Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

Stephie had hugged her father too and asked how his friend was, the sick one.

"He's fine," Parker had said, looking for but finding not a bit of truth to hang the statement on. Oh, the guilt of parents… What a hot iron it is.

Stephie had watched sympathetically as Robby and Parker had gone upstairs to read a story. At another time she might have joined them but she instinctively knew now to leave them alone. This was something about his children that Parker had learned: They bickered like all healthy youngsters, tried to outshine each other, engaged in typical sibling sabotage. Yet when something affected the core of one child-like the Boatman-the other knew instinctively what was needed. The girl had vanished into the kitchen, saying, "I'm making Robby a surprise for dessert."

As he read he would glance occasionally at his sons face. The boys eyes were closed and he looked completely content. (From the Handbook: "Sometimes your job isn't to reason with your children or to teach them or even to offer a sterling example of maturity. You simply must be with them. That's all it takes.")

"You want me to keep reading?" he whispered.

The boy didn't respond.

Parker left the book on his lap and remained in the scabby rocking chair, easing back and forth. Watching his son.

Thomas Jefferson's wife, Martha, had died not long after their third daughter was born (the girl herself died at age two). Jefferson, who never remarried, had struggled to raise his two other girls by himself. As a politician and statesman he was often forced to be an absent father, a situation he truly hated. It was letters that kept him in touch with his children. He wrote thousands of pages to the girls, offering support, advice, complaints, love. Parker knew Jefferson as well as he knew his own father and could recall some letters from memory. He thought of one of these now, written when Jefferson was vice president and in the midst of fierce political battles between the rival parties of the day.

Your letter, my dear Maria, of Jan. 21 was received two days ago. It was like the bright beams of the moon on the desolate heath. Environed here in scenes of constant torment, malice and obloquy, worn down in a state where no effort to render service can aver any thing, I feel not that existence is a blessing but when something recalls my mind to my family.

Looking at his son, hearing his daughter bang pans downstairs, he worried, as he often did, if he was raising his own children right.

How often he'd lain asleep at night worrying about this.

After all, he'd separated two children from their mother. That the courts and all of his (and most of Joans) friends agreed that it was the only sane thing to do made little difference to him. He hadn't become a single father by the quirk of death as Jefferson had; no, Parker had made that decision himself.

But was it truly for the children that he'd done this? Or was it to escape from his own unhappiness? This is what tormented him so often. Joan had seemed so sweet, so charming, before they were married. But much of it, he'd realized, was an act. She was in fact cagey and calculating. Her moods whipped back and forth-cheerful for a while, she'd plunge into days of rage and suspicion and paranoia.

When he'd met Joan he was learning how very different life becomes when you're still young and your parents die. The demilitarized zone between you and mortality is gone. You seek as a mate either someone to take care of you or, as Parker had done, someone to take care of.

Don't you think it works out best that way? Nobody taking care of anybody else? That's a rule. Write it down.

So it wasn't surprising that he sought out a woman who, though beautiful and charming, had a moody, helpless side to her.

Naturally, not long after the Whos were born, when their married life demanded responsibility and sometimes just plain hard work and sacrifice, Joan gave rein to her dissatisfactions and moods.

Parker tried everything he could think of. He went with her to therapy, took over more than his share of work with the children, tried joking her out of her funks, planned parties, took her on trips, cooked breakfasts and dinners for the family.

But among the secrets Joan had kept from him was a family history of alcoholism and he was surprised to find that she'd been drinking much more than he'd believed. She'd do twelve-steps from time to time and try other counseling approaches. But she always lapsed.

She withdrew further and further from him and the children, occupying her time with hobbies and whims. Taking gourmet cooking classes, buying a sports car, shopping compulsively, working out like an Olympian at a fancy health club (where she met husband-to-be Richard). But she always pulled back; she gave him and the children just enough.

And then there was the Incident.

June, four years ago.

Parker returned home from work at the Bureau's document lab and found Joan gone, a baby-sitter looking after the Whos. This wasn't unusual or troublesome in itself. But when he went upstairs to play with the children he saw immediately that something was wrong. Stephie and Robby, then four and five, were sitting in their shared bedroom, assembling Tinkertoys. But Stephanie was groggy. Her eyes were unfocused and her face slick with sweat. Parker noticed that she'd thrown up on the way to the bathroom. He put the girl into bed and took her temperature, which was normal. Parker wasn't surprised that the baby-sitter hadn't noticed Stephanie's illness; children are embarrassed when they vomit or mess their pants and often try to keep accidents secret. But Stephie-and her brother-seemed much more evasive than Parker would have expected.

The boy's eyes kept going to their toy chest. ("Watch the eyes first," his Handbook commands. "Listen to the words second.") Parker walked toward the chest and Robby started to cry, begging him not to open the lid. But of course he did. And stood, frozen, looking down at the bottles of vodka Joan had hidden there.

Stephanie was drunk. She'd tried imitating Mommy, drinking Absolut-from her Winnie the Pooh mug.

"Mommy said not to say anything about her secret," the boy told him, crying. "She said you'd be mad at us if you found out. She said you'd yell at us."

Two days later he started divorce proceedings. He hired a savvy lawyer and got Child Protective Services involved before Joan made the false abuse claim the attorney thought she'd try.

The woman fought and she fought hard-but it was the way someone fights to keep a stamp collection or a sports car, not something you love more than life itself.

And in the end, after several agonizing months and tens of thousands of dollars, the children were his.

He'd thought that he could concentrate on putting his life back together and giving the children a normal life.

And he had-for the past four years. But now she was at it again, trying to modify the custody order.

Oh, Joan, why are you doing this? Don't you ever think about them? Don't you understand that our egos-parents' egos-have to dissolve into benevolent vapor when it comes to our children? If he truly thought it would be better for Robby and Stephie to split their time between Parker and Joan he'd agree in a heartbeat; it would destroy part of him. But he'd do it.

Yet he believed this would be disastrous for them. And so he'd duke it out with his ex-wife in court relentlessly and at the same time shield the children from the animosity of the proceedings. At times like this you fought on two fronts: You battled the enemy and you battled your own overwhelming desire to be a child yourself and share your pain with your children. But this you could never do.

"Daddy," Robby said suddenly, "you stopped reading."

"I thought you were asleep." He laughed.

"My eyelids were just resting. They got tired. But I'm not."