Darkside

3

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 impression 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 remembered 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-”

“Unless what?” Ev said. Julie was sitting on the edge of her seat now, just like he was, chewing on a fingernail.

“Does the Academy have the right to search a midshipman’s room at any time? Or do they have to go through due process?”

Julie looked at Ev. “I’d have to look in the reg book,” she said. “But my guess is, they can if they want to. It’s not like a civilian school. They can inspect anytime they want to.”

“And your company officer knew nothing about this?” Ev asked.

“He failed open when I asked him,” Julie said, surprising Ev with the naval engineering expression. “He said he’d find out, but I hadn’t heard anything by evening meal hour.”

The phone rang. Ev checked the caller ID. “It’s a two-nine-three number; that’s the Academy,” he said. He picked it up and identified himself. “Yes, she is,” he said, and then listened for another minute, his eyes on Julie, who was getting a deer-in-the-headlights look back on her face.

“Very well, I’ll pass that on, Mr. Tarrens.” He glanced at his watch. “Will twenty-one hundred be satisfactory? She’s meeting with her attorney right now.” Another pause. “That’s right. So twenty-one hundred works?…Good. And could you please pass something up your chain of command for me? Midshipman Markham will want her attorney present for any further encounters with NCIS regarding the Dell incident.”

He saw Liz frown when he said that, but he didn’t waver. She probably would have wanted him to wait a little longer before revealing that Julie had counsel, but what the hell. There had to be something going on over there. Something bad. He identified Elizabeth DeWinter as Julie’s attorney, then said good night and hung up.

“How’d he react?” Liz asked.

“Audible gulp. Said he’d pass it right along. And twenty-one hundred is when they want you back in Mother Bancroft,” he told Julie.

“He mention searching my room?” she asked.

“Nope. Just that he wanted you back at Bancroft, in his office, as soon as possible. He was trying for a little bluster, as in, Right now would be nice, until I mentioned Liz here. He didn’t seem to know what to do then.”

“Okay,” Liz interjected. “I don’t propose to spend the evening in Bancroft Hall. If they want to ask more questions when you get back, you reiterate that you’re not talking to anyone until your lawyer is present, and your lawyer’s not available until normal working hours tomorrow morning. On the other hand, see if you can find out why NCIS agents were in your room. I’ll be interested to see what they say, if anything. Especially if they use the inspection pretense.”

Julie was shaking her head slowly. “I don’t know what’s going down here,” she said in a small voice. “I haven’t done anything. Not to that plebe, nor to anyone else.”

“Good,” Liz said brightly. “Ev, is this how the Navy usually does business?”

“The Naval Academy isn’t the Navy,” he said immediately. “But, once you swear the oath, you do surrender a lot of civil liberties when you go into military service.”

“So they could go in and search her room just because they wanted to?”

“They can do a room inspection anytime they want to.”

“Using NCIS agents?” Julie asked.

“Well, that’s a point,” he admitted. “But if the OOD was present, they could simply say they were along for the ride while he did the inspection.” He turned back to Liz. “But look: If military law’s been invoked-you know, the UCMJ-and they’re getting ready to accuse Julie of something, maybe she needs to ask for a military co-counsel.” He paused, realizing Liz might take that wrong. “I mean, um, I don’t mean-”

She let him off the hook. “I understand what you’re saying. Military law is different. But I don’t think we’re there yet. Besides, if it comes to that, we don’t let them appoint a JAG defense counsel. We’ll go get our own, preferably from somewhere outside the Academy.”

“Defense counsel?” Julie squeaked. Ev could see real fear in her eyes now.

“Normally, I’d tell you to relax, Julie,” Liz said, “But what you need to be now is vigilant. They’re going to be afraid of me, or at least more afraid of me than they would be of some JAG lawyer they appoint as your defense counsel. A midshipman is dead, and that’s serious enough. Somehow, it involves you. Beyond that, we don’t know squat. Which means our next step is to make them tell us.”

Julie just stared into space.

“Why don’t I give you a ride back to Bancroft Hall?” Liz said, giving Ev a look that meant, Go with me on this. She put down her scotch, untouched, and got up to emphasize the point. Ev understood and nodded. While Julie went back out to the kitchen to get her hat, Liz said she’d come back after dropping Julie off.

When she returned twenty minutes later, they went back to the study, where she now sampled the single malt.

“So, how’d that go?” he asked.

“Basically, I needed to calibrate the client,” Liz said. She told him that Julie was more pissed off than anything else and, unfortunately, more than willing to talk to the authorities if that’s what it would take to clear this mess up, especially since she hadn’t done anything. “I told her she needed to play by my rules for a while. That you don’t talk to the enemy, especially when they’re keeping you in the mushroom mode.”

