Dark Rivers of the Heart

and for the most part it seemed unremarkable. Sky and earth. Houses and trees.
        Lawns and sidewalks. Sunlight and shadows. But in the fabric of the day, glimmering darkly in the deep warp and woof, were threads of invstery that had not been there earlier.
        He walked on. Periodically, however, as he had not done before, he glanced over his shoulder.
        Roy Miro in the Empire of the Mormons. After dealing with the Cedar City Police and the county sheriff's deputies for nearly two hours, Roy had experienced enough niceness to last him until at least the first of July. He understood the value of a smile, courtesy, and unfailing friendliness, because he used a disarming approach in his own work. But these employed it to extremes. mon cops carried He began to long for the cool indifference of Los Angeles, the hard selfishness of Las Vegas, even the surliness and insanity of New York.
        His mood was not enhanced by the news of Earthguard's shutdown.
        He had been further rattled by subsequently learning that the stolen helicopter had descended to such a low altitude that two military facilities tracking it (in response to urgent agency requests that they believed had come from the Drug Enforcement Agency) had lost the craft.
        They hadn't been able to reacquire it. The fugitives were gone, and only God and a couple of kidnapped pilots knew where.
        Roy dreaded having to make his report to Tom Summerton.
        The replacement JetRanger was due from Las Vegas in less than twenty minutes, but he didn't know what he was going to do with it.
        Park it in the shopping-center lot and sit in it, waiting for someone to sight the fugitives? He might still be there when the time rolled around to do Christmas shopping again. Besides, these Mormon cops would undoubtedly keep bringing him coffee and doughnuts, and they would hang around to help him pass the time.
        He was spared all the horrors of continued niceness when Gary Duvall telephoned again from Colorado and put the investigation back on track.
        The call came through on the scrambler-equipped security phone in the disabled chopper.
        Roy sat in the back of the cabin and put on the headset.
        "You're not easy to track down," Duvall told him.
        "Complications here," Roy said succinctly. "You're still in Colorado?
        I thought you'd be on your way back to San Francisco by this time."
        "I got interested in this Ackblom angle. Always been fascinated by these serial killers. Dahmer, Bundy, that Ed Gem fellow a lot of years ago.
        Weird stuff. Got me to wondering what in hell the son of a serial killer is doing mixed up with this woman."
        "We're all wondering," Roy assured him.
        As before, Duvall was going to pay out whatever he had learned in small installments.
        "While I was so close, I decide to hop over from Denver to Vail, have a look at the ranch where it happened. It's a quick flight.
        Almost took longer to board and disembark than it took to get there."
        "You're there now?"
        "At the ranch? No. I just got back from there. But I'm still in Vail.
        And wait'll you hear what I discovered."
        "I guess I'll have to."
        "Huh?"
        Ether missing the sarcasm or ignoring it, Duvall said, "I've got two tasty enchiladas of information to feed you. Enchilada number one-what do you think happened to the ranch after they took all of the bodies out of there and Ackblom went to prison for life?"
        "It became a retreat for Carmelite nuns," Roy said.
        "I"ere'd you hear that?" Duvall asked, unaware that Roy's answer had been intended to be humorous. "Aren't any nuns anywhere around the place. There's this couple lives on the ranch, Paul and Anita Dresmund.
        Been there for years. Fifteen years. Everyone around Vail thinks they own the place, and they don't let on any different.
        They're only about fifty-five now, but they have the look and style of people who might've been able to retire at forty-which is what they claimed-or never worked at all, lived on inheritance. They're perfect for the job."
        "What job?"
        "Caretakers."
        "Who does own it?"
        "That's the creepy part."
        "I'm sure it is."
        "Part of the Dresmunds' job is to pretend ownership and not reveal they're paid caretakers. They like to ski, live the easy life, and it doesn't