Dark Rivers of the Heart

by Dean Koontz

  “He killed them both,” Shire said. “The woman wasn’t scratched.”

  “Grant get crucified?”

  “No. Everyone felt these were righteous shootings.”

  Glancing at another page that Davis handed to him, Roy said, “According to this, he was transferred off the street.”

  “Grant has computer skills and high aptitude,” Davis said, “so they put him on a computer-crime task force. Strictly desk work.”

  Roy frowned. “Why? Was he traumatized by the shootings?”

  “Some of them can’t handle it,” Wertz said knowingly. “They don’t have the right stuff, don’t have the stomach for it, they just come apart.”

  “According to the records from his mandatory therapy sessions,” Nella Shire said, “he wasn’t traumatized. He handled it well. He asked for the transfer, but not because he was traumatized.”

  “Probably in denial,” Wertz said, “being macho, too ashamed of his weakness to admit to it.”

  “Whatever the reason,” Davis said, “he asked for the transfer. Then, ten months ago, after putting in twenty-one months with the task force, he just up and resigned from the LAPD altogether.”

  “Where’s he working now?” Roy asked.

  “We don’t know that, but we do know where he lives,” David Davis said, producing another printout with a dramatic flourish.

  Staring at the address, Roy said, “You’re sure this is our man?”

  Shire shuffled her own sheaf of papers. She produced a high-resolution printout of a Los Angeles Police Department personnel fingerprint ID sheet while Davis provided the photos of the prints they had lifted from the frame of the bathroom window.

  Davis said, “If you know how to make comparisons, you’ll see the computer’s right when it says they’re a perfect match. Perfect. This is our guy. No doubt about it, none.”

  Handing another printout to Roy, Nella Shire said, “This is his most recent photo ID from the police records.”

  Full-face and in profile, Grant bore an uncanny resemblance to the computer-projected portrait that had been given to Roy by Melissa Wicklun in Photo Analysis.

  “Is this a recent photo?” Roy asked.

  “The most recent the LAPD has on file,” Shire said.

  “Taken a long time after the carjacking incident?”

  “That would have been two and a half years ago. Yeah, I’m sure this picture is a lot more recent than that. Why?”

  “The scar looks fully healed,” Roy noted.

  “Oh,” Davis said, “he didn’t get the scar in that shootout, no, not then. He’s had it a long time, a very long time, had it when he entered the army. It’s from a childhood injury.”

  Roy looked up from the picture. “What injury?”

  Davis shrugged his angular shoulders, and his long arms flapped against his white lab coat. “We don’t know. None of the records tell us about it. They just list it as his most prominent identifying feature. ‘Cicatricial scar from right ear to point of chin, result of childhood injury.’ That’s all.”

  “He looks like Igor,” Wertz said with a snicker.

  “I think he’s sexy,” Nella Shire disagreed.

  “Igor,” Wertz insisted.

  Roy turned to him. “Igor who?”

  “Igor. You remember—from those old Frankenstein movies, Dr. Frankenstein’s sidekick. Igor. The grisly old hunchback with the twisted neck.”

  “I don’t care for that kind of entertainment,” Roy said. “It glorifies violence and deformity. It’s sick.” Studying the photo, Roy wondered how young Spencer Grant had been when he’d suffered such a grievous wound. Just a boy, apparently. “The poor kid,” he said. “The poor, poor kid. What quality of life could he have had with a face as damaged as that? What psychological burdens does he carry?”

  Frowning, Wertz said, “I thought this was a bad guy, mixed up in terrorism somehow?”

  “Even bad guys,” Roy said patiently, “deserve compassion. This man has suffered. You can see that. I need to get my hands on him, yes, and be sure that society’s safe from him—but he still deserves to be treated with compassion, with as much mercy as possible.”

  Davis and Wertz stared uncomprehendingly.

  But Nella Shire said, “You’re a nice man, Roy.”

  Roy shrugged.

  “No,” she said, “you really are. It makes me feel good to know there are men like you in law enforcement.”

