Jeffery Deaver - The Devil's Teardrop

Fielding tossed aside the sensor-he had no need for it any longer-and pulled a silk backpack from under his shirt. It was made of parachute material and he'd sewn it himself. He began to pack the money into the bag.

He'd asked for $20,000,000 because that was a credible amount for a scheme like this and also to give some credence to the motive of revenge for a significant event like the Vietnamese War. Fielding, however, would only be able to carry $4,000,000-which would weigh seventy-two pounds. Generally unathletic, he'd worked out at a health club in Bethesda, Maryland, for six weeks after he'd come to the area so that he'd be strong enough to carry the cash.

The hundred-dollar bills were all traceable of course (tracing money was easy now thanks to scanners and computers). But Fielding had considered that. In Brazil, where he would be in several days, the $4,000,000 in traceable cash would become $3,200,000 in gold. Which would in turn become $3,200,000 in untraceable U.S. dollars and eurodollars.

And over the next few years it would easily grow to $4,000,000 once again and then beyond, the mutual fund industry and interest rates willing.

Fielding had no regrets about leaving the rest of the money. Crime can't be about greed; it must be about craft.

He packed the cash into the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Stepping into the corridor, staggering under the weight, working his way to the elevator.

Thinking: He'd have to kill the guard at the front door, as well as anyone in the team who was still here. Tobe Geller, he thought, had gone home. But Lukas was still in the building. She definitely would have to die. Under other circumstances killing her wouldn't matter-he'd been very careful about hiding his identity and where he really lived. But the agents were much better than he'd anticipated. My God, they'd actually found the safe house in Gravesend… That had shaken Fielding badly. He never thought they'd manage that. Fortunately Gilbert Havel had been to the safe house a number of times so neighbors would see Havel's picture when the police were doing their canvassing and assume he was the man who'd rented the place-reinforcing the agents' belief that he was the mastermind of the crime.

And nearly finding that the Ritzy Lady was the site of the second attack… He'd sat in the document lab in horror as the computer had assembled the fragments from the note at the safe house. He'd waited for just the right moment and blurted out, "Ritz! Maybe the Ritz-Carlton?" And as soon as they'd heard that, the solution was set in stone. It would be almost impossible for them to think of any other possibilities.

That's how puzzle solving works, right, Parker?

And what about him?

Oh, he was far too smart, far too much of a risk to remain alive.

As he walked slowly down the deserted corridors he reflected that, while Fielding was the perfect criminal, Kincaid was the perfect detective.

What happens when perfect opposites meet?

But this was a rhetorical question, not a puzzle, and he didn't waste time trying to answer it. He came to the elevator and pushed the UP button.

Margaret Lukas swung open the door to the document lab.

She looked inside. "Hello? Dr. Evans?"

He didn't answer.

Where was he? she wondered.

She paused at the examination table, looked down at the extortion note.

The end is night…

Thinking: Maybe Parker Kincaid wasn't quite correct when he'd said that no one would make this kind of mistake.

In a way the end is night. Darkness and sleep and peace.

Night, take me. Darkness, take me…

That's what she'd thought when she'd gotten the call from her mother-in-law about the crash that killed Tom and Joey. Lying in bed that windy November night, or two nights later or three-it was all a jumble now-lying by herself, unable to breathe, unable to cry.

Thinking: Night, take me. Night, take me, please. Night, take me…

Lukas now stood hunched over the document examining table, gazing down, her short blond strands falling forward past her eyes, like a horses blinders. Staring at the words of the extortion note, the swirls of the sloppy letters. Lukas remembered watching Kincaid as he'd studied the note, his lips moving faintly, as if he were interviewing a living suspect.

The end is night…

Shaking her head at her own morbidly philosophical mood, she turned and left the lab.

She walked to the elevator. Maybe Evans was waiting at the guard station. She looked absently at the indicator lights as the elevator ascended.

The hallways were deserted and she was aware of the small noises of empty buildings at night. The field office, where she worked, was located near City Hall, some blocks away, and she didn't get here very often. She didn't like headquarters very much. It was too big. And tonight, she reflected, the place was dark and spooky. And it took a lot to make Margaret Lukas spooked. She remembered Kincaid projecting the extortion note onto a screen in the lab and she'd thought: It looks like a ghost.

Lukas sensed more ghosts now. Here in these corridors. Ghosts of agents killed in the line of duty. Ghosts of victims of the crimes that were investigated here.

And her own personal ghosts? she thought. Oh, but they were with her all the time. Her husband and son. They never left. Nor did she want them to. The changeling needed something to remind her of Jackie Lukas.

She glanced down at the floor in front of the elevator. There was a dark stain on the floor. What was it? She smelled sour coffee.

The elevator light flashed and a chime sounded. The door opened. Someone stepped out.

"Oh, hi," Lukas said. "Got some news for you."

"Hey, Margaret," said Susan Nance, juggling a dozen files. "What's up?"

"They just tagged him. Got him on the Mall."

"The Metro killer?"

"Yep."

The woman gave a thumbs-up. "Excellent. Oh, Happy New Year."

"Same to you."

Lukas got on the elevator and descended to the main floor.

At the employee entrance guard station Artie looked up at her and nodded a pleasant greeting.

"Did that Dr. Evans sign out?" she asked him.

"Nope. Haven't seen him."

She'd wait for him here. Lukas sat in one of the comfortable lobby chairs. Sank down into it. She felt exhausted. She wanted to get home. She knew people said behind her back how sad it must be-a woman living alone. But it wasn't sad at all. Returning to the womb of the house was a hell of a lot better than sitting at a bar with girlfriends or going out on a date with the endless fodder of eligible-and dull-men in Washington.

Home…

Thinking about the report she'd have to write about METSHOOT

Thinking about Parker Kincaid.

Focus, she told herself.

Then she remembered that she didn't have to focus anymore.

What about him? Well, he wanted to ask her out. She knew he did.

But she'd already decided to say no. He was a handsome, energetic man, filled with the love of children and domestic life. How appealing that seemed. But, no, she couldn't inflict on him the sorrow that she believed she radiated like toxic fumes.

Maybe Jackie Lukas might have had a chance with a man like Kincaid. But a changeling like Margaret never would.

Artie looked up from his paper. "Oh, forgot to say-Happy New Year, Agent Lukas."

"Happy New Year, Artie."

As the Digger smouldered with a foul reek and the fire department spurted foam onto the scorched cherry trees as the crowds circled the burnt-out bus, Parker and Cage stood together.

The Digger's gone. So long.

Verses from Dr. Seuss trooped through his mind like some of the author's bizarre creatures.