Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

He looks at Tye. He'll take the boy out… click… West with him. The man who tells him things told him he'd call after they finished in Washington, D.C., and tell him where they'd go next.

"Where will that be?" the Digger asked.

"I don't know. Maybe out West."

"Where's the West?" he asked.

"California. Maybe Oregon."

"Oh," responded the Digger, who had no idea where those places were.

But sometimes, late at night, full of soup and smiling at the funny commercials, he thinks about going out West and imagines what he'll do out there.

Now, as he packs, he decides he'll definitely take the boy with him. Out West out… click.

Out West.

Yes, that would be good. That would be nice. That would be fun.

They could eat soup and chili and they could watch TV. He could tell the boy about TV commercials.

Pamela, the Digger's wife, with a flower in her hand and a gold cross in between her breasts, used to watch commercials with him.

But they never had a child like Tye to watch commercials with.

"Me?" Pamela asked. "Have a baby with you? Are you mad crazy nuts fucked…" Click. "… fucked up? Why don't you go away? Why are you still here? Take your fucking present and get out. Go away. Do you…"

Click…

But I love you all the…

"Do you need me to spell it out for you? I've been fucking William for a year. Is this news to you? Everybody in town knows except you. If I were going to have a baby I'd have his baby."

But I love you all the more.

"What are you doing? Oh Je-

Click.

– sus. Put it down!"

The memories are running like lemmings through the Digger's cranium.

"No, don't!" she screamed, staring at the knife in his hand. "Don't!"

But he did.

He put the knife into her chest, just below the gold cross he'd given her that morning, Christmas morning. What a beautiful red rose blossoms on her blouse! He put the knife in her chest once more and the rose got bigger.

And bleeding bleeding bleeding, Pamela ran for… where? Where? The closet, yes, the closet upstairs. Bleeding and screaming, "Oh Jesus Jesus Jesus… "

Pamela screaming, lifting the gun, pointing it at his head, her hand blossoming into a beautiful yellow flower as he felt a thud on his temple. I love you all the…

The Digger woke up sometime later.

The first thing he saw was the kind face of the man who would tell him things.

Click, click…

He now calls his voice mail. No messages.

Where is he, the man who tells him things?

But there's no time to think about it, about being happy or sad, whatever they are. There's only time to get ready for the last attack.

The Digger unlocks the closet. He takes out a second machine pistol, also an Uzi. He puts on the smelly latex gloves and starts to load the clips.

Two guns this time. And no shopping bags. Two guns and lots and lots of bullets. The man who tells him things told him that this time he has to shoot more people than he's ever shot before.

Because this will be the last minute of the last hour of the last night of the year.

A sweating Parker Kincaid ran into the FBI Document Division lab.

Lukas walked up to him. Her face was paler than he'd remembered it. "I got your message," she said. "That reporter-Phillips-he got to one of the mailroom people. Somehow he found out your real name."

"You promised," he raged.

"I'm sorry, Parker," she responded. "I'm sorry. It didn't come from here. I don't know what happened."

Dr. Evans and Tobe Geller were quiet. They knew what was going on but, perhaps seeing the look in Parkers eyes, they wanted no part of it. Cage was not in the room.

Parker had called them on his cell phone as he sped-with a red dashboard flasher borrowed from the agents stationed in front of his house-from Fairfax to downtown. His mind had been racing. How could he control the disaster? All he'd wanted to do was help save some lives. That was his only motive, save some children. And look what had happened…

Now his own children would be taken away from him.

The end of the world…

He pictured the nightmare if Joan had even partial custody. She'd soon lose interest in mothering. If she couldn't get a baby-sitter she'd drop them off, alone, at the mall. She'd lose her temper at them. They'd have to fix their own meals, wash their own clothes. He was in despair.

Why the hell had he even considered Cage's request for help tonight?

A small TV sat on a table nearby. Parker turned it on to the news. It was just nine. A commercial ended and smiling pictures of the WPLT "news team" flipped onto the screen.

"Where's Cage?" he asked angrily.

"I don't know," Lukas answered. "Upstairs somewhere."

Could they move out of the state? he wondered manically But, no, Joan would fight that and the Virginia courts would still have jurisdiction.

On the screen, that son of a bitch Phillips looked up from a stack of papers and gazed at the camera with a grotesquely sincere expression.

"Good evening. I'm Slade Phillips… Eleven people were killed and twenty-nine were wounded an hour ago in the third of the mass shootings that have terrorized Washington tonight. In this special report we'll have exclusive interviews with victims and with police on the scene. In addition, WPLT has obtained exclusive videotape of the scene of the most recent killings-on a yacht anchored in the Potomac River."

Parker, hands clenched, watched silently.

"WPLT has also learned that police and FBI agents were sent to a hotel where it was mistakenly believed that the killer would strike next, leaving too few officers and agents to respond to the shooting on the boat. It's not known for certain who is responsible for this mix-up but informed sources have… have reported… "

Phillips's voice faded. The anchor cocked his head, probably listening to someone through the flesh-colored earphone stuck in his ear. He glanced camera right and a shadow of a frown crossed his face. There was a brief pause and his mouth registered defeat as he recited, "Informed sources have reported that District of Columbia Mayor Gerald D. Kennedy is being detained by federal authorities, possibly in connection with this unsuccessful operation… Now, standing by at the site of the most recent shooting, is Cheryl Vandover. Cheryl, could you tell us-"

Cage walked into the lab, wearing an overcoat. He clicked the TV set off. Parker closed his eyes and exhaled. "Jesus."

"Sorry, Parker," Cage said. "Things fall through the cracks sometimes. But I made a deal with you and we're keeping our end of the bargain. Oh, one thing-don't ever ask me how I did this one. You definitely don't wanna know. Now, we got one more chance. Let's nail this prick. And this time, no foolin'."

The limo eased up to the curb in front of City Hall like a yacht docking.

Mayor Jerry Kennedy didn't like the simile but he couldn't help it. He'd just been at the Potomac riverside, comforting survivors and surveying the devastation that the Digger had caused. His tall, thin wife, Claire, at his side, they'd been astonished at how the bullets had torn the decks and cabins and tables to pieces. He could only imagine what the bullets had done to the bodies of the victims.

He leaned forward and clicked the TV off.

"How could he?" Claire whispered, referring to Slade Phillips's suggestion that Kennedy had in some mysterious way been responsible for the deaths on the boat.

Wendell Jefferies leaned forward, resting his glossy head in his hands. "Phillips… I already paid him. I-"

Kennedy waved him silent. Apparently the aide had forgotten about the huge, bald federal agent in the front seat. Bribing media was undoubtedly a federal offense of some kind.