We moved back to hide in the roar of the engine. Tricia eased down next to me. Reuben sat one seat ahead, his face forward.
I took Tricia’s hand in mine, squeezed to quell her trembling, and turned to stare out the window. The owner of a news kiosk wiped down a metal countertop. A deliveryman in white overalls shouldered a case of tomatoes into a Greek restaurant. A city worker with a push broom waved toward a second-story window. So normal, but nothing felt normal.
Ahead of me, Reuben’s head bobbed every so often as if he were arguing with himself.
I made eye contact with Tricia. “I’ve never done this to a woman without asking permission.”
She squinted with mock suspicion. “What?”
“You’ll forgive me?” I gave her no time to respond before squeezing her thigh an inch from ground zero. My fingers landed on a reassuring contour, like a roll of dimes—Kodak 120 film sealed up tight. I sighed with satisfaction. “As good for you as it was for me?” It was a stupid joke, floated in the darkest morning. But Tricia returned a wan smile, and that was good enough.
Reuben threw his arm across the seatback between us and whipped his head around. “Not funny, Lucas.” His burning gaze caught me unprepared. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“We got out. Isn’t that enough?”
“No! You bet our lives that Richard Baumgartner isn’t down there. Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know, I guessed—” I took a breath. “You’ll be pissed when I tell you.”
“I’m already pissed.” His eyes flared.
“Chapel.”
He exhaled with exasperation and looked away.
Tricia cleared her throat. “Um, what are you talking about?”
I reminded her about N. Jefferson Chapel, the father of urban exploration. “He wrote the book,” I said, before reciting the quotation I’d gambled on. “When pretext comes to naught, and even lesser truth fails to soften the skeptic, beseech mercy through confession, for only the coldest soul refuses the penitent.”
She scrunched up her nose. “What does that mean?”
Chapel’s thick prose used to be amusing, but not now. “It means when you can’t bullshit your way out, confess and pray for mercy.”
“But you didn’t confess,” she said. “Not to the measurements, thank God.”
“No, because of two words—lesser truth.” A dim glow on the horizon winked between buildings. “Everything I said was true. It had to be for Rudolph to buy it—we learned that the hard way with the laser as paintbrush. And it had to be confessional—he had to believe he’d won.” I spoke with confidence but felt like a fraud. In truth, I’d been shooting in the dark in the museum. My friends had risked it all. They deserved better. “Look, I got lucky.”
Reuben wasn’t finished. “How could you be sure Baumgartner’s body wasn’t in one of those boxes?”
“I wasn’t sure. But Hard Ass drew a blank at Baumgartner’s name.”
“Yeah, but Valentine recognized it,” Reuben said.
“That made sense,” I said. “Valentine was on the scene when the journalist disappeared, and maybe did the deed. But the mystery spur, by any name, seemed to mean nothing to either of them.” Or had I misread their expressions? The possibilities were too dreadful to imagine. “Like I said, we got lucky. That’s all.”
Reuben fumed while Tricia squeezed my hand. She let a few moments pass before asking, “Since Baumgartner’s body isn’t down there, why does Drax guard the subway like it contains dirty secrets?”
“Because it probably does,” I replied. “Drax is dirty. God knows what’s down there, way more than construction fraud, that’s for sure. No wonder they’re so determined to bury their sins. But does it matter?” I was tired of peeling back the onion of our narrow escape.
Reuben wasn’t. He stroked his five o’clock shadow, twelve hours off schedule. “What if Rudolph had asked how lasers help find human remains? What lesser truth then?”
I observed the passing street scene to avoid his gaze. “I don’t know.” But I did. My house of cards would’ve collapsed.
We bounced along without speaking. The brick homes and office buildings of old Cincinnati switched to the gas stations and strip malls of suburbia. I found myself imagining how the sole survivor of a plane crash might feel. Not relieved, but terrified. Cruel circumstance had spared him once, but surely the reckoning lay ahead.
An all-night Skyline Chili briefly appeared in neon yellow outside the bus window. “Anybody hungry?” Tricia said and yanked the bell cord.
As my friends descended to the curb ahead of me, I caught the eye of the nurse seated three rows behind the driver. “Pardon me, ma’am?”
She looked up and smiled. Apparently I didn’t resemble the nighttime creeps who accosted ladies on public transportation.
I gestured toward the writing on her uniform. “Do you happen to know which company built the hospital where you work?”
She looked confused. My question must’ve sounded bizarre. “No. Why do you ask?”
I returned her smile and waved a friendly dismissal. “Just curious.” I moved on but turned at the top of the steps. “I hope you have a really great day.”
CHAPTER 31
The mayor concluded the ceremony and encouraged the small crowd of dignitaries, donors, and everyday citizens like me to wander about the classic train station. I skipped the guided tour by the Cincinnati Railroad Club, having explored passages and cul-de-sacs their best guides didn’t know existed. And over the following weekend, in the wee hours, we’d be exploring more.
