iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第35部分

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mail　over　there　is　unreliable；　and　I'd　prefer　to　straighten　this　out　ASAP。　…B。
　The　reply；　in　a　different　pen　and　a　different　hand；　has　been　written　on　the　bottom　of　the　original　letter　and　sent　back。　There　are　two　telephone　numbers；　one　preceded　by　the　letter　F；　the　other　by　an　R。　A　final　note　is　jotted　afterward：
　As　requested。　Call　after　business　hours；　my　time。　What　about　Paul？　…Richard。
　Paul　is　speechless。　He　rifles　through　the　papers　again；　but　there's　nothing　else。　When　I　try　to　console　him；　he　motions　me　off。
　〃We　should　tell　the　dean；〃　I　say　finally。
　〃Tell　him　what？　That　we　were　going　through　Bill's　stuff？〃
　Suddenly；　a　bright　reflection　curves　along　the　opposite　wall；　followed　by　colored　lights　flashing　through　the　sheet…glass　windows。　A　police　car　has　arrived　in　the　front　courtyard　of　the　museum；　siren　mute。　Two　officers　emerge。　The　red　and　blue　lights　go　dead　just　as　a　second　squad　car　arrives　and　two　more　officers　follow。
　〃Someone　must've　told　them　we　were　here；〃　I　say。
　The　note　from　Curry　shakes　in　Paul's　hand。　He's　standing　in　place；　watching　the　dark　forms　hurry　toward　the　main　entrance。
　〃e　on。〃　I　yank　him　toward　the　bookshelves　by　the　rear　exit。
　Just　then；　the　front　door　to　the　library　opens　and　the　beam　of　a　flashlight　lances　across　the　room。　We　duck　into　a　corner。　Both　officers　enter　the　room。
　〃Over　there；〃　the　first　officer　says；　gesturing　in　our　direction。
　I　grab　the　knob　and　press　the　back　door　open。　Paul　ducks　into　the　hallway　as　the　first　policeman　nears。　On　my　haunches；　I　clamber　out　and　regain　my　feet。　We　slide　with　our　backs　to　the　wall；　and　Paul　leads　us　to　the　stairs；　racing　toward　the　ground　floor。　When　we　return　to　the　open　space　of　the　main　hall；　I　can　see　a　flashlight　skirting　a　nearby　wall。
　〃Downstairs；〃　Paul　says。　〃There's　a　service　elevator。〃
　We　enter　the　Asian　wing　of　the　museum。　Sculptures　and　vases　sit　behind　ghostly　walls　of　glass。　Chinese　scrolls　lie　unraveled　and　mounted　beside　tomb　figures　in　display　cabinets。　The　room　is　a　murky　shade　of　green。
　〃This　way；〃　Paul　urges　as　the　footsteps　e　closer。
　He　leads　me　around　a　corner；　back　into　a　dead　end；　where　the　only　exit　is　the　large　pair　of　metal　doors　to　the　service　elevator。
　Voices　grow　louder。　I　can　make　out　two　policemen　standing　at　the　foot　of　the　stairs；　trying　to　find　their　way　around　in　the　dark。　Suddenly　the　entire　floor　is　illuminated。
　〃We　got　lights　。　。　。〃　es　the　voice　of　a　third。
　Paul　forces　his　key　into　the　slot　on　the　wall。　When　the　elevator　doors　part；　he　pulls　me　in。　A　barrage　of　footsteps　follows；　moving　in　our　direction。
　〃e　on；　e　on　。　。　。〃
　The　doors　remain　open。　For　a　second　I　think　they've　cut　the　power　to　the　elevator。　Then；　just　as　the　first　officer　turns　the　corner；　the　metal　walls　slide　shut。　A　hand　beats　against　the　doors　when　the　officer　catches　up；　but　the　sound　fades　as　the　cabin　begins　to　move。
　〃Where　are　we　going？〃　I　ask。
　〃Out　the　loading　docks；〃　Paul　says；　trying　to　catch　his　breath。
