The Rule of Four (44 page)

“We can’t leave,” I call out.

Gil glances at me, but follows him. The sirens are closer now—blocks away, but rising. Outside, through the window, the hills are the color of metal. In a church somewhere, it is Easter.

“I lied to the police about Vincent,” Paul cries back. “I can’t be here when they find him.”

I follow them out the front door, pushing toward the Saab. Gil fires the engine, flooding it with gas, and the car roars in neutral, loud enough to bring on the lights in the house next door. Throwing the gearshift into first, he guns the engine again. When the tires catch asphalt, the car rockets into motion. Just as Gil turns onto an adjoining road, the first patrol car arrives at the opposite end of the street. We watch as it comes to a stop in front of Taft’s house.

“Where are we going?” Gil says, glancing at Paul in the rearview mirror.

“Ivy,” he says.

Chapter 28
                           

The club is silent when we arrive. Someone has piled rags on the floor of the main hall to sop up the alcohol Parker spilled, but puddles of booze still glisten. Curtains and tablecloths are stained. Nowhere is the staff to be found. Kelly Danner seems to have emptied the club of every last soul.

The carpet on the stairway to the second floor is damp underfoot, where partygoers have trudged alcohol up on the bottoms of their shoes. At the entrance to the Officers’ Room, Gil closes the door and flicks on the overhead lamp. The remains of the broken wet bar are pushed up into a corner. A fire has been left to die in the fireplace, but the embers are still raw, spitting up stray flames and red heat.

Seeing the phone on the table, I think of the number I couldn’t remember when Gil’s cell phone went dead, and it comes to me suddenly, what all of this is. A failure of memory; a miscommunication. The line connecting Richard Curry to Paul has filled with static, and somehow Curry’s message was lost. Yet Curry had made his demands clear.

Tell me where the blueprint is, Vincent,
he said at the Good Friday lecture,
and you won’t see me again. That’s the only business we have anymore.
But Taft refused.

Gil produces a key and opens the mahogany lockbox. “Here,” he says to Paul, pulling out the map.

I can see Curry again, advancing toward Paul in the courtyard, then backing away toward the chapel, toward Dickinson Hall and Bill Stein’s office.

“Jesus,” Gil says, “how are we going to deal with this?”

“Call the police,” I tell him. “Curry could come for Paul.”

“No,” Paul says. “He won’t hurt me.”

But Gil meant something else: dealing with what we’ve done, fleeing Taft’s house. “
Curry
killed Taft?” he says.

I lock the door. “And he killed Stein.”

The room suddenly feels airtight. The wreckage of the wet bar, brought up from downstairs, gives the place a sweet, rotten odor.

Gil stands at the head of the table, speechless.

“He won’t hurt me,” Paul repeats.

But I remember the letter we found in Stein’s desk.
I have a proposition for you. There’s more than enough here to suit both of us.
Followed by Curry’s reply, which I’d misunderstood until now:
What about Paul?

“He will,” I say.

“You’re wrong, Tom,” Paul snaps.

But I’m seeing more and more clearly where this all leads.

“You showed Curry the diary when we went to the exhibit,” I tell him. “He knew Taft had stolen it.”

“Yes, but—”

“Stein even
told
him they were going to steal your thesis. Curry wanted to get it before they did.”

“Tom—”

“Then, at the hospital, you told him everything you’d found. You even told him you were looking for the blueprint.”

I reach for the phone, but Paul places a hand down on the receiver, holding it in place.

“Stop, Tom,” he says. “Listen to me.”

“He
killed
them.”

Now it’s Paul who leans in, looking heartbroken, to say something Gil and I don’t expect.

“
Yes
. That’s what I’m telling you. Will you just listen? That’s what he meant at the hospital. Remember? Just before you came into the waiting room?
We understand each other, son.
He told me he couldn’t sleep because he was worried about me.”

“So?”

Paul’s voice trembles. “Then he said,
If I’d known what you were going to do, I would’ve done things differently.
Richard thought I
knew
he’d killed Bill. He meant he would’ve done it differently if he’d known I was going to leave Vincent’s lecture early. That way the police wouldn’t have come looking for me.”

Gil begins pacing. On the far side of the room, a log breaks in the fireplace.