Times had changed since Reuben and I last visited to photograph the grand rotunda by night. Back then, dust on the terrazzo floor recorded the guards’ rounds, and grime blurred the stars beyond the tall windows. Now, four years later, the fixtures sparkled and the Art Deco lettering above the doorways proudly proclaimed TICKETS, TRAVEL BUREAU, and MOTOR COACHES. Instead of mildew, the air smelled of fresh coffee.
I stood from the folding chair and sighed with satisfaction. Finally, the city’s leaders had come to their senses. Converting this architectural wonder into a shopping mall would’ve been like turning the great pyramids over to Disney. With the mayor’s official declaration, the Cincinnati Union Terminal would become the city’s epicenter of history, art, and culture.
“I got it done,” Reuben said, standing at the end of the row of chairs, “against my better judgment.”
I joined him. “And?”
“So far, so good. East stairwell doors to the upper levels are wired open with coat hangers, most likely for the painters. Even if they released them, the scaffolding would get in the way.”
“Nice.”
The crowd began drifting toward the refreshment table, but Reuben didn’t notice. “I don’t have the best memories of this place, you know.”
“All the more reason to make new memories. Here’s a fun fact—the President’s office upstairs is perfectly round, with curved paneling, curved couch, and even a curved desk.”
“Yes, I know. You told me. I’ll bet the tour visits it.”
I shot him my best that’s-not-how-we-do-things look. “Did you check the west stairwell?”
Reuben rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on.”
“Pardon me? Aren’t you the one who said, Never count on a single path to your destination?”
“I said that?”
“No, but doesn’t it sound like something you’d say?”
Reuben headed off to the west without a word—a good sign. He would’ve stuck around for a real argument.
I strolled to the center point below the
grand rotunda’s dome and peered up. I remembered the local legend, one of Dad’s favorites, that lovers who kissed under the highest point would spend their lives together. I took in the three-hundred-sixty degrees of massive stone sweep and thought of our visits to this place, a sacred place, when I was a kid. We’d play a game, each standing in the perfect spot on opposite sides beneath the great dome. Separated by two hundred feet, we could hear each other’s words as if inches apart.
On a whim, I walked to Dad’s listening point along the east wall and scanned the crowd, pretending to be a spectator. But I focused on sound, not sight. Soon, snippets of conversation materialized between my ears with no discernible point of origin. The opposite side must’ve held the hors d’oeuvres table because different voices came and went with people in motion.
“… if Sullivan runs for a second term, I’ve half a mind to…”
“… out for at least four games with a pulled hamstring…”
“… interviewed him for the position but you know bureaucracies…”
“… isn’t that the CEO of Drax Enterprises? Takes some balls to…”
My muscles tensed reflexively, the way combat veterans flinch at loud noises years after returning home.
Nine months earlier, the judge ruled in City of Cincinnati v. Drax Enterprises. The case was closed, so I shouldn’t have been anxious in the presence of Rudolph—no, not Rudolph. Tony was in charge. After the verdict, under pressure, Rudolph stepped down and the business section of the Enquirer ran the headline, Springtime for Drax?
By the time I spotted Tony in the crowd, he was already striding toward me. Great. What was the point? We could reminisce about our previous encounters, all unpleasant, or dance around them. Or we could make small talk, but I didn’t have the patience.
Dressed in a quiet gray suit, he no longer walked with the swagger of a prince. I accepted his outstretched hand, something I wouldn’t have done before I’d delivered the completed calculations to the district attorney and thereby set the legal wheels in motion.
“You got your wish,” he said with a tepid smile. No beating around the bush. His hair was trimmed neat. His left eye drifted occasionally to the periphery before snapping into alignment, his wiring shorted—a lifelong souvenir of stink damp.
“I did?”
Tony swept the expanse with an outstretched arm. “Soon to be a cultural center, perfect for this old building. The shopping mall was a bad idea.”
I couldn’t suppress a snort. “You defended that idea.”
“And you almost broke my nose. You should be thankful we dropped the charges.”
No, I didn’t have the patience. I said nothing.
Tony exhaled. “Look, I’m just saying, we both made mistakes, didn’t we?”
I’d punched him for good reason back then: he’d disparaged Reuben with an anti-Semitic slur. But for the present, I detected an olive branch. “I suppose we did.”
A well-dressed older woman passed within spitting distance, flashed Tony a scowl, and scurried away as if he might bite.
“Your fan club?” I said.
“Layoffs are unpopular.”
“Sounds like trouble at the great and powerful Drax Enterprises,” I said, chiding but also fishing. “Your press release called it a simple restructuring.”
“We’ve faced tough times before,” he said with a weak smile.
That was an understatement. The Drax PR department had kept the worst news from the public, but the community of architects, of which I was a new member, could dig up dirt on even private entities like Drax. Triple penalties for the subway fraud broke the company’s back financially. But far worse, once the business community learned Tony’s grandfather had backed the Third Reich, Drax became toxic. Politicians wouldn’t risk their re-elections steering public projects toward Nazi sympathizers. The revenue stream dried up.
