The Devils Teardrop

cook.”
    “I know ,” Joan answered, unimpressed with her ex-husband’s talents.
    Lukas handed out coffee cups and asked Parker, “What time did you get back from the hospital last night?”
    “Uhm.”
    “The hospital? Were the children sick?” Joan asked this with melodramatic concern, glancing at the social worker.
    “He was visiting a friend,” Lukas responded.
    “I don’t know what time,” Parker said. “It was late?” The answer was largely a question; Lukas was the writer of this scene and he felt he should defer to her script.
    “What friend?” Joan demanded.
    “Harold Cage,” Lukas said. “He’ll be all right. Just a broken rib. Isn’t that what they said?”
    “Broken rib.”
    “Slipped and fell, right?” Lukas continued her award-winning performance.
    “Right,” Parker recited. “Slipped and fell.”
    He sipped the coffee that Lukas had put in his hand.
    The social worker ate a second sweet roll. “Say, could I get the recipe for these?”
    “Sure,” Parker said.
    Joan kept a benign smile on her face. She walked around the living room, examining. “The place looks all different.” As she passed her ex-husband she whispered, “So, Parker, sleeping with skinny little Jackie, are we?”
    “No, Joan. We’re just friends.”
    “Ah.”
    “I’ll get some more coffee,” Lukas said.
    “I’ll help you,” Parker said.
    In the kitchen he swung the door closed and turned to Lukas. He whispered, “How? How on earth . . . ?”
    She laughed—undoubtedly at the expression on his face. “You called Detention last night. Said you were spooked. Night watch called me. I tried to call you. Bell Atlantic said your line’d been cut. Fairfax County SWAT got here around three-thirty on a silent roll-in and found a dead body downstairs and you in bed taking a nap. Who was the shooter who got the Digger? Wasn’t you, right?”
    “Some kid. He said the Digger killed his father. The Digger brought him here with him. Don’t ask me why. The boy just took off . . . Now answer one for me—who was the body on the bus?”
    “The bus driver. We figure the Digger kept him alive and then made him run for the exit in the back. Then Digger shot him then the gas tank and when the fire started he climbed out one of the windows. Used thesmoke for cover. Got away through the traffic jam. Smarter than he seemed.”
    But Parker shook his head. “No, it was Fielding. He told the Digger to do that. He wasn’t going to sacrifice his boy at all. This wasn’t going to be their last job. They probably had years of this ahead of them . . . But the house.” Parker waved his arms. “How—?”
    “That was Cage. He made a few calls.”
    The miracle worker.
    “I don’t know what to say.”
    “We got you into this mess. It’s the least we could do.”
    Parker wouldn’t argue with that.
    “Wait . . . What did you call yourself? Jackie?”
    She hesitated. “Nickname,” she said. “It’s what my family calls me. I don’t use it much.”
    There were footsteps on the stairs, soft thuds as the children came down to the living room. Parker and Lukas could hear the voices through the kitchen door: “Mommy! Hey!”
    “Hello, both of you,” Joan said. “Here, here . . . This is for you.”
    Rustling of paper.
    “Do you like them?” Joan asked. “Do you?”
    Stephie’s dubious voice said, “Oh, it’s Barney.”
    Robby laughed out loud. Then he groaned. “And Big Bird.”
    Parker shook his head at his ex-wife’s incompetence and gave Lukas a smile. But she didn’t notice. Her head was turned toward the living room, drawn hypnotically toward the sound of the children’s voices. After a moment she looked out the window and stared at the falling snow. Finally she said, “So that’s your wife. You two don’t seem much alike.”
    Parker laughed. What Lukas really meant was: How the hell did you end up with her?
    A legitimate question and one he’d be happy to answer. But doing so would require a lot more time than they had right at the moment. And would also have to be part of a complicated ritual involving her sharing at least some of the answers to the puzzle of Margaret—or Jackie—Lukas.
    And what a puzzle she was: Parker looked her over—the makeup, the jewelry. The softness of the white silk blouse, the delicate lace of the lingerie beneath it. And she was wearing perfume today, not just fragrant soap. What did it remind him of? He couldn’t tell.
    She glanced at his