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  “Sure.”

  “No single flash can illuminate a space that large. You have to open the shutter and leave it open, with the film exposed the whole time. Then, in the dark, you move around and fire the flash near sections of wall, multiple times. The flash becomes your paintbrush.”

  Painting with light.

  He described the finer points of the technique, and I hung on his instruction. When he finished, I thanked him and turned to go.

  “Hey Lucas,” he said, more softly this time. “Make it really good. Get published in The Cincinnatian, maybe Preservation Quarterly. You might change a few minds about that old station.” I figured Alfred was sentimental for the forgotten building, but then his voice hardened. “And you might change a few minds about that damn company.”

  Something tightened in my gut. “You got a problem with Drax?”

  He stared at me through an awkward silence, and then waved me towards the exit. “Just focus on the photo.” He reached for the next envelope in his inbox.

  Alfred knew about the power of photography. Years before shooting weddings, he’d been a big-time photojournalist. I’d seen his work on a high shelf in the front office in tattered copies of Look, Harper’s and The Saturday Evening Post.

  I’d always photographed our infiltrations, creating frameable trophies, the temporary made permanent. But everything is fleeting.

  Alfred was right. My photo could be more than proof of our exploit. It could trigger a chain of events: I’d publish the shot, tip the scale of popular opinion, compel the city’s leaders to rethink the shopping mall project, and drive a thorn in the side of Drax Enterprises.

  “Last flash,” I said to Reuben across the expanse. He was probably crawling out of his skin with anxiety. I hit the button once more near the ticket windows, framed by barrel-thick columns of Verona marble the color of campfire embers. I heard a shak sound as Reuben closed the camera’s shutter. “The guard’ll be back any minute,” he said.

  “To read about the end of days, or get scared a ghost came along and turned his pages.”

  “It’s not funny. I bet someone’s already spotted the flashes and called the cops.”

  I shouldered the camera bag and tried to speak with the calm of an airline pilot. “We’re doing okay.”

  Reuben and I had begun infiltrating off-limits places way back in junior high. Throughout our college days at Xavier, we explored buildings and construction sites, expanding over time to utility tunnels, bridges, and even boats moored on the Ohio River.

  Post-graduation, Reuben took a job with an insurance company, God knows why. He had a scientist’s brain. I began studying toward my Master of Architecture. Now, past the quarter-century mark and halfway to my M.Arch degree, I accumulated course credits as fast as Mom and I could scrape up tuition money.

  Reuben and I met up mid-rotunda to stow the gear. Since we’d arrived, the vast space had predetermined our rendezvous point as if all the energies of the place converged below the dome’s apex, a kind of mecca to rightfully occupy.

  Maybe that’s why, when the security guard squeezed between the double doors with his pistol drawn and splashed Reuben and me with a wedge of light, he seemed to be the trespasser, not us.

  CHAPTER 2

  I remember a summer evening. I figured I was twenty-five feet down, a few feet of water below me. Granddad had bragged about the thirty-foot well on his farm, how the depth meant more water, better water and colder water. I’d decided to find out for myself.

  Surrounded by black stone wall, I descended further, the circle of orange sky shrinking above me with each handhold. I smelled wet, living rock.

  My jeans were stiff-new from Montgomery Ward, the rubber soles of my Keds still white—new for school. Cash was tight, so Mom would’ve blown her top if I’d soaked my clothes.

  I wedged my sneakers tight between rocks on opposite sides. The fingers of my left hand found grip on the slick stones. With my free hand, I reached down and dunked. Icy cold.

  Something skittered across the back of my left hand and stopped on my knuckles. The light was too dim to see it, so I found a new grip for my right hand and gave my left a shake. The creature dropped and made a splash. Big old bug, I figured.

  Everything got darker fast. I looked up. A head and a couple of shoulders leaned over the stone perimeter.

  “Lucas?” It was my mom, her voice on edge.

