Dark Rivers of the Heart

hear?"
        "I guess you'll have to tell me."
        "Before Michael was Spencer," said Spencer, "he had a dad. Like other boys… had a dad… but not like other dads. His f-father's name was… was… his name was Steven. Steven Ackblom. The artist."
        "Oh, my God."
        "Don't be afraid of me," he pleaded, his voice breaking apart, word by desperate word.
        "You're the boy?"
        "Don't hate me."
        "You're that boy?"
        "
        "Don't hate me."
        "Why would I hate you?"
        "Because… I'm the boy."
        "The boy who was a hero," she said.
        "No."
        "Yes, you were."
        "I couldn't save them."
        "But you saved all those who might've come after them."
        The sound of his own voice chilled him deeper than cold rain had chilled him earlier. "Couldn't save them."
        "It's all right."
        "Couldn't save them." He felt a hand upon his face. Upon his scar.
        Tracing the hot line of his cicatricial brand.
        She said, "You poor bastard. You poor, sweet bastard."
        Saturday night, perched on the edge of a chair in Eve jammer's bedroom, Roy Miro saw examples of perfection that even the best-equipped surveillance satellite could not have shown him.
        This time, Eve didn't pull the satin sheets back to reveal black rubber and didn't use scented oils. She had a new-and stranger-set of toys.
        And although Roy was surprised to discover that it was possible, Eve achieved greater heights of self-gratification and had a greater erotic impact on him than she had managed the night before.
        After a night of cataloguing Eve's perfections, Roy required the greatest patience for the imperfect day that followed.
        Through Sunday morning and afternoon, satellite surveillance, helicopters, and on-foot search teams had no more success locating the fugitives than they'd had on Saturday.
        Operatives in Carmel, California-sent there following Theda Davidowitzs revelation to Grant that "Hannah Rainey" had thought it was the ideal place to live-were enjoying the natural beauty and the refreshing winter fog. Of the woman, however, they had seen no sign.
        From Orange County, John YIeck issued another important-sounding report to the effect that he had come up with no leads whatsoever.
        In San Francisco, the agent who had tracked down the Porths, only to discover that they had died years ago, had gained access to probate records. Held learned that Ethel Porth's estate had passed entirely to George; George's estate had passed to their grandson-Spencer Grant of Malibu, California, sole issue of the Porths' only child, Jennifer.
        Nothing had been found to indicate that Grant had ever gone by another name or that his father's identity was known.
        From a corner of the satellite-surveillance control center, Roy spoke by telephone with Thomas Summerton. Although it was Sunday, Summerton was in his office in Washington rather than at his estate in Virginia. As security conscious as ever, he treated Roy's call as a wrong number, then phoned back on a deep-cover line a while later, using a scrambling device matched to Roy's.
        "Hell of a mess in Arizona," Summerton said. He was furious.
        Roy didn't know what his boss was talking about.
        Summerton said, "Rich asshole activist out there, thinks he can save the world. You see the news?"
        "Too busy," Roy said.
        "This asshole-he's gotten some evidence that would embarrass me on the Texas situation last year. He's been feeling out some people about how best to break the story. So we were going to hit him quick, make sure there was evidence of drug dealing on his property."
        "The asset-forfeiture provision?"
        "Yeah. Seize everything. When his family has nothing to live on and he doesn't have the assets to pay for a serious defense, he'll come around.
        They usually do. But then the operation went wrong."
        They usually do, Roy thought wearily. But he didn't speak his mind. He knew Summerton wouldn't appreciate candor. Besides, that thought had been a prime example of shamefully negative thinking.
        "Now," Summerton said dourly, "an FBI agent's dead, out there in Arizona."
        "A real one or a floater like me?"
        "A real one. The asshole activist's wife and boy are dead in the front yard too, and he's sniping from the house, so we can't hide the