Dark Rivers of the Heart

though they were old friends, with the hiss of the Coleman lantern in the background.
        He knew he was delirious. He didn't care. She was so pretty.
        "Why did you go into my house Wednesday night?"
        "Already told you?"
        "No. You keep avoiding an answer."
        "Needed to know about you."
        "Why?"
        "You hate me?"
        "Of course not. I just want to understand."
        "Went to your place, sting grenades coming through the windows."
        "You could've walked away when you realized what trouble I was."
        "No, can't let you end up in a ditch, eighty miles from home."
        "What?"
        "Or in catacombs."
        "After you knew I was trouble, why'd you wade in deeper?"
        "Told you. I liked you first time we met."
        "That was just Tuesday night! I'm a stranger to YOU."
        "I want..
        "What?"
        "I want… a life."
        "You don't have a life?"
        "A life… with hope."
        The cocktail lounge dissolved, and the blue light changed to sour yellow. The stained and shadowed walls had faces. White faces, death masks, mouths open in voiceless terror, silently beseeching.
        A spider followed the electrical cord that hung in loops from the ceiling, and its exaggerated shadow scurried across the stained white faces of the innocent.
        Later, in the cocktail lounge again, he said to her, "You're a good person."
        "You can't know that."
        "Theda."
        "Theda thinks everyone's a good person."
        "She was so sick. You took care of her."
        "Only for a couple of weeks."
        "Day and night."
        "Wasn't that big a deal."
        "Now me."
        "I haven't pulled you through yet."
        "More I learn about you, the better you are."
        She said, "Hell, maybe I am a saint."
        "No. Just a good person. Too sarcastic to be a saint."
        She laughed. "I can't help liking you, Spencer Grant."
        "This is nice. Getting to know each other."
        "Is that what we're doing?"
        Impulsively, he said, "I love you."
        Valerie was silent for so long that Spencer thought he'd lost consciousness again.
        At last she said, "You're delirious."
        "Not about this."
        "I'll change the compress on your forehead."
        "I love you."
        "You better be quiet, try to get some rest."
        "I'll always love you."
        "Be quiet, you strange man," she said with what he believed and hoped was affection. "Just be quiet and rest."
        "Always," he repeated.
        Having confessed that the hope he sought was her, Spencer was so greatly relieved that he sank into a darkness without catacombs.
        A long time later, not certain if he was awake or asleep, in a half-light that might have been dawn, dusk, lamp glow, or the cold and sourceless luminosity of a dream, Spencer was surprised to hear himself say, "Michael."
        "Ah, you're back," she said.
        "Michael."
        "No one here's named Michael."
        "You need to know about him," Spencer warned.
        "Okay. Tell me."
        He wished he could see her. There was only light and shadow, not even a blurred shape any more.
        He said, "You need to know if… if you're going to be with me."
        "Tell me," she encouraged.
        "Don't hate me when you know."
        "I'm not an easy hater. Trust me, Spencer. Trust me and talk to me.
        Who is Michael?"
        His voice was fragile. "Died when he was fourteen."
        "Michael was a friend?"
        "He was me. Died fourteen… wasn't buried till he was sixteen."
        "Michael was you?"
        "Walking around dead two years, then I was Spencer."
        "What was your… what was Michael's last name?"
        He knew then that he must be awake, not dreaming, because he had never felt as bad in a dream as he felt at that moment. The need to reveal could no longer be repressed, yet revelation was agony. His heart beat hard and fast, though it was pierced by secrets as painful as needles.
        "His last name… was the devil's name."
        "What was the devil's name?"
        Spencer was silent, trying to speak but unable.
        "What was the devil's name?" she asked again.
        "Ackblom," he said, spitting out the hated syllables.
        "Ackblom? Why do you say that's the name of the devil?"
        "Don't you remember? Didn't you ever