The Rule of Four

the phone and call the squad house. Charlie's on the line in a matter of seconds.

What's up, Tom?

Paul went to see Taft.

What? I thought he was going to talk to the dean about Stein.

We need to find him. Can you get someone to cover for y-

Before I can even finish, a muffled sound interrupts the call, and I hear Charlie talking to someone on the other end.

When did Paul leave? he says, returning to the line.

Ten minutes ago.

I'm on my way. We'll catch up to him.

Charlie's 1973 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia pulls up in back of Dod more than fifteen minutes later. The old car looks like a metal toad rusted in mid-hop. Before I've even lowered myself into the passenger seat, Charlie's got it in reverse.

What took you so long? I ask.

A reporter showed up at the squad room when I was leaving, he said. She wanted to talk to me about last night.

So?

Someone at the police department told her what Taft said in his interrogation. We pull onto Elm Drive, where little crests of slush give the asphalt a choppy surface, like ocean water at night. Didn't you tell me Taft knew Richard Curry a long time ago?

Yeah. Why?

Because he told the cops he only knew Curry through Paul.

Just as we enter north campus, I spot Paul in the courtyard between the library and the history department, walking toward McCosh.

Paul! I call out the window.

What are you doing? Charlie snaps at him, pulling up to the curb.

I solved it! Paul says, surprised to see us. The whole thing. I just need the blueprint. Tom, you're not going to believe this. It's the most amaz-

What? Tell me.

But Charlie isn't hearing any of it. You're not going to Taft's, he says.

You don't understand. It's done…

Charlie leans on the car horn, filling the courtyard with noise.

Listen to me, Charlie interrupts. Paul, get in the car. We're going home.

He's right, I say. You shouldn't have come out here alone.

I'm going to Vincent's, Paul says quietly, and begins walking in the direction of Taft's office. I know what I'm doing.

Charlie forces the car into reverse, keeping up with Paul. You think he's just going to give you what you want?

He called me, Charlie. That's what he said he was going to do.

He admitted he stole it from Curry? I ask. Why would he give you the blueprint now?

Paul, Charlie says, stopping the car. He's not giving you anything.

The way he says it, Paul stops.

Charlie lowers his voice and explains what he learned from the reporter. When the police asked Taft last night if he could think of anyone who might've done something like this to Stein, Taft said he could think of two people.

The expression on Paul's face starts to fade, the excitement of his discovery waning.

The first was Curry, Charlie says. The second was you. He pauses, letting the emphasis stand. So I don't care what the man told you over the phone. You need to stay away from him.

An old white pickup truck rumbles down the road past us, snow crunching beneath its tires.

Then help me, Paul says.

''We will. Charlie opens the door. We'll drive you home.

Paul tightens his coat around him. Help me by coming with me. After I get the blueprint from Vincent, I don't need him anymore.

Charlie stares. Are you even hearing us?

But there are sides to this that Charlie doesn't understand. He doesn't know what it means that Taft has been hiding the blueprint all along.

I'm this close to having it in my hands, Charlie, Paul says. All I have to do is stand up for what I've found. And you're telling me to go home?

Look, Charlie begins, I'm just saying we need to-

But I interrupt. Paul, we'll come with you.

What? Charlie says.

Come on. I open the passenger door.

Paul turns, not expecting this.

If he's going with or without us, I say to Charlie under my breath, leaning back into the car, then I'm going too.

Paul begins walking toward McCosh as Charlie considers his position.

Taft can't do anything if there are three of us, I say. You know that.

Charlie exhales slowly, sending a cloud of steam into the air. Finally he makes a space for the car in the snow and pulls the keys from the ignition.

The walk to Taft's office takes an eternity, pacing up to the gray edifice in the snow. The room lies in the bowels of McCosh, where the hallways are so cramped and the stairs are so steep, we have to descend single file. It's hard to believe Vincent Taft can breathe in here, let alone move. Even I get the sensation of being too big for the place. Charlie must feel like he's trapped.

I look back, just to make sure he's still there. The sight of him behind us, filling the doorways and covering our backs, gives me enough confidence to keep moving. I realize now what I was too bluff to admit before: if Charlie hadn't come with us, I couldn't have gone through with this.

Paul leads us down a final hallway, toward the single room at the end. Because of the weekend and the holiday, every other office is locked up and dark. Only beneath the white door bearing the placard of Taft's name do I see the rich glow of light. The paint on the door is chipped, curling over itself near the edge, where it closes into the jamb. On the bottom of the panel is a faint line of discoloration, the high-water mark of an old flood from the steam tunnels coiled just beneath the basement floor, a stain un-painted since Taft's arrival in the time before time.

Paul raises his hand to knock, when a voice comes from inside. You're late, Taft growls.

The knob squeaks when Paul turns it. I feel Charlie bump up against my back.

Go on, he whispers, pushing me forward.

Taft is sitting alone behind a great antique desk, sunken into a leather chair. He has thrown his tweed coat over the back of the chair, and with shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms, he is proofing manuscript pages with a red pen that looks tiny in his fist.

Why are they here? he demands.

Give me the blueprint, Paul says, coming right to the point.

Taft looks at Charlie, then at me. Sit down, he says, pointing toward a pair of chairs with two thick fingers.

I glance around, trying to ignore him. Wooden bookshelves line the tiny office on all sides, covering the white walls. Trails run through the dust on their surfaces where volumes have been dragged off to be read. There is a path worn in the carpet where Taft walks from the door to his desk.