The Devil's Teardrop (41 page)

He packed the cash into the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

Stepping into the corridor, staggering under the weight, working his way to the elevator.

Thinking: He’d have to kill the guard at the front door, as well as anyone in the team who was still here. Tobe Geller, he thought, had gone home. But Lukas was still in the building. She definitely would have to die. Under other circumstances killing her wouldn’t matter—he’d been very careful about hiding his identity and where he really lived. But the agents were much better than he’d anticipated. My God, they’d actually found the safe house in Gravesend . . . That had shaken Fielding badly. He
never
thought they’d manage that. Fortunately Gilbert Havel had been to the safe house a number of times so neighbors would see Havel’s picture when the police were doing their canvassing and assume he was the man who’d rented the place—reinforcing the agents’ belief that
he
was the mastermind of the crime.

And nearly finding that the
Ritzy Lady
was the site of the second attack . . . He’d sat in the document lab in
horror as the computer had assembled the fragments from the note at the safe house. He’d waited for just the right moment and blurted out, “Ritz! Maybe the Ritz-Carlton?” And as soon as they’d heard that, the solution was set in stone. It would be almost impossible for them to think of any other possibilities.

That’s how puzzle solving works, right, Parker?

And what
about
him?

Oh, he was far too smart, far too much of a risk to remain alive.

As he walked slowly down the deserted corridors he reflected that, while Fielding was the perfect criminal, Kincaid was the perfect detective.

What happens when perfect opposites meet?

But this was a rhetorical question, not a puzzle, and he didn’t waste time trying to answer it. He came to the elevator and pushed the up button.

Margaret Lukas swung
open the door to the document lab.

She looked inside. “Hello? Dr. Evans?”

He didn’t answer.

Where was he? she wondered.

She paused at the examination table, looked down at the extortion note.

The end is night.

Thinking: Maybe Parker Kincaid wasn’t quite correct when he’d said that no one would make this kind of mistake.

In a way the end
is
night. Darkness and sleep and peace.

Night, take me. Darkness, take me . . .

That’s what she’d thought when she’d gotten the call from her mother-in-law about the crash that killed Tom and Joey. Lying in bed that windy November night, or two nights later or three—it was all a jumble now—lying by herself, unable to breathe, unable to cry.

Thinking: Night, take me. Night, take me, please. Night, take me . . .

Lukas now stood hunched over the document examining table, gazing down, her short blond strands falling forward past her eyes, like a horse’s blinders. Staring at the words of the extortion note, the swirls of the sloppy letters. Lukas remembered watching Kincaid as he’d studied the note, his lips moving faintly, as if he were interviewing a living suspect.

The end is night.

Shaking her head at her own morbidly philosophical mood, she turned and left the lab.

She walked to the elevator. Maybe Evans was waiting at the guard station. She looked absently at the indicator lights as the elevator ascended.

The hallways were deserted and she was aware of the small noises of empty buildings at night. The field office, where she worked, was located near City Hall, some blocks away, and she didn’t get here very often. She didn’t like headquarters very much. It was too big. And tonight, she reflected, the place was dark and spooky. And it took a lot to make Margaret Lukas spooked. She remembered Kincaid projecting the extortion note onto a screen in the lab and she’d thought: It looks like a ghost.

Lukas sensed more ghosts now. Here in these corridors. Ghosts of agents killed in the line of duty. Ghosts of victims of the crimes that were investigated here.

And her own personal ghosts? she thought. Oh, but they were with her all the time. Her husband and son. They never left. Nor did she want them to. The changeling needed something to remind her of
Jackie
Lukas.

She glanced down at the floor in front of the elevator. There was a dark stain on the floor. What was it? She smelled sour coffee.

The elevator light flashed and a chime sounded. The door opened. Someone stepped out.

“Oh, hi,” Lukas said. “Got some news for you.”

“Hey, Margaret,” said Susan Nance, juggling a dozen files. “What’s up?”

“They just tagged him. Got him on the Mall.”

“The Metro killer?”

“Yep.”

The woman gave a thumbs-up. “Excellent. Oh, Happy New Year.”

“Same to you.”

Lukas got on the elevator and descended to the main floor.

