Koontz, Dean - Dark Rivers of the Heart

by Dark Rivers Of The Heart(Lit)

  Exhausted, Spencer had found that sleep came easily even on the too-soft bed. He dreamed of a red door, which he opened repeatedly, ten times, twenty, a hundred. Sometimes he found only darkness on the other side, a blackness that smelled of blood and that wrenched a sudden thunder from his heart. Sometimes Valerie Keene was there, but when he reached for her, she receded, and the door slammed shut.

  Friday morning, after shaving and showering, Spencer filled one bowl with dog food, another with water, put them on the floor by the bed, and went to the door. "They have a coffee shop. I'll have breakfast, and we'll check out when I get back."

  The dog didn't want to be left alone. He whined pleadingly.

  "You're safe here," Spencer said.

  Guardedly, he opened the door, expecting Rocky to rush outside.

  Instead of making a break for freedom, the dog sat on his butt, huddled pathetically, and hung his head.

  Spencer stepped outside onto the covered promenade. He looked back into the room.

  Rocky hadn't moved. His head hung low. He was shivering.

  Sighing, Spencer reentered the room and closed the door. "Okay, have your breakfast, then come with me while I have mine."

  Rocky rolled his eyes to watch from under his furry brows as his master settled in the armchair. He went to his food bowl, glanced at Spencer, then looked back uneasily at the door.

  "I'm not going anywhere," Spencer assured him.

  Instead of wolfing down his food as usual, Rocky ate with a delicacy and at a pace not characteristically canine. As if he believed that this would be his last meal, he savored it.

  When the mutt was finally finished, Spencer rinsed the bowls, dried them, and loaded all the luggage into the Explorer.

  In February, Vegas could be as warm as a late-spring day, but the high desert was also subject to an inconstant winter that had sharp teeth when it chose to bite. That Friday morning, the sky was gray, and the temperature was in the low forties. From the western mountains came a wind as cold as a pit boss's heart.

  After the luggage was loaded, they visited a suitably private corner of a brushy vacant lot behind the motel. Spencer stood guard, with his back turned and his shoulders hunched and his hands jammed in his jeans pockets, while Rocky attended to the call of nature.

  With that moment successfully negotiated, they returned to the Explorer, and Spencer drove from the south wing of the motel to the north wing, where the coffee shop was located. He parked at the curb, facing the big plate-glass windows.

  Inside the restaurant, he selected a booth by the windows, in a direct line with the Explorer, which was less than twenty feet away. Rocky sat as tall as he could in the passenger seat of the truck, watching his master through the windshield.

  Spencer ordered eggs, home fries, toast, coffee. While he ate, he glanced frequently at the Explorer, and Rocky was always watching.

  A few times, Spencer waved.

  The dog liked that. He wagged his tail every time that Spencer acknowledged him. Once, he put his paws on the dashboard and pressed his nose to the windshield, grinning.

  "What did they do to you, pal? What did they do to make you like this?" Spencer wondered aloud, over his coffee, as he watched the adoring dog.

  * * *

  Roy Miro left Alfonse Johnson and the other men to search every inch of the cabin in Malibu while he returned to Los Angeles. With luck, they would find something in Grant's belongings that would shed light upon his psychology, reveal an unknown aspect of his past, or give them a lead on his whereabouts.

  Agents in the downtown office were already penetrating the phone company system to trace the call placed earlier by Grant's computer. Grant had probably covered his trail. They would be lucky if they discovered, even by this time tomorrow, at what number and location he had received those fifty images from the videocamera.

  Driving south on the Coast Highway, toward L.A., Roy put his cellular unit on speakerphone mode and called Kleck in Orange County.

  Although he sounded weary, John Kleck was in fine, deep voice. "I'm getting to hate this tricky bitch," he said, referring to the woman who had been Valerie Keene until she abandoned her car at John Wayne Airport on Wednesday and became, yet again, someone new.

  As he listened, Roy had difficulty picturing the thin, gangly young agent with the startled-trout face. Because of the reverberant bass voice, it was easier to believe that Kleck was a tall, broad-chested, black rock singer from the doo-wop era.

