Dark Rivers of the Heart

to want to project an ominous linage. But if that was his intention, it was defeated by his large, bottle-thick asses, his thinness, and voice which, while deep, was as velvety and appealing as that of Mel Torme.
        "May I give you something to think about?" he asked again, and then he continued without waiting for a response. "What's happened to you couldn't happen to a United States Representative or Senator."
        The street was uncannily quiet for being in such a metropolitan area.
        The sunlight seemed different from what it had been a moment ago.
        The glimmer that it laid along the curved surfaces of the blue Toyota struck Harris as unnatural.
        "Most people are unaware of it," said the stranger, "but for decades, politicians have exempted current and future members of the U.S.
        Congress from most of the laws they pass. Asset forfeiture, for one. If cops nail a senator peddling cocaine out of his Cadillac by a schoolyard, his car can't be seized the way your house was."
        Harris had the peculiar feeling that he had hypnotized himself so well that this tall man in black was an apparition in a trance-state dream.
        "You might be able to prosecute him for drug dealing and get a conviction-unless his fellow politicians just censor him or expel him from Congress and, at the same time, arrange his immunity from prosecution.
        But you couldn't seize his assets for drug dealing or any of the other two hundred offenses for which they seize yours."
        Harris said, "Who are you?"
        Ignoring the question, the stranger went on in that soft voice:
        "Politicians pay no Social Security taxes. They have their own retirement fund.
        And they don't rob it to finance other programs, the way they drain Social Security. Their pensions are safe."
        Harris looked anxiously around the street to see who might be watching, what other vehicles and men might have accompanied this man.
        Although the stranger wasn't threatening, the situation itself suddenly seemed ominous. He felt that he was being set up, as if the point of the encounter was to tease from him some seditious statement for which he could be arrested, prosecuted, and imprisoned.
        That was an absurd fear. Free speech was still well guaranteed.
        No citizens of the world were as openly and heatedly opinionated as his countrymen. Recent events obviously had inspired a paranoia over which he needed to gain control.
        Yet he remained afraid to speak.
        The stranger said, "They exempt themselves from health-care plans they intend to force on you, so someday you'll have to wait months for things like gallbladder surgery, but they'll get the care they need on demand.
        Somehow we've allowed ourselves to be ruled by the greediest and most envious among us.
        Harris found the nerve to speak again, but only to repeat the question he had already asked and to add another. "Who are you? What do you want?"
        "I only want to give you something to think about until the next time," said the stranger. Then he turned and slammed shut the hood of the blue Toyota.
        Emboldened when the other's back was to him, Harris stepped off the curb and grabbed the man by the arm. "Look here-"
        "I have to go," the stranger said. "As far as I know, we're not being watched. The chances are a thousand to one. But with today's technology, you can't be a hundred percent sure any more. Until now, to anyone observing us, you just seem to've struck up a conversation with a guy who has car trouble, offered some assistance. But if we stand here talking any longer, and if someone is watching, they'll come in for a closer look and turn on their directional microphones."
        He went to the driver's door of his Toyota.
        Bewildered, Harris said, "But what was this all about?"
        "Be patient, Mr. Descoteaux. just go with the flow, just ride the wave, and you'll find out."
        "What wave?"
        Opening the driver's door, the stranger cracked his first smile since he had spoken. "Well, I guess… the microwave, the light wave, the waves of the future."
        He got in the car, started the engine, and drove away, leaving Harris more bewildered than ever.
        The microwave. The light wave. The waves of the future.
        What the hell had just happened?
        Harris Descoteaux turned in a circle, studying the neighborhood,