The Rule of Four

He just went off. Someone called him a dipso and he went crazy.

Veronica Terry is holding up the ruffled skirts of her white dress, now fringed in pink and spattered with wine. They've been teasing him all night, she cries.

For God's sake, Gil demands, how'd you let him get that drunk?

She looks at him blankly, expecting pity, getting fury. Partygoers nearby whisper to each other, holding back satisfied smiles.

Brooks is telling an attendant to raise the bar and restock the shelves from the wine cellar, while Donald Morgan, looking newly presidential, tries to calm Parker amidst the hecklers. From the crowd come coos of Lush! and Drunk! and worse. Laughter at the edges of insult. Parker is across the room from me, cut in half a dozen places by the shrapnel of upturned bottles, standing in a great puddle of mixed drinks like a child, mashing out the lees. When he finally turns on Donald, he is full of rage.

Katie covers her mouth as it unfolds. Parker lunges at Donald, and the two topple over onto the floor, wrestling at first, then hammering each other with fists. Here is the show everyone has been waiting to see, Parker's comeuppance for a million petty offenses, justice for what he did on the third floor, violence to end two years of mounting hatred. A server comes out with a flat-faced mop, creating the spectacle at the fight's edge of a man shoveling liquid. On the hardwood floor the currents of wine and liquor careen past each other, reflecting off the oak walls, and not a drop is absorbed by anything, not mop nor carpet nor even tuxedo, as the two men continue to fight, a great throb of black arms and legs, an insect trying to right itself before drowning.

Let's go, Gil says, leading us around the brawl that is now someone else's mess.

Paul and I follow him, wordless, sloshing through the wake of bourbon and brandy and wine.

The roads we travel are thin black stitches on a great white gown. The Saab is surefooted, even with Gil leaning on the gas and the wind shrieking around us. On Nassau Street two cars have slammed into each other, lights flashing, drivers shouting, shadows flickering against a pair of tow trucks on the curb. A proctor emerges from the security kiosk at the north of campus, pink in the haze of safety flares, gesturing to us that the entrance is closed-but Paul is already navigating us away from campus, westward. Gil throws the gearshift into third, then fourth, passing roads in streaks.

Show him the letter, Gil says.

Paul pulls something from inside his coat and hands it back to me in the rear seat.

What's this?

The envelope is torn open across the top, but the upper-left corner bears the imprint of the Dean of Students.

It was in our mailbox tonight, Gil says.

Mr. Harris:

This letter serves to notify you that my office is conducting an investigation into allegations of plagiarism lodged against you by your senior thesis advisor, Dr. Vincent Taft. Due to the nature of the allegations, and their effect on your graduation, a special meeting of the Committee on Discipline will convene next week to consider your case and render a decision. Please contact me to arrange a preliminary meeting and to confirm receipt of this letter.

Sincerely,

Marshall Meadows

Associate Dean of Undergraduate Students

He knew what he was doing, Paul says, when I've finished reading.

Who?

Vincent. This morning.

Threatening you with the letter?

He knew he had nothing on me. So he started in on your dad.

I can hear it in his voice, the accusation sneaking in. Everything returns to the moment I pushed Taft.

You're the one who ran, I say under my breath.

Slush sprays the undercarriage of the car as the suspension dances over a pothole.

I'm the one who called the police too, he says.

What?

That's why the police took Vincent in, he says. I told them I saw Vincent near Dickinson when Bill was shot.

You lied to them.

I'm waiting for Gil to react, but he keeps his eyes on the road. Staring at the back of Paul's head, I have the strange sensation of looking at myself from behind, of being inside my father's car again.

Is this it? Gil says.

The houses before us are fashioned in white clapboard. At Taft's address, all windows are unlit. Just beyond them stands the tree line of the Institute woods, its canopy tinseled in white.

He's still at the police station, Paul says, almost to himself. The lights are off.

Jesus, Paul, I say. How do even you know the blueprint is here?

It's the only other place he could've hidden it.

Gil doesn't even hear us. Shaken by the sight of Taft's house, he lightens pressure on the brakes, letting us roll in neutral, prepared to go back. Just as his foot begins to engage the clutch, though, Paul yanks the door handle and stumbles out onto the curb.

Damn it. Gil brings the Saab to a halt and gets out. Paul!

The wind hisses around the door as he opens it, muffling his words. I can see Paul mouth something to us, pointing at the house. He begins hiking toward it in the snow.

Paul… I get out of the car, trying to keep my voice at a whisper.

A light in the neighboring house comes on, but Paul pays no attention. He paces up to Taft's front porch and puts his ear to the door, gently rapping.

The wind whips through the columns of the facade, licking puffs of snow from the eaves. The window next door goes black. When Paul gets no answer, he tries to turn the knob, but the lock holds fast.

What do we do? Gil says, beside him.

Paul knocks again, then pulls a ring of keys from his pocket and cradles one into the slot. Putting a shoulder into the wood, he sweeps the door forward. Hinges squeal.

We can't do this, I say as I walk toward them, trying for some authority.

But Paul is already inside, scanning the first floor. Without a word, he's deep into the house.

Vincent? comes his voice, feeling out the darkness. Vincent, are you here?

The words become distant. I hear feet on a staircase, then nothing.

Where'd he go? Gil says, moving toward me.

There is an odd odor in here, distant but strong. The wind comes at our backs, snapping our jackets, making the fingers of Gil's hair twist in the up-draft. I turn and shut the door behind us. Gil's cell phone begins to ring.