The Devil's Teardrop

  Fielding didn't doubt that it was.

  *

  Parker sat down in a chair opposite Fielding and crossed his arms. The detective--Parker couldn't help but think of him that way still--looked older now and diminished. Parker remembered wishing earlier that the unsub were still alive so that he could see how the man's mind worked. One puzzle master to another. It seemed he'd gotten his wish. But now he felt no professional curiosity at all, only revulsion.

  Puzzles are always easy when you know the answer.

  They become boring too.

  Lukas asked him, "How's it feel to know you're going to be in an eight-by-eight cell for the next ten years--until they give you that needle?"

  Cage explained, "You wouldn't last very long in general population. Hope you like your own company."

  "I prefer it to most people's," Fielding said.

  Cage continued, as if Fielding hadn't spoken. "They're also going to want you in Boston and White Plains and Philadelphia too. I guess Hartford as well."

  Fielding lifted a surprised eyebrow.

  Parker asked, "The Digger was the patient in your hospital, right? The hospital for the criminally insane? David Hughes?"

  Fielding didn't want to seem impressed but he was. "That's right. Funny guy, wasn't he?" He smiled at Parker. "Sort of the boogeyman incarnate."

  Then Parker suddenly understood something else and his heart froze.

  Boogeyman . . .

  "In the command post . . . I was talking about my son. And not long after that . . . Jesus, not long after that Robby saw somebody in the garage. That was the Digger! . . . You called him, you sent him to my house! To scare my son!"

  Fielding shrugged. "You were too good, Kincaid. I had to get you off the case for a while. When you went off to raid my safe house--finding that was very good, by the way--I stepped outside to make a call and left a message that my friend should go visit your little fella. I thought about killing them--well, and you too, of course--but I needed you to be at headquarters around midnight. To make my deductions about the site of the last shooting more credible."

  Parker lunged forward and drew back his fist. Lukas caught his arm just before it crashed into Fielding's cringing face.

  She whispered, "I understand. But it won't do anybody any good."

  Trembling with rage, Parker lowered his hand, stepped to the window, watching the snow. Forced himself to calm. He believed if he'd been alone with Fielding now he could kill the man. Not because of the host of deaths tonight but because he could still hear the hollow fear in Robby's voice. Daddy . . . Daddy . . .

  Lukas touched his arm. He looked at her. She was holding a notebook. She said to Parker, "For what it's worth, he did the same thing to me." She flipped through the pages, tapped several entries. "My house was broken into a few months ago. He's the one who did it. He took notes about my life."

  Fielding said nothing.

  Lukas continued, speaking directly to the killer. "You found out all about me. You found out about Tom . . ."

  Tom? Parker wondered.

  "You cut your hair the same way as his. You said you were from outside Chicago, just like him. You read his letters to me . . ." She closed her eyes and shook her head. "'Right as rain.' You stole his expression! And then you told me about having a wife in a coma. Why? So I'd keep you on the team--when everybody else--me included--didn't want you interfering with the case."

  "I needed to get inside your defenses, Margaret. I knew what kind of adversary you'd be."

  "You stole my past, Fielding."

  "What's the past for but to use?" he asked evenly.

  "But how could you kill so many people?" Lukas asked in a whisper.

  "Appalled?" Fielding asked. He seemed exasperated. "But why not? I mean, Jesus Christ, why not? Why is one death less horrifying than a million? Either you kill or you don't. If you do, then death is just a matter of degree and if it makes sense, if it's efficient, then you kill whom you have to kill. Anyone who doesn't accept that is a naive fool."

  "Who's the guy in the morgue?" Cage asked.

  "His name is Gil Havel."

  "Ah, the mysterious Gilbert Jones," Parker said. "He rented the helicopter, right?"

  "I had to make you believe that I was really going to try to get away with the money from the drop on Gallows Road."

  "Where did you find him?"

  "In a bar in Baltimore."

  "Who was he? Havel."

  "He's just some loser. A bum, more or less. I promised him a hundred thousand dollars to deliver a note to City Hall and help me with the helicopter and rent the safe house. I made him think he was my partner."

