The Devils Teardrop

McLean to Alexandria. “Moving up in the world,” she’d said, though Parker knew she’d simply grown tired of each previous house and neighborhood when she failed to make friends in the new locale. He thought of what uprooting the children that frequently would do to them.
    “Why?” he asked.
    “I want a family.”
    “Have children with Richard. You’re young.”
    But she wouldn’t want that, Parker knew. As much as she’d loved being pregnant—she was never more beautiful—she had fallen apart at the work involved with infants. You can hardly have children when, emotionally, you’re one yourself.
    “You’re completely unfit,” Parker said.
    “My, you have learned how to take the gloves off, haven’t you? Well, maybe I was unfit. But that’s in the past.”
    No, that’s in your nature.
    “I’ll fight it, Joan,” he said matter-of-factly. “You know that.”
    She snapped, “I’ll be by tomorrow at ten. And I’m bringing a social worker.”
    “What?” He was dumbfounded.
    “Just to talk to the kids.”
    “Joan . . . On a holiday? ” Parker couldn’t imagine that a social worker would agree to this but then he realized that Richard must have pulled some strings.
    “If you’re as good a father as you think you are you won’t have any trouble with them talking to her.”
    “ I don’t have any trouble. I’m thinking of them. Just wait until next week. How do you think they’ll feel having some stranger cross-examining them on the holiday? It’s ridiculous. They want to see you. ”
    “Parker,” she said, exasperated, “she’s a professional. She’s not going to cross-examine them. Look, I have to run. The kennel’s closing soon because of the holiday. Those poor puppies . . . Oh, come on, Parker. It’s not the end of the world.”
    But, yes, he thought, that’s exactly what it is.
    He began to slam the door but halfway through the gesture he stopped, knowing that the sound would upset the Whos.
    He closed the door with a firm click. Turned the dead bolt, put the chain on, as if trying to lock this cyclone of bad news out. Folding the papers without looking at them, he walked into the den and stuffed them into thedesk, left a message for his lawyer. He paced for a few minutes then climbed the stairs and stuck his head in Robby’s room. The children were giggling and tossing Micro Machines at each other.
    “No bombardiering on New Year’s Eve,” Parker said.
    “So it’s okay to bombardier tomorrow?” Robby asked.
    “Very funny, young man.”
    “He started it!” Stephie sniped, then returned to her book. Little House on the Prairie.
    “Who wants to help me in the study?” he called.
    “I do,” Robby cried.
    Together, father and son disappeared down the stairs into his basement office. A few minutes later Parker heard the electronic music again as Stephie exchanged literature for computer science and sent intrepid Mario on his quest once more.
    * * *
    Mayor Gerald Kennedy—a Democrat, yes, but not that strain of Kennedys—looked at the piece of white paper on his desk.
    Mayor Kennedy—
    The end is night. The Digger is loose and their is no way to stop him.
    Attached to the sheet was an FBI memo, which was headed, “Annexed document is a copy. METSHOOT case, 12/31.”
    METSHOOT, Kennedy thought. Metro shooting. The Bureau loved their labels, he recalled. Sitting hunched like a bear over the ornate desk in his Georgian office in the very un-Georgian Washington, D.C., CityHall, Kennedy read the note once more. Looked up at the two people seated across from him. A trim, attractive blond woman and a tall, lean gray-haired man. Balding Kennedy often thought of people in terms of their hair.
    “You’re sure he’s the one behind the shooting?”
    “What he said about the bullets,” the woman said, “them being painted? That checked out. We’re sure the note’s from the perp.”
    Kennedy, a bulky man comfortable with his bulk, pushed the note around on his desk with his huge hands.
    The door opened and a young black man in a double-breasted Italian suit and oval glasses walked inside. Kennedy gestured him to the desk.
    “This is Wendell Jefferies,” the mayor said. “My chief aide-de-camp.”
    The woman agent nodded. “Margaret Lukas.”
    The other agent gave what seemed to Kennedy to be a shrug. “Cage.” They all shook hands.
    “They’re FBI,” Kennedy added.
    Jefferies’s nod said, Obviously.
    Kennedy pushed the copy of the note toward the