  “Yeah?”

  “Lucas! Oh my God! He fell in!” She said other things but I couldn’t understand, with her half talking and half screaming.

  “Mom,” I said, hoping to sound like it was no big deal, that I was perfectly fine, but she was disappearing and reappearing, her shrieks doing the same. Things became quiet after her last exit, so I waited and took in that heavy smell, all dirt and wetness and decay, old but also new, like the brick-lined cellar with the earth floor where my grandmother stored jars of peaches and bread-and-butter pickles. A minute passed.

  “Lucas?” This time it was my father, and he wasn’t screaming. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  He stayed up there for a few more seconds, not saying anything, which made me a little nervous. Then he said, almost whispering, “You didn’t fall, did you?”

  I considered his question and how my answer might get interpreted by the grown-ups. Would it be better if I fell? The way I figured, my mother was already hysterical, and she would go catatonic if she learned the truth.

  “Please answer me,” my father said. He sounded a bit amused.

  “I climbed down.”

  Dad shook his head and laughed and quickly covered his mouth. “Can you come up on your own?”

  “Sure.” But before climbing, I filled my nostrils one last time.

  That was only the beginning. I remember digging a hole in the backyard after a heavy rain and sticking my head in to find that dark, wet silence. I knew, even then, that it was only a hole, but I was going somewhere no one had gone before. Edmund Hillary, Captain Nemo—and me.

  But as I stared down the barrel of the security guard’s gun in the Grand Rotunda of the Cincinnati Union Terminal, I wasn’t thinking about Hillary or Nemo, or the safe stillness of the underground. I was thinking about my idol, the greatest urban explorer of all time, an expert on avoiding capture.

  His name was N. Jefferson Chapel, a Canadian who rose to fame when he discovered the most famous ossuary in the Paris catacombs, Le soleil, the sunflower, with its seed-filled center of human skulls and its petals of tibia bones. Chapel famously donned German lederhosen and knee socks during his exploits, and upon reaching the innermost point of each journey, drained a small leather pouch of Castarède Armagnac to “fortify the return.”

  Chapel recorded his conquests in a journal, and preferred impenetrable language. In 1953, he wrote, “Periodic encounters with property stewards wishing to detain you should be part and parcel of la vive émotion. If not, you play too safe and risk entering life’s winter with the sweetest fruit left hanging on the vine.”

  I’m in debt to Mr. Chapel. Of my nine apprehensions over the years, I was freed seven times without fine or imprisonment, all thanks to his Six Rules of Apprehension.

  We were apprehended, but not captured. Big difference. Reuben never grasped that apprehension is a process, not a moment, with the ideal outcome determined by carefully orchestrated steps.

  I blinked at the guard’s pistol and scribbled Chapel’s rules on a blackboard in my mind, each beginning with a single word: obey, disclose, relate, agree, inquire and revere.

  The guard squinted as if bringing us into focus. “You better not move.” In his upper twenties like us, he wore a neutering gray un
iform with Drax Security embroidered above a breast pocket that bulged with a pack of smokes. His long hair, likely freewheeling during off-duty hours, was greased, parted and hooked behind his ears, a good-grooming regulation from Drax. This was no career security man.

  Chapel’s Rule Number One: Obey. Demonstrate certainty of purpose by elevating yourself above the petty defiance of the diffident.

  “No problem, sir,” Reuben said, his voice flat, his fear probably tempered by his anger at me.

  I took the lead. “Sir, we can explain everything.”

  The guard used the barrel of his pistol as a pointer, twitching nervously. “What’s in the bag?”

  Again, Reuben jumped ahead of me. “Only equipment, nothing more.” Hmm. I wouldn’t have said nothing more. Sounded too defensive. Reuben reached for the leather satchel hanging from my shoulder.

  The guard’s eyes widened. He brought both hands together on the pistol butt. “I can shoot you,” he declared.

