The Devil's Teardrop

by Jeffery Deaver

  That was fine with Czisman. He wanted the killer.

  The Digger was rising slowly. The machine gun had fallen from his coat and he looked around for it. He caught sight of Czisman and froze, gazing at him with the strangest eyes Czisman had ever seen.

  In those eyes was less feeling than in an animal's. Whoever the mastermind behind the killings had been--the one lying on the slab in the morgue--that man wasn't pure evil. He would've had emotions and thoughts and desires. He might have reformed, might have developed the nub of a conscience that was possibly within him.

  But the Digger? No. There was no redemption for this machine. There was only death.

  The killer with a man's mind and the devil's heart . . .

  The Digger glanced at the gun in Czisman's hand. Then his eyes rose again and he stared at the journalist's face.

  Kincaid was rising to his feet, shouting at Czisman, "Drop the weapon, drop the weapon!"

  Czisman ignored him and lifted the gun toward the Digger. With a shaking voice he began to say, "You--"

  But there was a soft explosion at the Digger's side. A tuft of the man's overcoat popped outward. Czisman felt the hard fist in his chest, dropped to his knees. He fired his own gun but the shot went wide.

  The Digger removed his hand from his pocket, holding a small pistol. He aimed at Czisman's chest once more, fired twice.

  Czisman flew backward under the impact of the rounds.

  As he tumbled to the cold earth, seeing distant lights reflected in the wall of the Vietnam Memorial, he muttered, "You . . ."

  Czisman tried to get his gun . . . But where was it? It had fallen from his hand.

  Where, where? . . .

  Kincaid was running for cover, looking around, confused. Czisman saw the Digger walk slowly toward his machine gun, pick it up and fire a burst toward Kincaid, who dove behind a tree. The Digger trotted away, crouching, through the bushes toward the fleeing crowds.

  Czisman groped for his gun. "You . . . you . . . you . . ." But his hand fell to the ground like a rock and then there was only blackness.

  *

  A few people . . .

  Click, click . . .

  Funny . . .

  A few people were nearby, huddled on the ground, looking around. Frightened. The Digger could easily have shot them but then the police would see him.

  "The last time kill as many as you can," said the man who tells him things.

  But how many is as many as you can?

  One, two, three, four, five . . .

  The Digger doesn't think he meant only a half dozen.

  The last minute of the last hour of the . . .

  So he's hurrying after them, doing the things he ought to do, looking scared, running the way the crowd does, hunching over. Things like that.

  You're . . . you're . . . you're the best.

  Who was that man back there? he wonders. He wasn't a policeman. Why was he trying to shoot me?

  The Digger has hidden the . . . click, click . . . the Uzi under his overcoat, the overcoat that he loves because Pamela gave it to him.

  There are shouts nearby but they don't seem to be directed at him so he doesn't pay any attention. Nobody notices him. He's moving through the grass, near the bushes and trees, along that wide street--Constitution Avenue. There are buses and cars and thousands and thousands of people. If he can get to them he can kill hundreds.

  He sees museums, like the one where they have the picture of the entrance to hell. Museums are fun, he thinks. Tye would like museums. Maybe when they're in California they can go to a museum together.

  More shouting. People are running. There are men and women and children all over the place. Police and agents. They have Uzis or Mac-10s or, click, pistols like the Digger's pistols and like the pistol of the fat man who just tried to shoot him. But these men and women aren't shooting because they don't know who to shoot at. The Digger is just one of the crowd.

  Click, click.

  How far does he have to go to get to more people?

  A few hundred feet, he guesses.

  He's trotting toward them. But his path is taking him away from Tye--from the car parked on Twenty-second Street. He doesn't like that thought. He wants to get the shooting over with and get back to the boy. When he gets to the crowd he'll spin like a whirligig, watch the people fall like leaves in a Connecticut forest then go back to the boy.

  When I travel on the road,

  I love you all the more.

  Spin, spin, spin . . .

  They'll fall like Pamela fell with the rose on her chest and the yellow flashing flower in her hand.

  Fall, fall, fall . . .

  More people with guns are running over the grass.

