Jeffery Deaver: The Devil's Teardrop

She hesitated. Not moving a muscle. Not even breathing, it seemed. He didn't move either, just kept a faint smile on his lips, the way he waited for the Whos to confess about missing cookies or a broken lamp.

Finally she too smiled but he saw that it was fake-a smile of stone, one that matched her eyes. And he knew what her answer would be.

"I'm sorry," she said formally. "I have plans. Maybe some other time."

Meaning: never. Parker Kincaid's Handbook for the Single Parent had a whole chapter on euphemisms.

"Sure," he said, trying to step on the disappointment. "Some other time."

"Where's your car?" Lukas asked. "I'll give you a ride."

"No, that's okay It's right over there."

He gripped her hand again and resisted the urge to pull her close.

"'Night," she said.

He nodded.

As he walked to his car he looked at her and saw she was waving. It was an odd gesture since her face was emotionless and she wasn't smiling.

But then Parker noticed that she wasn't waving at all. She was wiping off the condensation on the windows, not even looking at him. When she'd cleaned the glass Margaret Lukas put the truck in gear and sped into the middle of the street.

On the way home, driving through the quiet, snow-filled streets, Parker stopped at a 7-Eleven for black coffee, a ham-and-egg on a croissant and cash from the ATM. When he walked in the front door of his house he found Mrs. Cavanaugh asleep on the couch.

He woke her and paid her twice what she asked for. Then escorted her to the door and stood on the front steps, watching her walk over the snow carefully until she disappeared into her own house across the street.

The children had fallen asleep in his bed-his room sported a TV and VCR. The screen was bright blue, circumstantial evidence that they'd watched a movie. He was afraid to see which video had lulled them to sleep-he had a collection of R-rated thriller and sci-fi films-but what popped out when he hit eject was only The Lion King. Troubling enough-Robby would forever detest hyenas-but at least it had a noble ending and the violence was largely unseen.

Parker was exhausted-beyond exhaustion. But sleep, he felt, was still an hour or so away.

Despite his urging her not to, Mrs. Cavanaugh had done dishes and cleaned the kitchen-so he couldn't work off energy that way. Instead, he bundled up the trash from around the house and carted it out into the backyard, lugging the green bags over his shoulder like Santa. Thinking: What a crazy life-to have been pointing a gun at someone an hour ago, to have been shot at himself, and now to be back in the middle of suburbia, lost in these domestic chores.

As he eased up the lid of the trash bin Parker glanced into the backyard. He stopped, frowned. There were footprints in the snow.

Recent footprints.

Only a few minutes old, he judged-the edges were still sharp, unsoftened by the falling snow and the wind. The intruder had walked up to the guest room window, then disappeared toward the front of the house.

Parker's heart began thudding.

He carefully set the garbage bag down and walked quietly back into the house.

He closed and locked the kitchen door behind him. Checked on the front door. It was locked. Because of his document business-the value of the specimens and the risk of pollution and dust in the air-the windows in the house were sealed and couldn't be opened; he didn't need to check them.

But whose footprints?

Just kids, maybe.

Or Mr. Johnson looking for his dog.

That's all it was. Sure…

But ten seconds later he was on the phone to the federal detention facility in Washington, D.C.

He identified himself as FBI Special Agent Parker Kincaid, a statement only a few years untrue. "I was working on that case tonight with Margaret Lukas."

"Sure. The METSHOOT."

"Right. I'm being a little paranoid here," Parker said. "But the suspect-Edward Fielding. He's not out on bail, is he?"

"Bail? No way. He won't be arraigned until Monday."

"He's locked down?"

"Yep. I can see him. On the monitor."

"He asleep?"

"No, just sitting on his bed. Been behaving himself. Talked to his lawyer-that was about an hour ago-then went into his cell and's been there ever since. Why?"

"Just spooked, I guess. Thought I saw the boogeyman."

"Boogeyman. Ha. Hey, Happy New Year."

Parker hung up, relieved.

For about five seconds.

Talking to his lawyer?

Parker didn't know any lawyer in the country who'd be up at this hour on a holiday, talking to a client who wouldn't be arraigned for two days.

Then he thought: Perfection.

"Oh, Jesus," he muttered.

Fielding-the man who had a plan for everything. He must have had a plan for escaping if he was caught.

He lifted the receiver and hit the first digit of 911.

The line went dead.

Motion outside the kitchen door.

He looked up.

Standing on the back porch, gazing at him through the window in the door was a man. He was pale. Wearing a dark coat. Black or blue. There was blood on his left arm but not a lot of blood. Burns on his face but they weren't serious.

The man lifted his silenced machine gun and tapped the trigger, as Parker leapt aside, crashing into the wall and falling to the floor. The doorknob and lock of the back door blew apart under the stream of bullets. Glass splinters exploded into the room.

Leisurely, the Digger pushed the door open and stepped inside, like a friendly neighbor invited over for coffee.

The Digger's cold, the Digger wants to get this over with and leave.

He'd rather be outside. He likes the… click… the… the… the snow.

He likes the snow.

Oh, look, a nice Christmas wreath and a nice Christmas tree in Parker Kincaid's comfy house. Tye would like this.

Funny…

No puppies, no ribbons here. But a nice wreath and a nice tree.

He fires again as Kincaid runs through the doorway.

Did he hit him? The Digger can't tell.

But, no, guess not. He sees Kincaid crawling into another room, shutting out lights, rolling on the floor.

Doing things like that.

The Digger believes he's happy. The man who tells him things called again, an hour ago. Not a message from the voice-mail lady who sounds like Ruth but a real call on his cell phone. He told the Digger that the night wasn't over yet even though the Digger had gone to the black wall and done what he was supposed to do.

Not… click… not over yet.

"Listen to me," said the man who tells him things and so the Digger listened. He was supposed to kill three more people. Someone named Cage and someone named Lukas. And Parker Kincaid. "Kill him first. Okay?"

"Hmmm, okay."

The Digger knows Kincaid. He came to his house earlier tonight. Kincaid has a little boy like Tye except the Digger doesn't like Kincaid's little boy because Kincaid wants to make the Digger go back to the lousy hospital in Connecticut. Kincaid wants to take him away from Tye.

"Then at four-thirty A.M.," said the man who tells him things, "I want you to come to the Federal Detention Center on Third Street. I'll be in the clinic. It's on the first floor in the back. I'll be pretending I'm sick. Kill everyone you see and let me out."

"Okay."

Walking into the dining room, the Digger sees Kincaid roll out from beneath the table and run into the hallway. He fires another stream of bullets. Kincaid's face looks like Ruth's face when he was about to put the glass in her neck and like Pamela's when he put the knife in her chest below the gold cross here's your Christmas present I love you love you all the more…

Kincaid disappears into another part of the house.