Part 18 (1/2)
”She ran out. What's up?”
”Nothing,” I said. ”I just . . . wanted to ask her a question.”
”Why don't you ask me?”
There was a long pause.
”Try me,” he said.
Ever since my dad's heart attack, I was afraid to tell him that anything was less than perfect, as if whatever I said might trigger the next big one. But I needed someone. I needed help.
”C'mon, give an old man a chance,” he said. ”Let me be a dad for once.”
I sighed. I wasn't even sure what I'd wanted to say.
”I think I did something really bad.”
A pause, then: ”Did you break the law?”
”No.”
I heard him breathe out on the other end.
”Did you cheat in school?”
”No.”
”You hurt somebody?”
”Yes.”
”Because you didn't like them?”
”No.”
”Because it helped you.”
”Yes.”
”Listen to me.” I braced myself for a lecture on big shots and little guys: toughen up, grab what's yours, take no prisoners. Instead, he said: ”If you did something bad, you make it right. You hear me?”
”Yes. Yes, sir.”
”Then you decide who you want to be, and you be it.”
The line was quiet for a second.
”Okay?”
”Okay. I will.”
”Make me proud of you,” he said.
The call left me dizzy; startled, like I'd been slapped across the face.
For the first time in years, I'd heard the teacher again--the one everyone in town called on when they didn't know what to do.
Chance wore black from head to toe, as planned. He leaned against a tree away from the light; I could make out only the vague shadow of his form, the white eyes and pale strip of skin under the ski mask. As I got closer, his uniform came into view: cargo pants, hiking boots, backpack, hooded pullover; he looked like a real guerrilla journalist, with none of the idiot flair of my black sweats.h.i.+rt and dress pants. But with two hundred dollars in my bank account and no career in sight, I wasn't about to spend my ramen money on a new ghost-hunting wardrobe. He handed me a ski mask.
”Thanks.”
He rubbed black grease on his face, then pulled his mask back down. I took the tin and did the same. He looked at my feet.
”Dress shoes?”
I shrugged.
”Whatever,” he said. He checked his camera, then slipped it into a black pouch on his waist. ”Anything visible?” He turned in a circle.
I said no and did the same.
”So. We've got a map, thanks to you,” Chance said. ”What we need now is an entry point. Thanks to me.”
”An entry point to what?”
Chance had been cagey about how exactly our map translated into action. I think he enjoyed this little bit of power. It wouldn't be as simple as walking into the Steel Man, that much I knew. Chance was convinced the dorm was a placeholder, not our actual destination.
”Every university has a story about steam tunnels that run underground and connect all the buildings,” he told me. ”It just so happens that this university, being very old, actually has them. Come on.”
We walked along the wall in the shadow of a large administrative building. We were in the industrial part of the campus, a world away from student life. It was after midnight and eerily silent.
”The only official mention of them involves a bit of campus lore. When George Wallace came to speak in favor of segregation, the students were ready to murder him. Police had to smuggle him out through the tunnels. It got written up in the paper, fifty years ago.”
We came into view of a giant, thrumming building bathed in yellow light, with two vents on the roof, each nearly twenty feet wide. It gave off a clean, electric smell, but the vents released colossal, almost volcanic plumes of white smoke that pulsed and swirled up into the clouded sky. It looked like a factory whose chief product was gloom.
”I had a resident poetry tutor in my house, freshman year, this real old guy. He swore the FBI chased an Austrian spy into the library back in World War Two. They searched for hours. Finally they figured he must've found a way into the steam tunnels. Or so the old guy said. I think he just wanted someone to eat with.”
”Is that smoke?” I asked, looking at the white plumes.
”Water vapor. This is the hydroelectric plant. There's the physical plant. And that,” he said, pointing to a run-down side building with weathered blinds, ”is the plant manager's office.” He paused and looked at me. ”In about five minutes, you'll be guilty of trespa.s.sing, breaking and entering, and my favorite, 'conduct unbecoming to a student.' All grounds for expulsion. Last chance.”
I smiled. ” 'Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.'”
”Preaching to the choir, my friend,” Chance said, and we started toward the back of the building. He took a pair of cutters from his pack and went to work on the hanging lock. Then we were past the chain-link fence and into the gravel and gra.s.s of the plant yard. There were numerous metal boxes in the gra.s.s, all padlocked as well.
It was so quiet. Every step we took crunched.
I started to question the wisdom of the endeavor. Was it too late? Could I turn around now and run out the gate, throw the ski mask in a ditch, wipe the makeup off, and blend back into the Sat.u.r.day night flow of the main quad?
Chance pulled on my sleeve.