She pulls a steno pad from her jacket pocket. Do you know Vincent Taft?
Sort of, I say, sensing something bigger on the horizon.
Did you go to his office earlier today?
Pressure is building in my temples. Why?
Did you get into a fight with him?
I wouldn't call it a fight.
She makes a note.
Were you and your roommate in the museum last night? she asks, rummaging through a file in her hand.
The question seems to have a thousand outcomes. I think back. Paul covered his hands with his shirt cuffs when he touched Stein's letters. No one could've seen our faces in the dark.
No.
The detective rolls her lips, the way some women even their lipstick. I can't read her body language. Finally, she produces a sheet of paper from the folder and passes it to me. It's a photocopy of the log-in sheet Pad and I signed for the museum guard. The date and time are stamped beside each entry.
How did you get into the museum library?
Paul had the punch code, I say, giving up. He got it from Bill Stein.
Stein's desk was part of our crime scene. What were you looking for?
I don't know.
The detective gives me a sympathetic look. I think your friend Paul, she says, is getting you into more trouble than you realize.
I wait for her to give it a name, something legal, but she doesn't. Instead she says, It's your name on this security sheet, isn't it? She lifts the paper, taking it back. And you're the one who assaulted Dr. Taft.
I didn't
Odd, that your friend Charlie was the one who tried to resuscitate William Stein.
Charlie's a medic
But where was Paul Harris?
For a moment the facade disappears. A curtain rises over her eyes, and the gentle matron is gone.
You need to start looking out for yourself, Tom.
I can't tell if it's a threat or a caution.
Your friend Charlie is in the same boat, she says. If he pulls through this. She waits, letting it sink in. Just tell me the truth.
I did.
Paul Harris left the auditorium before Dr. Taft's lecture was over.
Yes.
He knew where Stein's office was.
They worked together. Yes.
It was his idea to break into the art museum?
He had keys. We didn't break in.
And it was his idea to go through Stein's desk.
I know better than to keep responding. There are no right answers now.
He ran from the campus police outside of Dr. Taft's office, Tom. Why would he do that?
But she wouldn't understand, and doesn't want to. I know where this is heading, but all I can think of is what she said about Charlie.
If he pulls through this.
He's a straight-A student, Tom. That's his identity here. Then Dr. Taft found out about the plagiarism. Who do you suppose told Taft?
Brick by brick, as if it's just a matter of building a wall between friends.
William Stein, she says, knowing I've passed the point of helping her. Imagine how Paul felt. How angry would he have been?
Suddenly a knock comes at the door. Before either of us can say a word, it swings open.
Detective? says another officer.
What is it?
There's someone out here to talk to you.
Who?
He glances down at a card in his hand. A dean from the college,
The detective remains seated for a second, then rises toward the door.
There's a tight silence after she leaves. After long enough, when she doesn't return, I sit up in bed, looking around for my shirt. I've had enough of hospitals, and I'm well enough to nurse this arm myself. I want to see Charlie; I want to know what they've said to Paul. My jacket is hanging from the coatrack, and I begin to shift my weight gingerly to get out of bed.
Just then, the knob shifts and the door swishes open. Detective Gwynn returns.
You're free to go, she says abruptly, The dean's office will be contacting you.
I can only wonder what happened out there. The woman hands me her card and looks at me closely. But I want you to think about what I said, Tom.
I nod.
There seems to be something more she'd like to add, but she holds her tongue. Without another word, she turns around and leaves.
When the door shuts, another hand reaches in to push it open. I freeze, waiting for the dean to enter. But this time it's a friendly face. Gil has arrived, and he's bearing gifts. In his left hand is exactly what I need right now: a clean change of clothes.
You okay? he asks.
Yeah. What's going on?
I got a call from Will Clay. He told me what happened. How's your shoulder?
Fine. Did he say anything about Charlie?
A little bit.
Is he okay?
Better than when he got here.
There's something to the way Gil says it.
What's wrong? I ask.
Nothing, Gil says finally. The cops talked to you?
Yeah. Paul too. Did you see him out there?
He's in the waiting room. Richard Curry's with him.
I fumble out of bed. He is? Why?
Gil shrugs, eyeing the hospital food. Need some help?
With what?
Getting dressed.
I'm not sure if he's kidding. I think I can handle it.
He smiles as I struggle to peel off the hospital gown. Let's check on Charlie, I say, getting used to my own feet again.
But now he hesitates.
What's wrong?
An odd look comes over him, embarrassed and angry at the same time.
He and I got into it pretty deep last night, Tom.
I know.
I mean after you and Paul left. I said some things I shouldn't have.
I remember how clean the room was this morning. This is why Charlie didn't sleep.
It doesn't matter, I say. Let's go see him.
He wouldn't want to see me right now.
Of course he would.
Gil runs a finger beneath his nose, then says, The doctors don't want him disturbed, anyway. I'll come back later.
He pulls his keys out of his pocket and there's something sad in his eyes. Finally, he puts a hand on the doorknob.
Give me a call at Ivy if you need anything, he says, and when the door slides open, silent on its hinges, he steps out into the hallway.
The officer is gone, and even the old woman in her wheelchair is nowhere to be seen. Someone has taken the yellow sandwich board away. I wait for Gil to look back, but he doesn't. Before I can say another word, he turns the corner toward the exit and is gone.
Charlie described to me once what epidemics did to human relationships in past centuries, how diseases made men shun the infected and fear the healthy, until parents and children wouldn't sit at the same table with each other, and the whole body politic began to rot. You don't get sick if you stay to yourself, I told him, sympathizing with those who took to the hills. Then Charlie looked at me, and in ten words made the best argument in favor of doctors that I've ever heard, which I think applies equally well to friendships. Maybe not, he said. But you don't get well that way either.
The feeling I got watching Gil leave-the one that made me think of what Charlie said-is the same one I feel as I walk into the waiting room and find Paul sitting by himself: we are each alone in this now, and for the worse. Paul cuts an odd figure there, solitary in a row of white plastic seats, holding his head as he stares at the floor. It's a pose he always strikes when he's deep in thought, leaning over with his fingers wrapped behind the base of his skull, both elbows on his knees. More nights than I can remember, I've woken up to find him sitting at his desk that way, a pen between his fingers, an old lamp casting light over the pages of his notebook.
My first instinct, thinking of that, is to ask him what he found in the diary. Even after everything that's happened, I want to know; I want to help; I want to remind him of an old partnership so that he doesn't feel alone. But seeing him bent over the way he is, fighting with himself over an idea, I know better. I have to remember how he slaved over his thesis after I left, how many mornings he came to breakfast with red eyes, how many nights we brought him cups of black coffee from the WaWa. If someone could count the sacrifices he made for Colonna's book, put a number to them the way a prisoner scratches marks on a wall, they would dwarf what little sweat of mine I've added to the balance. Partnership is what he wanted months ago, when I refused to give it. All I can offer now is my company.