The Broken Window (Lincoln Rhyme 8)

A snarl from Mick. His hand was back in his pants. His eyes flickered hatefully toward Arthur.

"I'm sorry, honey. Thanks for calling him. Lincoln."

It was then that he felt hot breath on his neck. "Yo, getoffadaphone."

A Lat was standing behind him.

"Offadaphone."

"Judy, I have to go. There's only one phone here. I've used up my time."

"I love you, Art--"

"I--"

The Lat stepped forward and Arthur hung up, then slipped back to his bench in a corner of the detention area. He sat staring at the floor in front of him, the scuff in the shape of a kidney. Staring, staring.

But the distressed floor didn't hold his attention. He was thinking of the past. More memories joined those of Adrianna and his cousin Lincoln . . . Arthur's family's home on the North Shore. Lincoln's in the western suburbs. Arthur's stern king of a father, Henry. His brother, Robert. And shy, brilliant Marie.

Thinking too of Lincoln's father, Teddy. (There was an interesting story behind the nickname--his given name wasn't Theodore; Arthur knew how it had come about but, curiously, he didn't think Lincoln did.) He'd always liked Uncle Teddy. A sweet guy, a little shy, a little quiet--but who wouldn't be in the shadow of an older brother like Henry Rhyme? Sometimes when Lincoln was out, Arthur would drive to Teddy and Anne's. In the small, paneled family room, uncle and nephew would watch an old movie or talk about American history.

The spot on the Tombs' floor now morphed into the shape of Ireland. It seemed to move as Arthur stared, eyes fixed on it, willing himself away from here, disappearing through a magic hole into the life Out There.

Arthur Rhyme felt complete despair now. And he understood how naive he'd been. There were no magical exit routes, and no practical ones either. He knew Lincoln was brilliant. He'd read all the articles in the popular press he could find. Even some of his scientific writing: "The Biologic Effects of Certain Nanoparticulate Materials . . ."

But Arthur understood now that Lincoln could do nothing for him. The case was hopeless and he'd be in jail for the rest of his life.

No, Lincoln's role in this was perfectly fitting. His cousin--the relative he'd been closest to while growing up, his surrogate brother--ought to be present at Arthur's downfall.

A grim smile on his face, he looked up from the spot on the floor. And he realized that something had changed.

Weird. This wing of detention was now deserted.

Where had everybody gone?

Then approaching footsteps.

Alarmed, he glanced up and saw somebody moving toward him fast, feet scuffling. His friend, Antwon Johnson. Eyes cold.

Arthur understood. Somebody was attacking him from behind!

Mick, of course.

And Johnson was coming to save him.

Leaping to his feet, turning . . . So frightened he felt like crying. Looking for the tweaker, but--

No. No one was there.

Which is when he felt Antwon Johnson slip the garrote around his neck--homemade apparently, from a shirt torn into strips and twisted into a rope.

"No, wha--" Arthur was jerked to his feet. The huge man pulled him off the bench. And dragged him to the wall from which the nail protruded, the one he'd seen earlier, seven feet from the floor. Arthur moaned and thrashed.

"Shhhh." Johnson looked around at the deserted alcove of the hall.

Arthur struggled but it was a struggle against a block of wood, against a bag of concrete. He slammed his fist pointlessly into the man's neck and shoulders, then felt himself lifted off the floor. The black man hefted him up and hooked the homemade hangman's noose to the nail. He let go and stood back, watching Arthur kick and jerk, trying to free himself.

Why, why, why? He was trying to ask this question but only wet sputtering came from his lips. Johnson stared at him in curiosity. No anger, no sadistic gleam. Just watching with mild interest.