Dark Rivers of the Heart

Grant had survived when his Explorer had been swept away in a flash flood. That somehow he had been able to alert the woman to his whereabouts. That she had rendezzvoused with him in the desert, and that they had driven away together in her vehicle.
        That the woman, realizing the agency might resort to orbital-surveillance resources to locate her, had gone to ground early Saturday, before the cloud cover dissipated. That this morning she had broken cover, had started up-linking with available surveillance satellites to determine if anyone was still looking specifically for her, had been surprised by the trace-back program, and had just minutes ago begun to run for her life.
        That was a series of assumptions long enough to make Roy uneasy.
        "Seventy-two miles per hour "
        "Too damn fast for the roads in that area," Ken Hyckman said. "it's her, and she's scared."
        Saturday and Sunday, Earthguard had discovered two hundred sixteen suspect vehicles in the designated search zone, most of which had been engaged in off-road recreation of one kind or another. The drivers and passengers eventually had gotten out of their vehicles, been observed either by satellite or chopper overflight, and proved not to be Grant or the woman. This might be number two hundred seventeen on that list of false alarms.
        "Target's speed is seventy-six miles per hour..
        On the other hand, this was the best suspect they'd had in more than two days of searching.
        And ever since Friday afternoon in Flagstaff, Arizona, the power of Kevorkian had been with him. It had brought him to Eve and had changed his life. He should trust in it to guide his decisions.
        He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and said, "Let's put a team together and go after them."
        "Yes!" Ken Hyckman said, punching one fist into the air in an annoying, adolescent expression of enthusiasm.
        "Twelve men, full assault gear," Roy said, "leaving in fifteen minutes or less. Arrange transport from the roof here, so we don't waste time.
        Two large executive choppers."
        "You got it," Hyckman promised.
        "Make sure they understand to terminate the woman on sight."
        "Of course."
        "With extreme prejudice."
        Hyckman nodded.
        "Give her no chance-no chance-to slip loose again. But we have to take Grant alive, interrogate him, find out how he fits into all this, who the sonofabitch is working for."
        "To give you the quality of satellite look-down you'll need in the field," Hyckman said, "we'll have to remote-program Earthguard to alter its orbit temporarily, nail it specifically to that Rover."
        "Do it," Roy said.
        Y THAT MONDAY MORNING in February, Captain Harris Descoteaux, of the Los Angeles Police Department, would not have been surprised to discover that he had died the previous Friday and had been in Hell ever since.
        The outrages perpetrated upon him would have occupied the time and energies of numerous clever, malicious, industrious demons.
        At eleven-thirty Friday night, as Harris was making love to his wife, Jessica, and as their daughters-Willa and Ondine-were asleep or watching television in other bedrooms, an FBI special-weapons-and-tactics team, in a joint operation between the FBI and the Drug Enforcement Agency, raided the Descoteaux house on a quiet street in Burbank.
        The assault was executed with the stalwart commitment and merciless force exhibited by any platoon of United States Marines in any battle in any war in the country's history.
        On all sides of the house, with a synchronization that would have been envied by the most demanding symphony-orchestra conductor, stun grenades were launched through windows. The blasts of sound instantly disoriented Harris, Jessica, and their daughters, and also temporarily impaired their motor-nerve functions.
        Even as porcelain figurines toppled and paintings clattered against walls in response to those shock waves, the front and back doors were battered down. Heavily armed men in black helmets and bullet-resistant vests swarmed into the Descoteaux residence and dispersed like a doomsday tide through its rooms.
        One moment, in romantically soft amber lamplight, Harris was in the arms of his wife, gliding back and forth on the sweet dissolving edge of bliss. The next moment, passion having turned to terror, he was