The Rule of Four

With Paul's help, Curry is pushing himself to his feet. Suddenly, the man shoves Paul off and staggers into the hallway, pulling off his jacket.

Richard, Paul pleads, following.

Gil races back through the door and begins hosing the curtains with the extinguisher. But the fire is growing too quickly to be put out. Smoke rolls from the doorway along the ceiling.

Finally we retreat toward the door, forced out by the heat and smoke. I cover my mouth with my hand, feeling my lungs tighten. When I turn toward the stairs, I can make out Paul and Curry struggling through a thick cloud of black smoke, their voices rising.

I cry out Paul's name, but the bottles in the wet bar begin to explode, drowning out my voice. Gil is hit by the first wave of shards. I pull him out of the way, listening for a response from Paul.

Then, through the smoke, I hear it. Go, Tom! Get out!

The walls are sprayed with tiny reflections of fire. A bottleneck comes pitching into the air over the stairs; it hangs above us, spraying flames, then tumbles to the first floor.

For a second there is nothing. Then the glass lands in the pile of soaking rags, finding the whiskey and brandy and gin, and the floor flashes to life. From below come popping sounds, wood combusting, fire spreading. The front door is already blocked. Gil is bellowing into his cell phone, calling for help. The fire is rising toward the second floor. My mind seems lit with sparks, a white light when I close my eyes. I am floating, buoyed by the heat. Everything seems so slow, so heavy. Ceiling plaster crashes to the ground. The dance floor is shimmering like a mirage.

How do we get out? I shout.

The service stairway, Gil says. Upstairs.

Paul! I yell.

But there's no answer. I inch toward the stairs, and now their voices have disappeared. Paul and Curry are gone.

Paul! I bellow.

The blaze has swallowed up the Officers' Room and begins moving toward us. I feel a strange numbness in my thigh. Gil turns to me, pointing. My pant leg is torn open. Blood is running down the tuxedo fabric, black on black. He pulls off his jacket and ties it around the gash. The runnel of fire seems to close in around us, urging us up the stairs. The air is almost black.

Gil pushes me up toward the third floor. At the top, nothing is visible, only grades of shadow. A band of light glows beneath a door at the end of the hall. We move forward. The fire has come to the foot of the stairs, but seems to remain at bay.

Then I hear it. A high, collapsing moan, coming from inside the room.

The sound freezes us momentarily. Then Gil lunges forward and opens the door. When he does, the sensation of drunkenness from the ball returns to me. Bodily warmth, like the tingle of flight. Katie's touch on me, Katie's breath on me, Katie's lips on me.

Richard Curry stands arguing with Paul behind a long table at the far end of the room. There's an empty bottle in his hand. His head lolls on his shoulders, pouring blood. There is nothing but the smell of alcohol here, the remnants of a bottle poured over the table, a cabinet in the wall opened to reveal another stash of liquor, an old Ivy president's secret. The room is as long as the building's breadth, framed in silver by the moonlight. Shelves of books line the walls, with leather spines deep into the darkness beyond Curry's head. On the north-facing wall there are two windows. Puddles glisten everywhere.

Paul! Gil yells. He's blocking the service stairs, behind you.

Paul turns to look, but Curry's eyes are fixed on Gil and me. I'm paralyzed by the sight of him. The ridges of his face are so drawn that gravity seems to be pulling at him, dragging him down.

Richard, Paul says firmly, as if to a child, we all have to get out.

Move away, Gil shouts, stepping forward.

But as he does, Curry smashes the bottle on a table and lunges, swiping Gil's arm with the jagged bottleneck. Blood runs between Gil's fingers in black ribbons. He staggers back, watching the blood pour onto his arm. Seeing this, Paul sags against the wall.

Here, I call out, yanking the handkerchief from my pocket.

Gil moves slowly. When he pulls a hand away to take the cloth, I see how deep the cut is. Blood runs over the furrow as soon as the pressure is gone.

Go! I say, pulling him to the windows. Jump out! The bushes will break your fall.

But he is frozen, staring at the bottleneck in Curry's hands. Now the door to the library is quaking, hot air building on the other side. Tendrils of smoke are starting to stream in from beneath the door, and I can feel my eyes watering, my chest getting heavy.

Paul, I cry through the smoke. You have to get out!

Richard, Paul yells. Come on!

Let him go! I bellow at Curry-but now the fire is roaring to be let in. From beyond comes a terrible ripping sound, wood tearing under its own weight.

Suddenly Gil collapses onto the wall beside me. I rush to the window and open it, propping him against the frame, struggling to keep him upright.

Help Paul… Gil mumbles, the last thing he says to me before the life begins to fade from his eyes.

A frigid wind strikes through the room, kicking up snow from the bushes below. As gently as I can, I lift him into position. He looks angelic in the light, effortless even now. Staring down at the bloody handkerchief, clinging to his arm out of nothing but its own weight, I begin to feel everything dissolve around me. With one last look, I let go. In an instant, Gil is gone.

Tom, comes Paul's voice, so distant now that it seems to come from a cloud of smoke. Go.

I turn to see Paul struggling in Curry's arms, trying to pull him toward the window, but the old man is much stronger. He won't be moved. Curry shoves Paul toward the service stairs instead.

Jump! I hear below me, voices pouring up through the open window. Jump down!

Firefighters, spotting me inside.

But I turn back. Paul! I yell. Come on!

Go, Tom, I can hear him say, one last time. Please.

The words become distant too quickly, as if Curry has carried him down into the haze. The two of them are retreating into the ancient bonfires, wrestling like angels through the lifetimes of men.

Down is the final word I hear from inside the room, spoken in Curry's voice. Down.

And again, from outside: Hurry! Jump!

Paul, I scream, backing up toward the ledge of the window as the flames begin to corner me. Hot smoke presses like a fist against my chest. Across the room, the door to the service stairs swings shut. There is no one to be seen. I let myself fall.

Those are the last things I remember before the slush of snow engulfs me. Then there is only an explosion, like a sudden dawn at midnight. A gas pipe, bringing the entire building to its feet. And the soot begins to fall.

In the silence, I am shouting. To the firemen. To Gil. To anyone who will listen. I have seen it, I am shouting: Richard Curry, opening the entrance to the service stairs, pulling Paul away.

Listen to me.

And at first, they do. Two firemen, hearing me, approach the building. A medic is beside me, trying to