  Suddenly, nearby, he hears explosions, cracks and bangs and pops.

  Are people shooting at him?

  No, no . . . Ah, look!

  Above him flowers are blossoming in the air. There's smoke and brilliant flowers, red and yellow. Also blue and white.

  Fireworks.

  His watch beeps.

  It's midnight.

  Time to shoot.

  But the Digger can't shoot just yet. There aren't enough people.

  The Digger keeps moving toward the crowd. He can shoot some, but not enough to make the man who tells him things happy.

  Crack . . .

  A bullet streaks past him.

  Now someone is shooting at him.

  Shouting.

  Two men in FBI jackets in the middle of the field to the Digger's right have seen him. They're standing in front of a wooden platform, decorated with beautiful red and blue and white banners, like the ones the fat New Year's babies wear.

  He turns toward them and fires the Uzi through his coat. He doesn't want to do this--to put more holes in the beautiful black or blue coat Pamela gave him but he has to. He can't let anyone see the gun.

  The men clutch at their faces and necks as if bees are stinging them and fall down.

  The Digger turns and continues moving after the crowds.

  Nobody has seen him shoot the men.

  He only has to walk a couple of hundred feet further and he'll be surrounded by lots of people, looking around like everybody else, looking for the killer, looking for salvation. And then he can shoot and shoot and shoot.

  Spinning like a whirligig in a Connecticut forest.

  28

  When the first bullets crashed into the wood around him Jerry Kennedy shoved Claire off the platform and onto the cold ground.

  He jumped after her and lay on his side, shielding her from the bullets. "Claire!" Kennedy shouted.

  "I'm all right!" Her voice was edgy with panic. "What's going on?"

  "Somebody's shooting. It must be him! The killer--he must be here!"

  They lay side by side, huddling, smelling dirt and grass and spilled beer.

  One person on the platform had been hit--the young aide, who'd been shot in the arm as Congressman Lanier leapt behind him for cover. But no one else seemed to be injured. Most of the shots had been wild. The killer had been aiming at the two agents in front of the viewing stand, not at anyone on the platform.

  Kennedy could see the agents were dead.

  The mayor glanced up and saw C. P. Ardell, holding his black pistol in front of him, looking over the field. He stood tall, wasn't even crouching.

  "Agent Ardell!" Kennedy shouted. "There he is! There!"

  But the agent didn't shoot. Kennedy climbed halfway up the stairs, tugged at the man's cuff, pointing. "He's getting away. Shoot!"

  The huge agent held his automatic out in front of him like a sharpshooter.

  "Ardell!"

  "Ahnnnn," the agent was saying.

  "What're you waiting for?" Kennedy cried.

  But C. P. Ardell just kept saying, "Ahnnnnn, ahnnnn," gazing out over the field.

  Then Ardell started to turn, slowly revolving, looking north, then east, then south . . . Looking toward the wall of the Vietnam Memorial, then at the trees,
then at the Washington Monument, then at the flag that decorated the backdrop of the viewing platform.

  "Ahnnnn."

  The agent turned once more, a complete circle, and fell onto his back, staring up at the sky with glazed eyes. Kennedy saw the top of his head was missing.

  "Oh, Jesus!"

  Claire gave a gasp as a stream of the man's blood cascaded down the stairs and pooled inches from her face.

  The agent said "Ahnnnnnn" once more, blew a slick bubble from his mouth. Kennedy took the man's hand. It quivered slightly. Then it was still.

  Kennedy stood up. He looked past the podium, which Lanier, his aide and another congressman were hiding behind. The Mall was dim--there were no lights on because of the fireworks--but in the headlights from the emergency vehicles Kennedy had a view of the chaos. He was looking for the silhouette of the Digger.

  "What the hell're you doing in my city?" he whispered. Then his voice rose to a shout, "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "Jerry, get down!" Claire pleaded.

  But he stayed where he was, scanned the field, trying to find the dark form of the killer once more.

  Where was he? Where?

  Then he saw a man in the shadows, walking fast along a row of cherry trees not far from Constitution Avenue.

