century ago without raising any eyebrows.
“Ephraim Badger, meet Woody Hayes,” Hershey said.
“It’s Andy,” I said, stepping forward and shaking his hand.
“I know who you are,” he said. “Question is, what are you doing with him, this time of night?” He nodded at Hershey.
“We’re boning up on legislation,” Hershey said.
Badger shook his head and made a clucking sound. “You know you’re not supposed to be here this late.”
“I was giving Andy a tour,” Hershey said. “And technically, you’re not supposed to be here either.”
“I work here.”
“You volunteer here, Ephraim. One of these days you need to learn the difference.”
“One of these days I’m not going to be able to cover for you,” Badger squeaked.
“Never going to happen.”
“I’m serious,” Badger said. “You’re running a big risk. Patrol catches you—.” He slid his finger across his throat.
“I don’t think they do that to trespassers anymore,” Hershey said. “Anyway, we were just leaving. How about you?”
“I’m waiting for you to leave.”
“You’re doing a fine job of it. Keep up the good work.”
“Get out,” Badger squeaked.
“Nice meeting you,” I said. In response, Badger frowned and turned the flashlight back on, directing it straight into our eyes.
“Who was that?” I said as we headed back to the garage.
“That was the world’s most dedicated Statehouse tour guide.”
“He gives tours this time of night?”
“At night he prowls. Tours he does during the day. Every day but Sunday, when he’s in church an hour or six.”
I looked around the garage as we walked, aware that the pillars studding the darkened space could be hiding any number of people wanting to do Hershey harm. Between the Clarmont, the tail we’d picked up on High, and the episode with Badger, I was starting to figure out that the list was long.
“What’s his story?”
“Former history teacher. Taught in Columbus public schools for something like forty years. Supposedly he retired on a Friday and starting volunteering here on a Monday.”
“Is he the one who taught you so much about this place?”
“One of them. Something I didn’t mention earlier was that most of this building was constructed with prison labor. They’d walk the inmates over from the state pen every day.”
“Bet the Teamsters loved that.”
“Good one,” Hershey said, rewarding me with a deep laugh. “Ephraim here claims to be the great-great-grandson of one of those inmates.”
“Is he?”
“No reason to doubt him.”
“Think he’ll turn you in?”
“For what? I’ve got a legitimate key card and a press pass to boot. People walk through the Statehouse all hours, especially this time of year.”
“Not all of them go up to the Cupola, I bet.”
“Point conceded.”
“So what about his ancestor. The one who helped build the Statehouse?”
“What about him?”
“What was he in prison for?”
“A terrible crime, supposedly.”
“Which was?”
Hershey grinned. “He killed a reporter.”
10
ANNE AND AMELIA WERE SITTING ON THE porch of a duplex on Crestview in the Clintonville neighborhood north of campus when I drove up the next morning. It was a nice part of town. It was a nice house. It had been painted recently, the windows looked new, and the gutters were as clean and shiny as freshly polished gunwales. Promising.
“The guy’s not here yet,” Amelia announced when I got out of my Honda Odyssey.
“The guy?”
“The apartment guy.”
“How about the other places?” I said.
Anne shook her head. “First place was a dump, second place too expensive.”
“Third place just right, Goldilocks?”
“Depends on the cable hookup,” she said with a smile. Her face, like her daughter’s, was covered in freckles brought out by the spring sun, except for the skin around the white tissue of her scar. She’d pushed her sunglasses up onto her red hair. She looked impossibly beautiful. Amelia was wearing a shirt that said, “Quiet, Vader Is Coming” and had already buried herself back in a book.
I looked around. “Nice street.”
“Not bad.”
“Not the suburbs.”
“Indeed.”
“Not that there’s anything wrong with the suburbs,” I said.
“Suburbs are people too,” she agreed.
A white Ford F-150 pickup truck pulled up along the curb. A man got out, walked around the front of the truck, and approached the steps.
“Anne?” he said.
“That’s right,” she said, standing up. She shook his hand. “Anne Cooper. This is my daughter, Amelia.” A beat later, she added, “And my boyfriend, Andy. But it’s just Amelia and me. For the apartment.”
“Richard Deckard,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” He was wearing leather work boots, jeans, and a tucked-in Ohio State golf shirt tight against a big but not huge belly.
He unlocked the door and showed us in. You could see right away it was special. Refinished hardwood floors, repainted walls, new stove and refrigerator in the kitchen. A strip of yard in the back, but surrounded by a new fence. Beyond that, a gravel pad for parking, a nice bonus given the narrow Clintonville streets. A half bath downstairs and a full one up, both clean and smelling of paint and spackle. Two bedrooms, each with decent-sized closets.
I could tell Anne liked it from the way she squeezed my arm as we came