“Right.”

“I think she got the picture. I told her to be perfectly respectful: no displays of attitude. On the other hand, she shouldn’t talk to anyone, not her friendly company officer, not the commandant, not the NCIS, the FBI, or the CIA, whoever and whatever, unless I was present.”

“They won’t like that,” he said.

“Probably not. I reminded her that if she hasn’t done anything, they can’t make any kind of case against her, unless, of course, she inadvertently hands them something. And that that’s rule two, by the way.”

“Rule one being never lie to your lawyer?”

“Precisely. I told her that she must tell me the absolute truth with regard to any question I ask. I promised, in turn, not to make value judgments, and confirmed that what she tells me is always protected by lawyer-client confidentiality. I made her promise.”

Ev nodded thoughtfully. “And did she? Promise?”

Liz sipped some scotch. “You know, I’d swear she hesitated. Just a fraction, but it was there.”

“I’m not entirely surprised,” he said. “What you’re telling her makes perfect lawyer sense, but it violates just about every principle of ethics and professionalism they’ve been pounding into her for four years. I can understand that hesitation.”

“About telling the truth?”

“No, no, about not talking to them. About clamming up and hiding behind a lawyer’s skirts, so to speak. The mids are taught to address issues head-on. To be forthright. Truthful to the degree of pain. Never to equivocate.”

“I suppose. But look: Our legal system is trial by lawyer, not trial by jury. Usually, the best lawyer wins, not necessarily the most innocent client. I can’t be the best lawyer here unless I know the truth. And frankly, that’s what I think the hesitation was about. Not about hiding behind my so-called skirts.”

Ev blinked. “You think she’s hiding something?”

Liz waved her hand dismissively. “Hell, Ev, I don’t know. But I’m a defense lawyer. My clients tend to be deceptive. I always make them promise to tell me the truth. She did, but she tingled my trip wires in the process.”

What has my daughter been thinking? he wondered, frowning. And was she, God help us all, involved in what happened to that poor plebe? “Well, I’ll certainly reinforce that notion,” he said. “That’s fundamental.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Back to rule two: not to offer them anything, even out of some sense of duty. She’s dealing with cops now. Nine times out of ten, when cops have nothing, it’s the suspect who hands something to them by opening his yap. Remind her of that. Coming from you, it might carry more weight.”

Upset by the word suspect, he got up and started to pace around the room. “We’re so close to commissioning week,” he said. “More than just graduation. It’s a victory in every sense, victory after four very hard years operating within a system designed to remove a quarter to a third of them by attrition. And here she is, being worked over by federal cops for something some damned plebe did?”

“We’re assuming it was something the plebe did; they’re acting like somebody may have helped him do it.”

“What?” he shouted, whirling around. “Now you’re talking homicide ?”

She leaned back in the chair, a picture of lawyerly composure now. “If NCIS is interviewing people and conducting searches without warrants, then this is more than just a routine incident investigation.”

Ev swore and went to refill his drink. This day was truly turning to shit.

“Look,” Liz said, obviously concerned that she might have gone too far. “I’ve upset you, and perhaps prematurely. Bottom line? They’re on notice over there. Now we have to wait.”

He plopped back down in his chair and tried to get his mind around what was happening. She smiled at him, and it transformed her face, putting a sweetness there. He’d forgotten how attractive she was, with those coloratura features and silken white skin. He unconsciously glanced over her shoulder toward his wife’s picture up on the bookshelf. She caught his glance, turned, and looked at the picture for a moment. “That was your wife? Worth told me what happened. That’s a lovely picture.”

“That was…Joanne, yes,” he said softly.

“Julie favors her,” she said, turning back around. “How are you coping with all that?”

“Poorly,” he said immediately, then almost regretted his candor. He didn’t know her that well. “I mean, I get by, one day at a time, I suppose. There are places I don’t go. Like chapel-I stopped going to Sunday chapel because I’d get too emotional. The senior chaplain-he’s an ex-Marine-asked me one day whom I was weeping for, her or me. As in, Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

“That’s such bullshit,” she said. “Grief suppressed poisons the soul.”

“Well,” he said with a small shrug. “He did make me think. Didn’t take me long to figure out the real answer, either. But I still stopped going.”

“Showed him,” she said, and he smiled despite himself.

“How about you?” he asked, surprising himself. “Worth said you’d been married before. You have someone in your life?”

