Dark Rivers of the Heart

longed for more. That longing was like the profound thirst of a desert traveler, and she now realized it was a thirst that had been in need of slaking all her life.
        She was reluctant to respond to Spencer not primarily because she might have grieved too short a time for Danny but because she sensed that the first love of her life might eventually prove not to be the greatest.
        Finding the capacity to love again seemed like a betrayal of Danny.
        But it was far worse-cruel rejection-to love another more than she had loved her murdered husband.
        Perhaps that would never happen. If she opened herself to this still mysterious man, perhaps she would ultimately discover that the room he occupied in her heart would never be as large or warm as the one in which v In carrying her loyalty to Danny's memory so far, she supposed that she was allowing honest sentiment to degenerate into a sugary pudding of sentimentality. Surely no one was born to love but once and never again, even if fate carried that first love to an early grave. If creation operated on rules that stern, God had built a cold, bleak universe. Surely love-and all emotions-were in one regard like muscles: growing stronger with exercise, withering when not used.
        Loving Danny might have given her the emotional strength, in the wake of his passing, to love Spencer more.
        And to be fair to Danny, he had been raised by a soulless father-and a brittle, socialite mother-in whose icy embrace he'd learned to be selfcontained and guarded. He had given her all that he could give, and she had been fortunate and happy in his arms. So happy, in fact, that suddenly she could no longer imagine going through the rest of her life without seeking, from someone else, the gift that Danny had been the first to give her.
        How many women had ever affected a man so strongly that he had, after one evening of conversation, given up a comfortable existence and put his life in extreme jeopardy to be with her? She was more than merely mystified and flattered by Spencer's commitment. She felt special, foolish, girlish, reckless. She was reluctantly enchanted.
        Frowning, she studied Steven Ackblom's photograph again.
        She knew that Spencer's commitment to her-and all that he had done to find her-might be seen as less the result of love than of obsession.
        In the son of a savage serial killer, any sign of obsession might reasonably be viewed as a cause for alarm, as a reflection of the father's madness.
        Ellie returned all four photographs to the envelope. She closed it with its small metal clasp.
        She believed Spencer was, in all ways that mattered, not his father's son. He was no more dangerous to her than was Mr. Rocky Dog.
        For three nights in the desert, as she had listened to him murmuring in delirium, between his periodic ascensions to a shaky state of consciousness, she had heard nothing to make her suspect that he was the bad seed of a bad seed.
        In reality, even if Spencer was a danger to her, he was no match for the agency when it came to being a threat. The agency was still out there, hunting for them.
        What Ellie really needed to worry about was whether she could avoid the agency's goons long enough to discover and enjoy whatever emotional connections might evolve between her and this complex and inigmatic man.
        By Spencer's own admission, he had secrets that were still Lin revealed.
        More for his sake than hers, those secrets would have to be aired before any future they might have together could be discussed or even discerned; because until he settled his debts with the past, he would never know the peace of mind or the self-respect needed for love to flourish.
        She looked out at the sky again.
        They flew across Utah in their sleek black machine, strangers in their own land, putting the sun behind them, heading eastward toward the horizon from which, several hours hence, the night would come.
        Harris Descoteaux showered in the gray and maroon guest bathroom of his brother's Westwood home, but the scent of the jailhouse, which he believed he could detect on himself, was ineradicable. Jessica had packed three changes of clothes for him on Saturday, prior to being evicted from their house in Burbank. From that meager wardrobe, he selected Niles, gray cords, and a long-sleeve, dark-green knit shirt.
        When he told his