His objective tonight was to check out the tunnel leading to a steam and electrical junction chamber beneath the St. John’s College campus. It was reached by taking this tunnel to the area underneath the senior captains’ quarters surrounding the Worden Field Parade ground, then getting through a security door into a branch tunnel that led out under King George Street, where the main telephone trunk lines and two six-hundred-volt power lines entered the Academy grounds from the city’s utility vaults. A runner would have to get through the Academy’s security door, then turn right into the municipal tunnel and go down about a block, where a similar city security door opened into a branch leading up to the college campus. From there, it was a quick but dangerous climb to the grating access point behind Pinkney Hall on the St. John’s campus. Two dangerous six-hundred-volt power lines were lurking in elderly wire conduit cages in a tunnel that was so narrow that any good-sized runner would have to touch the cages to get through. The high-voltage lines were insulated, of course, but they were also old, prompting the power company to spray-paint DANGER -600 VOLTS on signs every six feet to warn its own workers. The final branch line onto the St. John’s campus was also unlighted, just to add to the excitement.
Jim tested the doors of the telephone vault before going on around the dogleg and heading up the sloping tunnel toward the parade ground. He crossed two more tunnels, one running under the Academy’s Decatur Road, and a second under the portion of Hanover Street that paralleled the Academy’s wall. At the top of the Hanover Street tunnel, just in front of the fire door to the city tunnel, he found the fresh tag. It was the Shark again. An exaggerated drawing showing huge, distorted teeth, one baleful eye, a dorsal fin, and the signature SR incorporated into the tail fin. Lightning bolts depicted the shark’s wake, and a wide-eyed stick figure, arms and legs in an odd alignment, was directly in front of the gaping jaws. Jim sniffed the paint to see how fresh it was, but he couldn’t tell anything. It had definitely not been here before.
Habitual graffiti artists, considered vandals by the weary municipal authorities who had to clean up after them, painted their designs in search of fame among others of the graffiti subculture. Gang graffiti marked gang territory, but this looked more like hip-hop work, the dramatic design crying out for recognition. Jim had to admit the guy was pretty good: The lines between colors were clearly delineated, with no dripping or smeared paint. The design was in proportion and there was even some perspective between the huge shark and the soon-to-be victim. Hip-hop designs normally displayed a three-letter signature, which was often code for the tag team’s theme. This one only had two, SR, which probably stood for something really original, such as Shark Rules. But as he studied the design, he noticed two more letters, artfully embedded into the arrangement of the stick figure’s arms and legs: WD. That was unusual, and he had no idea what WD stood for. The tag was painted on the only blank section of wall in the tunnel that was close to the entrance to the city’s tunnels. He’d seen other graffiti, but they looked pretty old. This was fresh. And maybe it was territorial. But was it a midshipman or a townie?
He fished the can of black spray paint out and went to work. He painted a large circle around the entire shark design, then drew a diagonal black line through it. A no-shark zone here. Then he drew in a crude fishhook that impaled the body of the shark at the midpoint, and tied that to a line leading to his own signature, an elaborate HMC. He’d spelled it out the last time, so this guy ought to know who was messing with him. He stood back to admire his handiwork. Two drip lines appeared to spoil his work. Not up to the unknown artist’s ability, but the message was pretty clear. He restowed the paint can and then let himself through the metal fire door.
The city tunnel was not modern, as befitted a Colonial town old enough to have been the infant nation’s capital city. The walls and arched ceiling were lined with oversized brick, and some of it didn’t look all that substantial. With close to four hundred years of history, the Annapolis utility tunnels were a hodgepodge of sewer, water, and gas lines that bent down from the statehouse hill. Jim had not been into them except to locate the two most evident rising points for runners from the Academy. At least the Academy tunnels were reasonably dry; these were not, and he was careful where he put his feet. There was a distinct odor of sewage, and when he stopped to listen, he could actually hear the trickle of falling water somewhere, accompanied by the scrabble of little clawed feet in the darkness. He made his way carefully, trying to avoid contact with the badly rusted high-voltage cable cages on either side. He had to use his big flashlight, as there were overhead lights only at intersections.
When he got to the grating access under the St. John’s College campus, he found that the lock on the access door had been rendered useless by a wad of putty in the bolt receiver slot. Technically, he had no right to be here, as this was the city’s jurisdiction. But if this was a midshipman’s doing, he had every right to interfere. He pushed through the door to examine the grating pit, which was very much like the one back behind Mahan Hall. He tested the grating and found a padlock. He twisted the hasp and discovered that it, too, had been jammed open with what looked like some more putty. He then went back behind the access door and removed the wad of goop, pocketing it, while allowing the door to lock behind him. If whoever had taped it open had a master key and was out in town, he would have no problem getting back into the tunnels. If he did not, and he was a mid, he was now in for an interesting evening. There was every possibility that the lock had been gummed open years ago, depending on how often the mysterious runners were operating and how frequently the city crews came through.
He retraced his steps into the Hanover Street tunnel and then back into the Academy precincts. He closed the fire door between the town and government tunnel, making no attempt to be quiet now, as there was no one down here. Then the overhead lights went out.
He immediately dropped down on one knee to reduce his silhouette against the lights, however dim, that were still on in the city tunnel behind him. He had looked down the tunnel all the way through the junction with the Decatur Road leg, and it had been empty. So whoever had just switched off the lights had done it when he’d heard the city tunnel’s door clanging shut. He scuttled forward, staying low, until he came to a small alcove on the right side, which led to an electrical junction panel. The alcove was set back into the tunnel wall about three feet, offering enough room for him to squeeze his tall frame under the panel. He wanted to get his body out of the line of sight of anyone looking around the corner, which was about a hundred feet down the tunnel. He felt the comforting lump of the Glock pressing into the small of his back, but then he snorted softly. If this was a midshipman, he wasn’t likely to be packing. Remember, this tunnel shit’s a game, he told himself. But what if it isn’t? his edgy mind asked.