The Broken Window

cousin’s namesake, Arthur Compton, and Enrico Fermi. Henry had apparently acquired one of the pieces when the stadium was torn down in the 1950s. Lincoln had been very touched by the historic prize and suddenly glad he’d played seriously. He still had the rock somewhere, tucked away in a cardboard box in the basement.
    But Lincoln had no time to admire his award.
    Because that night he had a late date with Adrianna.
    Like his family, unexpectedly thrust into his thoughts today, the beautiful, red-haired gymnast had figured in his memories too.
    Adrianna Waleska—pronounced with a soft V, echoing her second-generation Gdansk roots—worked in the college counselor’s office in Lincoln’s high school. Early in his senior year, delivering some applications to her, he’d spotted Stranger in a Strange Land on her desk, the Heinlein novel well-thumbed. They’d spent the next hour discussing the book, agreeing often, arguing some, with the result that Lincoln realized he’d missed his chemistry class. No matter. Priorities were priorities.
    She was tall, lean, had invisible braces and an appealing figure under her fuzzy sweaters and flared jeans. Her smile ranged from ebullient to seductive. They were soon dating, the first foray into serious romancefor both of them. They’d attend each other’s sports meets, go to the Thorne Rooms at the Art Institute, the jazz clubs in Old Town and, occasionally, visit the backseat of her Chevy Monza, which was hardly any backseat at all and therefore just the ticket. Adrianna lived a short run from his house, by Lincoln’s track-and-field standards, but that would never do—can’t show up sweaty—so he’d borrow the family car when he could and head over to see her.
    They’d spend hours talking. As with Uncle Henry, he and Adie engaged .
    Obstacles existed, yes. He was leaving next year for college in Boston; she, for San Diego to study biology and work in the zoo. But those were mere complications and Lincoln Rhyme, then as now, would not accept complications as excuses.
    Afterward—after the accident, and after he and Blaine divorced—Rhyme often wondered what would have happened if he and Adrianna had stayed together and pursued what they’d started. That Christmas Eve night, in fact, he’d come very close to proposing. He’d considered offering her not a ring but, as he’d cleverly rehearsed, “a different kind of rock”—his uncle’s prize from the science trivia contest.
    But he’d balked, thanks to the weather. As they’d sat, clutching each other on a bench, the snow had begun to tumble suicidally from the silent Midwest sky and in minutes their hair and coats were covered with a damp white blanket. She’d just made it back to her house and Lincoln to his before the roads were blocked. He lay in bed that night, the plastic box containingthe concrete beside him, and practiced a proposal speech.
    Which was never delivered. Events intruded in their lives, sending them on different paths, seemingly minute events, though small in the way of invisible atoms tricked to fission in a chilly sports stadium, changing the world forever.
    Everything would’ve been different . . . .
    Rhyme now caught a glimpse of Sachs brushing her long red hair. He watched her for some moments, glad she’d be staying tonight—more pleased than usual. Rhyme and Sachs weren’t inseparable. They were staunchly independent people, preferring often to spend time apart. But tonight he wanted her here. Enjoying the presence of her body next to his, the sensation—in those few places he was able to feel—all the more intense for its rarity.
    His love for her was one of the motivators for his exercise regimen, working on a computerized treadmill and Electrologic bike. If medical science crept past that finishing line—allowing him to walk again—his muscles were going to be ready. He was also considering a new operation that might improve his condition until that day arrived. Experimental, and controversial, it was known as peripheral nerve rerouting, a technique that had been talked about—and occasionally tried—for years without many positive results. But recently foreign doctors had been performing the operation with some success, despite the reservation of the American medical community. The procedure involved surgically connecting nerves above the siteof the injury to nerves below it. A detour around a washed-out bridge, in effect.
    The successes were mostly in bodies