Why, Arthur never hurt a single soul in his life. He isn't capable of it. . . .
Wrong, Judy.
"Are you absolutely sure?" Sachs asked.
"Yep. Because right after I hung up with her, I called Arthur."
Rhyme could hear the conversation almost verbatim.
"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 you." His voice was breaking. Was he crying?
"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 It's a Wonderful Life. But, no, no, Father had to turn everything into a fucking classroom. It was embarrassing! It was boring. But nobody had the balls to say anything to the great professor."
"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? You were his other son, not me. You sat in on his classes at U of C. You helped him with his research."
"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 everybody, Art. That's why he was so brilliant. He made you think, he pushed you until you got the right answer."
"But some of us could never get the right answer. I was good. But I wasn't great. And the son of Henry Rhyme was supposed to be great. It didn't matter, though, because he had you. Robert went to Europe, Marie moved to California. And even then he didn't want me. He wanted you!"
The other son . . .
"I didn't ask for the role. I didn't sabotage you."