The Devils Teardrop

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.
    Parker blamed his mania on a cocktail of exhaustion and adrenaline.
    He called the Whos and promised them he’d be home in a half hour. Robby told his father about the air horn someone had blasted at midnight, waking up the Bradleys down the street and causing a neighborhood stir. Stephie described the sparklers in the yard with breathless, sloppy adjectives.
    “Love you, Who,” he said. “Be home soon.”
    “Love you too, Daddy,” the girl said. “How’s your friend?”
    “He’s going to be fine.”
    Cage was talking to an evidence tech from PERT and Parker was jockeying to get downwind of the smoke from the bus. There was an unpleasant scent—worse than the burnt rubber of the tires. Parker knew what it was and the thought of inhaling any of the Digger’s ashy corpse nauseated him.
    A dead psycho smouldering before him, and Parker, at the tail end of an evening like none other he’d ever had . . . Yet it’s the mundane things in life that poke up like crocuses. He now thought: Hell, I don’t have enough cash to pay Mrs. Cavanaugh. He patted his pockets and dug out a small wad of bills. Twenty-two bucks. Not enough. He’d have to stop at an ATM on the way home.
    He glanced at a piece of paper mixed in with the money. It was the transcription of the unsub’s notes on the burnt yellow pad. The references to the last two sites of the attacks that he’d found on the pad of paper Tobe Geller had saved from the burning safe house.
    . . . two miles south. The R . . .
    . . . place I showed you. The black . . .
    “What’s that?” Cage asked, kneading his wounded rib.
    “A souvenir,” Parker said, looking down at the words. “Just a souvenir.”
    * * *
    Edward Fielding paused at the end of the corridor, gasping under the weight of the money on his back.
    He looked toward the reception area thirty feet away and saw the short blond hair of Margaret Lukas. Beyond her was the guard, reading the newspaper. The lightswere out in the corridor and even if they’d turned toward him it would have been difficult to see him clearly.
    Adjusting the money more comfortably, he clutched the pistol in his right hand and started down the hallway. His leather soles tapping faintly on the tile. He noted that Lukas was facing away from him. He’d put one bullet in her head. Then as the guard looked up, he’d kill him.
    Then home free.
    Tap tap tap.
    He closed the distance to