  The heat of a blush rose in Roy’s face. “Well, thank you, that’s very kind, but there’s nothing special about me.”

  Because Nella was clearly not a lesbian, even though she was as much as fifteen years older than he, Roy wished that at least one feature about her was as attractive as Melissa Wicklun’s exquisite mouth. But her hair was too frizzy and too orange. Her eyes were too cold a blue, her nose and chin too pointed, her lips too severe. Her body was reasonably well proportioned but not exceptional in any regard.

  “Well,” Roy said with a sigh, “I’d better pay a visit to this Mr. Grant, ask him what he was doing in Santa Monica last night.”

  Sitting at the computer in his Malibu cabin but prowling deep into the Nevada Gaming Commission in Carson City, Spencer searched the file of current casino-worker permits by asking to be given the names of all card dealers who were female, between the ages of twenty-eight and thirty, five feet four inches tall, one hundred ten to one hundred twenty pounds, with brown hair and brown eyes. Those were sufficient parameters to result in a comparatively small number of candidates—just fourteen. He directed the computer to print the list of names in alphabetical order.

  He started at the top of the printout and summoned the file on Janet Francine Arbonhall. The first page of the electronic dossier that appeared on the screen featured her basic physical description, the date on which her work permit had been approved, and a full-face photograph. She looked nothing like Valerie, so Spencer exited her file without reading it.

  He called up another file: Theresa Elisabeth Dunbury. Not her.

  Bianca Marie Haguerro. Not her, either.

  Corrine Sense Huddleston. No.

  Laura Linsey Langston. No.

  Rachael Sarah Marks. Nothing like Valerie.

  Jacqueline Ethel Mung. Seven down and seven to go.

  Hannah May Rainey.

  On the screen, Valerie Ann Keene appeared, her hair different from the way she had worn it at The Red Door, lovely but unsmiling.

  Spencer ordered a complete printout of Hannah May Rainey’s file, which was only three pages long. He read it end to end while the woman continued to stare at him from the computer.

  Under the Rainey name, she had worked for over four months of the previous year as a blackjack dealer in the casino of the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas. Her last day on the job had been November 26, not quite two and a half months ago, and according to the casino manager’s report to the commission, she had quit without notice.

  They—whoever “they” might be—must have tracked her down on the twenty-sixth of November, and she must have eluded them as they were reaching out for her, just as she eluded them in Santa Monica.

  In a corner of the parking garage beneath the agency’s building in downtown Los Angeles, Roy Miro had a final word with the three agents who would accompany him to Spencer Grant’s house and take the man into custody. Because their agency did not officially exist, the word “custody” was being stretched beyond its usual definition; “kidnapping” was a more accurate description of their intentions.

  Roy had no problem with either term. Morality was relative, and nothing done in the service of correct ideals could be a crime.

  They were all carrying Drug Enforcement Administration credentials, so Grant would believe that he was being taken to a federal facility to be questioned—and that upon arrival there, he would be permitted to call an attorney. Actually, he was more likely to see the Lord God Almighty on a golden airborne throne than anyone with a law degree.

  Using whatever methods might b
e necessary to obtain truthful answers, they would question him about his relationship with the woman and her current whereabouts. When they had what they needed—or were convinced that they had squeezed out of him all that he knew—they would dispose of him.

  Roy would conduct the disposal himself, releasing the poor scarred devil from the misery of this troubled world.

  The first of the other three agents, Cal Dormon, wore white slacks and a white shirt with the logo of a pizza parlor stitched on the breast. He would be driving a small white van with a matching logo, which was one of many magnetic-mat signs that could be attached to the vehicle to change its character, depending on what was needed for any particular operation.

  Alfonse Johnson was dressed in work shoes, khaki slacks, and a denim jacket. Mike Vecchio wore sweats and a pair of Nikes.

  Roy was the only one of them in a suit. Because he had napped fully clothed on Davis’s couch, however, he didn’t fit the stereotype of a neat and well-pressed federal agent.

