“So, a Rusty Nail,” she said. “One half scotch, one half Drambuie, which I think is scotch-based, and a twist of lemon peel, all over cracked ice. That how you remember it?”
“Yes,” he mumbled. “It’s been awhile, though.” For everything, he thought. And then: I shouldn’t have come here.
“I’ve found a lot of bartenders don’t even know how to make one of these,” she said, cracking ice cubes against her palm with the back of the heavy spoon. “But they’re supposed to be a lot more hangover-proof than most after-dinner drinks.” She cracked ice into each snifter, then sliced off a scrape of lemon peel and squeezed the rind side over the ice, filling the air with the pungent smell of citron. Then she poured equal measures of the liquors and passed one snifter over to him. “Here you go,” she said. “Long life.”
He tipped snifters with her and then they both sat there, holding their drinks, facing each other on the sofa, with the fireplace flickering nearby. He sampled the drink and pronounced it perfect.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s been a lovely evening. Thanks for dinner, even though it was supposed to be my treat.”
“Your company was treat enough, and it has been very nice,” he said. He tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, then found himself nodding absently as if to confirm what he’d just said. He looked into the fire.
Hey, look at her, he thought, not at the damned fire. He caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of his eye as she crossed her legs slowly, letting the expensive silk rustle suggestively. He felt the skin on his face tighten just as his chest had, and he knew, just knew, he was going to lose it. It made him so damned mad, but he couldn’t help it. He shouldn’t have come back to her house; it was too soon, much too soon. And then the tears came, and he felt like a perfect goddamned fool as he put the drink down on the table, trying not to drop it or spill it, and lowered his chin while tears streamed down his face. In a moment, she was there, her perfume filling the air around his face. Her arm was around him and she was saying in her soft voice, “It’s all right, all right, let it come. Don’t be afraid, just let it come.” And then he folded into her and cried his heart out.
After awhile, he took a deep breath, sat up, and muttered an apology. He was afraid even to look at her. He wanted to wipe the tears off his face, and his hands fumbled, looking for a Kleenex.
“For what, Ev?” she said, handing him some cocktail napkins. “For feeling awkward about being here? Unfaithful to her memory? For getting ambushed by memories?”
“For spoiling the evening,” he said. “And for watering down this great Rusty Nail.”
She laughed quietly and handed him some more napkins. He wiped his face and blew his nose, then tried to figure out what to do with the napkins. Finally, he stuffed them in his pants pocket. He looked over at her. She was sitting back now, both hands wrapped around her snifter. Her eyes were enormous.
“I can’t get it right,” he said, “this getting-over-it business. It’s been almost two years, and you’re the first woman I’ve spent any time with since…since-”
“Since she died,” Liz prompted.
“Yes. Since she died. I can’t even say it unless someone else says it first. Kind of pathetic, isn’t it? And you are so very attractive. You’re smart, fun, beautiful, and yet I kept asking myself all evening, what are you doing here? I mean me, not you. What am I doing here with someone like you? I should be home in my hole, feeling sorry for myself.”
“Instead of out here in the world, feeling like an interloper?”
“Yeah, exactly. I think Julie would be really upset if she knew I was here, for instance.”
“Why? Does she think life is off-limits for you now that your wife is gone?”
“Something like that. She wouldn’t say it, but she’d let me know it.”
“You know, I doubt that. She seems more mature than that. Besides, life alone is a dreary proposition.”
“So I’ve discovered. And it’s not like-well, I mean, it wasn’t as if marriage to Joanne had been heaven on earth all the time, either. We had a good, solid marriage. With all that entails in real life.”
“You apparently did better than I did. And I got two shots at it.”
He sipped some of the drink, resisting the impulse to gulp it down. “We used to keep score on that,” he said. “Joanne and I. Like we were somehow superior to people who got divorced. Joanne would tell me some couple was splitting up, and we’d shake our heads. Like it was such a pity that other people couldn’t manage what we’d managed. And then that little devil voice would say, What would it be like, I wonder, to split up, to start over with someone new?”
