The Devils Teardrop

street. Cage gave him a dubious look, forewent a shrug, and made a call on his cell phone.
    As they walked along the street Parker felt the weight of the pistol in his pocket—a huge pull, much greater than the dozen ounces the gun actually weighed. Yet it gave him no comfort to have this weapon at his side. He wondered why. A moment passed before he realized. Not because the hot piece of metal reminded him that the Digger might have been behind them a moment ago, intent on killing him and Cage and Lukas. Or even because it reminded him of the Boatman four years ago, reminded him of his son’s terror.
    No, it was because the gun seemed to have some kind of dark power, like the magic ring in one of J. R. R. Tolkien’s books, a power that had possessed him and was carrying him further and further away from his children with every passing minute. A power that could separate him from them forever.
    * * *
    The Digger is in an alley.
    He’s standing still, looking around him.
    There are no agents or police around here. Nobody chasing him or looking for him. Nobody to shoot him. Orcapture him and send him back to Connecticut, where he likes the forests but he hates the barred rooms they make him sit in for hours and hours and do nothing, where people steal his soup and change the channels of the TV away from commercials about cars and puppies so they can watch sports.
    Pamela said to him, “You’re fat. You’re out of shape. Why don’t you take up running? Go buy some Nike . . .” Click. “. . . some Nike jogging shoes. Go do that. Go to the mall. I’ve got things to do.”
    The Digger now thinks he sees Pamela for a minute. He squints. No, no, it’s merely a blank wall in the alley.
    Do you promise to love, honor, cherish and . . . click  . . . and obey?
    He was jogging with Pamela one day, a fall day, through red leaves and yellow leaves. He tried to keep up, sweating, his chest hurting the way his brain hurt after the bullet bounced around in his cranium. Pamela ran ahead and he ended up jogging by himself. Ended up walking home alone.
    The Digger is worried about what went wrong at the theater. He’s worried about all the police and agents and worried that the man who tells him things will be unhappy because he didn’t kill as many people as he was supposed to.
    The Digger hears sirens in the distance. Many sirens.
    He starts through the alley. Lets the shopping bag swing in his arm. The Uzi is inside the bag and it’s heavy again because he reloaded it.
    Ahead of him, in the alley, he sees some motion. He pauses. There’s a young boy. He’s black and skinny. He’s about ten years old. The boy is listening to someone talk to him. Someone the Digger can’t see.
    Suddenly the Digger hears Pamela’s voice: “Have . . . have . . . have . . . children with you? Have . . . have . . . have . . . your baby?”
    If we had us a child or three or four,
    you know I’d love you all the more.
    Then the memory of the song goes away because there’s a tearing sound and the gun and the suppressor fall through the bottom of the shopping bag. He bends down to pick up the gun and as he does he looks up.
    Hmmm.
    This isn’t funny.
    The young boy and an older man, dressed in dirty clothes, the man who was talking to the boy, are walking up the alley. The man is bending the boy’s arm upward. The boy is crying and his nose is bloody.
    They are both looking at the Digger. The boy seems to be relieved. He pulls away from the man and rubs his shoulder. The man grabs the boy’s arm again.
    The man looks down at the Uzi. He gives the Digger a crooked smile. Says, “Whatever you doing, ain’ my business. I’ma just go on my way.”
    “Leggo my arm,” the boy whines.
    “Shuddup.” The man draws back his fist. The boy cowers.
    The Digger shoots the man twice in the chest. He falls backward. The boy jumps back at the loud sound. The suppressor is still on the ground.
    The Digger aims the gun at the boy, who is staring at the body.
    “If somebody sees your face . . .”
    The Digger starts to pull the trigger.
    “Have . . . have . . . have . . . children with you?” The words rattle around in his skull.
    The boy is still staring down at the body of the man who was beating him. The Digger starts to pull the trigger again. Then he lowers the gun. The boy turns and looks at the Digger. He whispers, “Yo, you cap him! Man, just like nothin’, you cap him.”
    The boy is staring