The Broken Window (38 page)

Hate Them hate Them hate Them hate Them…

I’m so close to taking my razor and storming out and…

Calm. Down. But it’s becoming harder and harder to do that, as the years go by.

I’ve canceled certain transactions for this evening—I was going to celebrate the suicide—and now I head into my Closet. Being surrounded by my treasures helps. I wander through the fragrant rooms and hold several items close to me. Trophies from various transactions over the past year. Feeling the dried flesh and fingernails and hair against my cheek is such a comfort.

But I’m exhausted. I sit down in front of the Harvey Prescott painting, gaze up at it. The family looking back. As with most portraits their eyes follow you wherever you are.

Comforting. Eerie too.

Maybe one of the reasons I love his work so much is that these people were created fresh. They have no memories to plague them, to make them edgy, to keep them up all night and to drive them out into the streets, collecting treasures, and trophies.

Ah, memories:

June, five years old. Father sits me down, tucks his unlit cigarette away and explains to me I’m
not theirs. “We brought you into the family because we wanted you wanted you badly and we love
you even if you aren’t our natural son you understand don’t you…” Not exactly, I don’t. I stare at
him blankly. Kleenex twisting in Mother’s damp hands. She blurts that she loves me like a
natural-born son. No, loves me more, though I don’t understand why she would. It sounds like a
lie.

Father leaves for his second job. Mother goes to take care of the other children, leaving me to
consider this. My feeling is that something’s been taken away from me. But I don’t know what. I
look out my window. It’s beautiful here. Mountains and green and cool air. But I prefer my room
and that’s where I go.

August, seven years old. Father and Mother have been fighting. The oldest of us, Lydia, is crying.

Don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave… I myself plan for the worst, stocking up. Food and
pennies—people never miss pennies. Nothing can stop me from collecting them, $134 worth of
shiny or dull copper. Hide them in boxes in my closet…

November, seven years old. Father returns from where he’s been for a month, “scratching for
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the elusive dollar,” which he says a lot. (Lydia and I smile when he does.) He asks where the other
children are. She tells him she couldn’t handle all of them. “Do the math. The fuck you thinking
of? Get on the phone and call the city.”

“You weren’t here,” she cries.

This mystifies Lydia and me but we know it’s not good.

In my closet are $252 in pennies, thirty-three cans of tomatoes, eighteen of other vegetables,
twelve of SpaghettiOs, which I don’t even like but I have them. That’s all that’s important.

October, nine years old. More emergency foster placements. At the moment there are nine of us.

We help, Lydia and me. She’s fourteen and knows how to take care of the younger ones. Lydia
asks Father to buy the girls dolls—because she never had one and it’s important—and he said
how can they make money from the city if they spend it on crap?

May, ten years old. I come back from school. It took all I could do to take some of the pennies
and buy a doll for Lydia. I can’t wait for her reaction. But then I see I made a mistake and left the
closet door open. Father is inside, ripping open the boxes. The pennies are lying like dead soldiers
on a battlefield. He fills his pockets and takes the boxes. “You steal it you lose it.” I’m crying and
telling him I found the pennies. “Good,” Father says triumphantly
. “I
found ’em too and that
must mean they’re
mine…
Right, young man? How can you argue with that? You can’t. And,
Jesus, almost five hundred bucks there.” And pulls the cigarette out from behind his ear.

Want to understand somebody taking your things away, your soldiers, your dolls, your pennies?

Just close your mouth and pinch your nose. That’s what’s it like and you can’t do it very long
before something terrible happens.

October, eleven years old. Lydia’s gone. No note. She doesn’t take the doll. Fourteen-year-old
Jason comes to live with us from Juvenile. He pushes into my room one night. He wants my bed
(mine’s dry and his isn’t). I sleep in his wet one. Every night for a month. I complain to Father. He
tells me to shut up. They need the money and they get a bonus for ED kids like Jason and… He
stops talking. Does he mean me too? I don’t know what ED means. Not then.