“No one of substance,” she said. “I was married twice, actually. You know what they say about the triumph of hope over experience? Well, my first ex was a Marine aviator. That one was all experience. Second ex was another lawyer, and that was hopeless.”

He laughed. “I know all about those Marine aviators,” he said. “We had a couple in my first fighter squadron. Certifiably crazy bastards, but definitely fun.”

“Precisely,” she said. “But, trust me, you wouldn’t want to marry one.” She shook her head and got up to leave. He got up, as well.

“We need to take this Dell matter one day at a time,” she said. “It’s in their interest to put it to bed quickly, so unless there’s some glaring evidence of foul play, that’s what they’ll do. I’ll keep Julie as safe as I can.”

“Good,” he said. “And I’ll keep in touch with you, too. Julie will probably want to talk to me.”

“Yes, please do,” she said, pausing at the front door. “And if you need to talk-about anything-please feel free to call me.”

He looked down into her eyes and saw a smile of friendly sympathy. “Thanks,” he said. “I will.”

It’s me. I’m in computer lab. Finished their stupid little finals project. So, let me tell you how it went. My after-hours town libs, that is. I mean, it was a blast. Met up with the Goths in their lair on West Franklin Street. That’s what they call it-“their lair.” Okay, so these Johnnie chicks are seriously whacked, but they’re hot as hell underneath all those black rags and the weird makeup. What a surprise when you check out the underscene! And they will do anything as long as I play along with their Goth shit. And I mean anything. I’ll bet you know what I mean.

It’s a rush, especially when I can experience such a total Jekyll and Hyde existence. By day, I’m supermid. Sir! Yes, sir! At the top of my considerable lungs. A-J squared away to the max. Creases on my creases. A military-bearing ramrod stuck so far up my ass that my ears are aligned. Hoo-ah! And then, once the superstraight world of Mother B is asleep, out comes the vampire Dyle. That’s right, vampire. Okay, okay, so the whole Goth-vampire-death worship scene is-what’s the word, infantile? Fucking laughable? Especially when you realize that they’re serious about that shit? Thing is, though, I’m like a dead ringer for the bad guy, especially in costume. One of the girls is in their drama club, so she got her claws on a vampire costume. And that’s our town gig-the Goths as bait, and Dyle as the hammer.

You ought to come along. Works like this: past midnight-the girls in their Goth drag: calf-length black dresses, some very white makeup, lots of eye shadow, red, red lipstick, hair everywhere, maybe a dog-collar, laced-strap witch-bitch boots. Those swirling black dresses are slit up the sides, so if they work it right, they can flash black mesh thigh-highs. And that’s what they do: They stroll down the street after midnight, ease into and out of the townie bars. Inevitably, a couple of locals will rise to the occasion. Come out onto the street and make their drunken noises. Jeering at the Goths. Calling them “lezzies” “freaks,” the usual. The girls pretend to ignore them. Put their noses in the air, supremely intellectual Johnnies, much too high-and-mighty to respond to the provocation of mere village louts. Tossing back quietly muttered words about losers, white trash, the makings of a permanent underclass. But swirl the skirts just a little, enough to flash. Look back. Smile.

The boys follow, of course-they almost always do. Usually, one of them is the alpha dog, the others, onesies, twosies, almost never more than two, the perpetual followers. Not quite sure of what they’re going to do next, but enjoying the scene. Everyone shining attitude, which goes pretty quick to sexual taunts: The girls are pros, sluts, whooers, ready to peddle their asses, and hey, the boys are game, right? They’ve each got two-bits. That’ll do it, right, babe? Then the girls begin to ape the walk of working girls on the stroll, laughing at the following rubes, putting an element of challenge into it, but keeping thirty feet or so between the boys and themselves, leading them, always leading them, toward the alley. Toward me. The girls flash some more leg, attend to a stocking, maybe rub each other on the ass a little, making sure the rubes are watching. That usually does it.

When they get to the alley, they turn on the boys and make vampire faces at them, hissing, showing teeth, looking ridiculous, of course, but setting up the play. By now, they’ve undone their tops a little, giving the village idiots an eyeful, then pretending to discover that they’re exposing themselves, hissing some more, making witch signs, but grabbing at their clothes, maybe a little scared now as the big bad boys approach while the poor defenseless vamps retreat farther into the alley. Toward where I’m waiting.

