Dark Rivers of the Heart

desire.
        On the road that I have taken, one day, walking, I awaken.
        One day, walking, I awaken, on the road that I have taken.
        Book of counted sorrows FRIDAY AFTERNOON, after discussing Spencer Grant's scar with Dr.
        Mondello, Roy Miro left Los Angeles International aboard an agency Learjet, with a glass of properly chilled Robert Mandavi chardonnay in one hand and a bowl of shelled pistachios in his lap. He was the only passenger, and he expected to be in Las Vegas in an hour.
        A few minutes short of his destination, his flight was diverted to Flagstaff, Arizona. Flash floods, spawned by the worst storm to batter Nevada in a decade, had inundated lower areas of Las Vegas. Also, lightning had damaged vital electronic systems at the airport, McCarran International, forcing a suspension of service.
        By the time the jet was on the ground in Flagstaff, the official word was that McCarran would resume operations in two hours or less.
        Roy remained aboard, so he would not waste precious minutes returning from the terminal when the pilot learned that McCarran was up and running again.
        He passed the time, at first, by linking to Mama in Virginia and using her extensive data-bank connections to teach a lesson to Captain Harris Descoteaux, the Los Angeles police officer who had irritated him earlier in the day. Descoteaux had too little respect for higher authority.
        Soon, however, in addition to a Caribbean lilt, his voice would have a new note of humility.
        Later, Roy watched a PBS documentary on one of three television sets that served the passenger compartment of the Lear. The program was about Dr. Jack Kevorkian-dubbed Dr. Death by the media-who had made it his mission in life to assist the terminally ill when they expressed a desire to commit suicide, though he was persecuted by the law for doing so.
        Roy was enthralled by the documentary. More than once, he was moved to tears. By the middle of the program, he was compelled to lean forward from his chair and place one hand flat on the screen each time Jack Kevorkian appeared in closeup. With his palm against the blessed image of the doctor's face, Roy could feel the purity of the man, a saintly aura, a thrill of spiritual power.
        In a fair world, in a society based on true justice, Kevorkian would have been left to do his work in peace. Roy was depressed to hear about the man's suffering at the hands of regressive forces.
        He took solace, however, from the knowledge that the day was swiftly approaching when a man like Kevorkian would never again be treated as a pariah. He would be embraced by a grateful nation and provided with an office, facilities, and salary commensurate with his contribution to a better world.
        The world was so full of suffering and injustice that anyone who wanted to be assisted in suicide, terminally ill or not, should have that assistance.
        Roy passionately believed that even those who were chronically but not terminally ill, including many of the elderly, should be granted eternal rest if they wished to have it.
        Those who didn't see the wisdom of self-elimination should not be abandoned, either. They should be given free counseling, until they could perceive the immeasurable beauty of the gift that they were being offered.
        Hand on the screen. Kevorkian in closeup. Feel the power.
        The day would come when the disabled would suffer no more pain or indignities. No more wheelchairs or leg braces. No more seeing-eye dogs.
        No more hearing aids, prosthetic limbs, no more grueling sessions with speech therapists. Only the peace of endless sleep.
        Dr. Jack Kevorkian's face filled the screen. Smiling. Oh, that smile.
        Roy put both hands to the warm glass. He opened his heart and permitted that fabulous smile to flow into him. He unchained his soul and allowed Kevorkian's spiritual power to lift him up.
        Eventually the science of genetic engineering would ensure that none but healthy children were born, and eventually they would all be beautiful, as well as strong and sound. They would be perfect. Until that day if they came, however, Roy saw a need for an assisted-suicide program for infants born with less than the full use of their five senses and all four limbs. He was even ahead of Kevorkian on this.
        In fact, when his hard work with the agency was done, when the