January, twelve years old. Flashing red lights. Mother sobbing, the other foster children sobbing.

The burn on Father’s arm was painful but fortunately, the fireman says, the lighter fluid on the
mattress didn’t ignite fast. If it was gasoline he’d be dead. As they take Jason away, dark eyes
under dark brows, he screams he didn’t know how the lighter fluid and matches got into his book
bag. He didn’t do it, he didn’t! And he didn’t pin up those pictures of people burned alive in his
classroom at school.

Father screams at mother, Look at what you did!

You
wanted the bonus! she screams back.

The ED bonus.

Emotionally disturbed, I found out.

Memories, memories… Ah, some collections I would gladly give away, leave in a Dumpster if I could.

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I smile up at my silent family, the Prescotts. Then I turn back to the problem at hand—Them.

I’m calmer now, the edginess dulled. And I’m confident that like my lying father, like panicked Jason Stringfellow led off by the police, like the sixteens screaming at the climax of a transaction, those pursuing me—They—will soon be dead and dust. And I’ll be living out my days happily with my two-dimensional family and my treasures here in the Closet.

My soldiers, the data, are about to march into battle. I’m like Hitler in his Berlin bunker, ordering his Waffen-SS troops to meet the invaders. Data are invincible.

I see now that it’s nearly 11:00 P.M. Time for the news. I need to see what They know about the death at the cemetery and what They don’t. On goes the TV.

The station has “gone live” to City Hall. Now the deputy mayor, Ron Scott, a distinguished-looking man, is explaining that the police have put together a task force to investigate a recent murder and rape, and a murder this evening in a Queens cemetery, which seems related to the earlier crime.

Scott introduces an NYPD inspector, Joseph Malloy, who “will discuss the case more specifically.”

Though he doesn’t, not really. He shows a composite of the perpetrator that resembles me only in the way it resembles about 200,000 other men in the city.

White or light-skinned? Oh, please.

He tells people to be cautious. “We think the perpetrator has used techniques of identity theft to get close to his victims. Lower their defenses.”

Be wary, he goes on to say, of anyone you don’t know but who has knowledge of your purchases, bank accounts, vacation plans, traffic violations. “Even little things you wouldn’t normally pay attention to.”

In fact, the city has just flown in an expert in information management and security from Carnegie Mellon University. Dr. Carlton Soames will spend the next few days assisting the investigators and advising them on the issue of identity theft, which they believe is the best way to find the perpetrator.

Soames looks like a typical ruffled-haired small-town Midwest boy gone smart. An awkward grin. Suit a little off center, glasses a bit smudged, the asymmetrical glare tells me. And how much wear would that wedding ring show? Plenty, I’ll bet. He looks like the sort who married early.

He doesn’t say anything but gazes out like a nervous animal at the press and the camera. Captain Malloy continues, “In an age when identity theft is increasing, and the consequences are increasingly grave—”

The pun, obviously unintentional, is unfortunate.

“—we take seriously our responsibility to protect the citizens of this city.”

The reporters jump into the fray, pelting the deputy mayor, captain and unsettled professor with questions a third-grader could have come up with. Malloy generally demurs. The word “ongoing” is his shield.

Deputy Mayor Ron Scott reassures the public that the city is safe and everything is being done to protect them. The press conference ends abruptly.

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We go back to the regular news, if you can call it that. Tainted veggies in Texas, a woman on a hood of a truck caught in a Missouri flood. The President has a cold.

I shut off the set and sit in my dim Closet, wondering how best to process this new transaction.

An idea occurs to me. It’s so obvious, though, that I’m skeptical. But, surprise, it takes only three phone calls—to hotels close to One Police Plaza—to find the one where Dr. Carlton Soames is registered.

IV

AMELIA 7303

TUESDAY, MAY 24

There was, of course, no way of knowing whether you were being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plugged in on any individual wire was guesswork. It was even conceivable that they watched everybody all the time.

—GEORGE ORWELL,
1984

Amelia Sachs arrived early.

