to do was go to the library

Dropping the magazine in a pants pocket, Ethan hurried back into his study. The apple of his eye. Fric. Fric must still be on the second floor, in the library, selecting a book to get him through the night. Okay. The thing to do was go to the library. Hustle the boy into the [562] nearest panic room. Tuck him away safely in that comfy, armored, self-contained vault. Then chase this situation to its source, find out what the hell was happening. He stepped out of his apartment, turned left in the west hall, and ran to the back stairs that earlier he had taken to the third floor and the white room.   Goofing, having more fun than the law allowed, proceeding at times with exaggerated stealth, in a crouch like a commando slipping through an enemy fortress, at other times strutting like Vin Diesel when he knows the script specifies that all bullets will miss him, Corky followed the north hall past the breakfast room, the butler’s pantry, the kitchen. He wished that it would have been practical to wear his yellow slicker and his droopy yellow hat. He would have enormously enjoyed seeing Truman’s amazed expression when confronted by a banana-bright assassin spitting death. In the west hall, the door to the security chief’s apartment stood open. At the sight of this, Corky at once grew more serious. With caution he approached the apartment. He stood with his back to the hallway wall, beside the open door, listening. When he crossed the threshold, he went in low and fast, holding the Glock in two hands, sweeping left to right, right to left. The study was deserted. Quickly but prudently, he searched the rest of the apartment and found no sign of his quarry. Returning to the front room, he noticed the contents of the six black boxes on the desk. Evidently, Truman was still trying to solve the riddle. Amusing. Lines of text on the computer screen drew his attention. Truman appeared to have stepped out in the middle of reading e-mail. [563] Indulging the curiosity that was such a fundamental part of him and that had served him remarkably well over the years, Corky spotted YORN at the end of the e-mail. William Yorn, the groundskeeper.