Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

Click, click.

How far does he have to go to get to more people?

A few hundred feet, he guesses.

He's trotting toward them. But his path is taking him away from Tye-from the car parked on Twenty-second Street. He doesn't like that thought. He wants to get the shooting over with and get back to the boy. When he gets to the crowd he'll spin like a whirligig, watch the people fall like leaves in a Connecticut forest then go back to the boy.

When I travel on the road,

I love you all the more.

Spin, spin, spin…

They'll fall like Pamela fell with the rose on her chest and the yellow flashing flower in her hand.

Fall, fall, fall…

More people with guns are running over the grass.

Suddenly, nearby, he hears explosions, cracks and bangs and pops.

Are people shooting at him?

No, no… Ah, look!

Above him flowers are blossoming in the air. There's smoke and brilliant flowers, red and yellow. Also blue and white.

Fireworks.

His watch beeps.

It's midnight.

Time to shoot.

But the Digger can't shoot just yet. There aren't enough people.

The Digger keeps moving toward the crowd. He can shoot some, but not enough to make the man who tells him things happy.

Crack…

A bullet streaks past him.

Now someone is shooting at him.

Shouting.

Two men in FBI jackets in the middle of the field to the Digger's right have seen him. They're standing in front of a wooden platform, decorated with beautiful red and blue and white banners, like the ones the fat New Year's babies wear.

He turns toward them and fires the Uzi through his coat. He doesn't want to do this-to put more holes in the beautiful black or blue coat Pamela gave him but he has to. He can't let anyone see the gun.

The men clutch at their faces and necks as if bees are stinging them and fall down.

The Digger turns and continues moving after the crowds.

Nobody has seen him shoot the men.

He only has to walk a couple of hundred feet further and he'll be surrounded by lots of people, looking around like everybody else, looking for the killer, looking for salvation. And then he can shoot and shoot and shoot.

Spinning like a whirligig in a Connecticut forest.

When the first bullets crashed into the wood around him Jerry Kennedy shoved Claire off the platform and onto the cold ground.

He jumped after her and lay on his side, shielding her from the bullets. "Claire!" Kennedy shouted.

"I'm all right!" Her voice was edgy with panic. "What's going on?"

"Somebody's shooting. It must be him! The killer-he must be here!"

They lay side by side, huddling, smelling dirt and grass and spilled beer.

One person on the platform had been hit-the young aide, who'd been shot in the arm as Congressman Lanier leapt behind him for cover. But no one else seemed to be injured. Most of the shots had been wild. The killer had been aiming at the two agents in front of the viewing stand, not at anyone on the platform.

Kennedy could see the agents were dead.

The mayor glanced up and saw C. P. Ardell, holding his black pistol in front of him, looking over the field. He stood tall, wasn't even crouching.

"Agent Ardell!" Kennedy shouted. "There he is! There!"

But the agent didn't shoot. Kennedy climbed halfway up the stairs, tugged at the man's cuff, pointing. "He's getting away. Shoot!"

The huge agent held his automatic out in front of him like a sharpshooter.

"Ardell!"

"Ahnnnn," the agent was saying.

"What're you waiting for?" Kennedy cried.

But C. P. Ardell just kept saying, "Ahnnnnn, ahnnnn," gazing out over the field.

Then Ardell started to turn, slowly revolving, looking north, then east, then south… Looking toward the wall of the Vietnam Memorial, then at the trees, then at the Washington Monument, then at the flag that decorated the backdrop of the viewing platform.

"Ahnnnn."

The agent turned once more, a complete circle, and fell onto his back, staring up at the sky with glazed eyes. Kennedy saw the top of his head was missing.

"Oh, Jesus!"

Claire gave a gasp as a stream of the man's blood cascaded down the stairs and pooled inches from her face.

The agent said "Ahnnnnnn" once more, blew a slick bubble from his mouth. Kennedy took the man's hand. It quivered slightly. Then it was still.

Kennedy stood up. He looked past the podium, which Lanier, his aide and another congressman were hiding behind. The Mall was dim-there were no lights on because of the fireworks-but in the headlights from the emergency vehicles Kennedy had a view of the chaos. He was looking for the silhouette of the Digger.

"What the hell're you doing in my city?" he whispered. Then his voice rose to a shout, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Jerry, get down!" Claire pleaded.

But he stayed where he was, scanned the field, trying to find the dark form of the killer once more.

Where was he? Where?

Then he saw a man in the shadows, walking fast along a row of cherry trees not far from Constitution Avenue.

He was making for the crowds farther east on the Mall.

Kennedy stood and pried the pistol from the dead agent's hand.

"Oh, Jerry, no," Claire said. "No! Call on your phone."

"There's no time."

"No…" She was crying softly.

He paused, turned to her. Touched her cheek with his left hand and kissed her forehead the way he always did before they shut the light out and went to sleep. Then he leapt over the huddling lumps of a young politico couple and sprinted over the grass.

He thought: I'm going to have a fucking heart attack, I'm going to have a heart attack and die… But he didn't slow down.

The familiar sights of the city were around him: The white Washington Monument, the stark cherry trees, the tower of the Smithsonian, the gray neo-Gothic buildings of the museums, the tourist buses…

Kennedy gasped and ran, gasped and ran.

The Digger was a hundred feet away from him. Then ninety feet…

Eighty feet.

Kennedy watched the killer move closer to the crowd. He pulled a black machine gun from under his coat.

There was a shot from the trees to Kennedy's left. Then another and two more.

Yes! Kennedy thought. They've seen him!

But suddenly a tuft of grass beside Kennedy flew into the air and another bullet snapped over his head.

Jesus! They were shooting at him. They'd seen a man with a gun running toward the crowds and assumed he was the killer.

"No, no!" He crouched then pointed toward the Digger. "It's him!"

The killer was in the tree line, moving around to the side of the crowd. In just a minute he'd be only fifty feet from them and could kill hundreds with a single burst from the gun.

Hell with it. Let's just hope the cops're bad shots. Kennedy began to sprint forward again.

There was one more shot in his direction but then someone must have identified him. Shouts over the bullhorn ordered the officers to cease fire.

"Get back!" Kennedy was shouting to the crowd.

But there was nowhere for them to go. They were packed together like cattle. Thousands. Some staring at the fireworks, some looking around, uneasy and confused.

Kennedy steered toward the trees, his chest on fire, speeding toward the place where he'd last seen the Digger.

I'm dying, he thought. He pictured himself on the ground, retching in agony as his heart shut down.

And besides, what on earth am I doing? What kind of idiocy is this? The last time he'd fired a gun had been at summer camp with his son-thirty years ago. He'd fired three shots and missed the target completely, to the boy's shame.