The Devil's Teardrop (38 page)

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.

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 everywhere. 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.

“He’s dead,” Cage muttered. “He’s dead.”

Parker saw the killer’s silhouette near the emergency exit in the back of the bus—where he had a perfect shot at Hardy, sprawled on the street.

But before the Digger could fire, an agent rolled out from behind a car and crouched, firing a stream of bullets into the bus. Blood sprayed the inside windows. Then there was a sensuous
whoosh
and fire erupted inside the bus. A flaming stream of fuel flowed to the curb.

Hardy struggled to his feet and ran for cover behind a District squad car.

There was a heartrending scream from inside the bus as the interior disappeared in orange fire. Parker saw the Digger, a mass of boiling flames, rise once then fall into the aisle of the bus.

There were soft snaps from inside—like the popcorn that Stephie had made earlier for her brother’s surprise dessert—as the Digger’s remaining bullets exploded in the fire. A tree on Constitution Avenue caught fire and illuminated the macabre spectacle with an incongruously cheerful glow.

Slowly the agents rose from cover and approached the bus. They stood at a cautious distance as the last of the burning ammunition detonated and the fire trucks
arrived and began pumping foam on the charred hulk of the vehicle.

When the flames had died down, two agents in full body armor made their way to the door of the bus and looked inside.

Suddenly a series of loud bangs shook the Mall.

Every agent and cop nearby dropped into defensive positions, lifting their weapons.

But the sounds were only the fireworks—orange spiders, blue star bursts, white concussion shells. The glorious finale of the show.

The two agents stepped out of the doorway of the bus, pulled their helmets off.

A moment later Parker heard one of the agent’s staticky transmission in Cage’s radio. “Vehicle is secure,” he said. “Subject confirmed dead” was the unemotional epitaph for the killer.

* * *

As they walked back to the Vietnam Memorial Parker told Cage about Czisman, how the shooting had started.

“He fired warning shots. He hadn’t done that, the Digger would’ve killed a hundred people right here. Maybe me too.”

“What the hell was he up to?”

In front of them a cop was covering Henry Czisman’s body.

Cage bent down, grimacing in pain. A medic had poked his abdomen and proclaimed that the fall had resulted in the predicted broken rib. The agent was taped then given some Tylenol 3. The most frustrating part of the injury seemed to be that shrugging was momentarily too painful for him.

The agent pulled the yellow rubberized sheet away from the corpse. He went through the journalist’s pockets. Took out his wallet. Then he found something else.

“What’s this?” He lifted a book out of the man’s jacket pocket. Parker saw that it was a little gem of a book: Leather-bound, hand-stitched pages, not “perfect”—glued—binding as in mass-market books. The paper was vellum, which in Thomas Jefferson’s day was smoothed animal skin but nowadays was very high-quality cloth paper. The edges of the paper were marbleized in red and gold.

And inside, the calligraphic handwriting—presumably Czisman’s—was as beautiful as an artist’s. Parker couldn’t help but admire it.

Cage flipped through it, paused at several pages, read them, shaking his head. He handed it to Parker. “Check this out.”

Parker frowned, looking at the title, written in gold ink on the cover.
A Chronicle of Sorrow.

He opened it. Read out loud. “‘To the memory of my wife, Anne, the Butcher’s first victim.’”

The book was divided into sections. “Boston.” “White Plains.” And photographs of crime scenes had been pasted inside. The first one was headed “Hartford.” Parker turned the page and read, “‘From the
Hartford News-Times.
’” Czisman had copied the text of the article. It was dated in November of last year.

Parker read, “‘Three Killed in Holdup . . . Hartford Police are still searching for the man who walked into the offices of the
News-Times
on Saturday and opened fire with a shotgun, killing three employees in the classified advertising department.

“‘The only description of the killer was that he was a
male of medium build, wearing a dark overcoat. A police spokesman said that his motive may have been to divert law enforcement authorities while his accomplice robbed an armored truck making a delivery to a bank on the other side of town. The second gunman shot and killed the driver of the truck and his assistant. He escaped with $4,000 in cash.’”

Cage muttered, “Killed three people for four G’s. That’s him all right.”

Parker looked up. “One of the clerks killed at the paper was Anne Czisman. She was his wife.”

“So he wanted the prick as much as we did,” Cage said.

“Czisman was using us to get to the unsub and the Digger. That’s why he wanted to see the body in the morgue so much. And that’s why he was following me.”

Revenge . . .

“This book . . . it was his way of dealing with his grief.” Parker crouched and reverently pulled the sheet back up over the man’s face once more.

“Let’s call Lukas,” he said to Cage. “Give her the news.”

* * *

At FBI headquarters Margaret Lukas was in the employees’ lobby on Pennsylvania Avenue, briefing the deputy director, a handsome man with a politician’s trim graying hair. She’d heard the reports that the Digger was on the Mall and that there had been shooting. Lukas was desperately eager to get to the Mall herself but since she was primary on the case, protocol dictated that she keep the senior administrators in the Bureau informed.

Her phone buzzed. And she answered fast, superstitiously not letting herself hope that they’d captured him.

“Lukas here.”

“Margaret,” Cage said.

And she knew immediately from his tone that they’d nailed the killer. It was a sound in a cop’s voice you learn early in your career.

“Collared or tagged?”

Arrested or dead, she meant.

“Tagged,” Cage responded.

Lukas came as close to saying a prayer of Thanksgiving as she’d come in five years.