The Devil's Teardrop

"'The Force be with you,'" Cage said. "Our mascot for the night. My grandkids love those movies."

Parker propped it up on the examination table. "Wish it were Obi-Wan Kenobi."

"Who?" Lukas frowned, shook her head.

Hardy blurted out, "You don't know?" Then blushed when she glanced at him coldly.

Parker was surprised too. How could somebody not know about Star Wars?

"Just a character in a movie," C. P. Ardell told her.

Without a reaction she turned back to a memo she was reading.

Parker found his hand glass, which was wrapped in black velvet. It was a Leitz lens, twelve power, and was the essential tool of a document examiner. Joan had given it to him for their second a

Hardy noticed a book in Parker's attaché case. Parker saw the cop looking at it and handed it to him. Mind Twisters Volume 5. Hardy flipped through it then passed it to Lukas.

"Hobby," Parker explained, glancing at her eyes as she sca

Cage said, "Oh, this man loved his puzzles. That was his nickname 'round here. The Puzzle Master."

"They're lateral thinking exercises," Parker said. He looked over Lukas's shoulder and read out loud, "'A man has three coins that total seventy-six cents. The coins were minted in the United States within the last twenty years, are in general circulation and one isn't a pe

"Wait, one of them has to be a pe

Hardy looked at the ceiling. Parker wondered if his mind was as orderly as his personal style. The cop reflected for a moment. "Are they commemorative coins?"

"No, remember-they're in circulation."

"Right," the detective said.

Lukas's eyes sca

Geller thought for a minute. "I'm not wasting my brain cells on that." He turned back to his computer.

"Give up?" Parker asked.

"What's the answer?" Cage asked.

"He has a fifty-cent piece, a quarter and a pe

"Wait," Hardy protested, "you said he didn't have a pe

"No, I didn't. I said one of the coins wasn't a pe

"That's cheating," Cage grumbled.

"It sounds so easy," Hardy said.

"Puzzles are always easy when you know the answer," Parker said. "Just like life, right?"

Lukas turned the page. She read, "'Three hawks have been killing a farmer's chickens. One day he sees all three sitting on the roof of his chicken coop. The farmer has just one bullet in his gun and the hawks are so far apart that he can only hit one. He aims at the hawk on the left and shoots and kills it. The bullet doesn't ricochet. How many hawks are left on the roof?'"

"It's too obvious," C. P. observed.

"Wait," Cage said, "maybe that's the trick. You think it should be complicated but the answer really is the obvious one. You shoot one and there're two left. End of puzzle."

"Is that your answer?" Parker asked.

Cage said uncertainly, "I'm not sure."

Lukas flipped to the back of the book.

" That's cheating," Parker said, echoing Cage.

She kept flipping. Then frowned. "Where are the answers?"

"There aren't any."

She asked, "What kind of puzzle book is that?"

"An answer you don't get on your own isn't an answer." Parker glanced at his watch. Where the hell was the note?

Lukas turned back to the puzzle, studied it. Her face was pretty. Joan was drop-dead beautiful, with her serpentine cheekbones and ample hips and buoyant breasts. Margaret Lukas, wearing a tight-fitting black sweater, was smaller on top and trimmer. She had thin, muscular thighs, revealed by tight jeans. At her ankle he caught a glimpse of sheer white stockings-probably those knee-highs that Joan used to wear under her slacks.

She was pretty, Daddy.

For a lady cop…

A slim young man in a too-tight gray suit walked into the lab. One of the young clerks who worked in the Mail and Memo 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 wa

"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. Fu

Fu

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, spi

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.