“Ever say that out loud?”
“Oh, hell no.”
“I did, you see. Worked like a charm, actually.”
He smiled. “Julie changed after it happened. Grew up a little. Seemed more like an adult young woman than a college kid. And I saw less of her. She’d go out of town on weekends instead of coming home. After the first six months, I felt sort of cut out of her life. I’m guessing she got close to a guy and preferred to lean on him rather than on me.”
“You probably reminded her of what she’d lost,” Liz said.
“Probably,” he said. “And I wasn’t the best of company, as I just demonstrated. And now she’s about to graduate and leave. I think that’s what’s been getting me spooked these past few weeks. And poor Julie, trying so hard not to show how much she’s ready to go, as if that’s somehow disloyal to me.”
“I haven’t met all that many midshipmen,” she said. “But the seniors, the firsties? They all seem to have this look of desperation about making it all the way through and getting out of there. Is it that unpleasant?”
“It’s not so much unpleasant as it is long,” he said. “As we used to say, it’s a four-hundred-thousand-dollar education, shoved up your ass a penny at a time.”
She raised her eyebrows at that. “They all compete so hard to get in, I’m surprised they’d think that way.”
“It’s hard on purpose, and it gets harder throughout the four years. I’d say half the guys would be willing to drop it and go somewhere else, except that it becomes such a point of honor to beat the system and make it through. They make it a four-year challenge and they never let up. You end up feeling superior to your civilian college brethren, because you have the rigors of the academic program as well as all the military stuff.”
“That explains Julie’s attitude about this Dell case,” she said. “She’s angry more than anything else.”
“Exactly. Some plebe’s mistake might screw up her chances to finish, graduate, and get her commission.”
“A plebe who’s dead,” she reminded him.
“And she’s sorry about that, but it had nothing to do with her, and that’s why she wants to march into the front office and have it out with anyone who thinks it did.”
Liz was silent, and he wondered if he’d said something wrong. They’d agreed, after all, not to talk about the Dell case, and this was why. The good news was that he was over his waterworks. He sensed that it was time for him to leave.
“Thanks for inviting me out,” he said. “I needed it, even if I didn’t know it. You’ve been very patient.”
She gave him an amused look. “Nobody’s ever called me patient before,” she said. “But I’ll happily accept all those other nice things you said. On one condition.”
“Name it,” he said, hoping suddenly that he knew what she was going to say.
“That we do it again. Go out. Do something together. Soon.”
“Yes, please,” he said, suddenly happy that he’d anticipated her. They got up and walked to the front door.
“I meant that,” she said. “I like you. I like the fact that your wife’s memory can still unhinge you. It shows you’re human. I spend most of my time with lawyers. The occasional human is refreshing.” She stepped in close, stood up on tiptoes, and kissed him gently on the cheek. He didn’t know what to do, s
o he was grateful when she opened the door and said good night.
He walked back under the streetlights along College Avenue, past the Naval Academy’s Alumni House, and then turned left onto King George Street to get home. The blocky brick buildings of St. John’s College, almost as old as the town, were on his left. Across the street were the high brick walls of the Academy, and the backs of the captains’ and commanders’ quarters, which lined the Worden Field parade ground. He kept his mind in neutral, not wanting to dwell on his evening with Liz or the prospects of seeing her again. But he knew he would. He’d embarrassed himself tonight, but in a good way, he supposed, if that were possible. He recognized that tonight had been something of a turning point, because it was becoming perfectly clear that his breaking down like that was not about Joanne, but, just as the chaplain had suggested, all about him. And if this lovely woman wanted to help him climb out of the valley of self-pity, he’d be a fool to turn her down.