At the employee entrance guard station Artie looked up at her and nodded a pleasant greeting.

“Did that Dr. Evans sign out?” she asked him.

“Nope. Haven’t seen him.”

She’d wait for him here. Lukas sat in one of the comfortable lobby chairs. Sank down into it. She felt exhausted. She wanted to get home. She knew people said behind her back how sad it must be—a woman living alone. But it wasn’t sad at all. Returning to the womb of the house was a hell of a lot better than sitting at a bar with girlfriends or going out on a date with the endless fodder of eligible—and dull—men in Washington.

Home . . .

Thinking about the report she’d have to write about METSHOOT.

Thinking about Parker Kincaid.

Focus, she told herself.

Then she remembered that she didn’t have to focus anymore.

What
about
him? Well, he wanted to ask her out. She knew he did.

But she’d already decided to say no. He was a handsome, energetic man, filled with the love of children and domestic life. How appealing that seemed. But, no, she couldn’t inflict on him the sorrow that she believed she radiated like toxic fumes.

Maybe Jackie Lukas might have had a chance with a man like Kincaid. But a changeling like Margaret never would.

Artie looked up from his paper. “Oh, forgot to say—Happy New Year, Agent Lukas.”

“Happy New Year, Artie.”

* * *

As the Digger smouldered with a foul reek and the fire department spurted foam onto the scorched cherry trees as the crowds circled the burnt-out bus, Parker and Cage stood together.

The Digger’s gone. So long.

Verses from Dr. Seuss trooped through his mind like some of the author’s bizarre creatures.

Parker blamed his mania on a cocktail of exhaustion and adrenaline.

He called the Whos and promised them he’d be home in a half hour. Robby told his father about the air horn someone had blasted at midnight, waking up the Bradleys down the street and causing a neighborhood stir. Stephie described the sparklers in the yard with breathless, sloppy adjectives.

“Love you, Who,” he said. “Be home soon.”

“Love you too, Daddy,” the girl said. “How’s your friend?”

“He’s going to be fine.”

Cage was talking to an evidence tech from PERT and Parker was jockeying to get downwind of the smoke from the bus. There was an unpleasant scent—worse than the burnt rubber of the tires. Parker knew what it was and the thought of inhaling any of the Digger’s ashy corpse nauseated him.

A dead psycho smouldering before him, and Parker, at the tail end of an evening like none other he’d ever had . . . Yet it’s the mundane things in life that poke up like crocuses. He now thought: Hell, I don’t have enough cash to pay Mrs. Cavanaugh. He patted his pockets and dug out a small wad of bills. Twenty-two bucks. Not enough. He’d have to stop at an ATM on the way home.

He glanced at a piece of paper mixed in with the money. It was the transcription of the unsub’s notes on the burnt yellow pad. The references to the last two sites of the attacks that he’d found on the pad of paper Tobe Geller had saved from the burning safe house.

. . . two miles south. The R . . .

. . . place I showed you. The black . . .

“What’s that?” Cage asked, kneading his wounded rib.

“A souvenir,” Parker said, looking down at the words. “Just a souvenir.”

* * *

Edward Fielding paused at the end of the corridor, gasping under the weight of the money on his back.

He looked toward the reception area thirty feet away and saw the short blond hair of Margaret Lukas. Beyond her was the guard, reading the newspaper. The lights
were out in the corridor and even if they’d turned toward him it would have been difficult to see him clearly.

Adjusting the money more comfortably, he clutched the pistol in his right hand and started down the hallway. His leather soles tapping faintly on the tile. He noted that Lukas was facing away from him. He’d put one bullet in her head. Then as the guard looked up, he’d kill him.

Then home free.

Tap tap tap.

He closed the distance to his targets.

Perfect.

Margaret Lukas
, gazing at the Christmas tree in the lobby, stretched like a cat.

She listened absently to footsteps coming up the hall behind her.

Two weeks ago the entryway here had been filled with presents that the agents and staffers had donated for homeless families. She’d volunteered to give away some of the toys but at the last minute she canceled and, instead, worked twelve hours on Christmas day, investigating the killing of a black man by two whites.

Tap, tap, tap . . .

