The Devil's Teardrop
He’s the suspense star behind the new 007 novel . . . A “Best Novel of the Year” award—winner from the International Thriller Writers organization . . . Jeffery Deaver is
hotter than ever
!
Read these acclaimed bestsellers from the “master of ticking bomb suspense.” (
People
)
A thrilling stand-alone novel
EDGE
“[A] nail-biter. . . . Breakneck action [for] fans of Deaver’s fiendishly clever suspensers.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
(starred review)
The ninth novel in his “simply outstanding”
(
San Jose Mercury News
)
Lincoln Rhyme series
THE BURNING WIRE
“Sterling. . . . Not even the brilliant Rhyme can foresee the shocking twists the case will take in this electrically charged thriller.”
—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)
“Deaver, master of the plot twist, does his usual magic—no matter how hard you try, you can’t figure out what he’s about to spring on you. . . . Another winner from the dependable Deaver.”
—Booklist
Two pulse-pounding novels featuring investigative agent Kathryn Dance
ROADSIDE CROSSES
Chosen as a Hot Summer Thriller on TheDailyBeast.com!
“Deaver’s got the world of social networking and blogs down cold. . . . That dose of realism adds a fresh, contemporary edge.”
—David Montgomery, TheDailyBeast.com
“The techno-savvy Deaver . . . has one of those puzzle-loving minds you just can’t trust.”
—Marilyn Stasio,
The New York Times
“Clever and twisted. . . . Don’t miss this one.”
—
Library Journal
THE SLEEPING DOLL
“[An] intricately plotted thriller. . . . A dazzling mental contest.”
—Marilyn Stasio,
The New York Times
“The chase is on, and so are the surprises.”
—
Sacramento Bee
His award-winning bestseller
THE BODIES LEFT BEHIND
Named “Best Novel of the Year” (2009) by the International Thriller Writers organization
“A
tour de force
. . . . The suspense never flags. . . . Deaver has no rivals in the realm of sneaky plot twists.”
—
Kirkus Reviews
“Hurtles along at 100 m.p.h. . . . An edge-of-the-seat read.”—
Sunday Express
(U.K.), 4 stars
“Deaver is such a good puppet master that he makes us believe whatever he wants us to believe . . . without telling us a single lie. . . . It’s not until we’re well more than halfway through the book that we even begin to suspect that we might have made some dangerous mistakes . . . but by then, it’s way too late, and we are completely at Deaver’s mercy.”
—
Booklist
(starred review)
“He makes the characters live and breathe. . . . Read this and no country walk will ever be the same again.”
—
Daily Express
(U.K.)
“Not just an adrenaline-charged manhunt but a game of deception and multiple double-cross that keeps the reader guessing right up to the final page.”
—
The Times
(London)
More praise for Jeffery Deaver, who “stokes our paranoia” (
Entertainment Weekly
)
with his masterworks of suspense
“Deaver is able to fool even the most experienced readers with his right-angle turns.”
—Booklist
“His labyrinthine plots are astonishing.”
—
The New York Times Book Review
“A thrill ride between covers.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Rock-solid suspense.”
—People
“The grand master of the ticking-clock thriller.”
—Kathy Reichs, #1
New York Times
bestselling author of
Spider Bones
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With thanks to Madelyn
Part I The Last Day of the Year
The Last Day of the Year
A thorough analysis of an anonymous letter may greatly reduce the number of possible writers and may at once dismiss certain suspected writers. The use of a semicolon or the correct use of an apostrophe may eliminate a whole group of writers.
–O
SBORN AND
O
SBORN
,
Q
UESTIONED
D
OCUMENT
P
ROBLEMS
The Digger’s in town.
The Digger looks like you, the Digger looks like me. He walks down the wintry streets the way anybody would, shoulders drawn together against the damp December air.
He’s not tall and not short, he’s not heavy and not thin. His fingers in dark gloves might be pudgy but they might not. His feet seem large but maybe that’s just the size of his shoes.