5
At the Thursday-morning staff conference, the commandant was in the admiral’s chair to take the morning briefing. Jim Hall was sitting in again, this time in place of his boss. The commandant had been complaining that the Dell incident could not have come at a worse time. The papers were reciting the usual litany of recent scandals, the football player rape case, the expulsion of four mids in 1999 and five others in 1998 for sexual misconduct, and the quarterback plebe case in 1997. All the familiar Academy haters were popping back out of their holes, and the alumni were once again viewing the situation with alarm. None of the staffers knew what to say about all that, so they prudently said nothing.
“Okay,” Robbins said. “Last item. Mr. Hall, you have an incident to report?”
“Yes, sir. Apparently, the tunnel runners are active again.”
The commandant shook his head in frustration. “I don’t understand that bullshit,” he said. “Why the hell would anyone want to go down there?”
“Because they’re not supposed to be down there, sir,” Jim replied. “It’s mostly a game. We chase ’em; they run. I think it’s the same guy or guys doing it, and of course they can get out into town through the tunnels. Running the tunnels has replaced going over the wall.”
“When I was here, no one wanted to get out into town that bad,” Robbins said.
Jim didn’t say what he and probably some others at the table were thinking: Speak for yourself, there, Dant. Jim had had two girlfriends during his last year at the academy, on two different sides of town, and he had always been interested in getting out into town.
Robbins reminded everyone that he was still focused on the emergency at hand-the death of Midshipman Fourth Class Dell. He emphasized the importance of information control through the Public Affairs office. Then he stood up, which was the signal that the morning conference was over. Everyone stood at their seats as the commandant left the room.
Jim hadn’t mentioned at the staff meeting that he was more than just a little familiar with the tunnels and the small band of “runners,” as they called themselves. After Jim had taken over as security officer, one of the little dears had shut the two main valves for the steam-heating line leading to Bancroft Hall. Jim had decided to take a personal interest. He’d obtained the underground as-built drawings from the Public Works Center, then made several daytime recons of the tunnel complex, compiling a detailed map of the entire underground system. After more than 150 years of operation, the tunnel system was much more extensive and elaborate than he had imagined, with some of the branches dating back to the Civil War.
He had discovered that there were no fewer than five routes out into the city of Annapolis, although three of these were somewhat dangerous as escape routes because of high-voltage cables and transformers. The other two, however, led to places where it would be easy for someone to get into town, especially late at night, without being seen, coming or going. He’d also discovered that there was at least one tagger loose down there, and he had taken some notes on the graffiti designs and signatures. Two months ago, he’d even sprayed over one of the more elaborate territorial markings with black paint, then laid down his own tag, a macabre cryptogram he’d bought from one of the local tattoo parlors, with the name Hall-Man-Chu embedded in it. Two weeks after that, he found that his tag had been defaced, the jaws of a silhouetted shark surrounding it. He’d taken it as a challenge.
After that, he had made some nocturnal excursions to see if he could catch the mysterious runner with the shark tag. Each time, he had notified his own police force and the Public Works duty officer that he was going to be going down into the system. Then the Academy’s police chief, Carlo Bustamente, mentioned in passing that the PWC people were listing his nocturnal inspections on their daily maintenance schedules. He changed his MO, telling only the chief when he was going to make a tunnel run of his own.
He hadn’t yet escalated his surveillance activities to go hunting, because this was, after all, just a game played by some mids who were defying Executive Department regulations. As security officer, he didn’t care if the mids wanted to live dangerously and risk a Class-A conduct offense known in Bancroft Hall as “going over the wall,” even if it was technically under the walls. He also wasn’t sure what he’d do if he actually caught up with one of the runners. He had the authority to put the miscreant on report, assuming it was a mid and not a townie, but he was more inclined simply to count coup and then make the guy knock it off. It was bound to be a firstie, because if a firstie caught a second classman down there, he’d be obliged to put him on report. Whoever it was, he wasn’t really damaging anything, and if it was just a game, well, hell, it was just a game. As CO of the Marine detachment, he could never have taken such an attitude, which was one of the reasons, he supposed, that he’d become a civilian. Besides Bosnia.