  Every report that Kleck delivered sounded vitally important—even when he had nothing to report. Like now. Kleck and his team still had no idea where the woman had gone.

  "We're widening the search to rental-car agencies county-wide," Kleck intoned. "Also checking stolen-car reports. Any set of wheels heisted anytime Wednesday—we're putting it on our must-find sheet."

  "She never stole a car before," Roy noted.

  "Which is why she might this time—to keep us off balance. I'm just worried she hitchhiked. Can't track her on the thumb express."

  "If she hitchhiked, with all the crazies out there these days," Roy said, "then we don't have to worry about her anymore. She's already been raped, murdered, beheaded, gutted, and dismembered."

  "That's all right with me," Kleck said. "Just so I can get a piece of the body for a positive ID."

  After talking to Kleck, though the morning was still fresh, Roy was convinced that the day would feature nothing but bad news.

  Negative thinking usually wasn't his style. He loathed negative thinkers. If too many of them radiated pessimism at the same time, they could distort the fabric of reality, resulting in earthquakes, tornadoes, train wrecks, plane crashes, acid rain, cancer clusters, disruptions in microwave communications, and a dangerous surliness in the general population. Yet he couldn't shake his bad mood.

  Seeking to lift his spirits, he drove with only his left hand until he'd gently extracted Guinevere's treasure from the Tupperware container and put it on the seat beside him.

  Five exquisite digits. Perfect, natural, unpainted fingernails, each with its precisely symmetrical, crescent-shaped lunula. And the fourteen finest phalanges that he'd ever seen: None was a millimeter more or less than ideal length. Across the gracefully arched back of the hand, pulling the skin taut: the five most flawlessly formed metacarpals he ever hoped to see. The skin was pale but unblemished, as smooth as melted wax from the candles on God's own high table.

  Driving east, heading downtown, Roy let his gaze drift now and then to Guinevere's treasure, and with each stolen glimpse, his mood improved. By the time he was near Parker Center, the administrative headquarters of the Los Angeles Police Department, he was buoyant.

  Reluctantly, while stopped at a traffic light, he returned the hand to the container. He put that reliquary and its precious contents under the driver's seat.

  At Parker Center, after leaving his car in a visitor's stall, he took an elevator from the garage and, using his FBI credentials, went up to the fifth floor. The appointment was with Captain Harris Descoteaux, who was in his office and waiting.

  Roy had spoken briefly to Descoteaux from Malibu, so it was no surprise that the captain was black. He had that almost glossy, midnight-dark, beautiful skin sometimes enjoyed by those of Caribbean extraction, and although he evidently had been an Angeleno for years, a faint island lilt still lent a musical quality to his speech.

  In navy-blue slacks, striped suspenders, white shirt, and blue tie with diagonal red stripes, Descoteaux had the poise, dignity, and gravitas of a Supreme Court justice, even though his sleeves were rolled up and his jacket was hanging on the back of his chair.

  After shaking Roy's hand, Harris Descoteaux indicated the only visitor's chair and said, "Please sit down."

  The small office was not equal to the man who occupied it. Poorly ventilated. Poorly lighted. Shabbily furnished.

  Roy felt sorry for Descoteaux. No government employee at the executive level, whether in a law-enforcement organization or not, sho
uld have to work in such a cramped office. Public service was a noble calling, and Roy was of the opinion that those who were willing to serve should be treated with respect, gratitude, and generosity.

  Settling into the chair behind the desk, Descoteaux said, "The Bureau verifies your ID, but they won't say what case you're on."

  "National security matter," Roy assured him.

  Any query about Roy that was placed with the FBI would have been routed to Cassandra Solinko, a valued administrative assistant to the director. She would support the lie (though not in writing) that Roy was a Bureau agent; however, she could not discuss the nature of his investigation, because she didn't know what the hell he was doing.

  Descoteaux frowned. "Security matter—that's pretty vague."

