Jeffery Deaver: The Devil's Teardrop

Parker's eyes lingered on the brush in the backyard.

The Boatman… He shook his head.

The doorbell rang. He glanced into the living room but the children hadn't heard it. He walked to the door and swung it open.

The attractive woman offered a broad smile. Her earrings dangled below her sharp-edged hair, which was bleached blonder than usual by the sun (Robby's was her shade while Stephanie's was closer to Parker's brown). Her tan was scrupulous.

"Well, hello," Parker said tentatively.

He glanced past her and was relieved to see that the engine of the beige Cadillac parked in the driveway was still running. Richard was behind the wheel, reading the Wall Street Journal

"Hi, Parker. We just got in to Dulles." She hugged him.

"You were… where were you?"

" St. Croix. It was wonderful. Oh, relax. God, your body language… I just stopped by a minute."

"You look good, Joan."

"I feel good. I feel really good. I can't tell whether you look good, Parker. You look pale."

"The kids're upstairs-" He turned to call them.

"No, that's all right-" Joan started to say.

"Robby, Stephie! Your mommy's here."

Thuds on the stairs. The Whos turned the corner fast and ran up to Joan. She was smiling but Parker could see that she was miffed he'd called them.

"Mommy, you're all tan!" Stephie said, tossing her hair like a Spice Girl. Robby was a cherub; Stephanie had a long, serious face, which, Parker hoped, would start to look intimidatingly intellectual to boys by the time she turned twelve or thirteen.

"Where were you, Mommy?" Robby said, frowning.

"The Caribbean. Didn't Daddy tell you?" A glance at Parker. Yes, he'd told them. Joan didn't understand that what the children were upset about wasn't miscommunication about her travel plans but the fact she hadn't been in Virginia for Christmas.

"Did you have a nice holiday?" she asked.

"We got an air hockey and I beat Robby three games this morning."

"But I got the puck in four times in a row!" he said. "Did you bring us something?"

Joan looked in the direction of the car. "Of course I did. But, you know, I left them in the suitcase. I just stopped by for a minute now to say hi and to talk to your father. I'll bring your presents tomorrow when I come to visit."

Stephie said, "Oh, and I got a soccer ball and the new Mario Bros. and the whole set of Wallace & Gromit-"

Robby stepped on his sister's recitation. "And I got a Death Star and a Millennium Falcon. And tons of Micro Machines! And a Sammy Sosa bat. And we saw The Nutcracker."

"Did you get my package?" Joan asked.

"Uh-huh," Stephie said. "Thank you." The girl was impeccably polite but a Barbie doll in a pageant dress no longer held any interest for her. Eight-year-olds now were not the eight-year-olds of Joan's childhood.

"Daddy took back my shirt," Robby said, "and got one the right size."

"I told him to do that if it didn't fit," Joan said quickly. "I just wanted you to have something. "

"We didn't get to talk to you on Christmas," Stephie said.

"Oh," Joan replied to her daughter, "it was so hard to call from where we were staying. It was like Gilligan's Island. The phones were never working." She tousled Robby's hair. "And after all you weren't home."

She was blaming them. Joan had never learned that nothing was ever the children's fault, not at this age. If you did something wrong it was your fault; if they did something wrong it was still your fault.

Oh, Joan… It was subtle lapses like this-the slight shifting of blame-that were as bad as slaps in the face. Still, he said nothing. ("Never let the children see their parents argue.")

Joan stood. "Richard and I have to go now. We have to pick up Elmo and Saint at the kennel. The poor puppies have been in cages all week."

Robby was animated once more. "We're having a party tonight and we're going to watch the fireworks on TV and play Star Wars Monopoly."

"Oh, that'll be fun," Joan said. "Richard and I are going to Kennedy Center. For an opera. You like the opera, don't you?"

Stephie gave one of the broad, cryptic shrugs she'd been using a lot lately in response to adults' questions.

"That's a play where people sing the story," Parker said to the children.

"Maybe Richard and I'll take you to the opera sometime. Would you like that?"

"I guess," Robby said. Which was as good a commitment as a nine-year-old would ever make to high culture.

"Wait," Stephie blurted. She turned and pounded up the stairs.

"Honey, I don't have much time. We-"

The girl returned a moment later with her new soccer outfit, handed it to her mother.

"My," said Joan, "that's pretty." Holding the clothes awkwardly, like a child who's caught a fish and isn't sure she wants it.

Parker Kincaid, thinking: First, the Boatman, now Joan… How the past was intruding today. Well, why not? After all, it was New Year's Eve.

A time to look back…

Joan was obviously relieved when the children ran back to Stephie's bedroom, buoyed by the promise of more presents. Then suddenly her smile was gone. Ironically, at this age-she was thirty-nine-she looked her best with a sullen expression on her face. She touched her front teeth with the tip of her finger to see if they were dotted with lipstick. A habit of hers he remembered from when they were married. "Parker, I didn't have to do this…" She was reaching into her Coach purse.

Hell, she got me a Christmas present. And I didn't get her one. He thought quickly: Did he have any extra gifts he'd bought but hadn't yet given away? Something he could-

But then he saw her hand emerge from the purse with a wad of papers.

"I could've just let the process server take care of it on Monday." Process server?

"But I wanted to talk to you before you went off half-cocked."

The top of the document read: "Motion to Modify Child Custody Order."

He felt the blow deep in his stomach.

Apparently, Joan and Richard hadn't come directly from the airport but had stopped at her lawyer's first.

"Joan," he said, despairing, "you're not…"

"I want them, Parker, and I'm going to get them. Let's not fight about it. We can work something out."

"No," he whispered. "No." He felt the strength leach from his body as the panic swept through him.

"Four days with you, Fridays and weekends with me. Depending on what Richard and I have planned-we've been doing a lot of traveling lately. Look, it'll give you more time to yourself. I'd think you'd look forward to-"

"Absolutely not."

"They're my children…" she began.

"Technically." Parker had had sole custody for four years.

"Parker," she said reasonably, "my life is stable. I'm doing fine. I'm working out again. I'm married."

To a civil servant in county government, who, according to the Washington Post, just missed getting indicted for accepting bribes last year. Richard was just a bug-picking bird on the rump of Inside-the-Beltway politics. He was also the man Joan'd been sleeping with for the last year of her marriage to Parker.

Concerned the children would hear, he whispered, "You've been a stranger to Robby and Stephie practically from the day they were born." He slapped the papers and rage took him completely. "Are you thinking about them at all? About what this'll do to them?"

"They need a mother."

No, Parker thought, Joan needs another collectible. Several years ago it had been horses. Then championship weimaraners. Then antiques. Houses in fancy neighborhoods too: She and Richard moved from Oakton to Clifton to McLean to Alexandria. "Moving up in the world," she'd said, though Parker knew she'd simply grown tired of each previous house and neighborhood when she failed to make friends in the new locale. He thought of what uprooting the children that frequently would do to them.