  Well, of course you can, I thought, almost smiling, which would’ve been disastrous. Of the three of us, the one with the hand cannon was the highest strung.

  “It’s camera equipment,” I said while floating my hands away from my body. “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to set the bag on the ground, only touching the strap, and kick it away from us. Nice and easy.”

  The guard jerked a nod. “Okay.” He had the roundest Charlie Brown face I’d ever seen. The bullies cruising the halls of Cincinnati’s public schools had probably gorged themselves on his self-esteem. I felt an unlikely kinship.

  I lowered the bag to the floor and gave it a slow slide with my foot. It closed the twenty-foot gap between us by about a third.

  The guard didn’t move. Wheels turned behind his moon face. What could he do? Approach the bag to inspect? Order us to back away? Radio for reinforcements? Then I noticed: no communications device hanging from his belt. Big boo-boo for a rookie guard.

  I decided to help. “We’ll move away a little so you can check out the bag. We’re unarmed.” I took four liquid steps backwards. Reuben followed my lead.

  Charlie Brown faltered forward, lifted the camera bag and tipped it toward the light so he could peek inside. Apparently satisfied, he set it down. “How’d you get in here?” The question surprised me.

  Chapel’s Rule Number Two: Disclose. Your road to freedom may be paved with truth. Stand proud; while we do commit the victimless and recherché crime of trespass, we neither vandalize nor pilfer.

  I opened my mouth to speak the truth, but then rethought. A plausible lie could work in our favor. I recalled the building’s schematics at the city records office. “We got in through the executive office entrance on the east side. It was unlocked.” The guard’s face betrayed a flash of concern—perfect. Maybe he was responsible for locking those doors, but he could avoid taking heat from his Drax bosses, if he played things right.

  The guard remained wordless, perhaps unwilling to turn us over to the authorities and expose a security faux pas.

  “Sir, my name is Lucas Tremaine and this is my colleague, Reuben Klein. We’re members of the Cincinnati Historical Society.” Technically speaking, I was the only member—a forgivable fib. “We’re here to take pictures of the rotunda by night.”

  Again, the guard said nothing, apparently flummoxed. After all, his partner was out of earshot beyond Pantheon-thick walls. He couldn’t radio for help because he’d left the gadget behind. And he couldn’t lead us through the long concourse by gunpoint because we’d bolt for one of sixteen exits, leaving him with the vexing choice of shooting unarmed men in the back or permitting their escape.

  Think! How could all three of us walk away with no damage done?

  Chapel’s Rule Number Three: Relate. Do not presume property stewards will comport adversarially. Find the flow of their river and float with them toward a common portage.

  I made my move. “Sir, it’s about Drax Enterprises.”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. “What about ‘em?”

  “We would’ve asked permission to take the pictures but your bosses would never go along with that.” This was true. Drax people knew my name and not in a good way, not after Mom and I sued the company over Dad’s death. Maybe the guard would share my disdain for his employer.

  “It don’t matter,” he said. “You’re trespassing on private property.”

  Chapel’s Rule Number Four: Agree. Your captor has the upper hand. Don’t proclaim he’s ignorant of the laws he prides himself in enforcing.

  But I couldn’t agree. The guard was wrong. We stood on public property, your property, I wanted to say, your city’s greatest treasure, and Drax will destroy it.

  But the guard wouldn’t care.

  Chapel’s Rule Number Five: Inquire. Among the tedium of the watchman’s devoir, your sudden presence may be the apogee of his day. He may hesitate to relinquish you to higher authority, a chance to postpone his return to work. Make a connection while buying time to devise your exodus.

  “You’re right,” I said, “we’re trespassing, but only to take pictures. We mean no harm. Did you grow up in Cincinnati?”

  The guard stiffened. “None of your business.”

