Dark Rivers of the Heart

drugs?"
        "Hate the taste of Pepto-Bismol."
        "Are you allergic to any antibiotics?"
        "Everything's spinning."
        "Are you allergic to any antibiotics?"
        "Strawberries give me hives."
        "Are you delirious or just difficult?"
        "Both. 9 Maybe he drifted away for a while, because the next thing he knew, she was giving him an injection in his left arm. He smelled the alcohol with which she had swabbed the area over the vein.
        "A,ntiblotic?" he whispered.
        "Liquefied strawberries."
        The dog was no longer lying at Spencer's side. He was sitting next to the woman, watching with interest as she withdrew the needle from his master's arm.
        Spencer said, "I have an infection?"
        "Maybe secondary. I'm taking no chances."
        "You a nurse?"
        "Not a doctor, not a nurse."
        "How do you know what to do?"
        "He tells me," she said, indicating Rocky.
        "Always joking. Must be a comedian."
        "Yes but licensed to give injections. Do you think you can hold down some water?"
        "How about bacon and eggs?"
        "Water seems hard enough. Last time, you spit it up."
        "Disgusting."
        "You apologized."
        "I'm a gentleman."
        Even with her assistance, he was tested to his limits merely by the effort required to sit up. He choked on the water a couple of times, but it tasted cool and sweet, and he thought he would be able to keep it in his stomach.
        After she eased him flat onto his back again, he said, "Tell me the truth.
        "If I know it."
        Am I dying?"
        "No."
        "We have one rule around here," he said.
        "Which is?"
        "Never lie to the dog."
        She looked at Rocky.
        The mutt wagged his tail.
        "Lie to yourself Lie to me. But never lie to the dog."
        "As rules go, it seems pretty sensible," she said.
        "So am I dying?"
        "I don't know."
        "That's better," Spencer said, and he passed out.
        Roy Miro took fifteen minutes to shave, brush his teeth, and shower. He changed into chinos, a red cotton sweater, and a tan corduroy jacket. He had no time for the breakfast that he so badly wanted. The concierge, Henri, provided him with two chocolate-almond croissants in a white paper bag and two cups of the finest Colombian coffee in a disposable plastic thermos.
        In a corner of the hotel parking lot, a Bell JetRanger executive helicopter was waiting for Roy. As on the jet from L.A he was the only person in the plushly upholstered passenger cabin.
        On the flight out to the discovery in the Mojave, Roy ate both croissants and drank the black coffee while using his attache case computer to connect to Mama. He reviewed the overnight developments in the investigation.
        Not much had happened. Back in southern California, John Kleck had not turned up any leads that might tell them where the woman had gone after abandoning her car at the airport in Orange County.
        Likewise, they had not succeeded in tracing the telephone number to which Grant's cleverly programmed system had faxed photos of Roy and his men from the Malibu cabin.
        The biggest news, which wasn't much, came from San Francisco. The agent tracking down George and Ethel Porth-the grandparents who evidently had raised Spencer Grant following his mother's passing-now knew, from public records, that a death certificate had been issued for Ethel ten years ago. Evidently that was why her husband sold the house at that time. George Porth had died, too, just three years ago. Now that the agent couldn't hope to talk with the Porths about their grandson, he was pursuing other avenues of investigation.
        Through Mama, Roy routed a message to the agent's E-mail number.
        San Francisco, suggesting that he check the records of the probate in court to determine if the grandson had been an their to either the estate of Ethel Porth or that of her husband. Maybe the Porths had not known their grandson as "Spencer Grant" and had used his real name in their wills. If for some inexplicable reason they had aided and abetted his use of that false identity for purposes including enlistment in the military, they nevertheless might have cited his real name when disposing of their estates.
        It wasn't much of a lead, but it was worth checking out.
        As Roy unplugged the computer and