Hilary tried to decipher what Andy might be saying by trying to form words that sounded like “darkness.” She started with A- “arkness,” B-“barkness,” C-“carkness,” and so on. She did this effortlessly and quickly until she got to H, when she stopped the mental exercise altogether.
H-“Harkness.”
And Hilary knew exactly where to look.
CHAPTER 32
Pepperell Academy’s extensive tunnel system connected most campus buildings. Some of the tunnels were extremely narrow and hot, while others offered enough space to walk side by side.
Jake made his way through one of the narrow sections beneath the library, not his favorite by any stretch. His boots scuffed noisily against the rough concrete, the tap of his heels amplified by damp stone. Creatures scurried in the darkness. Rats, probably, but mice and moles lived down here, too. Jake was in charge of extermination and he kept the pests mostly under control, but not entirely. The clicks and scrapes of their clawed feet came at him from all directions. It was impossible to pinpoint a location in the dark.
Cables running above Jake’s head served as conduits for electrical and communication systems. Pipes of various thicknesses affixed to the walls with rusted metal brackets carried water and heat throughout the campus, and emitted a steady hum that became background noise. Some of the pipes leaked water that rhythmically punctured the eerie stillness in this otherworldly darkness.
At the spot where Jake could turn right or backtrack, he went right. The low ceiling forced him to stoop, but he kept a steady pace. Here the mildew smell was most intense, but it couldn’t make him forget the stench of fresh blood from the bathroom homicide. That smell overpowered all present odors, and those vacant eyes seemed to watch his every step.
To see in the dark, Jake used a headlamp secured to the front of his tactical helmet by an adjustable piece of stretchable nylon. He had left the PVS-14 with the J-arm attachment back in the larder. Night vision worked by magnifying existing light, and down here there was none. Jake could have turned on the overheads, but the fuse boxes were decentralized and mostly aboveground. He didn’t want to risk exposure by going to the surface. The headlamp worked fine. He could shut it off easily, and it freed his hands to let him traverse obstacles while wielding a weapon.
He kept his AK-47 slung over his right shoulder. In the cramped confines of the tunnels, it was far easier to maneuver his Glock than a long rifle.
The jouncing white light of the headlamp formed a portal in the gloom through which Jake could make his way. The way could be confusing. Enthusiasts circulated maps around campus to try and illustrate the various entrances to tunnels, but Jake found most renderings woefully incomplete. The real tunnels looked more like the schematic for a complicated piece of circuitry than a bunch of straight lines between buildings. Tunnels went in straight, curved, and diagonal lines. Some terminated in dead ends; others looped back like snakes consuming their own tails. This was a maze belowground, and it was easy to become disoriented and lost.
Jake crawled over a series of corroded pipes that looked like a pile of giant pickup sticks blocking the archway ahead. His guns and gear restricted his movement, and Jake needed to compensate for the extra weight. As he climbed down, Jake’s footing slipped and he staggered forward a few steps. His face bristled with stickiness: cobwebs. With his left hand, Jake cleared the webbing from his mouth and eyes, and brushed off a large spider, which had crawled across the nape of his neck.
He was accustomed to the tactile sensations down here. There was always something new to discover, to observe. This section of tunnel looked to him like the innards of a dying machine. Everything here was sagging, corroded, or rusty. Wires barely clung to decaying fasteners and dangled perilously close to pools of brown water. Jake kept his eye out for markers-spray-painted letter and number codes on the walls that served as trail guides. His predecessors had put them there and it helped with navigation if you knew what they meant.
School officials downplayed the extent of the tunnel system to keep interest in them to a minimum. Nobody wanted kids underground getting wasted or having sex around dangerous electrical equipment, hot pipes, or chemicals.
Students caught lurking in the bowels of The Pep faced immediate expulsion. That was generally deterrent enough to keep them out. But from time to time, Jake would come across wrappers and beer cans, even fresh graffiti scrawled on the cement walls. Denying access invited plenty of brazen daredevils. Over the years, various communities of underground explorers had sprung up with the expressed goal of getting in and roaming about just for kicks. It was Jake’s responsibility to keep them out.
The truth was, nobody came down here much anymore. A lot of effort went into making the maintenance work accessible aboveground-at fuse boxes, AVC controllers, boilers, and various circuits. Sections of the tunnel system had once served as pedestrian thoroughfares, but those had been shut down ages ago. The important thing now was that Jake could travel from building to building without ever seeing daylight. Without ever being seen.
At the end of a particularly claustrophobic stretch, Jake came to a stop at another arched passageway. His headlamp lit up a wider and higher section of tunnel beyond. Good thing.
The tunnels reminded Jake of the ball fields. The transition from corridor to dugout always put a smile on his face. It was the feeling a butterfly must have after crawling through its hard shell to take flight at last. Emerging from the darkness to catch that first glimpse of an emerald-green field was a joy like no other. Tunnels were a means to that end; and for this reason, Jake took to them just fine. But these narrower passageways, with the low ceilings and compressed walls, were as pleasant as giving up five runs in the second inning.
Jake had a sudden recollection about baseball that involved Andy. His son was eleven at the time, maybe twelve, and Jake was teaching him how to throw left-handed.
The ball had sailed in every direction but the one Andy had intended, with little velocity, either.
“This is a stupid waste of time,” Andy said.
“Throwing with your nondominant arm is good for building a balanced body,” Jake said. “Besides, you’ve got a better chance of going pro if you’re a southpaw.”
Jake was naturally bilateral, but he threw right and rarely worked his other arm.
“I’m never going to make the pros,” Andy said.
“You can do anything you set your mind to, son,” Jake said, almost reflexively.
Andy had guffawed. “That’s a load of horse crap, Dad, and you know it,” he said. “But I should clarify. I don’t want to be a pro baseball player.”
Andy had gone into his windup and threw the baseball left-handed, hard, using all the proper mechanics this time. The ball had sailed straight and had gone fast enough to make a pleasing slap, once it hit the leather of Jake’s glove.
Even then, his kid had attitude.
“So, what are you going to be when you grow up?” Jake asked, tossing the ball back to Andy.
“I dunno. Guess we’ll just have to wait and find out.”
“Wait and find out.”
Andy’s diabetes made that statement a lot less certain. It was especially true given the wild swings Andy’s blood sugar could take. But Jake never believed the disease would claim his son. And that belief carried over into today.
After passing through the archway, Jake stood, giving some relief to his cramped leg muscles. Fifteen feet farther, the tunnel branched to his right. That way would bring him to a staircase. From there, Jake could gain entry to the basement boiler room in the Terry Science Center.