The Devils Teardrop

where he hit the edge of the kitchen table, diving away from the bullets.
    The Whos! he thought in despair, scrabbling toward the stairs. He wouldn’t let the Digger upstairs. He’d die with a death grip on the man’s neck if he had to but he would save the children.
    But another burst of shots. He turned from the stairs and dove into the living room.
    A weapon . . . What could he use? But there were none. He couldn’t get into the kitchen and grab a knife. He couldn’t get into the garage for the ax.
    Why the hell had he given back Lukas’s gun?
    Then he saw something—one of Robby’s Christmas presents, the baseball bat. He snagged it, gripped the taped handle and crawled back toward the stairs.
    Where is he? Where?
    Then steps, faint. The crunch of the Digger walking over broken glass and pottery.
    But Parker couldn’t tell where he was.
    The hallway?
    The dining room? The first-floor den?
    What should he do?
    If he shouted for the children to leap out the window they’d just come to see what he wanted. He had to get upstairs himself, grab them and jump. He’d try to cushion the fall as best he could. The snow would help and he could aim for the juniper bushes.
    Footsteps very close. Crunch. A pause. Another crunch.
    Parker looked up.
    No! The Digger was at the foot of the stairs, about to climb them, looking up. No expression on his face.
    He’s profile-proof . . .
    Parker couldn’t run at him; he’d be in full view and would die before he got three steps toward the man. So he flung the bat into the dining room. It crashed into the china cabinet.
    The Digger stopped, hearing the noise. He turned stiffly and walked toward it. Like the alien monster in the old horror film The Thing .
    When he was nearly to the arched doorway Parker climbed out from behind the couch and charged him.
    He was six feet away from his prey when he stepped on one of Robby’s toys. It shattered with a loud crunch. The Digger spun around just as Parker rammed into him, knocking him to his knees. He landed a fist on the killer’s jaw. The blow was hard but the Digger dodged away and Parker, under the momentum of the swing, fell onto his side. He collapsed on the floor, tried for the Digger’s gun. But the man was too fast for him and grabbed the weapon, then struggled to his feet. Parker could do nothing but retreat into the narrow space behind the couch.
    His face dripping sweat, hands trembling, he huddled here.
    Nowhere else to go.
    The Digger backed up, orienting himself. Parker saw something sharp on the floor in front of him. Glistening. A long shard of glass. He grabbed it.
    The killer squinted, looking around. He located Parker, who gazed up into the man’s dim eyes. Parker thought—no, Margaret Lukas’s eyes aren’t dead at all; there’s a million times more life in them than in this creature’s. Thekiller moved closer. Coming around the back of the couch. Parker tensed. Then he looked past the man—at the Christmas tree. He remembered the three of them, he and the Whos, opening presents on Christmas morning.
    It’s a good thought to die with, he decided.
    But if he was going to die he’d make sure the children didn’t. He gripped the long splinter of glass, wrapped his shirt cuff around the lower half. He’d slash the man’s jugular vein and pray that he’d bleed to death before he got up the stairs, where the children were sleeping. Not daring to think about the sight the Whos would see in the morning. He tucked his legs under him, gripped his impromptu knife.
    It would be all right. They’d survive. That was all that mattered.
    He got ready to leap.
    The Digger walked around the couch and started to lift the gun.
    Parker tensed.
    Then: the stunning crack of the single, unsilenced gunshot.
    The Digger shuddered. The machine gun fell from his hands. His eyes focused past Parker. Then his head dropped and he sank to the floor. He fell forward, a bullet hole in the back of his skull.
    Parker grabbed the Uzi and pulled it toward him, looking around.
    What? he wondered frantically. What had happened?
    Then he saw someone in the doorway.
    A boy . . . How could that be? He was a young boy. Black. He was holding a pistol. He walked forward slowly, staring at the corpse. Like a cop in a movie he kept the large gun pointed at the Digger’s back. He needed both hands to hold it and struggled with the gun’s weight.
    “He kill mah daddy,” the boy said to Parker, not looking at him. “I seen him do