  “All right, this isn’t like last night,” Roy said. They had all been part of the SWAT team in Santa Monica. “We need to talk to this guy.”

  The previous night, if any of them had seen the woman, he would have cut her down instantly. For the benefit of any local police who might have shown up, a weapon would have been planted in her hand: a Desert Eagle .50 Magnum, such a powerful handgun that a shot from it would leave an exit wound as large as a man’s fist, a piece obviously meant solely for killing people. The story would have been that the agent had gunned her down in self-defense.

  “But we can’t let him slip away,” Roy continued. “And he’s a boy with schooling, as well trained as any of you, so he might not just hold out his hands for the bracelets. If you can’t make him behave and he looks to be gone, then shoot his legs out from under him. Chop him up good if you have to. He isn’t going to need to walk again anyway. Just don’t get carried away—okay? Remember, we absolutely must talk to him.”

  Spencer had obtained all the information of interest to him that was contained in the files of the Nevada Gaming Commission. He retreated along the cyberspace highways as far as the Los Angeles Police Department computer.

  From there he linked with the Santa Monica Police Department and examined its file of cases initiated within the past twenty-four hours. No case could be referenced either by the name Valerie Ann Keene or by the street address of the bungalow that she had been renting.

  He exited the case files and checked call reports for Wednesday night, because it was possible that SMPD officers had answered a call related to the fracas at the bungalow but had not given the incident a case number. This time, he found the address.

  The last of the officer’s notations indicated why no case number had been assigned: ATF OP IN PROG. FED ASSERTED. Which meant: Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms operation in progress; federal jurisdiction asserted.

  The local cops had been frozen out.

  On the nearby couch, Rocky exploded from sleep with a shrill yelp, fell to the floor, scrambled to his feet, started to chase his tail, then whipped his head left and right in confusion, searching for whatever threat had pursued him out of his dream.

  “Just a nightmare,” Spencer assured the dog.

  Rocky looked at him doubtfully and whined.

  “What was it this time—a giant prehistoric cat?”

  The mutt padded quickly across the room and jumped up to plant his forepaws on a windowsill. He stared out at the driveway and the surrounding woods.

  The short February day was drawing toward a colorful twilight. The undersides of the eucalyptuses’ oval leaves, which were usually silver, now reflected the golden light that poured through gaps in the foliage; they glimmered in a faint breeze, so it appeared as if the trees had been hung with ornaments for the Christmas season that was now more than a month past.

  Rocky whined worriedly again.

  “A pterodactyl cat?” Spencer suggested. “Huge wings and giant fangs and a purr loud enough to crack stone?”

  Not amused, the dog dropped from the window and hurried into the kitchen. He was always like this when he woke abruptly from a bad dream. He would circle the house, from window to window, convinced that the enemy in the land of dreams was every bit as dangerous to him in the real world.

  Spencer looked at the computer screen again.

  ATF OP IN PROG. FED ASSERTED.

  Something was wrong.

  If the SWAT team that hit the bungalow the previous night had been composed of agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, why had the men who showed up at Louis Lee’s home in Bel Air been carrying FBI credentials? The former bureau was under the control of the United States Secretary of the Treasury, while the latter was ultimately answerable to the Attorney General—though changes in that structure were being contemplated. The different organizations sometimes cooperated in operations of mutual interest; however, considering the usual intensity of interagency rivalry and suspicion, both would have had representatives present at the questioning of Louis Lee or of anyone else from whom a lead might have been developed.

  Grumbling to himself as if he were the White Rabbit running late for tea with the Mad Hatter, Rocky scampered out of the kitchen and hurried through the open door to the bedroom.

  ATF OP IN PROG.

  Something wrong…

  The FBI was by far the more powerful of the two bureaus, and if it was interested enough to be on the scene, it would never agree to surrender all jurisdiction entirely to the ATF. In fact, there was legislation being written in Congress, at the request of the White House, to fold the ATF into the FBI. The cop’s note in the SMPD call report should have read: FBI/ ATF OP IN PROG.