  Parker said, "And you had him walk back to the Metro or bus stop along a particular route. Where you were waiting with the van to run him down."

  "You had to believe that the mastermind was dead. So you'd bring the money back to the evidence room . . ."

  "What about Kennedy? You sent him to the Ritz."

  "The mayor?" Fielding asked. "That was a surprise--when he called me. And a risk. But it worked out well." He nodded analytically. "For one thing, I had to keep you focused on the Ritz-Carlton, not the Ritzy Lady. And then my penance for the betrayal was bringing you the bone about the Digger's name . . . You know, you really are something, Kincaid. How 'd you figure it out?"

  Parker continued, "How did I find out you were the unsub? Because of your handwriting. I had a sample--when I dictated to you from the yellow sheets Tobe saved."

  "I was worried about that," Fielding said. "But I couldn't very well balk when you asked me to take notes, could I? But I tried to improvise--I tried to disguise my writing."

  "The dot on your lowercase i gave you away."

  Fielding nodded. "Oh, that's right. The devil's teardrop. I didn't think about that . . . What did you say? That it's always the little things."

  "Not always. But usually."

  Lukas asked, "The information about the Digger--you had that all along, didn't you? You didn't go to the library."

  "Nope. Hell, that's why I named Hughes the Digger. So you'd think he had some ridiculous revenge scheme against the government. But . . ." He looked around the room. "How'd you get here?"

  "To this house?" Parker couldn't resist. "Perfection," he said and watched the arrogant smile slide off the killer's face. He continued. "To escape after the perfect crime you'd want the perfect passports. You'd find the best forger in the business. He happens to be a friend of mine. Well, let's just say we're close; I put him in prison once."

  For a moment Fielding was flustered. "But he didn't know my real name or address."

  "No, but you called him," Parker countered.

  "Not from here," Fielding said, argumentative, whiny.

  Lukas too wanted part of deconstructing the man. "From the phone booth up the street." She nodded toward the corner. "We ran the pen register numbers through Bell Atlantic security." Then she held up a computer picture of Fielding. "We lifted it from the tape in the FBI headquarters security camera. Just showed it to a half-dozen people in the neighborhood tonight and got a beeline to your front door."

  "Shit." He closed his eyes.

  The little things . . .

  Parker said, "There's this saying among forgers that the expression 'You can't think of everything' doesn't count. You have to think of everything."

  Fielding said, "I knew you were the strong link, Parker. The biggest risk. I should've had the Digger take care of you right up front."

  Cage asked, "You didn't have any problem sacrificing your friend?"

  "The Digger? Wouldn't exactly call him a friend." Fielding added, "He was a dangerous person to keep alive. Anyway, you may've guessed, this was going to be my last job. I didn't need him anymore."

  An agent walked into the doorway. "Okay, Fielding. Your ride's here."

  They started to lead him off. He paused at the doorway. Turned back.

  "Admit it, Parker, I'm good," he said churlishly. "After all, I nearly did it."
br />   Parker shook his head. "Either an answer to a puzzle's right or it's wrong. There's no 'nearly' about it."

  But when he was led out of the door Fielding was smiling.

  35

  The workmen were lashing the burnt bus to a flatbed.

  The medical examiner had carted off the Digger's body, in whose hands was fused, horribly, a scorched black machine gun.

  Edward Fielding sat in federal detention, legs shackled and wrists cuffed.

  As Parker said goodnight to Cage, looking around for Margaret Lukas, he noticed Mayor Gerald Kennedy start toward them. He'd been here, with a skeleton crew of journalists, surveying the damage and talking to police and rescue workers.

  He walked up to them.

  "Your honor," Cage said.

  "I have you to thank for that little news story, Agent Cage? Implicating me in the screwup at the boat?"

  A shrug. "Investigation had priority, sir. Shouldn't've showed up at the Ritz. Probably would've been better to keep politics out of it."

  Kennedy shook his head. "So I understand you've caught the man behind this."

  "We did, sir."

  Kennedy turned his jowly face to Parker. "And you're Agent--"

  "Jefferson, your honor. First name's Tom."

  "Oh, you're the one I've been hearing about. The document examiner?"