  He was making for the crowds farther east on the Mall.

  Kennedy stood and pried the pistol from the dead agent's hand.

  "Oh, Jerry, no," Claire said. "No! Call on your phone."

  "There's no time."

  "No . . ." She was crying softly.

  He paused, turned to her. Touched her cheek with his left hand and kissed her forehead the way he always did before they shut the light out and went to sleep. Then he leapt over the huddling lumps of a young politico couple and sprinted over the grass.

  He thought: I'm going to have a fucking heart attack, I'm going to have a heart attack and die . . . But he didn't slow down.

  The familiar sights of the city were around him: The white Washington Monument, the stark cherry trees, the tower of the Smithsonian, the gray neo-Gothic buildings of the museums, the tourist buses . . .

  Kennedy gasped and ran, gasped and ran.

  The Digger was a hundred feet away from him. Then ninety feet . . .

  Eighty feet.

  Kennedy watched the killer move closer to the crowd. He pulled a black machine gun from under his coat.

  There was a shot from the trees to Kennedy's left. Then another and two more.

  Yes! Kennedy thought. They've seen him!

  But suddenly a tuft of grass beside Kennedy flew into the air and another bullet snapped over his head.

  Jesus! They were shooting at him. They'd seen a man with a gun running toward the crowds and assumed he was the killer.

  "No, no!" He crouched then pointed toward the Digger. "It's him!"

  The killer was in the tree line, moving around to the side of the crowd. In just a minute he'd be only fifty feet from them and could kill hundreds with a single burst from the gun.

  Hell with it. Let's just hope the cops're bad shots. Kennedy began to sprint forward again.

  There was one more shot in his direction but then someone must have identified him. Shouts over the bullhorn ordered the officers to cease fire.

  "Get back!" Kennedy was shouting to the crowd.

  But there was nowhere for them to go. They were packed together like cattle. Thousands. Some staring at the fireworks, some looking around, uneasy and confused.

  Kennedy steered toward the trees, his chest on fire, speeding toward the place where he'd last seen the Digger.

  I'm dying, he thought. He pictured himself on the ground, retching in agony as his heart shut down.

  And besides, what on earth am I doing? What kind of idiocy is this? The last time he'd fired a gun had been at summer camp with his son--thirty years ago. He'd fired three shots and missed the target completely, to the boy's shame.

  Running, running . . .

  Closer to the tree line, closer to the Digger.

  Agents had seen where he was headed and must have assumed that he was after the killer. A rough line of a dozen men and women in tactical police gear were jogging toward him.

  The Digger stepped out of the bushes, pointing the machine gun toward the crowd. He nodded to himself.

  Kennedy stopped running, lifted Ardell's pistol and aimed it toward the killer. He wasn't even sure what to aim at, how the sights on the heavy gun worked. Whether he should aim high or low. But Kennedy was a strong man and he held the gun very steadily in his hand. He remembered how he and his eldest son stood side by side at camp, listening to the camp counselor: "Squeeze the trigger. Don't jerk it." The boys giggling at the word.

  And so tonight Jerry Kennedy squeezed.

  The explosion was huge and he wasn't prepared for the pistol to buck so high in the air.

  Kennedy lowered the gun again. Squinted over the dim field. He laughed out loud.

  Christ, I did it! I hit him!

  The Digger was on the ground, grimacing and clutching at his left arm.

  Kennedy fired again. This bullet missed and he fired another round, two more.

  The Digger rolled to his feet. He started to aim at Kennedy but the mayor fired again. This was a miss too--the bullet struck a tree--but it was close and the Digger stumbled backward. He fired a short burst toward Kennedy. All the bullets missed.

  The killer looked to his left, where the line of agents and cops was moving toward him. He aimed toward them and must have pulled the trigger. Kennedy heard nothing, saw no flash from the end of the gun. But one agent fell and bits of grass and dirt leapt into the air. The other agents dropped into defensive postures on the ground. They aimed toward him but no one fired. Kennedy saw why--because the crowds were directly behind the Digger. They would surely have hit some people in the crowd.

  Only Kennedy had a clear shot.