“Remember the poem he mentioned at the exhibit?”

“Browning. ‘Andrea del Sarto.’ ”

“How did it go?”

“ ‘You do what many dream of, all their lives,’ ” I tell him. “ ‘Dream? Strive to do, and agonize to do, and fail in doing.’ ”

“Why would he choose that poem?”

“Because it went with the del Sarto painting.”

Paul bangs his hand on the table. “No. Because we solved what he and your father and Vincent never solved. What Richard dreamed of doing, all his life. What he strove, and agonized, and failed in doing.”

A frustration has come over him that I haven’t seen since we worked together, when he seemed to expect that we could act as a single organism, think a single thought.
It shouldn’t be taking you that long. It shouldn’t be that hard.
We are riddling again, puzzling meaning from a man he thinks we ought to know equally. I have never understood Colonna, or Curry, well enough for Paul.

“I don’t understand,” Gil says, seeing that something has come between us, something outside his experience.

“The paintings,” Paul says, still to me, trying to make me see. “The stories of Joseph. I even told you what they meant. We just didn’t know what Richard was getting at.
Now Jacob loved Joseph more than all his children, because he was the son of his old age. And he made him a coat of many colors
.”

He waits for me to give some signal, to tell him I understand, but I can’t.

“It’s a gift,” he says finally. “Richard thinks he’s giving me a gift.”

“A
gift
?” Gil asks. “Have you lost your mind? What gift?”

“This,”
Paul says, extending his arms, encompassing everything. “What he did to Bill. What he did to Vincent. He stopped them from taking it away from me. He’s giving me what I found in the
Hypnerotomachia
.”

There is an awful equanimity when he says it, fear and pride and sadness circling around a quiet certainty.

“Vincent stole it from him thirty years ago,” Paul says. “Richard wouldn’t let the same thing happen to me.”

“Curry lied to Stein,” I tell him, unwilling to let him be fooled by a man trading on an orphan’s weakness. “He lied to Taft. He’s doing the same thing to you.”

But Paul is past the point of doubting. Beneath the horror and disbelief in his voice is something approaching gratitude. Here we are, in another room of borrowed paintings, another exhibit in the museum of fatherhood Curry built for the son he never had, and the gestures have become so grand that the motives are unimportant. It’s a final wedge. It reminds me, suddenly, that Paul and I are not brothers. That we believe in different things.

Gil begins to speak, coming between us to bring this discussion back to earth, when a shuffling sound comes from outside. All three of us turn.

“What the hell was that?” Gil says.

Then Curry’s voice comes.

“Paul,”
he murmurs, from just on the other side of the door.

We all freeze.

“Richard,” Paul says, coming to. And before Gil or I can stop him, he reaches for the lock.

“Get away from there!” Gil says.

But Paul has already unfastened the door, and a hand on the other side has turned the knob.

There, standing in the threshold, wearing the same black suit from last night, is Richard Curry. He is wild-eyed, startled. There is something in his hand.

“I need to speak to Paul alone,” he says in a hoarse voice.

Paul sees what we must all see: the mist of blood near the collar of his dress shirt.

“Get out of here!” Gil barks.

“What have you done?” Paul says.

Curry stares at him, then raises an arm, holding something in an outstretched hand.

Gil eases forward into the hallway. “Get out,” he repeats.

Curry ignores him. “I have it, Paul. The blueprint. Take it.”

“You’re not going near him,” Gil says, voice shaking. “We’re calling the police.”

My eyes are trained on the dark sheaf in Curry’s hand. I step into the hall beside Gil so that we’re both in front of Paul. Just as Gil reaches for his cell phone, though, Curry catches us off guard. In a single movement he lunges between us, pushing Paul back into the Officers’ Room, and slams the door. Before Gil and I can move, the lock clicks into place.

Gil pounds on the wood with his fist. “Open it!” he screams as he pushes me back and forces his shoulder into the door. The thick wood panel gives nothing. We back up and give two blows together, until the lock seems to bow. Each time, I hear sounds on the other side.

“One more,” Gil yells.

On the third push, the metal lock snaps out of its joint, and the door flies open with the sound of a single gunshot.

