iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第32部分

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　〃I　told　you。　He　wanted　to　give　Paul　a　book　he　found。　I　can't　believe　this；　Charlie。〃
　〃He　didn't　say　anything　else？　Where　he　was　going？　Who　he　was　going　to　see？〃
　I　shake　my　head。　Then；　slowly；　it　returns　to　me；　what　I'd　mistaken　for　paranoia：　the　phone　calls　Bill　had　gotten；　the　books　someone　else　was　checking　out。　A　wave　of　fear　descends　on　me　as　I　tell　them。
　〃Shit；〃　Charlie　grumbles。　He　reaches　for　the　phone。
　〃What　are　you　doing？〃　Gil　asks。
　〃The　police　are　going　to　want　to　talk　to　you；〃　Charlie　tells　me。　〃Where's　Paul？〃
　〃Jesus。　I　don't　know；　but　we've　got　to　find　him。　I　keep　trying　Taft's　office　at　the　Institute。　There's　no　answer。〃
　Charlie　looks　at　us　impatiently。
　〃He'll　be　fine；〃　Gil　says；　and　I　can　hear　the　wine　talking。　〃Calm　down。〃
　〃I　wasn't　talking　to　you；〃　Charlie　snaps。
　〃Maybe　he's　at　Taft's　house；〃　I　suggest。　〃Or　Taft's　office　on　campus。〃
　〃The　cops　will　find　him　when　they　need　to；〃　Gil　says；　face　hardening。　〃We　should　stay　out　of　this。〃
　Charlie　turns。　〃Two　of　us　are　already　in　this。〃
　Gil　scoffs。　〃Give　me　a　break；　Charlie。　Since　when　are　you　in　this？〃
　〃Not　me；　you　prick。　Tom　and　Paul。　There's　more　to　us　than　just　you。〃
　〃Don't　get　sanctimonious　on　me。　I'm　sick　of　you　butting　into　everyone　else's　problems。〃
　Charlie　leans　forward；　lifts　the　bottle　from　the　table；　and　throws　it　in　the　trash。　〃You've　had　enough。〃
　For　a　second　I'm　afraid　the　wine　is　going　to　make　Gil　say　something　we'll　all　regret。　But　after　glaring　at　Charlie；　he　rises　from　the　couch。　〃Christ；〃　he　says。　〃I'm　going　to　bed。〃
　I　watch　him　retreat　into　the　bedroom　without　another　word。　A　second　later；　the　light　beneath　the　door　falls　dark。
　Minutes　pass；　and　they　feel　like　hours。　I　try　the　Institute　again；　but　with　no　luck；　so　Charlie　and　I　sit　in　the　mon　room　for　the　duration；　neither　one　speaking。　My　mind　is　moving　too　quickly　to　make　sense　of　my　own　thoughts。　I　stare　out　the　window；　and　Stein's　voice　climbs　back　into　my　thoughts。
　I　get　these　phone　calls。　Pick　up　。　。　。　click。　Pick　up　。　。　。　click。
　Finally　Charlie　rises。　Finding　a　towel　in　the　closet；　he　starts　to　put　his　bathroom　caddy　in　order。　Without　a　word　he　heads　out　the　door　in　his　boxer　shorts。　The　men's　bathroom　is　down　the　hall；　and　there　are　half　a　dozen　upperclass　women　living　between　it　and　our　quad；　but　Charlie　marches　out　anyway；　towel　wrapped　around　his　neck　like　an　oxbow；　caddy　in　hand。
　Sitting　back　on　the　couch；　I　reach　for　today's　Daily　Princetonian。　To　distract　myself；　I　flip　through　the　pages；　searching　for　a　photo　credit　of　Katie's　somewhere　in　the　nether　corners　of　the　paper；　where　underclass　contributions　go　to　die。　I'm　always　curious　about　the　pictures　she　takes；　the　new　subjects　she　chooses；　the　ones　she　thinks　are　too　unimportant　to　mention。　After　dating　someone　long　enough；　you　start　to　imagine　she　sees　everything　the　same　way　you　do。　Katie's　photos　are　a　corrective；　a　glimpse　of　the　world　through　her　eyes。