  Brooding about all that, Spencer retreated from Santa Monica to the LAPD, floated there a moment as he tried to decide if he was finished, then backed into the task-force computer, closing doors as he went, neatly cleaning up any traces of his invasion.

  Rocky bolted out of the bedroom, past Spencer, to the living room window once more.

  Home again, Spencer shut down his computer. He got up from the desk and went to the window to stand beside Rocky.

  The tip of the dog’s black nose was against the glass. One ear up, one down.

  “What do you dream about?” Spencer wondered.

  Rocky whimpered softly, his attention fixed on the deep purple shadows and the golden glimmerings of the twilit eucalyptus grove.

  “Fanciful monsters, things that could never be?” Spencer asked. “Or just…the past?”

  The dog was shivering.

  Spencer put one hand on the nape of Rocky’s neck and stroked him gently.

  The dog glanced up, then immediately returned his attention to the eucalyptuses, perhaps because a great darkness was descending slowly over the shrinking twilight. Rocky had always been afraid of the night.

  EIGHT

  The fading light congealed into a luminous red scum across the western sky. The crimson sun was reflected by every microscopic particle of pollution and water vapor in the air, so it seemed as though the city lay under a thin mist of blood.

  Cal Dormon retrieved a large pizza box from the back of the white van and walked toward the house.

  Roy Miro was on the other side of the street from the van, having entered the block from the opposite direction. He got out of his car and quietly closed the door.

  By now, Johnson and Vecchio would have made their way to the back of the house by neighboring properties.

  Roy started across the street.

  Dormon was halfway along the front walk. He didn’t have a pizza in the box, but a Desert Eagle .44 Magnum pistol equipped with a heavy-duty sound suppressor. The uniform and the prop were solely to allay suspicion if Spencer Grant happened to glance out a window just as Dormon was approaching the house.

  Roy reached the back of the white van.

  Dormon was at the front stoop.

  Putting one hand across his mouth as if to muffle a cough, Roy
spoke into the transmitter microphone that was clipped to his shirt cuff. “Count five and go,” he whispered to the men at the back of the house.

  At the front door, Cal Dormon didn’t bother to ring the bell or knock. He tried the knob. The lock must have been engaged, because he opened the pizza box, let it fall to the ground, and brought up the powerful Israeli pistol.

  Roy picked up his pace, no longer casual.

  In spite of its high-quality silencer, the .44 emitted a hard thud each time it was fired. The sound wasn’t like gunfire, but it was loud enough to draw the attention of passersby if there had been any. The gun was, after all, a door-buster: Three quick rounds tore the hell out of the jamb and striker plate. Even if the deadbolt remained intact, the notch in which it had been seated was not a notch anymore; it was just a bristle of splinters.

  Dormon went inside, with Roy behind him, and a guy in stocking feet was coming up from a blue vinyl Barcalounger, a can of beer in one hand, wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt, saying “Jesus Christ,” looking terrified and bewildered because the last bits of wood and brass from the door had just hit the living room carpet around him. Dormon drove him backward into the chair again, hard enough to knock the breath out of him, and the can of beer tumbled to the floor, rolled across the carpet, spewing gouts of foam.

  The guy wasn’t Spencer Grant.

  Holding his silencer-fitted Beretta in both hands, Roy quickly crossed the living room, went through an archway into a dining room, and then through an open door into a kitchen.

  A blonde of about thirty was facedown on the kitchen floor, her head turned toward Roy, her left arm extended as she tried to recover a butcher knife that had been knocked out of her hand and that was an inch or two beyond her reach. She couldn’t move toward it, because Vecchio had a knee in the small of her back and the muzzle of his pistol against her neck, just behind her left ear.

  “You bastard, you bastard, you bastard,” the woman squealed. Her shrill words were neither loud nor clear, because her face was jammed against the linoleum. And she couldn’t draw much breath with Vecchio’s knee in her back.