  If Roy got into deep trouble—the kind to inspire congressional investigations and newspaper headlines—Cassandra Solinko would deny that she'd ever verified his claim to be with the FBI. If she was disbelieved and subpoenaed to testify about what little she knew of Roy and his nameless agency, there was a stunningly high statistical probability that she would suffer a deadly cerebral embolism, or a massive cardiac infarction, or a high-speed, head-on collision with a bridge abutment. She was aware of the consequences of cooperation.

  "Sorry, Captain Descoteaux, but I can't be more specific."

  Roy would experience consequences similar to Ms. Solinko's if he himself screwed up. Public service could sometimes be a brutally stressful career—which was one reason why comfortable offices, a generous package of fringe benefits, and virtually unlimited perks were, in Roy's estimation, entirely justified.

  Descoteaux didn't like being frozen out. Trading his frown for a smile, speaking with soft island ease, he said, "It's difficult to lend assistance without knowing the whole picture."

  It would be easy to succumb to Descoteaux's charm, to mistake his deliberate yet fluid movements for the sloth of a tropical soul, and to be deceived by his musical voice into believing that he was a frivolous man.

  Roy saw the truth, however, in the captain's eyes, which were huge, as black and liquid as ink, as direct and penetrating as those in a Rembrandt portrait. His eyes revealed an intelligence, patience, and relentless curiosity that defined the kind of man who posed the greatest threat to someone in Roy's line of work.

  Returning Descoteaux's smile with an even sweeter smile of his own, convinced that his younger-slimmer-Santa-Claus look was a match for Caribbean charm, Roy said, "Actually, I don't need help, not in the sense of services and support. Just a little information."

  "Be pleased to provide it, if I can," said the captain.

  The wattage of their two smiles had temporarily rectified the problem of inadequate lighting in the small office.

  "Before you were promoted to central administration," Roy said, "I believe you were a division captain."

  "Yes. I commanded the West Los Angeles Division."

  "Do you remember a young officer who served under you for a little more than a year—Spencer Grant?"

  Descoteaux's eyes widened slightly. "Yes, of course, I remember Spence. I remember him well."

  "Was he a good cop?"

  'The best," Descoteaux said without hesitation. "Police academy, criminology degree, army special services—he had substance."

  "A very competent man, then?"

  " 'Competence' is hardly an adequate word in Spence's, case."

  "And intelligent?"

  "Extremely so."

  "The two carjackers he killed—was that a righteous shooting?"

  "Hell, yes, as righteous as they get. One perp was wanted for murder, and there were three felony warrants out on the second loser. Both were carrying, shot at him. Spence had no choice. The review board cleared him as quick as God let Saint Peter into Heaven."

  Roy said, "Yet he didn't go back out on the street."

  "He didn't want to carry a gun anymore."

  "He'd been a U.S. Army Ranger."

  Descoteaux nodded. "He was in action a few times—in Central America and the Middle East. He'd had to kill before, and finally he was forced to admit to himself he couldn't make a career of the service."

  "Because of how killing made him feel."

  "No. More because . . . I think because he wasn't always convinced that the killing was justified, no matter what the politicians said. But I'm guessing. I don't know for sure what his thinking was."

  "A man has trouble using a gun against another human being—that's understandable," Roy said. "But the same man trading the army for the police department—that baffles me."

  "As a cop, he thought he'd have more control over when to use deadly force. Anyway, it was his dream. Dreams die hard."

  "Being a cop was his dream?"

  "Not necessarily a cop. Just being the good guy in a uniform, risking his life to help people, saving lives, upholding the law."

  "Altruistic young man," Roy said with an edge of sarcasm.

  "We get some. Fact is, a lot are like that—in the beginning, at least." He stared at his coal-black hands, which were folded on the green blotter on his desk. "In Spence's case, high ideals led him to the army, then the force . . . but there was something more than that. Somehow . . . by helping people in all the ways a cop can help, Spence was trying to understand himself, come to terms with himself."

  Roy said, "So he's psychologically troubled?"

  "Not in any way that would prevent him from being a good cop."

