The Devils Teardrop

New York wants it analyzed.”
    “Is it real?”
    “My gut feeling is yes. I have some more tests to run. Oh, here.” He handed her the pistol.
    Lukas, in the skirt now, was no longer dressed for hiding backup weapons on her ankle. She slipped the gun into her glove compartment. Parker’s eyes strayed to her profile again.
    Why on earth would you envy me? he wondered silently.
    Sometimes puzzles answer themselves, in their own time.
    And sometimes you just never do find the answer.And that’s because, Parker Kincaid had come to believe, you weren’t meant to.
    “Hey, you doing anything tomorrow night?” he asked suddenly. “Want to have a ridiculously suburban dinner?”
    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