The entrance to the tunnels was in the bowels of the Harold Alfond Athletic Center. They descended, passing the training rooms and storage, then Allyn paused to unlock an unmarked door. Inside, it was cold and dank, the concrete walls clammy with condensation. Allyn felt for the switch, found it, and lighted the place. It was a stairwell, with a steel handrail, painted, for some odd reason, fuschia.     "What's with the pink?" Miranda said.     "Left over from a bathroom in Dana," Allyn said.     They continued down, first one flight, then another and another. Their voices and the scritch of their shoes on the concrete treads echoed in the cavernous space. They descended like miners, and Miranda wished he'd brought a flashlight. In his days with the force, the light had been his security blanket. Flash it in some guy's eyes, it paralyzed him. If it didn't you could always whack the guy instead.     Miranda paused. They were at the bottom, and Allyn had his keys out again. The jingle rang off the walls. This door was steel, pink like the railings. Allyn turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. It swung inward, and he reached into the darkness, pawing for the switch. But as Allyn pawed, something came over Miranda, and he felt himself tense.     The smell. The cold air that rushed from the tunnel smelled like the pond.     Allyn went inside, still feeling for the switch. Miranda followed. He flinched as something brushed his face, and Allyn said, "What's the matter?" as the light came on.