  "That's right," Parker said. "I saw you do some pretty nifty shooting there."

  "Not nifty enough." The Mayor nodded ruefully toward the smoking bus. The mayor asked, "Say, you related to Thomas Jefferson?"

  "Me?" Parker laughed. "No, no. It's a common name."

  "My aide's name is Jefferies," he said as if making cocktail party conversation.

  Then Lukas arrived. She nodded to the mayor and Parker could see the tension in her face, as if she were expecting a confrontation.

  But all Kennedy said was, "I'm sorry about your friend, Agent Ardell."

  Lukas said nothing. She stared at the scorched bus.

  A reporter called, "Mayor, there's a rumor that you chose not to call out the National Guard tonight because you thought it would interfere with tourist traffic. Could you comment on that?"

  "No, I couldn't." He too gazed at the bus.

  Lukas said, "Tonight didn't turn out very well for anybody, did it?"

  "No, Agent Lukas," Kennedy said slowly. "I suspect things like this never do."

  He took his wife's hand and walked to their limousine.

  Margaret Lukas handed Cage some documents--maybe evidence reports or arrest records. Then, eyes still on the bus, she walked to her Explorer. Parker wondered, Was she leaving without saying goodbye?

  She opened the door, started the engine and put the heater on--the temperature had dropped and the sky was overcast with thick clouds, which were still shedding fat grains of snow. She left the truck's door open, leaned back into the seat.

  Cage shook Parker's hand then muttered, "What can I say?" To Parker's surprise the agent threw his arms around him, hugged him once hard, wincing at the pain, then started off down the street. "Night, Lukas," Cage shouted. "Night, Parker. Man, my side hurts. Happy New Year, everybody. Happy goddamn New Year."

  Parker zipped up his jacket and walked toward Lukas's truck, noticing that she was looking at something in her hand. Parker wasn't sure what it was. It seemed to be an old postcard that had been folded up. She stared at it. She glanced at Parker then seemed to hesitate. Just before he got to the truck she put the card away in her purse.

  She pulled a bottle of beer out of her pocket, a Sam Adams, cracked it open with a church key that rested on the dash.

  "They sell those in vending machines at headquarters now?"

  "Present from my witness, Gary Moss." She offered it to him. He took a long sip, handed it back. Lukas remained in the Ford but turned sideways, facing Parker. "What a night, hm?"

  "What a night," he repeated. He reached forward and offered his hand.

  She gripped his solidly. They'd both removed their gloves and though their hands were red from the cold, their flesh was the identical temperature; Parker felt no cold or heat coming from her skin.

  Neither of them let go. He enclosed her hand with his left.

  "How're the kids?" she asked. "What do you call them again?"

  "The Whos."

  "Whos. Right. Have you talked to them?"

  "They're fine." Reluctantly he released his grip. Was she reluctant too? He couldn't tell. Then he asked, "You'll need a report, I assume?" He remembered all the paperwork U.S. attorneys required to get ready for federal criminal trials. Mountains of it. But Parker didn't mind; after all, documents were his business.

  "We will," Lukas responded. "But there's no hurry."

  "I'll do one on Monday. I'm finishing a project this weekend."

  "Document? Or home improvement?"

  "You mean home improvement as in tools?" He laughed. "Oh, I don't do that. Kitchens I know. Workbenches, uh-uh. No, it's a possible forgery. A letter supposedly written by Thomas Jefferson. A dealer in New York wants it analyzed."

  "Is it real?"

  "My gut feeling is yes. I have some more tests to run. Oh, here." He handed her the pistol.

  Lukas, in the skirt now, was no longer dressed for hiding backup weapons on her ankle. She slipped the gun into her glove compartment. Parker's eyes strayed to her profile again.

  Why on earth would you envy me? he wondered silently.

  Sometimes puzzles answer themselves, in their own time.

  And sometimes you just never do find the answer. And that's because, Parker Kincaid had come to believe, you weren't meant to.

  "Hey, you doing anything tomorrow night?" he asked suddenly. "Want to have a ridiculously suburban dinner?"

  She hesitated. Not moving a muscle. Not even breathing, it seemed. He didn't move either, just kept a faint smile on his lips, the way he waited for the Whos to confess about missing cookies or a broken lamp.

