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.
We dart through the corridor to the dark cellar stairs, when a rush of cold descends from overhead. Two campus police officers have arrived at the foot of the steps on the ground floor above us.
Stay right there! one of them calls down the narrow staircase.
We stop short.
Campus police! Don 'f move!
Paul is looking over my shoulder toward the far end of the hall, clutching the papers in his left hand.
Do what they say, Charlie tells him.
But I know what's caught Paul's eye. There's a janitor's closet down there. Inside is an entrance to the tunnels.
It's not safe down there, Charlie says under his breath, edging toward Paul to keep him from running. They're doing construct
The proctors mistake the movement for flight, and one comes barreling down the stairs, just as Paul makes for the door.
Stop! the proctor cries. Don't go in there!
But Paul is already at the entrance, pulling the wood panel open. He disappears inside.
Charlie doesn't hesitate. Before either of the cops knows it, he's two steps ahead, moving fast toward the door. I hear a thud as he jumps to the tunnel floor, trying to stop Paul. Then his voice, shouting Paul's name, echoes up from below.
Come out! the proctor booms, nudging me forward.
The officer leans in and calls again, but only silence follows.
Call it in the first one begins to say, when a thunderous noise conies roaring up from the tunnels, and the boiler room beside us begins to hiss. Immediately I know what's happened: a steam pipe has burst. And now I can hear Charlie screaming.
In an instant, I'm at the threshold of the janitor's closet. The manhole is pure darkness, so I take a wild leap. When I hit the ground, adrenaline is forking through me, live as lightning, and the pain from landing fades before it spreads. I force myself up. Charlie is moaning in the distance, leading me toward him, even as the proctor yells overhead. One of the officers has the sense to realize what's going on.
We're calling an ambulance, he calls into the tunnel. Can you hear me?
I'm moving through a soupy mist. The heat intensifies, but the only thing on my mind is Charlie. For seconds at a time the hiss of the pipe drowns out everything else.
Charlie's groans are clearer now. I push forward, trying to get to him. Finally, at a turn in the pipes, I find him. He's buckled over himself, motionless. His clothes are ragged, and his hair is matted to his head. In the distance, as my eyes adjust, I can see a gaping hole in a barrel-size pipe near the floor.
Hum, Charlie groans.
I don't understand.
Hum
I realize he's trying to say my name. His chest is soaked. The steam hit him right in the gut. Can you stand? I ask, trying to put his arm around my shoulder. Hum he mumbles, losing consciousness.
Clenching my teeth, I try lifting him, but it's like trying to move a mountain.
Come on, Charlie, I plead, jerking him up a little. Don't fade on me.
But I sense I'm talking to less and less of him. There's more and more dead weight.
Help! I bark into the distance. Please help me!
There are gashes in his shirt where the pressure shredded the fabric, soaking him to the skin. I can hardly feel him breathing.
Mmm he gurgles, trying to curl a finger around my hand.