Free The Devil's Teardrop by Jeffery Deaver Page A

Distribution Department, Parker guessed.
    “Agent Cage,” he said.
    “Timothy, what’ve you got for us?”
    “I’m looking for Agent Jefferson.”
    Parker was saved from asking “Who?” by Cage. “Tom Jefferson?”
    “Yessir.”
    He pointed to Parker. “This’s him.”
    Parker hesitated for only a moment then took the envelope and signed for it, carefully writing “Th. Jefferson” the same way the statesman had done, though with a much more careless hand.
    Timothy left and Parker cocked an eyebrow at Cage, who said, “You wanna be anonymous. Poof. You’re anonymous.”
    “But how—”
    “I’m the miracle worker. I keep telling you.”
    * * *
    The Digger is standing in the shadows outside his motel $39.99 a day kitchenette and free cable we have vacancies.
    This is a lousy part of town. Reminds the Digger of . . . click  . . . where, where?
    Boston, no, White Plains . . . click . . . which is near New . . . New York.
    Click.
    He’s standing beside a smelly Dumpster and watching the front door to his comfy room.
    He’s watching people coming and going, the way the man who tells him things told him to do. Watching his front door. Watching the room through the open curtain.
    Come and go.
    Cars speed by on the lousy street, people walk past on the lousy sidewalk. The Digger looks like them, the Digger looks like no one. Nobody sees the Digger.
    “Excuse me,” a voice says. “I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten—”
    The Digger turns. The man looks into the Digger’s blank eyes and can’t finish his sentence. The Digger shoots the man with two silenced bullets. He falls and the Digger hefts the body into the big blue Dumpster, thinking the silencer needs repacking; it’s not that . . . click . . . not that silent anymore.
    But nobody’s heard. Too much traffic.
    He picks up the shell casings and puts them into his pocket.
    The Dumpster is a pretty blue.
    The Digger likes colors. His wife grew red flowers and his wife grew yellow flowers. But no blue flowers, he believes.
    Looking around. Nobody else is nearby.
    “If somebody looks at your face, kill them,” said the man who tells him things. “Nobody can see your face. Remember that.”
    “I’ll remember that,” the Digger answered.
    He listens to the Dumpster. Silence.
    Funny how when you’re . . . click  . . . when you’re dead you don’t make any noise.
    Funny . . .
    He goes back to watching the door, watching the window, watching the people on the sidewalk.
    He checks his watch. He’s waited for fifteen minutes.
    Now it’s okay to go inside.
    Have some soup, reload his gun, repack the silencer. Which he learned how to do on a pretty fall day last year—was it last year? They sat on logs and the man told him how to reload his gun and repack the silencer and all around them were pretty colored leaves. Then he would practice shooting, spinning around like a whirligig, spinning around with the Uzi, as leaves and branches fell. He remembers the smell of hot, dead leaves.
    He liked the forest better than here.
    Opening the door, walking inside.
    He calls his voice mail and methodically punches in his code. One two two five. There are no messages from the man who tells him things. He thinks he’s a little sad that he hasn’t heard from the man. He hasn’t heard a word since this morning. He thinks he’s sad. But he isn’t sure what sad is.
    No messages, no messages.
    Which means he should repack the silencer and reload his clips and get ready to go out again.
    But first he’ll have some soup and put on the TV.
    Have some nice hot soup.

6
    Mayor Kennedy—
    The end is night. The Digger is loose and their is no way to stop him. He will kill again—at four, eight and Midnight if you don’t pay.
    I am wanting $20 million dollars in cash, which you will put into a bag and leave it two miles south of Rt 66 on the West Side of the Beltway. In the middle of the Field. Pay to me the Money by 1200 hours. Only I am