“Why, Arthur? Tell me why.” No greeting other than this.
A pause. Arthur’s breathing.
And even though years had passed since the transgression his cousin knew immediately what he was referring to. No interest in how Rhyme had found out. No interest in denying or feigning ignorance or innocence.
His response: to go on the offensive. He’d blustered angrily, “All right, you want to know the answer, Lincoln? I’ll tell you. The prize at Christmas.”
Mystified, Rhyme had asked, “The prize?”
“That my father gave you in the contest at the Christmas Eve party when we were seniors.”
“The concrete? From the Stagg Field stadium?” Rhyme had frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?” There had to be more to it than winning a souvenir of significance to only a handful of people in the world.
“I deserved it!” His cousin had raged, acting as if he were the victim. “Father named me after the man in charge of the atomic project. I knew he’d kept the memento. I knew he was going to give it to me when I graduated from high school or college. It was going to be my graduation present! I’d wanted it for years!”
Rhyme had been at a loss for words. There they were, grown men, talking like children about a stolen comic book or piece of candy.
“He gave away the one thing that was important to me. And he gave it to
“Arthur, I just answered some questions. It was a game.”
“A game?…What kind of fucking game was that? It was Christmas Eve! We should’ve been singing carols or watching
“Jesus, Art, it wasn’t my fault! It was just a prize I won. I didn’t steal anything from you.”
A cruel laugh. “No? Well, Lincoln, it ever occur to you that maybe you did?”
“What?”
“Think about it! Maybe…my father.” He’d paused, breathing deeply.
“What the hell’re you talking about?”
“You stole him! Did you ever wonder why I never tried out for varsity track? Because you had the lock on that! And academically?
“This’s crazy… He asked you to come to class too. I know he did.”
“Once was enough for me. He picked me apart until I wanted to cry.”
“He cross-examined
“But some of us could
“I didn’t ask for the role. I didn’t sabotage you.”
“Didn’t you? Ah, Mr. Innocent. You didn’t play the game? You just accidentally drove up to our house on weekends, even when I wasn’t there? You didn’t invite him to come to your track meets? Sure, you did. Answer me: Which of them would you really want for a father, mine or yours? Did your father ever fawn over you? Ever whistle for you from the stands? Give you that raised eyebrow of approval?”
“That’s all bullshit,” Rhyme had snapped. “You’ve got some issue with your father and what do you do? You sabotage
“Well, I can say the same about you, Lincoln. I can say the same…” A harsh laugh. “Did you even try with
At that, Rhyme had slammed the phone into the cradle. It was the last time they talked. Several months later he was paralyzed at the crime scene.
After he’d explained this to Sachs she said, “That’s why he never came to see you after you were hurt.”
He nodded. “Back then, after the accident, all I could do was lie in bed and think that if Art hadn’t changed the application I would have gotten into M.I.T. and maybe done graduate work at Boston University or joined the BPD or come to New York earlier or later. In any case I probably wouldn’t’ve been at the subway crime scene and…” His voice dissolved to silence.
“The butterfly effect,” she said. “A small thing in the past makes a big difference in the future.”
Rhyme nodded. And he knew that Sachs could take in this information with sympathy and understanding and make no judgments about the broader implications-which he would choose: walking and leading a normal life, or being a crip and perhaps a far better criminalist because of it…and, of course, being her partner.
This was the type of woman Amelia Sachs was.