If you glanced at his eyes you wouldn’t notice the shape or the color but only that they don’t seem quite human, and if the Digger glanced at
you
while you were looking at him, his eyes might be the very last thing you ever saw.
He wears a long, black coat, or a dark blue one, and not a soul on the street notices him pass by though there are many witnesses here—the streets of Washington, D.C., are crowded because it’s morning rush hour.
The Digger’s in town and it’s New Year’s Eve.
Carrying a Fresh Fields shopping bag, the Digger dodges around couples and singles and families and keeps on walking. Ahead, he sees the Metro station. He was told to be there at exactly 9
A.M
. and he will be. The Digger is never late.
The bag in his maybe-pudgy hand is heavy. It weighs eleven pounds though by the time the Digger returns to his motel room it will weigh considerably less.
A man bumps into him and smiles and says, “Sorry,” but the Digger doesn’t glance at him. The Digger never looks at anybody and doesn’t want anybody to look at him.
“Don’t let anybody . . .”
Click
. “. . . let anybody see your face. Look away. Remember?”
I remember.
Click.
Look at the lights, he thinks, look at the . . .
click . . .
at the New Year’s Eve decorations. Fat babies in banners, Old Man Time.
Funny decorations. Funny lights. Funny how nice they are.
This is Dupont Circle, home of money, home of art, home of the young and the chic. The Digger knows this but he knows it only because the man who tells him things told him about Dupont Circle.
He arrives at the mouth of the subway tunnel. The morning is overcast and, being winter, there is a dimness over the city.
The Digger thinks of his wife on days like this. Pamela didn’t like the dark and the cold so she . . .
click . . .
she . . . What did she do? That’s right. She planted red flowers and yellow flowers.
He looks at the subway and he thinks of a picture he
saw once. He and Pamela were at a museum. They saw an old drawing on the wall.
And Pamela said, “Scary. Let’s go.”
It was a picture of the entrance to hell.
The Metro tunnel disappears sixty feet underground, passengers rising, passengers descending. It looks just like that drawing.
The entrance to hell.
Here are young women with hair cut short and briefcases. Here are young men with their sports bags and cell phones.
And here is the Digger with his shopping bag.
Maybe he’s fat, maybe he’s thin. Looking like you, looking like me. Nobody ever notices the Digger and that’s one of the reasons he’s so very good at what he does.
“You’re the best,” said the man who tells him things last year. You’re the . . .
click, click . . .
the best.
At 8:59 the Digger walks to the top of the down escalator, which is filled with people disappearing into the pit.
He reaches into the bag and curls his finger around the comfy grip of the gun, which may be an Uzi or a Mac-10 or an Intertech but definitely weighs eleven pounds and is loaded with a hundred-round clip of .22 long-rifle bullets.
The Digger’s hungry for soup but he ignores the sensation.
Because he’s the . . .
click
. . . the best.
He looks toward but not at the crowd, waiting their turn to step onto the down escalator, which will take them to hell. He doesn’t look at the couples or the men with telephones or women with hair from Supercuts,
which is where Pamela went. He doesn’t look at the families. He clutches the shopping bag to his chest, the way anybody would if it were full of holiday treats. One hand on the grip of whatever kind of gun it is, his other hand curled—outside the bag—around what somebody might think is a loaf of Fresh Fields bread that would go very nicely with soup but is in fact a heavy sound suppressor, packed with mineral cotton and rubber baffles.
His watch beeps.
Nine
A.M
.
He pulls the trigger.
There is a hissing sound as the stream of bullets begins working its way down the passengers on the escalator and they pitch forward under the fire. The
hush hush hush
of the gun is suddenly obscured by the screams.
“Oh God look out Jesus Jesus what’s happening I’m hurt I’m falling.” And things like that.
Hush hush hush.
And all the terrible clangs of the misses—the bullets striking the metal and the tile. That sound is very loud. The sounds of the hits are much softer.
