Jack turned back to Cassie. She still couldn’t quite meet his gaze. He wasn’t sure what to make of her as far as weapons were concerned. She’d thus far proven herself to be more than capable of quite a lot of intelligent deeds, but could she fire a gun? He took a deep breath and let it out through his nose.
“Cassie,” he started. “I-”
She saved him from any further deliberation on the subject by raising her hands in a defensive gesture. “I don’t want anything, Mr. Thane. I’d probably shoot myself in the foot or spray myself in the eye. I’m basically the little kid from A Christmas Story when it comes to weapons of any type.” She was rambling a little nervously, but she managed a smile. “I’m fine.”
He watched her for a moment and then nodded. “Good.”
Jack turned then and strode to Annabelle as she chose the gun he knew she would select. A Smith and Wesson .357 magnum revolver, the spitting image of the one she kept in a chest in her apartment. It was a tried weapon for her, so despite the fact that it only held six rounds, it was a wise choice. She was fortunate that it happened to be Samuel Price’s favorite brand.
“Let me,” he told her softly, as he bent to help her strap on a shoulder holster and tighten it down. His fingers lightly brushed against her collar bone as he adjusted the straps and, ever observant, he didn’t miss the shiver that went through her at the brief contact. Something decidedly old-brain and male within him reared its head to smile a terribly satisfied smile.
But he said nothing, instead pretending to ignore her reaction and concentrating on buckling the gun down securely in its holster. “Good?” he asked her once he’d finished.
She licked her lips and didn’t seem to want to meet his gaze. This brought back the smile to his lips as the self-satisfied monster within him grew considerably larger.
She nodded. “Yes. It’s fine.”
He straightened and, with some difficulty, tore his gaze off of her in order to face his daughter. Clara was stuffing a Colt .45 into the back of her pants, as Jack had done with Sam’s gun earlier. Jack shook his head at her, pulling the gun back out.
“Get a holster and wear it right.”
Clara rolled her eyes and turned back to the cabinet. Then she smiled, pulling a thigh holster from its hook and placing it against her upper leg.
Again, Jack shook his head. “Guess again, Clara,” he ground out, beginning to lose patience.
Annabelle chewed on her lower lip to keep from smiling. With the thigh holster on, Clara might have been the spitting image of the Tomb Raider, which was undoubtedly the effect the teenager was going for. Clara Croft.
But Annabelle supposed that walking around a university campus wearing such a thing might draw just a tad bit of unwanted attention.
Of course, Jack was right. Clara needed a holster that would fit beneath her jacket, and a gun small enough not to leave a giant bulge.
Another two attempts and Clara finally had it right.
Jack helped her strap on the weapon while Dylan and Beatrice outfitted themselves with their own equipment and Sam pulled the boat into an available dockage space.
Sam excused himself from the captain’s cabin and went above to tie the boat down. Clara turned to face her father. As did everyone else.
“So,” she said, as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Wha’s the plan, da’?”
Chapter Seventeen
“A’right, everybody,” Clara began as she approached. “Here’s the run-down.” She handed Annabelle a few pamphlets and sheets of paper. Annabelle turned them over and studied them as Clara continued. “If we’re gonna bird-dog this fella, Brandt, we’ll have to do it at night,” the teenager told them, her thick British accent reminding Annabelle of Sean Bean even more than her father’s did.
“Registrar was particularly hush-hush about ‘im an’ I could tell she remembered the name.”
“Which means there is a negative connotation there,” Annabelle supplied, thinking it over. Clara had gone onto the campus posing as a prospective student. As a side, she’d decided to check up on a distant relative, one Craig Brandt, who apparently went to school there “somethin’ like six or seven years ago, eh?”
However, if the registrar remembered his name, out of the thousands upon thousands of students they’d had in the years since his enrollment, then it could only mean one thing. Brandt’s name was associated with something significant. Most likely something significantly bad.
“I’m assuming she told you such information on prior students was confidential,” Jack said.
“Ri’. But ‘er eyes were buggin’.” Clara answered.
“This is a map of the subway, bus, and shuttle routes,” Annabelle stated plainly, changing the subject.
“Ri’,” Clara nodded again. “An’ that’s the schedule.” She pointed to one of the papers in Annabelle’s hands.
“The last route is run at twelve-ten a.m. from Harlem Hospital to the Medical Center on campus. After that, there’s no further transportation until six-thirty.” Annabelle said.
“That gives us six hours.” Jack checked his watch. “Did you get the campus map?”
“It’s here,” Annabelle said, shuffling through the papers Clara had given her. She took the campus map, unfolded it, and laid it out on the navigation table.
“While I was at the University of Michigan,” Cassie began as she came forward to peer down at the map, “I remember a group of students once talking about underground coal tunnels that existed beneath various universities across the country. Some are at Columbia.”
“That’s right!” Dylan exclaimed, coming forward to join them. “I read something about it online once – even saw a video on You Tube. They used the tunnels and train tracks to run coal between each individual building. One of the buildings on Columbia’s campus used to be part of an insane asylum, and the tunnel beneath it still exists and connects to some other tunnels.”
“Buell Hall,” Annabelle said, calmly.
Dylan’s eyes widened. “Yeah, that’s the one! How’d you know that?”
Annabelle pointed to a bulleted paragraph on the map, which was paired with a number designating a small red building. She read aloud, “‘Historic Buell Hall is the last remaining remnant of the Bloomington Insane Asylum, established in 1808 as Bloomington Lunatic Asylum. In 1894, the asylum was moved to the Westchester Division of the New York Hospital in White Plains. All but the Administrative offices of the asylum were torn down to make way for new construction by McKim, Mead and White.’”
“The administrative offices were in Buell Hall?” Cassie asked.
Annabelle shrugged. “Apparently so. It goes on to say that the land’s sale to Seth Low, the founder of Columbia, was contingent upon leaving that one building standing.”
“Why?”
“Nobody knows.”
“This is all quite interesting, but what does it have to do with the tunnels?” Jack asked, bringing them back to the point at hand.
“Nothing,” Annabelle shook her head. “And, to be honest, I don’t think we could use any tunnel system to get into the registrar’s office, since I know that’s where this conversation was originally headed in the first place.”
“Okay…” Dylan shuffled on his feet and then shoved his hands into his front pockets. “Why not?”
Cassie crossed her arms over her chest and leaned on one foot. “Yeah, why not?”
“Because they probably don’t lead to every single building,” Annabelle told him, gesturing to the many buildings of the campus spread out across the map. “And this map doesn’t show us where they begin or end anyway.”
“And, wherever they do start, they’re probably blocked off, ri’?” Beatrice added, her thick accent only slightly less strong than her daughter’s.