The Devils Teardrop

it.”
    “Give me the gun,” Parker whispered.
    The boy continued to stare at the Digger. Tears were running down his cheeks. “He kill mah daddy. He brought me here, brought me in a car.”
    “Let me have the gun. What’s your name?”
    “I seen him do it. He do it right in fronta me. I been waiting t’cap his ass. Found this piece in his car. Trey-five-seven.”
    “It’s okay,” Parker said. “What’s your name?”
    “He dead. Shit.”
    Parker eased forward but the boy pointed the gun toward him threateningly. Parker froze and backed off. “Just put that down. Would you do that? Please?”
    The boy ignored him. His wary eyes scanned the room. They stopped momentarily on the Christmas tree. Then returned to the Digger. “He kill mah daddy. Why he do that?”
    Parker slowly rose once more, hands up, palms out. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt you.”
    He glanced upstairs. But the shot had apparently not wakened the Whos.
    “I’m just going over there for a minute.” He nodded to the tree.
    He skirted the boy—and the bloodstain surrounding the Digger’s head—and walked to the Christmas tree. He bent down and picked up something and returned, knelt. Parker held his empty right hand out to the boy, palm up. Then with his left he offered him Robby’s Star Wars Millennium Falcon spaceship.
    “I’ll trade you.”
    The boy studied the plastic toy. The gun drooped. He was much shorter than Robby and must have weighed onlysixty or seventy pounds. But his eyes were twenty years older than Parker’s son’s.
    “Let me have the gun, please.”
    He studied the toy. “Man,” he said reverently. Then he handed Parker the pistol and took the toy.
    Parker said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back. Do you want something to eat? Are you hungry?”
    The boy didn’t answer.
    Parker picked up the machine gun and carried it and the pistol upstairs. He put the guns on the top shelf of the closet and locked the door.
    Motion beside him. Robby was coming down the corridor.
    “Daddy?”
    “Hey, young man.” Parker struggled to keep his voice from trembling.
    “I had a dream. I heard a gun. I’m scared.”
    Parker intercepted him before he got to the stairs, put his arm around him and directed him back to the bedroom. “It was probably just fireworks.”
    “Can we get firecrackers next year?” the boy asked sleepily.
    “We’ll see.”
    He heard footsteps outside, slapping on the street in front of the house. Glanced outside. He saw the boy running across the front lawn, clutching the spaceship. He vanished up the street.
    Headed for where? Parker wondered. The District? West Virginia? He couldn’t spare a moment’s thought for the boy. His own son took all his attention.
    Parker put Robby in bed, beside his sister. He needed to find his cell phone and call 911. But the boy wouldn’t let go of his father’s hand.
    “Was it a bad dream?” Parker asked.
    “I don’t know. I just heard this noise.”
    Parker lay down next to him. He glanced at the clock. It was 3:30. Joan would be here at 10:00 with her social worker . . . Jesus, what a nightmare this was. There were a dozen bullet holes in the walls. Furniture was damaged, the breakfront shattered. The back door was destroyed.
    And in the middle of the carpet was a bloody corpse.
    “Daddy,” Stephie said, mumbling in her sleepy voice.
    “It’s okay, honey.”
    “I heard a firecracker. Petey Whelan had firecrackers. His mother told him he couldn’t have any but he did. I saw them.”
    “That’s not our business. Go back to sleep, honey.”
    Parker lay back, closed his eyes. Felt her slight weight on his chest.
    Thinking about the bullet holes, the bullet casings, the shattered furniture. The body.
    He imagined Joan’s testimony in court.
    What could he do? What excuse could he come up with?
    What . . . ?
    A moment later Parker Kincaid was breathing deeply. Content in the sleep of a parent whose children were close in his arms, and there is no sleep better than that.
    * * *
    When he opened his eyes it was five minutes to ten in the morning.
    Parker had been awakened by the sound of a car door slamming and Joan’s voice saying, “We’re a few minutes early but I’m sure he won’t mind. Watch your step—he knew we were coming and he didn’t bother to shovel the walk. Typical. Typical.”

37
    He rolled from the bed.
    Nauseous, head throbbing, he looked out the window.
    Joan was walking toward the house. Richard was with