapes in an ornate, nineteenth-century style, stood ajar. I pushed the door open and peeked inside. To my right, a pair of double doors led to a neglected classroom. Ahead, just to the left of a trophy case, was a door identical to the one through which I had just entered. I crossed over to it and jiggled the knob, but the damn door was securely locked.

One way in, no way out. If I didn't get out of there soon, I'd be trapped.

I hurried back the way I had come and took the last short flight of stairs, scaling them quickly. At the top was a nondescript door. I grabbed the doorknob, twisted it clockwise and pushed. The door didn't budge.

I jiggled the knob, lunged, and applied my shoulder to the door. Again. And again. It suddenly gave, hurling me headlong into the room beyond. I fell hard, sliding along the floor on my knees. My Naval Academy ID, which had been hanging around my neck on a chain, went flying, skittering along the floor and into the shadows.

With my palms smarting from the attempt to break my fall, I picked myself up and had the presence of mind to slam the door just as Dorothy began plodding up the staircase after me.

I found myself in a vast room, roughly the size of the auditorium I figured must be directly below. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dim light filtering in through several round windows placed at regular intervals even with the floor, I wondered if I had landed in a construction zone. Metal girders connected by bolts and studded with rivets crisscrossed the room, designed, I was sure, to support the weight of the enormous dome that dominated the room like an inverted salad bowl, its surface flocked with insulation resembling clumps of snow. Crude metal ladders led up into the rafters, and fat air-conditioning ducts snaked everywhere, wrapped with bright aluminum-covered insulation.

Behind me, the doorknob rattled. Then the pounding began, so loudly that I was certain Dorothy was using both fists. “You. Let. Me. In.”

No way!
On my hands and knees, I crab-walked across the floor and crouched under one of the ducts, just as Dorothy burst through the door. She slammed it shut behind her and yelled, “Hannah! I know you're in here!”

I sucked in my lower lip, concentrating on silencing my breathing. In spite of my efforts, it came in ragged gasps. The ice-cold air seared my throat, like a shot of whiskey taken neat.

I listened to Dorothy muttering as she explored her surroundings. I knew that if I stayed where I was, sooner or later she would find me. I prayed she would move away
from the door so I could make a dash for it, but she must have figured that out because as she paced, she kept herself positioned between me and the exit.

I needed a distraction. As quietly as possible, I patted the floor, searching for something solid I could throw—like a nail or a screw—but the floor around me was surprisingly clean. I patted my clothing. Nothing. The pockets of my Juicy Couture velour hoodie and matching pants were still too new to have the usual paper clip, stick of gum, or the odd house key tucked into them.

Almost reluctantly, I fingered the jacket's signature J zipper pull, slid it quietly down, then twisted it off the bottom of the zipper, thinking,
There goes $88 plus tax.
First a gash in the sleeve, now a ruined zipper. Some people were never meant to own designer clothing.

With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the zipper pull across the room, where it pinged anemically on the plywood floor.

Thankfully, Dorothy heard it and set off in that direction. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she singsonged.

Cautiously, I unfolded from my cramped position. Keeping the duct work between me and Dorothy, I crept toward the door, sprinting the last three yards. I tugged on the knob, but once again the door was jammed.

Dorothy spun around and came after me, moving slowly but confidently.

I backed away, easing my way warily along a rough brick wall. A few feet to my right, a short flight of stairs disappeared into an opening in the brickwork. I had no idea where they led, but at least it was out, so I scrambled up the steps, banging my head painfully on the jamb as I charged through the low opening.

I emerged into a passageway that appeared to run between the roof of Mahan and the base of the clock tower. Built crudely of firebrick, the rough mortar tore at what was left of my clothing as I careened down the short cor
ridor and pushed through another door. I closed it behind me, noticed that it had a latch of sorts, and with fumbling fingers dropped the hook into the eye. The primitive latch might keep Dorothy at bay for the time it took me to figure out what to do next.

To my utter amazement, I found myself in the clock tower, surrounded on four sides by giant clock faces, their hands all pointing to IIX and IX. Was it 1:05 already? Then it dawned on my frazzled brain that I was seeing the faces from behind. It was only 11:55.

Directly before me was a room within a room, constructed of white clapboard, like a summer cabin, and decorated with the usual midshipmen graffiti:
KATHY AND BEN
,'02 and the perennial
GO NAVY, BEAT ARMY
. From the clicking and whirring emanating from inside the structure, I suspected it housed the clock mechanism.

It took only seconds to explore the room. There was no way out, except for the way I had come and whatever lay at the top of a spiral wrought-iron staircase. Another staircase. I groaned. How many staircases had I climbed that day? I'd run out of staircases soon, and then what would I do? Fly?

Dorothy began cursing and kicking at the door, so I had no choice. I scampered up the spiral staircase, round and round, until my head popped out in the bell tower itself. A single bell, larger than a washing machine but smaller than a Volkswagen, hung from a pyramid of stout wooden beams. I touched the bell, ran my hand over the cold metal.

Floor-to-ceiling windows were set into each wall, covered with chicken wire to keep the pigeons out. A door had been cut into one, presumably to provide access to the balcony. I opened the makeshift door and stepped through.