　Before　long　a　sound　es　at　the　door；　Charlie　returning　from　the　shower。　But　when　a　key　strikes　in　the　outside　lock；　I　realize　it's　someone　else。　The　door　swings　open　and　it's　Paul　who　enters　the　room。　His　face　is　pale；　and　his　lips　are　blue　from　the　cold。
　〃Are　you　okay？〃　I　ask。
　Charlie　arrives　back　just　in　time。　〃Where　have　you　been？〃　he　demands。
　It　takes　us　fifteen　minutes　to　get　the　details　from　Paul；　given　his　state。　After　leaving　the　lecture；　he　went　to　the　Institute　and　searched　for　Bill　Stein　in　the　puter　lab　there。　An　hour　later；　when　Stein　failed　to　appear；　Paul　decided　to　go　back　to　the　dorm。　He　started　the　trip　in　his　car；　only　to　have　it　quit　at　a　stoplight　about　a　mile　from　campus；　then　he　had　to　walk　back　in　the　snow。
　The　rest　of　the　night；　he　says；　is　a　blur。　He　arrived　at　the　north　of　campus　to　find　police　cars　near　Bill's　office　at　Dickinson。　After　asking　enough　questions；　he　was　driven　to　the　medical　center；　where　someone　asked　him　to　identify　the　body。　Taft　showed　up　at　the　hospital　not　long　after；　giving　a　second　identification；　but　before　he　and　Paul　could　speak；　officers　separated　them　for　questioning。　The　police　wanted　to　know　about　his　relationship　with　Stein　and　Taft；　about　the　last　time　he　saw　Bill；　about　where　he　was　at　the　time　of　the　murder。　Paul　cooperated　in　a　daze。　When　they　finally　released　him；　they　asked　him　not　to　leave　campus；　and　said　they'd　be　in　touch。　Eventually　he　made　his　way　toward　Dod；　but　stayed　on　the　outside　steps　for　a　while；　just　wanting　to　be　alone。
　Finally；　we　discuss　the　conversation　we　had　with　Stein　in　the　Rare　Books　Room；　which　Paul　says　the　police　took　down　in　full。　As　he　talks　about　Bill；　about　how　agitated　Stein　was　at　the　library；　about　the　friend　he's　lost；　Paul　gives　little　sign　of　emotion。　He　still　hasn't　recovered　from　the　shock。
　〃Tom；〃　he　says　finally；　when　we're　back　in　our　bedroom；　〃I　need　a　favor。〃
　〃Of　course；〃　I　say。　〃Name　it。〃
　〃I　need　you　to　e　with　me。〃
　I　hesitate。　〃Where？〃
　〃The　art　museum。〃
　He's　changing　into　a　dry　set　of　clothes。
　〃Now？　Why？〃
　Paul　rubs　at　his　forehead；　working　out　an　ache。　〃I'll　explain　on　the　way。〃
　When　we　return　to　the　mon　room；　Charlie　looks　at　us　like　we've　lost　our　minds。　〃At　this　hour？〃　he　asks。　〃The　museum's　closed。〃
　〃I　know　what　I'm　doing；〃　Paul　says；　already　making　for　the　hallway。
　Charlie　gives　me　a　heavy　look；　but　says　nothing　as　I　follow　Paul　out　the　door。
　　
　The　art　museum　sits　like　an　old　Mediterranean　palace　across　the　courtyard　from　Dod。　From　the　front；　where　we　entered　a　few　hours　earlier；　it's　just　a　stumpy　modern　building　with　a　Picasso　sculpture　on　the　front　lawn　that　looks　like　a　glorified　birdbath。　When　you　approach　from　the　side；　though；　the　newer　elements　give　way　to　older　ones；　pretty　windows　in　little　Romanesque　arches；　and　red　roof…tiles　that　peek　out　beneath　tonight's　canopy　of　snow。　Under　different　circumstances；　the　view　from　here　would　be　charming。　Under　different　circumstances；　it　might　be　a　picture　Katie　would　take。
　〃What　are　we　doing？〃　I　ask。
　Paul　is　trudging　a　path　before　me　in　his　old　workman's　boots。
　〃I　found　what　Richard　thought　was　in　the　diary；〃　he　says。