“I hear you’ll be selling the headquarters building,” I said.
Tony raised an eyebrow. “Says who?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied. “The sale will have to go on the public record eventually.”
Tony plucked a piece of lint from the sleeve of his suit jacket. “We’re raising operating funds.”
“What happens to the museum?”
“Mothballed, I suppose. You’re wondering about the replica of the missile silo?”
I gave him credit for remembering. “Yes.”
“You can have it, if you want.”
“I want it destroyed.”
Tony nodded once. “Done. How’s your mother?”
Hairs rose on the back of my neck. He had no right to ask. I felt the urge to say You mean my father’s widow? The day after delivering the film, I’d moved her out of town. The ensuing years rid her mind of drugs, but not sadness. “Your father taught me a powerful lesson. The less Drax knows about my family and friends, the better.”
Tony studied my expression. “I don’t blame you for being cautious, but there’s something you need to know. My father was a very dangerous man—emphasis on was.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Tony shrugged. “The case is closed, so I have no incentive to lie to you, and as much as I hate the comparison, Rudolph thinks the same way. It’s all about incentive.”
I said nothing.
“He could be ruthless to achieve a goal, but vengeance was never a goal. If it had been, he wouldn’t have let you go.”
An old question bubbled up. “He freed us because of something you whispered from your wheelchair. What did you tell him?”
Tony hesitated, as if unsure. “That you and your friends weren’t worth the trouble, his standard decision criteria. Normally he would’ve ignored me, but a brush with death bought me a little authority.”
So we owed our lives to Tony Drax? I wasn’t ready to accept that. “You’ll forgive me if I wish your father a miserable retirement.”
Another lukewarm smile. “Let’s just say a man like that needs to be on center stage to be happy. He’s no longer on center stage. Are you satisfied?”
“No. I wanted my father back. But—” I paused. “I guess that was never part of our plan.”
“Then what was the plan?”
The question caught me off guard, but not for long. “To make Drax Enterprises pay for what it did.” No beating around the bush.
“You mean did to your father?”
“We all had our reasons.”
Tony considered that for a moment. “Well, you all succeeded.”
I didn’t get it. We’d brought Drax Enterprises to its knees, yet the company’s native son showed no animosity. Was it a ploy?
“In a way,” he went on, “I’m in your debt.”
I was too baffled to respond.
He continued, his left eye untethered. “We’re a startup now. Instead of adopting Rudolph’s way, I can do things my way.” He scanned the crowd. “That’s why I’m here, trying to convince people Drax will be different from now on.”
“But like you said, it’s all about incentive. You have an incentive to say the old Drax is dead.”
Another shrug. “And people will be skeptical, like you are. I’m okay with that.”
No, it wasn’t a ploy. I believed him, but I’d never say so.
Out under the great dome, a man in a striped engineer’s cap beckoned visitors for the next tour.
“I’m sorry about Mr. Blumenfeld,” Tony blurted, as if the words had been waiting in queue.
“You want me to believe you care what happened to Alfred?”
“I had n
othing to do with that fire. That was all Valentine.”
“Ready to testify to that fact?”
Tony said nothing.
Even from his hospital bed, with only his vocal cords healing, Alfred wished aloud to shoot photos again. But he couldn’t, and everyone but Alfred knew it. His damaged hands would never be able to load film or manipulate camera controls. The bacterial infection that took him nine days later spared him the truth.
Obviously, Tony wanted to get things off his chest. I felt uneasy with my complicity, but the man exuded unmistakable pain. “Alfred left his mark,” I said. “Blumenfeld Photography is doing well, thanks to what he taught his granddaughter.”
Tony leaned closer. I wanted to pull away. “There’s something you need to know,” he said, his expression severe. “I ordered Delbert Turkel across that field, but I never knew why until it was too late. Believe me, if I’d known…” His voice trailed off.
So much suffering. I was done tossing bones of sympathy. “A complete waste,” I said bitterly, “even for Rudolph. The subway’s still down there, along with whatever secrets he hoped to bury.”
Tony offered nothing in return, yet he didn’t seem to be holding back. Perhaps Rudolph had kept secrets from his only son.
I had a job to do. “I should get going.”
“Of course, and I need to make the rounds.” He turned toward the crowd but stopped himself. “One more thing. At the hearing—all the photographs with the laser spots. I don’t get it. We confiscated all your equipment and patted you down. How’d you get the film out?”
“We had a courier—sort of.”
“Aha!” Tony’s eyes lit up. “You slipped it to someone at street level through—I don’t know—maybe the welders missed a gap in one of the steel plates.”
Not a bad idea, but no such a gap existed. “Exactly. But this courier is dear to me, so I’d rather not say anything else.”
With a tilt of his head, Tony marveled at my revelation, red herring that it was. “Sure,” he said, as we exchanged a final handshake. “See you around.” He walked out of my sight.
Follow Me Down Page 29