We catapult into the room to see Curry and Paul at opposite ends of the fireplace. Curry’s hand is still outstretched. Gil charges toward them, striking Curry at full speed, knocking him onto the floor by the hearth. Curry’s head scrapes the metal grille off its mark, making sparks fly and embers suddenly pulse with color.

“Richard,”
Paul says, running toward him.

Paul pulls Curry from the hearth and props him against the wet bar. The gash in the man’s head is pouring blood into his eyes as he struggles to orient himself. Only now do I see the blueprint in Paul’s hand.

“Are you okay?” Paul says, shaking Curry’s shoulders. “He needs an ambulance!”

But Gil is focused. “The police will take care of him.”

It’s then that I feel the great rush of heat. The back of Curry’s jacket has caught fire. Now the wet bar has burst into flame.

“Get back!” Gil barks.

But I’m frozen in place. The fire is rising toward the ceiling, across the curtains pressed against the wall. Accelerated by the alcohol, the blaze is moving with speed, swallowing up everything around it.

“Tom!” Gil barks. “Get them away from there! I’m going for an extinguisher!”

With Paul’s help, Curry is pushing himself to his feet. Suddenly, the man shoves Paul off and staggers into the hallway, pulling off his jacket.

“Richard,”
Paul pleads, following.

Gil races back through the door and begins hosing the curtains with the extinguisher. But the fire is growing too quickly to be put out. Smoke rolls from the doorway along the ceiling.

Finally we retreat toward the door, forced out by the heat and smoke. I cover my mouth with my hand, feeling my lungs tighten. When I turn toward the stairs, I can make out Paul and Curry struggling through a thick cloud of black smoke, their voices rising.

I cry out Paul’s name, but the bottles in the wet bar begin to explode, drowning out my voice. Gil is hit by the first wave of shards. I pull him out of the way, listening for a response from Paul.

Then, through the smoke, I hear it. “Go, Tom! Get out!”

The walls are sprayed with tiny reflections of fire. A bottleneck comes pitching into the air over the stairs; it hangs above us, spraying flames, then tumbles to the first floor.

For a second there is nothing. Then the glass lands in the pile of soaking rags, finding the whiskey and brandy and gin, and the floor flashes to life. From below come popping sounds, wood combusting, fire spreading. The front door is already blocked. Gil is bellowing into his cell phone, calling for help. The fire is rising toward the second floor. My mind seems lit with sparks, a white light when I close my eyes. I am floating, buoyed by the heat. Everything seems so slow, so heavy. Ceiling plaster crashes to the ground. The dance floor is shimmering like a mirage.

“How do we get out?”
I shout.

“The service stairway,” Gil says. “Upstairs.”

“Paul!” I yell.

But there’s no answer. I inch toward the stairs, and now their voices have disappeared. Paul and Curry are gone.

“Paul!”
I bellow.

The blaze has swallowed up the Officers’ Room and begins moving toward us. I feel a strange numbness in my thigh. Gil turns to me, pointing. My pant leg is torn open. Blood is running down the tuxedo fabric, black on black. He pulls off his jacket and ties it around the gash. The tunnel of fire seems to close in around us, urging us up the stairs. The air is almost black.

Gil pushes me up toward the third floor. At the top, nothing is visible, only grades of shadow. A band of light glows beneath a door at the end of the hall. We move forward. The fire has come to the foot of the stairs, but seems to remain at bay.

Then I hear it. A high, collapsing moan, coming from inside the room.

The sound freezes us momentarily. Then Gil lunges forward and opens the door. When he does, the sensation of drunkenness from the ball returns to me. Bodily warmth, like the tingle of flight. Katie’s touch on me, Katie’s breath on me, Katie’s lips on me.

Richard Curry stands arguing with Paul behind a long table at the far end of the room. There’s an empty bottle in his hand. His head lolls on his shoulders, pouring blood. There is nothing but the smell of alcohol here, the remnants of a bottle poured over the table, a cabinet in the wall opened to reveal another stash of liquor, an old Ivy president’s secret. The room is as long as the building’s breadth, framed in silver by the moonlight. Shelves of books line the walls, with leather spines deep into the darkness beyond Curry’s head. On the north-facing wall there are two windows. Puddles glisten everywhere.

“Paul!” Gil yells. “He’s blocking the service stairs, behind you.”