When he got to his desk, there was a message from Chief Bustamente. Subject: the Dell case. The tunnels forgotten, Jim called Carlo.
Bustamente was a retired Navy chief warrant officer who oversaw the Academy’s seventeen-man civilian police force. He’d done twenty-six years in the fleet, starting out as a master at arms, making chief, and then warrant. Now he was nearly sixty and an old hand in the federal law-enforcement business, having worked in naval base security offices all across the country. Carlo prided himself on knowing what was going on under the floorboards of any installation he’d been assigned to, and he had a large network of contacts in both federal and local civilian law enforcement.
“Hey, Cap,” he said when Jim called, in deference to both Jim’s now defunct status as a Marine Corps captain and the fact that Jim was his titular boss.
“Chief,” Jim replied, observing the protocol, “What’s up?”
“You heard any of the details on this flier we had?”
“Only that the powers that be haven’t decided whether he was a jumper or it was a DBM-death by misadventure.”
“Not misadventure, but maybe AD-venture, Cap,” Bustamente said, lowering his voice. “Did you know our young Captain Marvel was dressed out in lace panties?”
Whoa, Jim thought. That’s a detail that ought not to be loose. “Yes, but I’m surprised that’s out there,” he said.
“An FAK fact,” Carlo said. “And I hear through the grapevine that the ME’s got some physical indications that he may have had some help in his final moments.”
Jim twisted his chair around so that his voice wouldn’t carry out into the admin office. “Physical indications? As in?”
“Bruising on lower arms, indicating he may have been gripped, with his arms pinned. Like maybe he was thrown or pushed, instead of jumping. Probably some other stuff, but that’s all I have.”
Jim was stunned. None of this had come out at the morning conferences-just bland generalities about continuing investigations and heightened sensitivity to indications of suicide or serious depression. This sounded like homicide. If it was true. He said as much to Carlo.
“Yeah, well, my source in town says the ME’s report’s been
snatched up by NCIS and everyone’s been told to clamp their yaps and move along smartly, which tells me the rumor’s got some legs. I can just imagine how this is gonna play over in the admin building.”
“Man. The incident came up at morning staff, of course, but only in terms of a media-relations problem. No hint that it might be more serious than suicide.”
“As if suicide wasn’t serious enough.”
Got that right, Jim thought. According to the JAG this morning, the boy’s parents were already asking some pointed questions. “You got any traplines into NCIS?” he asked.
“Well, you know me, Cap,” Carlo said. “Nothing I could admit to.”
Which meant no, he didn’t. “I hear you, Chief,” Jim said. “I’m just curious-I have no role in this mess, for which I’m increasingly grateful.”
“Yeah,” Carlo said with a chuckle. “Don’t you just love that exclusive jurisdiction rule, though? Oh, and did you hear about the vampire?”
Jim saw a joke coming. “Haven’t heard that one, Chief.”
“No, no, not a joke. One of my buds downtown said they had a complaint of some guy getting the shit kicked out of him by Count Dracula.”
“Ri-i-ght.”
“Seriously. Somebody called nine-one-one, cops came, found two guys passed out, with their pants down in a-what’d they call it-a compromising position. Third guy, on the other hand, had to be scraped up off the concrete.”
“Sounds more like a general-purpose mugging.”
“Yeah, well, the injured kid claimed they were following a couple of those Goth girls out of a bar. You know, that all in black, abraca-fucking-dabra, white face, green hair scene? Anyway, kid says the girls were hot to trot, despite the weirdness.”
“They always are.”
“Yeah, right. So our poor vic and his two asshole buddies get misled, probably not for the first time in their miserable lives, an’ follow their dicks right into a- ta da -dark alley. Where, naturally, things turn to shit.”
Darkside Page 8