“Who-ee! It’s Draculady! Hey, Draculady, bite this. How ’bout it? Want to suck something? Here it is, witchy woman!” Grabbing at their crotches and laughing their asses off as they turn into the alley, their jeers and taunts becoming more explicit. They’re aroused now, sensing the possibility that they can maybe get some. Hell, there’s no one around. The girls have been flashing T and A for the past block, begging for it, really. There’re three of them and just two weird-ass St. John’s College bitches playing at being vampires or some other equally strange college-girl shit. The girls stop halfway down the alley, blank brick walls rising into the dark on either side. They back up to one of the walls, spread their arms out behind them, flat on the wall, breasts heaving in obvious excitement, moving their bodies. The boys are locked on now, alpha dog intent, responding to a raging short circuit between his brain and his crank, the followers eager but not sure who’s going to do what.

Then the girls start chanting weird shit in unison: “Begone! Begone! Fie on the lot of you.” The boys, jeering again at the vampire act, approach in a loose semicircle. The girls let their slit skirts part just a little, showing off some more, but keep chanting. “Oooh, I’m so scared!” the alpha dog goes, rubbing his crotch again, letting them see his action. “Don’t bite me. Please, don’t bite me!” Trying to laugh, but mostly focused on what they’re showing them.

And then: I’m there. Behind them. In full fucking costume: black cavalryman boots that add about two inches to my height. Black midshipman uniform pants stuffed into the boots. White Ballanchino formal shirt with no collar. And the cape: this huge fucking cape, black outside, all red satin inside, sweeping down to the tops of my boots. My face painted dead white. Eyes circled in yellow-looking makeup. Teeth glistening with a little Vaseline. My very big teeth. My shaven head covered in a black rubber wet suit hood. I’m stretching up to damn near seven feet tall, arms wide under the cape, black rubber gloves on my hands. Sometimes I stick two extra-long white plastic fangs on my canine teeth.

The girls know the drill: They look behind the followers, put trembling hands to their mouths, open their clothes up just a little more. Alpha dog, he’s on autotrack, can’t tear his eyes away. But the followers? They see the girls looking over their shoulders, and they turn around to see whassup. Which is when I let out a sound like a king cobra, the hiss from Hell, causing their blurry, drunken eyes to get as big as saucers and their stupid mouths to drop open like turtles. At which point, I slam their slack-jawed heads together like the pair of cantaloupes they really are. As they go down, alpha dog, who hears the cobra bit, is turning around to check it out, tearing his eyes away from the girls at last, not seeing them lunge for him, grabbing his arms, pulling them behind and up, not even aware they’re doing it because all he can see is my face, my painted, hooded death’s-head face looming down at him, my eyes coming unhinged as I cross them ever so slightly and bare my glistening teeth, and then-here’s the topper-I fucking roar.

He faints. They always do. Get the guy sober, he’d laugh at the thought of a vampire. But drunk? And after the girls have set him up? It’s pure fear, helped along by the girls doing their weird vampire shit. He turns around, suddenly he can’t move, his buddies are flat on the ground, and he’s looking up at the biggest human-shaped thing he’s ever seen, which looks, sounds, and acts like every vampire nightmare he’s had since he was a little kid, and it’s right fucking there, fangs and all, right in his face!

They faint. And sometimes they leak a little. Yes, they do. The girls run, of course, bursting with laughter. I follow, but not before I do some things to the big man on campus. I usually don’t really injure him, but he might just hurt a little-when he wakes up, of course. This last time, we took his buddies’ pants down, arranged the two of them in the 69 position, and called the cops just for grins. But usually, we just fly out of there, running down the block behind the bar, back to the lair. A cop car saw us once, the guy driving so surprised when he got a look at me that he rear-ended a parked car, which gave us time to disappear through the St. John’s campus and back to their shitty little apartment-excuse me, Goth lair. Must stay in character, we must. And when we get back there, guess who’s really excited now? Heh-heh.

We’ve done it a couple times this year, all to different town slobs. You’d think the word would get around. On the other hand, I’d bet it’s not like they want to talk about it, right? Like: Hey, man, listen to what happened to us last night. Like: You remember when we went after those Johnnie bitches in their vampire costume? And then…I don’t think so.

I know, I know: One of these nights, the guy won’t faint. Or it’ll be some dude we’ve done before. But I’m ready for that, too. In fact, I’m getting more ready for that possibility every day, especially now that June week is approaching. Just between you and me, I’m planning a little solo op. Maybe go lurking in town on my own this time. Let a previous victim get a quick look. See if I can get him to chase me. See if I can get him to catch me down in my tunnels. See what happens then. More good training for my next incarnation in the glorious Corps.

It’s like I want to experience some maximum violence before I leave here. Maximum. Like what happened to that plebe. That was certainly extreme, don’t you think?