The Devils Teardrop

phraseology, margins . . . Unfortunately, the Government Printing Office changed the presidential letterhead in August of 1963. Jeremy got his hands on several of those new sheets and used them for his forgeries. Too bad the letters were dated May of ’63.”
    “I had bad intelligence,” Jeremy muttered. “So, Parker, is it cuffs and chains? What’ve I done now?”
    “Oh, I think you know what you’ve done, Jeremy. I think you know.”
    Parker pulled up a chair for Lukas and one for himself. They both sat.
    “Oh, dear,” Jeremy said.
    “Oh, dear,” echoed Parker.

34
    Finally, it was snowing.
    Large squares of flakes parachuting to the ground. Two inches already, muting the night.
    Edward Fielding, lugging the burdensome silk bag of money on his back and carrying a silenced pistol in his right hand, waded through a belt of trees and brush in Bethesda, Maryland. From FBI headquarters he’d driven here via two “switch wheels”—getaway cars that professional thieves hide along escape routes to trick pursuers. He’d stayed on major highways the whole way, keeping exactly to the speed limit. He parked on the other side of this grove of trees and walked the rest of the way. The money slowed him down but he certainly wasn’t going to leave the cash in the car, despite the relative safety in this placid, upscale Washington suburb.
    He eased through the side yard and paused by a fence separating his rented house from the one next door.
    On the street, every car was familiar.
    Inside his house, no movement or shadows he didn’t recognize.
    Across the street, the lights in all the houses facing his were dark except for the Harkins’ place. This was normal. Fielding had observed that the Harkins rarely went to bed before 2 or 3 A.M .
    He set the knapsack holding the money beside a tree on the property next door to his house. And stood upright, letting his muscles enjoy the freedom from the heavy load. He moved along the fence, checking out the ground in the front, back and side yards around his house. No footprints in the snow there or on the sidewalk in front of the houses.
    Fielding picked up the money once again and continued along the walk to his house. There were several security devices he’d rigged to let him know if there’d been any unwanted visitors—homemade tricks, rudimentary but effective: thread across the gate, the front door latch lined up with a tiny fleck of dried paint on the storm door, the corner of the rattan mat curled and resting against the door.
    He’d learned these from a right-wing Web site on the Internet about protecting yourself from blacks, Jews and the federal government. Despite the snow, which would have revealed any intruders, he checked them carefully. Because that was what you did when you committed the perfect crime.
    He unlocked the door, thinking of his next steps. He’d only be here for five or ten minutes—long enough to pack the money into boxes that had contained children’s toys, collect his other suitcases then drive, via three safe cars already planted along the route, to Ocean City, Maryland. There he’d get on the chartered boat and be in Miami in two days. Then a chartered plane would take him to Costa Rica and that night he’d fly on to Brazil.
    Then he’d—
    He wasn’t sure where she’d been hiding. Maybe behindthe door. Maybe in the closet. Before Fielding even had time to feel the shock of adrenaline flooding through his body the pistol had been ripped from his hand and Margaret Lukas was screaming, “Freeze, freeze, federal agents!”
    Fielding found himself not freezing at all but tumbling forward and lying flat on his belly, under her strong grip. Gun in his ear. The cash was pulled off him and his hands were cuffed by two large male agents. Fingers probed through his pockets.
    They pulled him to his feet and pushed him into an armchair.
    Cage and several other men and women walked through the front door, while yet another agent inventoried the money.
    He had a completely mystified expression on his face. She said, “Oh, those trip wires and things? You do realize we bookmark the same Web site as everybody else—that Aryan militia crap.”
    “But the snow?” he asked. Shivering now from the shock. “There were no footprints. How’d you get in?”
    “Oh, we borrowed a hook and ladder from the Bethesda Fire Department. The SWAT team and I climbed in through your upstairs window.”
    Just then Parker Kincaid walked through the