The Devils Teardrop

flower in the girl’s hair but it’s not yellow or red; it’s white. Their other child, a young boy of about five, glances at the concession stand and stops. He reminds the Digger of the boy in the nice hotel. “No, it’s closed,” the father says. “Let’s go. We’ll miss our dinner reservation.”
    And the boy looks like he’s going to cry and he’s ledaway by his father without Gummi Bears or Twizzlers.
    The Digger is alone in the corridor. He thinks he feels bad for the boy but he isn’t sure. He walks to the side of the horsehoe. There’s a young woman in a white blouse walking toward him. She holds a flashlight.
    “Hello,” she says. “Lost?”
    She looks at his face.
    The Digger nuzzles the side of the puppy bag against her breast.
    “What—?” she starts to ask.
    Phut, phut . . .
    He shoots her twice and when she drops to the carpet he grabs her hair and drags her inside the empty box.
    He stops just on the other side of the curtain.
    My, this is  . . . click  . . . this is nice. Hmmm.
    He looks out over the theater. The Digger doesn’t smile but he now decides that he likes this place after all. Dark wood, flowers, plaster, gold and a chandelier. Hmmm. Look at that. Nicer than the nice hotel. Though he thinks it’s not the best place for him to shoot. Concrete or cinderblock walls would be better; that way the bullets would ricochet more and the sharp bits of lead would rattle around inside the skull of the theater and cause oh so much more damage.
    He watches people dancing on the stage. Listens to the music from the orchestra. But he doesn’t really hear it. He’s still humming to himself. Can’t get the song out of his cranium.
    I look into the future.
    I wonder what’s in store.
    I think about our life,
    and I love you all the more.
    The Digger pushes the body of the woman against the velvet curtain. He’s hot and he undoes his coat even though the man who tells him things told him not to. But he feels better.
    He reaches into the puppy bag and wraps his fingers around the grip of the gun. Takes the suppressor in his left hand.
    He looks down over the crowds. At the girls in pink satin, boys in blue blazers, women with skin showing in V’s at their necks, bald men and men with thick hair. People aim little binoculars at the people on the stage. In the middle of the theater’s ceiling is that huge chandelier, a million lights. The ceiling itself is painted with pictures of fat angels flying through yellow clouds. Like the New Year’s baby . . .
    There aren’t that many doors and that’s good. Even if he doesn’t shoot more than thirty or forty people, others will die crushed in the doorway. That’s good.
    That’s good . . .
    Four o’clock. His watch beeps. He steps forward, grips the suppressor through the crinkly bag, glances at a puppy’s face. One puppy has a pink ribbon, one has a blue. But no red and no yellow, the Digger thinks as he starts to pull the trigger.
    Then he hears the voice.
    It’s behind him in the corridor, through the pretty velvet curtain. “Jesus Christ,” the man’s voice whispers. “We got him! He’s here.” And the man pulls the curtain aside as he lifts his black pistol.
    But the Digger heard him just in time and he throws himself against the wall and when the agent fires, the shot misses. The Digger cuts him nearly in half with a one-second burst from the Uzi. Another agent, behindthe first one, is wounded by the stream of bullets. He looks at the Digger’s face and the Digger remembers what he has to do. So he kills that agent too.
    The Digger doesn’t panic. He never panics. Fear isn’t even a piece of dust to him. But he knows some things are good and other things are bad and not doing what he’s been told to do is bad. He wants to shoot into the crowd but he can’t. There are more agents rushing onto the balcony floor. The agents have FBI windbreakers on, bulletproof vests, some have helmets, some have machine guns that probably shoot just as fast as his Uzi.
    A dozen agents, two dozen. Several turn the corner and run toward where the bodies of their friends lie. The Digger sticks the bag out through the curtain into the lobby and holds the trigger down for a moment. Glass breaks, mirrors shatter, Twizzlers and Gummi Bears fly through the air.
    He should . . . click  . . . should shoot into the audience. That’s what he’s supposed to . . .
    Supposed to do . . . He . . .
    For a moment his mind