The Devils Teardrop

wasn’t quite okay.
    “We’ll have fun tomorrow . . . But, honey, you know my friend? I may have to go back and see him.”
    “Oh, I know,” Stephie said.
    “You do?”
    “I could tell. Sometimes you’re all-the-way here and sometimes you’re partway here. And tonight, when you came back, you were only partway here.”
    “Tomorrow I’ll be all-the-way here. It’s supposed to snow. You want to go sledding?”
    “Yeah! Can I make the hot chocolate?”
    “I was hoping you would.” He hugged his daughter then rose and walked into the den to call Lukas. He didn’t want her to overhear his conversation.
    But through the curtained window he saw motion on the sidewalk, a man, he thought.
    He walked quickly to the window and looked out. He couldn’t see anyone—only a car he didn’t recognize.
    He slipped his hand into his pocket. And kneaded the cold metal of Lukas’s gun.
    Oh, not again . . . Thinking of the Boatman, remembering that terrible night.
    The gun is too loud! . . .
    The doorbell rang.
    “I’ll get it,” he called abruptly, glancing into the kitchen. He saw Stephie blink. Once again his brusque manner had startled one of his children. Still, there was no time to comfort her.
    Hand in his pocket, he looked through the window in the door and saw an FBI agent he recognized from earlierin the evening. He relaxed, leaned his head against the doorjamb. Breathed deeply to calm himself then opened the door with a trembling hand. A second agent walked up the steps. He remembered Lukas’s comment about sending some men to watch the house.
    “Agent Kincaid?”
    He nodded. Looking over his shoulder to make sure Stephie was out of earshot.
    “Margaret Lukas sent us to keep an eye on your family.”
    “Thanks. Just park out of sight if you would. I don’t want to upset the children.”
    “Sure thing, sir.”
    He glanced at his watch. He was relieved. If the Digger had struck again, Cage or Lukas would have called. Maybe they’d actually caught the son of a bitch.
    “The shooter in the Metro killing?” he asked. “The Digger. They got him?”
    The look that passed between the two men chilled Parker.
    Oh, no . . .
    “Well, sir—”
    Inside the house the phone started to ring. He saw Mrs. Cavanaugh answer it.
    “The shooter, he got on board a party yacht on the Potomac. Killed eleven, wounded more than twenty. I thought you knew.”
    Oh, God. No . . .
    Nausea churned inside him.
    Here I was reading children’s books while people were dying. You’ve been living life on Sesame Street . . .
    He asked, “Agent Lukas . . . she’s all right? And Agent Cage?”
    “Yessir. They weren’t anywhere near the boat. They found some clue that said ‘Ritz,’ so they thought the Digger was going to hit one of the Ritz hotels. But that wasn’t it. The name of the boat was the Ritzy Lady. Bad luck, huh?”
    The other agent said, “Security guard got off a couple shots and that scared the shooter off. So it wasn’t as bad as it might’ve been. But they didn’t hit him, they don’t think.”
    Bad luck, huh?
    No, not luck at all. When you don’t solve the puzzle it’s not because of luck.
    Three hawks . . .
    He heard Mrs. Cavanaugh’s voice, “Mr. Kincaid?”
    He glanced into the house.
    Eleven dead . . .
    “Phone for you.”
    Parker walked into the kitchen. He picked up the phone, expecting to hear Lukas or Cage.
    But it was a smooth-sounding, pleasant baritone he didn’t recognize. “Mr. Kincaid?”
    “Yes? Who’s this?”
    “My name’s Slade Phillips, WPLT News. Mr. Kincaid, we’re doing a special report on the New Year’s Eve shootings. We have an unnamed source reporting that you’ve been instrumental in the investigation and may be responsible for the mix-up in sending the FBI to the Ritz-Carlton Hotel when in fact the killer had targeted another location. We’re going on the air with that story at nine. We want to give you the chance to tell your side. Do you have anything to say?”
    Parker inhaled sharply. He believed his heart stopped beating momentarily.
    This was it . . . Joan would find out. Everyone would find out.
    “Mr. Kincaid?”
    “I have no comment.” He hung up, missing the cradle. He watched the phone spiral downward and hit the floor with a resounding crack.
    * * *
    The Digger returns to his comfy motel room.
    Thinking of the boat—where he spun around like . . . click  . . . like a whirligig among red and yellow leaves and