The Devils Teardrop

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.

36
    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.
    But he won’t leave, the Digger knows. The children are here. A father won’t run out on his children.
    The Digger knows this because he wouldn’t leave Tye. Kincaid won’t leave the little blond boy and the dark-haired girl.
    If Parker Kincaid lives, the Digger will never get to Cali-fornia. Out West.
    He steps into the living room, holding the gun in front of him.
    * * *
    Parker rolled away from the Digger, rolled along the floor, elbows scraped, head throbbing from