  "Oh? Then what is it he's trying to understand about himself?"

  "I don't know. It goes back, I think."

  "Back?"

  "The past. He carries it like a ton of stone on his shoulders."

  "Something to do with the scar?" Roy asked.

  "Everything to do with it, I suspect."

  Descoteaux looked up from his hands. His huge, dark eyes were full of compassion. They were exceptional, expressive eyes. Roy might have wanted to possess them if they had belonged to a woman.

  "How was he scarred, how did it happen?" Roy asked.

  "All he ever said was he'd been in an accident when he was a boy. A car accident, I guess. He didn't really want to talk about it."

  "He have any close friends on the force?"

  "Not close, no. He was a likable guy. But self-contained."

  "A loner," Roy said, nodding with understanding.

  "No. Not the way you mean it. He'll never wind up in a tower with a rifle, shooting everyone in sight. People liked him, and he liked people. He just had this . . . reserve."

  "After the shooting, he wanted a desk job. Specifically, he applied for a transfer to the Task Force on Computer Crime."

  "No, they came to him. Most people would be surprised— but I'm sure you're aware—we have officers with degrees in law, psychology, and criminology like Spence. Many get the education not because they want to change careers or move up to administration. They want to stay on the street. They love their work, and they think a little advanced education will help them do a better job. They're committed, dedicated. They only want to be cops, and they—"

  "Admirable, I'm sure. Though some might see them as hard-core reactionaries, unable to give up the power of being a cop."

  Descoteaux blinked. "Well, anyway, if one of them wants off the street, he doesn't wind up processing paperwork. The department uses his knowledge. The Administrative Office, Internal Affairs, Organized Crime Intelligence Division, most divisions of the Detective Services Group—they all wanted Spence. He chose the task force."

  "He didn't perhaps solicit the interest of the task force?"

  "He didn't need to solicit. Like I said, they came to him."

  "Before he went to the task force, had he been a computer nut?"

  "Nut?" Descoteaux was no longer able to repress his impatience. "He knew how to use computers on the job, but he wasn't obsessed with them. Spence wasn't a nut about anything. He's a very solid man, dependable, together."

  "Except that—and these are your words—he's still
trying to understand himself, come to terms with himself."

  "Aren't we all?" the captain said crisply. He rose and turned from Roy to the small window beside his desk. The angled slats of the blind were dusty. He stared between them at the smog-cloaked city.

  Roy waited. It was best to let Descoteaux have his tantrum. The poor man had earned it. His office was dreadfully small. He didn't even have a private bathroom with it.

  Turning to face Roy again, the captain said, "I don't know what you think Spence has done. And there's no point in my asking—"

  "National security," Roy confirmed smugly.

  "—but you're wrong about him. He's not a man who's ever going to turn bad."

  Roy raised his eyebrows. "What makes you so sure of that?"

  "Because he agonizes."

  "Does he? About what?"

  "About what's right, what's wrong. About what he does, the decisions he makes. Quietly, privately—but he agonizes."

  "Don't we all?" Roy said, getting to his feet.

  "No," Descoteaux said. "Not these days. Most people believe everything's relative, including morality."

  Roy didn't think Descoteaux was in a hand-shaking mood, so he just said, "Well, thank you for your time, Captain."

  "Whatever the crime, Mr. Miro, the kind of man you want to be looking for is one who's absolutely certain of his righteousness."

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  "No one's more dangerous than a man who's convinced of his own moral superiority," Descoteaux said pointedly.

  "How true," Roy replied, opening the door.

  "Someone like Spence—he's not the enemy. In fact, people like that are the only reason the whole damn civilization hasn't fallen down around our ears already."

  Stepping into the hall, Roy said, "Have a nice day."

  "Whatever side Spence settles on," said Descoteaux with quiet but unmistakable belligerence, "I'd bet my ass it's the right side."

  Roy closed the office door behind him. By the time he reached the elevators, he'd decided to have Harris Descoteaux killed. Maybe he would do it himself, as soon as he had dealt with Spencer Grant.