  I held up my palms. “No problem. But if you grew up here like I did, you know all about this place. I saw this building every day. When my grandparents came to visit, we waited right here to greet them. I used to stand over in that corner of the rotunda and whisper, and my dad on the opposite side could hear me like I was inches away.” The guard’s shoulders relaxed a little. “My dad once told me that if a couple kissed right under the highest point, they were destined to spend their lives together.”

  Chapel’s Rule Number Six: Revere. We enter forbidden places with veneration. Your captor, spending hours each day within the same walls, may share your respect, which forms the basis for communion.

  I continued. “Drax has a contract to turn this into a shopping mall. You know that concourse where you’ve got your desk? They’ll bulldoze it.” I looked to the ground and shook my head, feeling like a stage actor, and feeling the heat of Reuben’s glare on my cheek. He’d always hated my verbal gymnastics, even when they saved his ass.

  The guard responded. “So it’ll be a mall for a time, then it’ll be somethin’ else. No big deal.” I bristled. I’d made him feel partly responsible, so he rationalized it—diminished it. Just a building. But too many Cincinnatians slept peacefully with their complacency. A dazzling photo—my photo—of the rotunda might slap some sense into them. After all, a picture of a naked Vietnamese girl running from a napalm attack had slapped America into questioning this war.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice now soft and deliberate. I looked toward the concentric ceiling. “I know it sounds weird, but this place always felt more like a cathedral than a train station.” I glanced back at the guard. I held his attention. “You can’t trespass in a church, can you? Just like the Good Book, this place is for everyone.”

  The guard’s face registered a swift realization. “You looked through my Bible.”

  Chapel also said something about capitalizing on good fortune, but I couldn’t remember the quote. Regardless, this was too good to be true. “I’m afraid I lost your place in the pages.”

  The guard blinked.

  “Look, we wanted to take one last picture before it’s all gone.” I paused, outwardly thoughtful. “You’ve got a job to do. We…” I glanced at Reuben, a gesture mandated by my script. His eyes were the size of Kennedy half dollars. “We’ll do whatever you ask.”

  “So you think I’m gonna let you go?” Score! Openly expressing a choice increased its odds of being chosen.

  Now, to walk him across the
finish line. “Like I said, we’ll respect your judgment.” My implied point: you have choices. Workers bridled by rules didn’t feel free to choose. Furthermore, all decisions sat at a fulcrum, therefore easy to tip in our favor. “If you must turn us over to your superiors, so be it. But if you’ll let us leave in peace, we will feel truly blessed.”

  Done. Amen! The defense rested its case.

  But just then, another security guard—older, heavier and pissed off, with a buzz-cut and the same dust-colored Drax uniform as his colleague—muscled through the doors and halted with a slap of shoe leather, legs spread. He aimed his gun at my belt buckle. This was a career security man, and a real hard ass.

  My elaborate construction of justification, affiliation and suggestion collapsed to the floor.

  He locked his eyes with mine and barked at Charlie Brown from the side of his mouth. “Next time, Jamie, carry your goddamn walkie-talkie.” Then to us, “You clowns, guts to the ground, hands behind your heads.”

  We’d come so far. “Sir, we can explain everything,” I said.

  But Hard Ass would have nothing of it. “Now!” His bellow bounced off the infinite surfaces of the dome, hammering our eardrums.

  By the time I dropped to the floor, Reuben was already there, seething.

  . . . . .

  Charlie Brown guarded us from a safe distance, like we were pit bulls on weak chains, while Hard Ass radioed for instructions from inside the vestibule. My name stood out twice among an army of unintelligible words marching through airwave static. “Tremaine,” followed a moment later by, “Yeah, Lucas Tremaine.”

  He spat my full name, like griping about a boss over a beer. When I got in trouble as a kid, my mother would enunciate my first and last name, but gently, her anger peaking on Lucas and ebbing on Tremaine, as if remembering that boys will be boys.

  These days, she would sprawl across the couch in the small house we shared, staring past me at something I could never see. In her weakened state, she didn’t need me making things worse.