Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

As they wound through the crowd on the reviewing stand Kennedy shook the hand of Congressman Lanier, who obviously recognized Agent Ardell for exactly what he was-a jailor.

Lanier probably could think of nothing to say that didn't sound like gloating so he merely tipped his head and offered a very unflirtatious "Claire, you're beautiful tonight."

"Paul," she said and, nodding to the quiet Mrs. Lanier, added, "Mindy."

"Jerry," Lanier asked, "what's the latest on the shootings?"

"I'm still waiting to hear."

"We've got room for you right over there, Mayor," said a junior aide, pointing at a deserted bank of orange folding chairs behind the other viewers. "Your friend too." He glanced at the large agent.

"No, no," Kennedy said. "Well just sit on the stairs."

"No, please…"

But, for the moment at least, Kennedy retained some social autonomy, even if he had no fiscal, and he waved off Lanier and the aide. He sat down beside Claire on the top step, dropping his jacket on the wood for her to sit on. C. P. Ardell seemed dense but he was apparently sensitive enough to know what kind of embarrassment the mayor would be feeling at the presence of a federal agent so the big man sat a few feet away from the mayor and his wife, didn't hover over them.

"Used to come here when I was a kid," the agent said to the mayor. "Every Sunday."

This surprised Kennedy. Most FBI agents were transplants to the area. "You grew up here?"

"Sure did. Wouldn't live in Maryland or Virginia for a million dollars."

"Where's your home, Agent Ardell?" Claire asked him.

"Near the zoo. Just off the parkway."

Kennedy laughed faintly. At least if he had to be under detention he was glad his turnkey was a loyal citizen.

Feeling warm from the champagne, he moved closer to Claire and took her hand. They looked out over the Mall. Gazed at the hundreds of thousands of people milling about. Kennedy was pleased to see that there was no microphone on the reviewing stand. He didn't want to hear any speeches. Didn't want anybody to offer the mike to him for impromptu remarks-Lord, what on earth could he say? All he wanted was to sit with his wife and watch the fireworks blossom over his city. And forget the agony of this day In his radio plea to the Digger he'd referred to this as the last day of the year. But it was, apparently, the end of many things: his chance to help the city, the lives of many of his residents, so horribly killed.

The end of his tenure in office too; Lanier and the others in Congress who wanted to snatch the District away from its people would probably be able to leverage the Digger incident into something impeachable-maybe interference with a police investigation, something like that. Add in the Board of Education scandal and Kennedy could be out of office within a few months. Wendell Jefferies and all the other aides would be swept out with him. And that would be the end of Project 2000.

The end of all his hopes for the District. His poor city would be set back another ten years. Maybe the next mayor-

But then Kennedy noticed something odd. That the spectators seemed to be moving east purposefully, as if they were being herded. Why? he wondered. The view was perfect from here.

He turned to Claire, started to mention this but suddenly she tensed.

"What's that?" she asked.

"What?"

"Gunshots," she said. "I hear gunshots."

Kennedy looked into the air, wondering if the sound perhaps was the fireworks, starting early. But, no. All he saw was the dark, cloudy sky, pierced by the white shaft of the Washington Monument.

Then they heard the screaming.

Czisman's shots did what he'd intended.

When he'd realized that nobody had seen the Digger-and that he himself had no clean shot at the killer-he'd fired twice into the air, to scatter the people and clear a line of fire.

The explosions sent the crowd into a panic. Howling, screaming, everyone scattered, knocking the Digger to his knees. In seconds the area immediately in front of the Vietnam Memorial was virtually empty.

Czisman saw Kincaid too, flinging himself to the ground and pulling a small automatic out of his pocket. The man hadn't seen the Digger-a thick stand of evergreens separated them.

That was fine with Czisman. He wanted the killer.

The Digger was rising slowly. The machine gun had fallen from his coat and he looked around for it. He caught sight of Czisman and froze, gazing at him with the strangest eyes Czisman had ever seen.

In those eyes was less feeling than in an animals. Whoever the mastermind behind the killings had been-the one lying on the slab in the morgue-that man wasn't pure evil. He would've had emotions and thoughts and desires. He might have reformed, might have developed the nub of a conscience that was possibly within him.

But the Digger? No. There was no redemption for this machine. There was only death.

The killer with a mans mind and the devil's heart…

The Digger glanced at the gun in Czisman's hand. Then his eyes rose again and he stared at the journalist's face.

Kincaid was rising to his feet, shouting at Czisman, "Drop the weapon, drop the weapon!"

Czisman ignored him and lifted the gun toward the Digger. With a shaking voice he began to say, "You-"

But there was a soft explosion at the Diggers side. A tuft of the man's overcoat popped outward. Czisman felt the hard fist in his chest, dropped to his knees. He fired his own gun but the shot went wide.

The Digger removed his hand from his pocket, holding a small pistol. He aimed at Czisman's chest once more, fired twice.

Czisman flew backward under the impact of the rounds.

As he tumbled to the cold earth, seeing distant lights reflected in the wall of the Vietnam Memorial, he muttered, "You…"

Czisman tried to get his gun… But where was it? It had fallen from his hand.

Where, where?…

Kincaid was running for cover, looking around, confused. Czisman saw the Digger walk slowly toward his machine gun, pick it up and fire a burst toward Kincaid, who dove behind a tree. The Digger trotted away, crouching, through the bushes toward the fleeing crowds.

Czisman groped for his gun. "You… you… you…" But his hand fell to the ground like a rock and then there was only blackness.

A few people…

Click, click…

Funny…

A few people were nearby, huddled on the ground, looking around. Frightened. The Digger could easily have shot them but then the police would see him.

"The last time kill as many as you can," said the man who tells him things.

But how many is as many as you can?

One, two, three, four, five…

The Digger doesn't think he meant only a half dozen.

The last minute of the last hour of the…

So he's hurrying after them, doing the things he ought to do, looking scared, running the way the crowd does, hunching over. Things like that.

You're… you're… you're the best.

Who was that man back there? he wonders. He wasn't a policeman. Why was he trying to shoot me?

The Digger has hidden the… click, click… the Uzi under his overcoat, the overcoat that he loves because Pamela gave it to him.

There are shouts nearby but they don't seem to be directed at him so he doesn't pay any attention. Nobody notices him. He's moving through the grass, near the bushes and trees, along that wide street-Constitution Avenue. There are buses and cars and thousands and thousands of people. If he can get to them he can kill hundreds.

He sees museums, like the one where they have the picture of the entrance to hell. Museums are fun, he thinks. Tye would like museums. Maybe when they're in California they can go to a museum together.

More shouting. People are running. There are men and women and children all over the place. Police and agents. They have Uzis or Mac-10s or, click, pistols like the Digger's pistols and like the pistol of the fat man who just tried to shoot him. But these men and women aren't shooting because they don't know who to shoot at. The Digger is just one of the crowd.