The Broken Window

drawing a laugh from the black guy, who put an arm around Earring Man and led him away, whispering something to him. The Latino’s eyes glazed and he nodded to his buddy, who joined him. The two walked to the far corner of the area, feigning indignity. If Arthur weren’t so frightened he would have thought this was amusing—faced-down bullies from his children’s school.
    The black man stretched and Arthur heard a jointpop. His heart was thudding even harder. A half-formed prayer crossed his mind: for the coronary to take him away now, right now.
    “Thanks.”
    The black guy said, “Fuck you. Them two, they pricks. They gotta know the way it is. You unnerstand what I’m saying?”
    No, no clue. But Arthur Rhyme said, “Still. My name’s Art.”
    “I know the fuck yo’ name. Ever’body know ever’thing round here. ’Cept you. You don’ know shit.”
    But one thing Arthur Rhyme knew, and knew it with certainty: He was dead. And so he said, “Okay, then tell me who the fuck you are, asshole.”
    The huge face turned toward him. Smelling sweat and smoky breath, Arthur thought of his family, his children first and then Judy. His parents, mother first, then father. Then, surprisingly, he thought of his cousin, Lincoln. Recalling a footrace through a hot Illinois field one summer when they were teenagers.
    Race you to that oak tree. See it, that one over there. On three. You ready? One . . . two . . . three . . . go!
    But the man just turned away and stalked across the hall to another black prisoner. They tapped fists together and Arthur Rhyme was forgotten.
    He sat watching their camaraderie, feeling more and more forlorn. Then he closed his eyes and lowered his head. Arthur Rhyme was a scientist. He believed that life advanced via the process of natural selection; divine justice played no role.
    But now, sunk in a depression as relentless as winter tides, he couldn’t help wondering if some system ofretribution, as real and invisible as gravity, existed and was now at work, punishing him for the bad he’d done in his life. Oh, he’d done much good. Raised children, taught them open-minded values and tolerance, been a good companion to his wife, helped her through a cancer incident, contributed to the great body of science that enriched the world.
    Yet there was bad too. There always is.
    Sitting here in his stinking orange jumpsuit, he struggled to believe that by the right thoughts and vows—and faith in the system he dutifully supported every election day—he could work his way back to the other side of the scale of justice and be reunited with his family and life.
    That with the right spirit and intention he could outrun fate through the same breathless effort with which he’d beaten Lincoln in that hot, dusty field, charging all out toward the oak tree.
    That maybe he could be saved. It might—
    “Move.”
    He jumped at the word, though the speaker’s voice was soft. Another prisoner, white, shaggy hair, full of tats but light on teeth and twitchy as the drugs leached from his system, had come up behind him. He stared at the bench where Arthur sat, though he could have picked anywhere. His eyes were just plain mean.
    And Arthur’s momentary hope—in some measurable and scientific system of moral justice—vanished. One word from this small but damaged and dangerous man killed it.
    Move . . .
    Struggling to hold back tears, Arthur Rhyme moved.

Chapter Seven
    The phone rang and Lincoln Rhyme was irritated by the distraction. He was thinking about their Mr. X and the mechanics of planting the evidence, if in fact that was what had happened, and wanted no distractions.
    But then reality struck; he saw the 44 in the caller ID, the country code that included England. “Command, answer phone,” he ordered instantly.
    Click.
    “Yes, Inspector Longhurst?” He’d given up on first names. Relations with Scotland Yard required a certain propriety.
    “Detective Rhyme, hello,” she said. “We have some movement here.”
    “Go on,” Rhyme said.
    “Danny Krueger heard from one of his former gun-runners. It seems that the reason Richard Logan left London was to collect something in Manchester. We aren’t sure what, but we do know that Manchester’s got more than its share of black-market weapons dealers.”
    “Any idea where he is exactly?”
    “Danny’s still trying to find out. It would be lovely if we could take him there, rather than wait till London.”
    “Is Danny being