The Devils Teardrop

right at the Digger’s face. Ten feet away.
    Words rattling around. Kill him he’s seen your face kill him, killhimkillhimkillhim.
    And things like that.
    The Digger says, “Hmmm.” He stoops and picks up the spent shells and then the suppressor and wraps it and the gun in the torn puppy bag and walks out of the alley, leaving the boy beside a garbage pile, staring at the body.
    Go back to the motel and . . . click  . . . go back to the motel and wait.
    He’ll have some soup and wait. He’ll listen to his messages. See if the man who tells him things has called to tell him he can stop shooting.
    When I hear you coming through the door . . .
    Some soup would be nice now.
    I know I love you all the more.
    He made soup for Pamela. He was making soup for Pamela the night she . . . click . It was Christmas night. Twelve twenty-five. One two two five. A night like this. Cold. Colored lights everywhere.
    Here’s a gold cross for you, he said. And this box is for me?  . . . A present? Oh, it’s a coat! Thank you thank you thank you . . .
    The Digger is standing at the stoplight, waiting for the green.
    Suddenly he feels something touch his hand.
    The Digger isn’t alarmed. The Digger never gets alarmed.
    He grips the gun in the torn puppy bag. He turns slowly.
    The boy stands beside him, holding the Digger’s left hand tightly. He’s looking straight ahead.
    Love you love you love you . . .
    The light changes.
    The Digger doesn’t move.
    All the more . . .
    “Yo, we can walk,” says the boy, now staring at the puppies on the torn bag. The Digger sees the green figure in the walk/don’t walk light.
    The green figure seems happy.
    Whatever happy is.
    Holding hands, the two of them walk across the street.

15
    The District of Columbia Topographic and Geologic Archives is housed in a musty old building near Seventh and E Streets.
    It also, not coincidentally, is located near a little-known Secret Service facility and the National Security Council’s Special Operations Office.
    There’s no reference to the Archives in any tourist literature and visitors who notice the sign on the front of the building and walk inside are politely told by one of the three armed guards at the front desk that the facility is not open to the public and that there are no exhibitions here but thank you for your interest. Have a nice day. Goodbye.
    Cage, Parker and Lukas—on her ever-present phone—waited in the lobby. She shut off the unit. “Nothing. He just disappeared.”
    “No witnesses?”
    “A couple of drivers saw a man in dark clothes running. They think he was white. They think he was medium build. But nobody’d swear to it. Jesus.”
    Cage looked around. “How’d you get us in here, Lukas? I couldn’t get us in here.”
    Now it was Lukas’s turn to shrug cryptically. It seemed that New Year’s Eve was the day to call in markers and incur debts.
    They were joined by Tobe Geller, who entered the facility at a slow trot. He nodded a greeting to the other members of the team. Then their fingerprints were checked by an Identi-Scanner and their weapons secured in a lock box. They were all directed to an elevator. They stepped into the car. Parker expected to rise but this elevator, it seemed, went no higher than the first floor. Lukas hit the button marked b7 and the car descended for what seemed like forever.
    They stepped out into the Archives proper. Which turned out not to be stacks of dusty, old books and maps—which Parker, Certified Document Examiner, had been looking forward to checking out—but a huge room filled with high-tech desks, telephones, microphones and banks of twenty-four-inch NEC computer screens. Even tonight, New Year’s Eve, two dozen men and women sat in front of these screens, on which glowed elaborate maps, typing on keyboards and speaking into stalk mikes.
    Where the hell am I? Parker wondered, looking around and concluding that the issue of access to the Archives had nothing to do with finding a civil servant with a key to the front door.
    “What is this?” he asked Geller.
    The young agent glanced tactfully at Cage, who nodded his okay to tell all. Geller replied, “Topographic and cartographic database of two hundred square miles around the District. Ground zero’s the White House though they don’t like it when you say that. In case of natural disaster, terrorist attack, nuclear threat—what ever —this’s where they figure out if it’s best for the