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.
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’?”
“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
“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, “
“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
“Probably. Besides,” Annabelle sighed. “If something significant happened with Craig Brandt, shouldn’t we be able to find it in public records somewhere? Like, on micro-fiche or something?”
“Public information will only take you so far,” Jack said. “It won’t give you anything useful.” He crossed his arms over his substantial chest and leaned casually against the door frame. “You’ll get dates and whatever story the powers that be wanted believed at the time. However,” he smiled, “specific details – especially controversial details – will be withheld. In essence, you’ll know squat.”
They were quiet for a moment. Then Annabelle shrugged. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to know what the public story was. Would it?”
“It might,” Sam said, from the doorway. They turned to face him. “Not a good idea to get your intel mixed up. Go for the truth and call it good.”
Annabelle looked from Sam to Jack. They both stared back at her. It was somewhat unnerving.
She looked away and continued to think. “If the real story of Craig Brandt is somewhere on campus, how do we know for sure that it’ll be found in the Registrar’s office? If it’s hush-hush, wouldn’t it be kept somewhere more…
The chest in the corner gave a derisive laugh.
Annabelle shot it an evil glance.
“It’ll either be there or in the big-wig’s room,” Cassie supplied after a few moments of thought.
“Who’s the big-wig?” Dylan asked.
Annabelle looked down at the pamphlets in her hands. After a few seconds of reading quietly, she said, “I’m guessing it’s Dr. James Beckman.”
Jack pushed away from the wall and gently took the pamphlets from Annabelle’s hands. He flipped through them for a moment, and then pulled a cell phone from his front pocket. “This Dr. Beckman is the one in charge of who is accepted into the medical school?” he asked, softly.
She looked at the pamphlet in his hands, reading the doctor’s descriptor again, then nodded. “Yep, basically. ‘Executive Vice President for Health and Biomedical Sciences and the Dean of the Faculties of Health Sciences and Medicines.’ I’d guess he has the final say on who gets to enroll and who doesn’t.”
Jack nodded and looked down at the phone in his hand. Annabelle watched as he dialed a number, reading it