  He stood up from his crouch and fired five more times at the black bundle on the ground, driving the Digger back, away from the crowds.

  Then the gun clicked. It was empty.

  He squinted, looking past the pistol.

  The dark form of the Digger was gone.

  *

  Panting now.

  Something within the Digger snaps and he forgets everything the man who tells him things told him. He forgets about killing as many people as he can and forgets about people seeing his face and forgets about spinning around like a leafy seed in Connecticut. He wants to get out of here and get back to Tye.

  The bullets that man was firing came so close . . . He nearly killed me. And if he gets killed what's going to happen to the boy?

  He drops into a crouch and sprints toward a tour bus. The engine is idling, a cloud of exhaust rises from the tailpipe.

  His arm hurts so badly.

  Pain . . .

  Look, there's a red rose on his arm!

  But, oh, how it . . . click . . . how it hurts.

  He hopes he never feels pain like this again. He hopes Tye never ever has to feel pain like this.

  He looks for the man who shot him. Why did he do that? The Digger doesn't understand. He's just doing what he's been told.

  Even if you loved me less,

  I'd love you all the more.

  Fireworks blossom over the Mall.

  A line of police and agents is moving closer. They start shooting. The Digger climbs up the stairs of the bus and turns, spraying bullets at the cluster of pursuing agents.

  There's a huge star burst of orange.

  "Oh, my," he says, thinking: Tye would like that.

  He breaks a window in the bus and carefully aims his gun.

  29

  Parker and Cage crouched behind a squad car.

  Neither of them had much tactical training and knew it was prudent to leave the shoot-'em-up stuff to the younger, more experienced agents.

  Besides, as Cage had just shouted to Parker a minute ago, it was a goddamn war zone. Bullets flying everywh
ere. The Digger had good protection inside the bus and was firing careful bursts through the shattered windows. Len Hardy was pinned down with several other District cops on the other side of Constitution Avenue.

  Cage pressed his side and winced. He hadn't been hit but a stream of bullets had ripped through the sheet steel of the car they were using for cover and he'd flung himself to the ground, landing hard on his side.

  "You okay?" Parker asked.

  "Rib," the man moaned. "Feels broken. Shit."

  Agents had cleared the area around the bus and were peppering it freely whenever they thought there was a target. They'd flattened the tires so the Digger couldn't drive away although Parker could see there was no chance of that happening in any case--the broad avenue was one huge traffic jam for a half mile in both directions.

  Parker heard snippets of radio transmissions.

  "No target presenting . . . Get a flash-bang inside. Who's got a grenade? Two down on Constitution. We got . . . anybody copying? We got two down on Constitution . . . Snipers in position."

  Then Cage glanced up over the hood of the torn car.

  "Jesus," Cage gasped, "what's the fucking kid doing?"

  Parker looked too, toward Constitution Avenue, following the agent's gaze. There was Len Hardy, his tiny gun in his hand, crawling from tree to tree toward the bus, lifting his head and firing a shot occasionally.

  Parker said, "He's nuts. He doesn't even have body armor."

  "Len!" Cage shouted, then winced at the pain.

  Parker took over. "Len! . . . Len Hardy! Get back. Let SWAT handle it."

  But he didn't hear them. Or pretended he hadn't.

  Cage wheezed, "It's like he's got some kind of death wish."

  Hardy stood and sprinted toward the bus, emptying his weapon as he ran. Even Parker knew this wasn't proper procedure for a tactical operation.

  Parker saw the Digger move toward the back of the bus, where he'd have a good shot at Hardy. The detective didn't notice. He huddled on the ground, completely exposed, reloading.

  "Len!" Parker cried. "Get under cover."

  "He doesn't even have Speedloaders," Cage muttered. Hardy was slipping the new shells into his revolver one by one.

  The Digger moved closer to the back of the bus.

  "No!" Parker muttered, knowing he was going to see the young man die.

  "Jesus," Cage cried, gasping.

  Then Hardy looked up and must have realized what was happening. He lifted the gun and fired three more times--all the shells he'd been able to reload--and then he stumbled backward, trying to get to cover.