　We　exit　into　a　holding　area　of　some　kind；　and　Paul　forces　open　the　door　leading　into　a　huge；　cold　room。　I　wait　for　my　eyes　to　adjust。　The　garage　doors　of　the　loading　bays　loom　before　us。　The　wind　outside　is　so　close；　it's　making　the　metal　panels　tremble。　I　imagine　footsteps　racing　downstairs　in　our　direction；　but　nothing　is　audible　through　the　thick　door。
　Paul　rushes　over　to　a　switch　on　the　wall。　When　he　turns　the　knob；　an　engine　stirs　and　the　retractable　loading　door　begins　to　budge。
　〃That's　enough；〃　I　say；　once　the　opening　is　big　enough　to　admit　both　of　us　on　our　backs。
　But　Paul　shakes　his　head　and　the　door　continues　to　rise。
　〃What　are　you　doing？〃
　The　gap　between　the　floor　and　the　bottom　of　the　door　increases　until　it　brings　the　entire　vista　of　south　campus　into　view。　For　a　second　I'm　stopped　short　by　how　beautiful　it　is；　how　empty。
　Suddenly　Paul　turns　the　motor　knob　in　the　opposite　direction　and　the　door　starts　to　roll　shut。
　〃Go！〃　he　cries。
　He　darts　from　the　wall　toward　the　open　bay；　and　I　fumble；　trying　to　get　on　my　back。　Paul　is　already　in　front　of　me。　He　rolls　beneath　the　door；　then　pulls　me　out　just　before　the　metal　connects　with　the　ground。
　I　stand　up；　trying　to　catch　my　breath。　When　I　begin　moving　in　the　direction　of　Dod；　Paul　jerks　me　back。
　〃They'll　see　us　from　upstairs。〃　He　points　to　the　windows　on　the　west　side　of　the　building。　After　scanning　the　path　to　our　east；　he　says；　〃This　way。〃
　〃Are　you　okay？〃　I　ask；　following。
　He　bobs　his　head　and　we　trudge　into　the　night；　away　from　our　quad　and　out　of　their　sight　lines。　I　can　feel　the　wind　beneath　my　coat　collar；　cooling　the　sweat　on　my　neck。　When　I　look　back；　Dod　and　Brown　Hall　are　almost　purely　dark；　as　is　every　dormitory　in　the　distance。　Night　has　reached　all　corners　of　campus。　Only　the　windows　at　the　art　museum　are　shot　with　light。
　　
　We　continue　east　through　Prospect　Gardens；　a　botanical　wonderland　in　the　heart　of　campus。　The　tiny　spring　plantings　are　dashed　with　white；　almost　invisible　underfoot；　but　the　American　beech　and　the　cedar　of　Lebanon　stand　like　guardian　angels　above　them；　arms　outstretched　to　shoulder　the　snow。　A　police　car　patrols　one　of　the　side　streets；　and　we　pick　up　our　pace。
　My　thoughts　are　jumpy；　my　mind　working　to　understand　what　we've　seen。　Maybe　it　was　Taft　we　saw　at　Stein's　desk；　rifling　through　his　papers；　erasing　any　connection　between　them。　Maybe　he　called　the　police　on　us。　I　look　over　at　Paul；　wondering　if　the　same　thought　has　crossed　his　mind；　but　his　expression　is　blank。
　In　the　distance；　the　new　music　department　shows　signs　of　life。
　〃We　can　go　in　there　for　a　while；〃　I　suggest。
　〃Where？〃
　〃The　practice　rooms　in　the　basement。　Until　we're　clear。〃
　Stray　notes　float　in　the　air　as　we　near。　Night…owl　musicians　e　to　Woolworth　to　rehearse　in　private。　Down　toward　Prospect；　another　campus　police　car　skids　by；　splashing　slush　and　rock　salt　onto　the　curb。　I　force　myself　to　walk　faster。
