The Rule of Four

Sit, Taft repeats.

Paul is about to refuse, when Charlie nudges him into the chair, wanting to get this over with.

Taft balls a rag in his hand and wipes his mouth with it. Tom Sullivan, he says, the resemblance finally occurring to him.

I nod, but say nothing. There's an old pillory on the wall above his head, mounted with its jaws open. The only hint of light or color in the room is the red morocco of book bindings and the gold of gilt pages.

Leave him alone, Paul says, sitting forward. Where's the blueprint?

I'm surprised how strong he sounds.

Taft tuts, bringing a cup of tea to his mouth. There's an unpleasant look in his eyes, as if he's waiting for one of us to put up a fight. Finally, he rises from the leather chair, forces the sleeves of his shirt up higher, and plods over to a space in the bookshelves where a safe has been built into the wall.

He spins the combination with a hairy hand, then pulls the lever and swings the door on its hinges. Reaching inside, he produces a leather notebook.

Is that it? Paul says faintly.

When Taft opens it and hands something to Paul, though, it's only a typed piece of Institute stationery, dated two weeks ago.

I want you to know where things stand, Taft says. Read it.

When I see the effect the paper has on Paul, I lean over to read it as well.

Dean Meadows:

Pursuant to our conversation of 12 March regarding Paul Harris, herewith the additional information you requested. As you know, Mr. Harris petitioned for several extensions, and has been highly secretive concerning the content of his work. Only when, at my insistence, he submitted a final progress report last week, did I understand why. Enclosed phase find a copy of my upcoming article, Unveiling the Mystery: Francesco Colonna and the Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, tentatively scheduled for fall publication in Renaissance Quarterly. Also enclosed is a copy of Mr. Harris's progress report, for the purposes of comparison. Please contact me with any further inquiries.

Sincerely,

Dr. Vincent Taft

We're speechless.

The ogre turns to Charlie and me. I've worked on this for thirty years, he says, a strange evenness in his voice. Now the results don't even bear my name. You have never been grateful to me, Paul. Not when I introduced you to Steven Gelbman. Not when you received special access to the Rare Books Room. Not even when I granted you multiple extensions on your ineffectual work. Never.

Paul is too stunned to respond.

I won't have you take this from me, Taft continues. I've waited too long.

They have my other progress reports, Paul stutters. They have Bill's records.

They've never seen a progress report from you, Taft says, opening a drawer and pulling out a sheaf of forms. And they certainly don't have Bill's records.

They'll know it wasn't yours. You haven't published anything on Francesco in twenty-five years. You don't even work on the Hypnerotomachia anymore.

Taft pulls at his beard. Renaissance Quarterly has seen three preliminary drafts of my article. And I've received several calls of congratulation on my lecture last night.

Remembering the dates on Stein's letters, I see the long provenance of this idea, the months of suspicion between Stein and Taft over who would steal Paul's research first.

But he has his conclusions, I say, when it doesn't seem to dawn on Paul. He hasn't told anyone.

I expect Taft to react badly, but he seems amused. Conclusions so soon, Paul? he says. To what do we attribute this sudden success? He knows about the diary. You let Bill find it, Paul says. You still don't know what he found, I insist.

And you, Taft says, turning to me, are as deluded as your father was. If a boy can puzzle out the meaning of that diary, you think I can't? Paul is dazed, eyes darting around the room. My father thought you were a fool, I say.

Your father died waiting for a Muse to whisper in his ear. He laughs. Scholarship is rigor, not inspiration. He never listened to me, and he suffered for it.

He was right about that book. You were wrong.

Hatred dances in Taft's eyes. I know what he did, boy. You shouldn't be so proud.

I glance over at Paul, not understanding, but he's taken several steps away from the desk, toward the bookshelf.

Taft leans forward. Can you blame him? Failed, disgraced. The rejection of his book was the coup de grace. I turn back, thunderstruck.

And he did it with his own son in the car, Taft continues. How pregnant.

It was an accident… I say.

Taft smiles, and there are a thousand teeth in it.

I step toward him. Charlie puts a hand against my chest, but I shake it off. Taft slowly rises from his chair.

You did it to him, I say, vaguely aware that I'm shouting. Charlie's hand is on me again, but I pull away, stepping forward until the edge of the desk is knifing into my scar.

Taft turns the corner, bringing himself into reach.

He's goading you, Tom, Paul says quietly, from across the room.

He did it to himself, Taft says.

And the last thing I remember, before pushing him as hard as I can, is the smile on his face. He falls, the weight of him collapsing onto itself, and there is a thunder I feel in the floorboards. Everything seems to splinter, voices shouting, sights blurring, and Charlie's hands are on me again, yanking me back.

Come on, he says.

I try to jerk free, but Charlie's grip is stronger.

Come on, he repeats to Paul, who's still staring at Taft on the floor.

But it's too late. Taft staggers to his feet, then lumbers toward me.

Stay away from him, Charlie says, extending a hand in Taft's direction.

Taft glares at me from across the span of Charlie's arms. Paul is looking around the room, oblivious to them, searching for something. Finally, Taft's senses return and he reaches for the phone.

A stab of fear registers on Charlie's face. Let's go, he says, stepping back.''Now.

Taft punches three numbers, ones Charlie has seen too often to mistake. Police, he says, staring directly at me. Please come immediately. Pm being attacked in my office.

Charlie is pushing me out the door. Go, he says.

Just then, Paul darts over to the open safe and pulls out the balance of what remains inside. Then he starts pulling papers and books from the shelves, uprooting bookends, turning over everything in his reach. When he's got a pile of Taft's papers in hand, he backs away and dashes out the door, without so much as a glance at Charlie or me.

We bolt after him. The last thing I hear from the office is the sound of Taft on the phone, announcing our names to the police. His voice carries through the open door, echoing down the hallway.