Now she wished she
hadn’t
canceled on Christmas. At the time she’d reasoned that giving out toys was frivolous when she could be doing “serious” work. But now she admitted that the thought of seeing small children on the holiday was more harrowing to her than kicking in the door of a redneck gun nut in Manassas Park.

Coward, she told herself.

Tap, tap, tap . . .

She looked out the glass windows. Crowds, people returning from the Mall. She thought about the Digger. Wondered about the shoot-out, about who’d fired the shots that killed him. She’d been in two firefights in her career and remembered mostly confusion. It was so different from in the movies. Never any sense of slow motion—a gunfight in real life was five blurry seconds of utterly terrifying chaos and then it was over with.

The vivid images came
afterward:
caring for the wounded and removing the dead.

Tap . . . tap . . .

A buzzing phone startled her.

In front of her Artie answered and she absently watched his grizzled face.

“Front desk . . . Oh, hello, Agent Cage.”

Suddenly the guard was frowning. He glanced at Lukas then focused past her. His eyes went wide. “Well,” the guard said uneasily. “Detective Hardy? . . . He’s
who?
What do you mean? . . . But he’s right here, he’s—Oh, Jesus.”

Artie was dropping the phone, fumbling for his weapon.

Tap tap taptaptaptap . . .

Instinctively Lukas knew that the footsteps, now running toward them, were an attacker’s. She fell forward just as the rounds from the silenced pistol snapped into the back of the couch where she’d been sitting, ripping Naugahyde and bits of stuffing from the upholstery.

She looked behind her, twisting around, scrabbling for cover behind a potted plant.

It was . . . Wait, it couldn’t be! It was Hardy.

Firing wildly, Artie shouted, “It’s him! He’s the killer. He . . . Oh, my. Oh, no . . .” The guard looked down at his
chest. He’d been hit. He slumped to his knees, fell behind the desk.

Another bullet snapped through the back of the couch, near Lukas’s head. She curled for cover behind the anemic palm tree so many agents had ridiculed. She cringed as a bullet was loudly deflected by the chrome pot.

Lukas was on automatic. She didn’t even try to figure out what had happened or who this man really was. She looked up quickly, searching for a target. But she had to duck fast as another bullet chopped though the thick green blades of leaf inches from her face. She rolled to her left, against the wall, rose and drew a target. In a portion of a second she checked the backdrop behind Hardy and fired three fast shots.

The heavy 10-millimeter slugs just missed him and dug huge chunks out of the wall. Hardy fired twice more at her then vanished back down the corridor.

She ran to the wall beside the hallway, pressed her back against it.

The tapping footsteps receded.

Another voice from the far end of the corridor called, “What’s going on? What’s going on!”

Somewhere along the hallway a door slammed.

Lukas looked around the corner quickly then went back to cover. She’d seen a man down at the end of the hall, in silhouette. She dropped to her belly, drew a target, shouted, “I’m a federal agent! Identify yourself or I’ll fire!”

“Ted Yan,” the man called. “In Software Analysis.”

Lukas knew him. He was a friend of Geller’s, an agent. But she thought: Great, I’ve got a computer nerd for backup.

“You alone?” she shouted.

“I’m—”

Silence.

“Ted?”

“No. There’re two of us . . . Susan Nance is here with me.”

Nance’s voice cracked as she called, “Oh, Margaret, he got Louise in Security! She’s dead. And Tony Phelps too.”

Jesus. What was going on?

Ted said, “We’re by the—”

“Okay, quiet,” Lukas barked. “Don’t give away your position. Did anybody go past you?”

“No,” Ted called. “He couldn’t’ve gotten by me. I heard a door slam in the hallway here. He’s somewhere between us.”

“Cover me,” Lukas called.

Watching her back, Lukas ran to the guard station. Artie was unconscious but wasn’t bleeding badly. She picked up the phone but Cage was no longer on the line. She hit 911, identified herself as a Justice Department agent and called in a Code 42 at FBI headquarters.

To her knowledge nobody’d ever done this, not in the entire history of the Bureau. It meant an assault on headquarters. It had become a joke over the years—when somebody 42’d, it meant they’d totally screwed up.