But Lincoln Rhyme had been awake earlier, unable to sleep soundly because of the plans unfolding presently, both here and in England. He’d had dreams about his cousin Arthur and his uncle Henry.

Sachs joined him in the exercise room, where Thom was getting Rhyme back into the TDX wheelchair after he’d done five miles on the Electrologic stationary bicycle, part of his regular exercise scheme to improve his condition and to keep his muscles toned for the day when they might once again begin to replace the mechanical systems that now ran his life. Sachs took over, while the aide went downstairs to fix breakfast. It was a hallmark of their relationship that Rhyme had long ago lost any qualms about her helping him with his morning routine, which many people would find unpleasant.

Sachs had spent the night at her place in Brooklyn, so now he updated her on the 522 situation. But she was distracted, he could see. When he asked why, she exhaled slowly and told him, “It’s Pam.” And she explained that Pam’s boyfriend had turned out to be her former teacher. And a married one, at that.

“No…” Rhyme winced. “I’m sorry. The poor kid.” His initial reaction was to threaten this Stuart into getting the hell out of the picture. “You’ve got a shield, Sachs. Flash it. He’ll head for the hills. Or I’ll give him a call if you want.”

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Sachs, however, didn’t think that was the right way to handle the matter. “I’m afraid if I’m too pushy or I report him, I’ll lose her. If I don’t do anything, she’s in for a lot of grief. God, what if she wants to have his baby?” She dug a nail into her thumb. Stopped herself. “It’d be different if I’d been her mother all along. I’d know how to handle it.”

“Would you?” Rhyme asked.

She considered this, then conceded with a smile, “Okay, maybe not… This parent stuff. Kids ought to come with an owner’s manual.”

In the bedroom, they had breakfast, which Sachs fed to Rhyme. Like the parlor and the lab downstairs, the bedroom was far homier than it had been when Sachs first saw it, years ago. Back then the place had been stark, the only decorations art posters, tacked up backward and used as impromptu whiteboards for the first case they’d worked on together. Now those posters had been turned around and others added: of paintings that Rhyme enjoyed—impressionistic landscapes and moody urban scenes by artists like George Inness and Edward Hopper. Then she sat back, next to his wheelchair, and took his right hand, the one in which he’d recently regained some control and touch. He could feel her fingertips, though the sensation was odd, a step or two removed from the pressure he’d sense on his neck or face where the nerves worked normally. It was as if her hand were water trickling onto his skin. He willed his fingers to close on hers. And felt the pressure of her response. Silence. But he sensed, through her posture, that she wanted to talk about Pam, and he said nothing, waiting for her to continue. He watched the peregrine falcons on the ledge, aware, taut, the female larger. The pair were muscular bundles of readiness. Falcons hunt by day, and there were fledglings to feed.

“Rhyme?”

“What?” he asked.

“You still haven’t called him, have you?”

“Who?”

“Your cousin.”

Ah, not Pam’s situation. That she’d been thinking of Arthur Rhyme had never occurred to him. “No. I haven’t.”

“You know something else? I didn’t even know you had a cousin.”

“Never mentioned him?”

“No. You talked about your uncle Henry and aunt Paula. But not Arthur. Why not?”

“We work too hard. No time for chitchat.” He smiled. She didn’t.

Should he tell her? Rhyme debated. His first reaction was not to. Because the explanation reeked of self-pity. And that was poison to Lincoln Rhyme. Still, she deserved to know something. That’s what happens in love. In the shaded portions where the two spheres of different lives meet, certain fundamentals—moods, loves, fears, angers—can’t be hidden. That’s the contract.

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And so he told her now.

About Adrianna and Arthur, about the bitterly cold day of the science fair and the lies later, the embarrassing forensic examination of the Corvette and even the potential engagement present—a chunk of atomic-age concrete. Sachs nodded and Rhyme laughed to himself. Because he knew she’d be thinking: What was the big deal? A bit of teenage love, a little duplicity, a little heartbreak. Pretty small caliber in the arsenal of personal offenses. How did something so pedestrian ruin such a deep friendship?