　Construction　on　Woolworth　has　only　recently　finished；　and　the　building　that　emerged　from　the　scaffolding　is　a　curious　thing；　fortresslike　from　the　outside　but　glassy　and　fragile…looking　from　within。　Its　atrium　curves　like　a　river　through　the　music　library　and　classrooms　on　the　ground　floor；　rising　three　stories　to　skylights　above。　The　wind　howls　jealously　around　it。　Paul　unlocks　the　entrance　to　the　building　with　his　ID　card；　holding　the　door　as　I　pass　through。
　〃Which　way？〃　he　asks。
　I　lead　him　to　the　nearest　staircase。　Gil　and　I　have　been　here　twice　since　the　building　was　opened；　both　times　after　drinks　on　a　slow　Saturday　night。　His　father's　second　wife　insisted　that　Gil　learn　to　play　something　by　Duke　Ellington；　the　same　way　my　father　insisted　that　I　learn　something　by　Arcangelo　Corelli；　and　between　us　we　have　eight　years　of　lessons　and　almost　nothing　to　show　for　it。　Thumping　our　bottles　on　the　top　of　an　old　baby　grand；　Gil　would　bungle　〃　'A'　Train；〃　I　would　butcher　〃La　Follia；〃　and　we　would　pretend　to　keep　a　beat　that　neither　of　us　had　ever　learned。
　Paul　and　I　pad　down　the　basement　hallway；　to　find　that　only　one　piano　is　still　at　work。　Someone　in　a　distant　practice　room　is　playing　〃Rhapsody　in　Blue。〃　We　slip　into　a　small；　soundproof　studio；　and　Paul　edges　behind　the　upright　piano；　taking　a　seat　on　the　stool。　He　looks　at　the　keys　of　the　piano；　mysterious　as　puter　keys　to　him；　and　doesn't　touch　them。　The　overhead　light　sputters　for　a　second；　then　goes　dead。　It's　just　as　well。
　〃I　can't　believe　it；〃　he　says　finally；　taking　a　deep　breath。
　〃Why　would　they　do　it？〃　I　ask。
　Paul　runs　his　index　finger　across　a　key；　scratching　at　the　ebony。　When　he　seems　not　to　hear　the　question；　I　repeat　myself。
　〃What　do　you　want　me　to　say；　Tom？〃
　〃Maybe　this　is　why　Stein　wanted　to　help　in　the　first　place。〃
　〃When？　Tonight　with　the　diary？〃
　〃Months　ago。〃
　〃You　mean；　when　you　stopped　working　on　the　Hypnerotomachia？〃
　The　chronology　is　a　jab；　a　reminder　that　Stein's　involvement　traces　ultimately　back　to　me。
　〃You　think　this　is　my　fault？〃
　〃No；〃　Paul　says　quietly。　〃Of　course　not。〃
　But　the　accusation　hangs　in　the　air。　The　map　of　Rome；　like　the　diary；　has　reminded　me　of　what　I　left　behind；　how　much　progress　we　made　before　I　left；　how　much　I　enjoyed　it。　I　look　at　my　hands；　curled　up　in　my　lap。　It　was　my　father　who　said　I　had　lazy　hands。　Five　years　of　lessons　hadn't　produced　a　single　presentable　Corelli　sonata；　that's　when　he　started　pushing　basketball　instead。
　The　strong　take　from　the　weak；　Thomas；　but　the　smart　take　from　the　strong。
　〃What　about　the　note　to　Curry？〃　I　say；　fixing　on　the　back　of　the　piano。　The　wood　is　unvarnished　and　raw　along　the　entire　side；　where　the　upright　is　supposed　to　face　a　wall。　It　strikes　me　as　a　strange　economy；　like　a　professor　who　doesn't　brush　the　back　of　his　hair　because　he　can't　see　it　in　the　mirror。　My　father　used　to　do　that。　It　was　a　defect　of　perspective；　I　always　thought…the　mistake　of　someone　who　could　only　see　the　world　one　way。　His　students　must　have　noticed　it　as　often　as　I　did。　Every　time　he　turned　his　back　on　them。
　〃Richard　would　never　try　to　take　something　from　me；〃　Paul　says；　biting　at　a　nail。　〃We　must've　missed　something。〃
　A　hush　settles　in。　The　practice　room　is　warm；　and　when　we're　both　quiet　there's