  Finally she too smiled but he saw that it was fake--a smile of stone, one that matched her eyes. And he knew what her answer would be.

  "I'm sorry," she said formally. "I have plans. Maybe some other time."

  Meaning: never. Parker Kincaid's Handbook for the Single Parent had a whole chapter on euphemisms.

  "Sure," he said, trying to step on the disappointment. "Some other time."

  "Where's your car?" Lukas asked. "I'll give you a ride."

  "No, that's okay. It's right over there."

  He gripped her hand again and resisted the urge to pull her close.

  " 'Night," she said.

  He nodded.

  As he walked to his car he looked at her and saw she was waving. It was an odd gesture since her face was emotionless and she wasn't smiling.

  But then Parker noticed that she wasn't waving at all. She was wiping off the condensation on the windows, not even looking at him. When she'd cleaned the glass Margaret Lukas put the truck in gear and sped into the middle of the street.

  *

  On the way home, driving through the quiet, snow-filled streets, Parker stopped at a 7-Eleven for black coffee, a ham-and-egg on a croissant and cash from the ATM. When he walked in the front door of his house he found Mrs. Cavanaugh asleep on the couch.

  He woke her and paid her twice what she asked for. Then escorted her to the door and stood on the front steps, watching her walk over the snow carefully until she disappeared into her own house across the street.

  The children had fallen asleep in his bed--his room sported a TV and VCR. The screen was bright blue, circumstantial evidence that they'd watched a movie. He was afraid to see which video had lulled them to sleep--he had a collection of R-rated thriller and sci-fi films--but what popped out when he hit eject was only The Lion King. Troubling enough--Robby would forever detest hyenas--but at least it had a noble ending and the violence was largely unseen.

  Parker was exhausted--beyond exhaustion. But sleep, he felt, was still an hour or so away.

  Despite his urgin
g her not to, Mrs. Cavanaugh had done dishes and cleaned the kitchen--so he couldn't work off energy that way. Instead, he bundled up the trash from around the house and carted it out into the backyard, lugging the green bags over his shoulder like Santa. Thinking: What a crazy life--to have been pointing a gun at someone an hour ago, to have been shot at himself, and now to be back in the middle of suburbia, lost in these domestic chores.

  As he eased up the lid of the trash bin Parker glanced into the backyard. He stopped, frowned. There were footprints in the snow.

  Recent footprints.

  Only a few minutes old, he judged--the edges were still sharp, unsoftened by the falling snow and the wind. The intruder had walked up to the guest room window, then disappeared toward the front of the house.

  Parker's heart began thudding.

  He carefully set the garbage bag down and walked quietly back into the house.

  He closed and locked the kitchen door behind him. Checked on the front door. It was locked. Because of his document business--the value of the specimens and the risk of pollution and dust in the air--the windows in the house were sealed and couldn't be opened; he didn't need to check them.

  But whose footprints?

  Just kids, maybe.

  Or Mr. Johnson looking for his dog.

  That's all it was. Sure . . .

  But ten seconds later he was on the phone to the federal detention facility in Washington, D.C.

  He identified himself as FBI Special Agent Parker Kincaid, a statement only a few years untrue. "I was working on that case tonight with Margaret Lukas."

  "Sure. The METSHOOT."

  "Right. I'm being a little paranoid here," Parker said. "But the suspect--Edward Fielding. He's not out on bail, is he?"

  "Bail? No way. He won't be arraigned until Monday."

  "He's locked down?"

  "Yep. I can see him. On the monitor."

  "He asleep?"

  "No, just sitting on his bed. Been behaving himself. Talked to his lawyer--that was about an hour ago--then went into his cell and's been there ever since. Why?"

  "Just spooked, I guess. Thought I saw the boogeyman."

  "Boogeyman. Ha. Hey, Happy New Year."

  Parker hung up, relieved.

  For about five seconds.

  Talking to his lawyer?

  Parker didn't know any lawyer in the country who'd be up at this hour on a holiday, talking to a client who wouldn't be arraigned for two days.

  Then he thought: Perfection.