P Deutermann - Darkside

“Was he in costume?”

“Couldn’t see, with all that steam. Just that it appeared to be big, male, description, height, weight unknown. He could flat-ass run, I’ll tell you that, and he knew his way around down there. I was bouncing off equipment cabinets. He wasn’t.”

“I wish we could have alerted the gates,” Jim said, drawing off a cup of coffee before the percolator finished hiccuping. The coffee was amber instead of black and filled with tiny coffee grounds. He lifted the lid and poured it back in.

“You think he beat it into town and then circled back?”

“If he’s a mid, right,” Jim said. “While we were in the sauna. You know, I don’t think he just thought that steam move up on the fly, either. He’s getting into this shit.”

“Our boy’s a planner and a plotter.”

“Our boy’s a badass. That touchdown rocket. Live steam. A can of spray paint in the face. He gets chased, he reacts.”

“And it works, too,” she said. “I thought I was going to be smothered down there when all that steam let go. And the noise!”

Jim tried the coffee again. “Plus, he’s no hero. He knew we had the girl, but he took off anyway.”

“Either that or he knows she won’t say shit. Or, just possibly, she doesn’t really know who he is.”

“Right now, I’m interested in what he is,” Jim said. “You do the talking; I’ll just glare at her.”

Branner nodded, got some coffee and the tape recorder, and then they went to the interview room.

The girl was sitting at the small metal table, her elbows propped on it and her head in her hands. She now had an expression of total boredom on her face, and she didn’t even look up when they came into the room. Branner sat down at the head of the table and set up the tape recorder. Jim remained standing to one side, fixing the girl with a steady stare. Without all the Goth paint on her face, she looked much younger, a sophomore maybe. Moon-faced, pasty complexion, limp black hair, the beginnings of a double chin, outsized front, dull, dark eyes, red, dishwater hands with nicotine stains on her right forefinger, exaggerated, extra-long fake nails. A real beauty.

Branner turned on the machine, identified herself and Jim, and then took her through the required time, date, and Miranda warning for the record. When Branner asked her if she wanted a lawyer present, the girl stared straight ahead, saying nothing. Branner stated that she was taking that as a no, and then she asked the girl to identify herself. The girl gave her a surly look but said nothing. Branner paused the recorder and sat back in her chair.

“Listen, sweet pea, we have you for criminal trespass on a federal reservation, assault on a federal officer, destruction of government property, resisting arrest, carrying a concealed weapon, and possession of a controlled substance on federal property. You’re in no position to play hardball with us.”

“What destruction?” the girl asked.

“Causing steam to vent into the Academy’s utility tunnel complex. Destruction of electrical and telephone equipment from water damage. Hope you or your family carry lots and lots of liability insurance.”

The girl blinked when Branner mentioned her family. “I didn’t do that,” she said.

“You were the only one down there,” Branner said, cocking her head to one side. “Right?”

The girl started to say something, looked quickly at Branner, and then clamped her jaw shut. Branner leaned forward. “More to the point,” she said, “you are the one we apprehended. So if someone else did open the steam valve, it really doesn’t matter to us. Unless, of course, you want to tell us who that was.”

The girl set her jaw and said nothing. Branner looked at Jim. “Mr. Hall, there’s a fingerprint kit and a Polaroid in the main office. Could you bring them in here, please?”

Jim left the door open and went to look for the camera and the cardboard fingerprint forms. He could hear Branner explaining what she was going to do. He found the camera, ink pad, and forms and took them back into the interview room.

“Are you going to tell us your name?” Branner asked.

The girl stared back at her. “You said I had the right to remain silent. Guess what?”

“O-kay,” Branner said. “Mr. Hall, do your police have a holding cell?”

“No. If we need to hold someone, we take them downtown to the Annapolis station. Let’s see, at this hour? They’ll probably put her in the women’s drunk tank. She’ll have an interesting intercultural experience.”

“Are you willing to cooperate and let me take your fingerprints?” Branner asked. The girl stuffed her hands into the folds of her black dress.

Branner deactivated the recorder and terminated the interview. “It’s too late for this bullshit,” she said. “We’ll take her downtown. The night-shift cops can get her booked in. She gives them shit, they’ll get a couple of those sumo matrons to help out. I’ll file the charges Monday morning, and she can call her parents. They’re going to be so proud.”

She reached across the table and snapped on handcuffs, locking the girl’s wrist to the ring on the table. They left her in there, closed the door, and went back to the office with the camera and the identification kit.

“What we need here is a good dungeon,” Jim said.

“That one would probably enjoy a dungeon,” Branner replied. “She could hang upside down and hiss a lot.”

“What do you figure?”

“She’s too old to be in high school,” Branner said, getting out her Rolodex. “So I’m guessing St. John’s.” Branner found the number for the Annapolis police. “Do you think she could have been in that group Bagger tangled with? In that Irish pub?”

“It’s possible,” Jim said, rubbing his eyes. He could still feel the steam heat on his skin. “But with all the makeup they were wearing, I couldn’t tell one from another. There’s more attitude than brains in that one.”

“I know some of the state attorneys,” Branner said. “I’ll get one of them to lean on the parents. Talk about big fines.”

Jim didn’t think any of that would work. He doubted there had been any real damage done down in those tunnels. Those equipment rooms were built to protect against leaks of water or steam. The steam plant people had come down, closed one valve, and put the system back in operation. The vent fans had exhausted all the steam in about five minutes. Bancroft Hall probably hadn’t even noticed the outage.

They had missed their real target. Again. Branner was dialing the number.

“I’ll ride with you downtown, if you’d like,” he offered, stifling another yawn.

The game continues! And tonight I got a twofer. The security guy brings along a babe this time. Redhead, packing serious heat. From the NCIS no less. How do I know this? Because I have ways of seeing in the tunnels, that’s how. Learned long time ago, if you have the time, prepare your ground. Marines do that, whenever possible, and they’re the masters of small-unit tactics. So these two come waltzing down into the main complex, and set up some-are you ready for this?-motion detectors! How do I know? Because they talk about them. And I can not only see; I can also hear down there. So I step into a quiet zone just outside and make a quick call to Krill, my most pliable Goth moth. Krill’s up for anything, as I told you earlier, because her prospects in life are, shall we say, limited. I mean, how far will boobs get you these days? Krill’s not the brightest bulb in the circuit, in other words. How she got into St. John’s is beyond me. Suspect some money changed hands in alumni channels somewhere, because those people, as weird and liberal as they are, also have to be fairly smart. Anyway, Krill comes a-running, all decked out in serious Goth cloth. I pitch her into the main complex, send her down Broadway, and wait for the big bad law persons to do their thing. Then as soon as they say the magic word? I cut open a steam-line drain valve directly off the 150-psi heating main, and-presto-the tunnel fills with hot, wet steam. And me? I decided to call it a night and go on back through the Maryland Ave. gate, just like I rated it. Which I did, of course.