　It　sounds　like　the　middle　of　a　thought　whose　beginning　he's　kept　to　himself。
　〃The　blueprint？〃
　He　shakes　his　head。　〃I'll　show　you　when　we　get　inside。〃
　I'm　walking　in　his　footsteps　now　to　keep　the　snow　out　of　my　pant　legs。　My　eyes　keep　returning　to　his　boots。　Paul　worked　at　the　museum　loading　docks　our　freshman　summer；　moving　ining　and　outgoing　exhibits　onto　trucks。　The　boots　were　a　necessity　then；　but　tonight　they　leave　dirty　tracks　in　the　moon…white　of　the　courtyard。　He　looks　like　a　boy　in　men's　shoes。
　We　arrive　at　a　door　by　the　west　face　of　the　museum。　Beside　it　is　a　tiny　keypad。　Paul　dials　in　his　docent's　password　and　waits　to　see　if　it　works。　He　used　to　give　tours　at　the　art　museum；　but　finally　had　to　take　a　job　in　the　slide　library　because　the　docents　weren't　paid。
　To　my　surprise；　the　door　opens　with　a　beep　and　a　whisper　of　a　click。　I'm　so　used　to　the　medieval…sounding　bolts　of　the　dorm　doors；　I　almost　don't　hear　it。　He　leads　me　into　a　small　antechamber；　a　security　room　supervised　by　a　guard　behind　a　plate…glass　window；　and　suddenly　I　feel　trapped。　After　signing　a　visitation　form　on　a　clipboard；　though；　and　pressing　our　university　IDs　against　the　glass；　we're　cleared　to　enter　the　docent's　library　beyond　the　next　door。
　〃That's　it？〃　I　say；　expecting　more　of　a　shakedown　at　this　hour。
　Paul　points　to　a　video　camera　on　the　wall；　but　says　nothing。
　The　docent's　library　is　unimpressive…a　few　shelves　of　art　history　books　donated　by　other　guides　to　help　prepare　for　tours…but　Paul　continues　toward　an　elevator　around　the　corner。　A　large　sign　posted　on　the　sliding　metal　doors　says　FACULTY；　STAFF；　AND　SECURITY　ONLY。　STUDENTS　AND　DOCENTS　NOT　PERMITTED　WITHOUT　ESCORT。　The　words　students　and　docents　have　both　been　underlined　in　red。
　Paul　is　looking　somewhere　else。　He　pulls　a　key　ring　from　his　pocket　and　plugs　one　of　them　into　a　slot　in　the　wall。　When　he　turns　it　to　the　right；　the　metal　doors　slide　open。
　〃Where'd　you　get　that？〃
　He　leads　me　into　the　elevator；　then　presses　a　button。　〃My　job；〃　he　says。
　The　slide　library　gives　him　access　to　archival　rooms　in　the　museum。　He　is　so　careful　about　his　work　that　he　has　earned　almost　everyone's　trust。
　〃Where　are　we　going？〃　I　say。
　〃Up　to　the　image　room。　Where　Vincent　keeps　some　of　his　slide　carousels。〃
　The　elevator　discharges　us　on　the　main　floor　of　the　museum。　Paul　guides　me　across　it；　ignoring　the　paintings　he's　pointed　out　to　me　a　dozen　times　before…the　vast　Rubens　with　its　dark…browed　Jupiter；　the　unfinished　Death　of　Socrates　with　the　old　philosopher　reaching　for　his　cup　of　hemlock。　Only　when　we　pass　the　paintings　Curry　brought　for　the　trustees'　exhibit　do　Paul's　eyes　wander。
　We　reach　the　door　to　the　slide　library；　and　he　produces　the　keys　again。　One　of　them　shifts　quietly　into　place；　and　we　enter　the　darkness。
　〃Over　here；〃　he　says；　pointing　toward　an　aisle　of　shelves　lined　with　dusty　boxes。　Each　box　contains　a　slide　carousel。　Behind　another　locked　door；　in　a　large　room　I've　seen　only　once；　rests　much　of　the　university's　collection　of　art　slides。
　Paul　finds　the　set　of　boxes　he's　been　searching　for；　then　l