Dark Rivers of the Heart

reaching hand, forcing him to pull back, and it ricocheted around the room.
        The shooter seemed unfazed by the whine of the bouncing slug, as if he led such a charmed life that his safety was a foregone conclusion.
        "I'd prefer not to shoot you," he said. "I didn't want to shoot Ellie, either. I've other plans for both of you. But one more wrong move-and you'll take away all my choices. Now kick the Uzi over here."
        Instead of doing what he had been told, Spencer went to Ellie. He touched her face and looked at her shoulder. "How bad?"
        She was clutching her wound, trying not to reveal the extent of her pain, but the truth was in her eyes. "Okay, I'm okay, it's nothing," she said, yet Spencer saw her glance at the whimpering dog when she lied.
        The heavy door to the abattoir hadn't fallen shut. Someone was holding it open. The shooter stepped aside to let him enter. The second man was Steven Ackblom.
        Roy was certain that this would be one of the most interesting nights of his life. It might even be as singular as the first night that he had spent with Eve, although he wouldn't betray her even by hoping that it might be better. This was an incredible confluence of events: the capture of the woman at last; the chance to learn what Grant might know about any organized opposition to the agency, then the pleasure of putting that troubled man out of his misery; a unique opportunity to be with one of the great artist of the century as he turned his hand to the medium that had made him famous; and when it was done, perhaps even Eleanor's perfect eyes would be salvageable. Cosmic forces were at work in the design of such a night.
        When Steven entered the room, the expression on Spencer Grant's face was worth the loss of at least two helicopters and a satellite.
        Anger darkened his face, twisted his features. It was a rage so pure that it possessed a fascinating beauty all its own. Enraged, Grant nonetheless shrank back with the woman.
        "Hello, Mikey," Steven said. "How've you been?"
        The son-once Mikey, now Spencer-was unable to speak.
        "I've been well but… in boring circumstances," said the artist.
        Spencer Grant remained silent. Roy was chilled by the expression in the ex-cop's eyes.
        Steven looked around at the black ceiling, walls, floor. "They blamed me for the woman you did here that night. I took the fall on that one too.
        For you, baby boy."
        "He never touched her," Ellie Summerton said.
        "Didn't he?" the artist asked.
        "We know he didn't."
        Steven sighed with regret. "Well, no, he didn't. But he was that close to doing her." He held up his thumb and forefinger, only a quarter of an inch apart. "That close."
        "He was never close at all," she said, but Grant remained unable to speak.
        "Wasn't he?" Steven said. "Well, I think he was. I think if I'd been a little smarter, if I'd encouraged him to drop his pants and climb on top of her first, then he would have been happy to take the scalpel afterward.
        He'd have been more in the spirit of things then, you see."
        "You're not my father," Grant said emptily.
        "You're wrong about that, my sweet boy. Your mother was a firm believer in marital vows. There was only ever me with her. I'm sure of that.
        In the end, here in this room, she was able to keep not the slightest secret from me."
        Roy thought that Grant was going to come across the room with all the fury of a bull, heedless of bullets.
        "What a pathetic little dog," Steven said. "Look at him shaking hanging his head. Perfect pet for you, Mikey.
        He reminds me of the way you acted here that night. When I gave you the chance to transcend, you were too much of a pussy to seize it."
        The woman appeared to be furious too, perhaps even angrier than she was afraid, though both. Her eyes had never been more beautiful.
        "How long ago that was, Mikey, and what a new world this is," Steven said, taking a couple of steps toward his son and the woman, forcing them to shrink back farther. "I was so ahead of my time, so much deeper into the avant-garde than I ever fully realized. The newspapers called me insane. I ought to demand a retraction, don't you think? Now, the streets are crawling with men more violent than I ever was. Gangs have gunfights anywhere they please, and babies get shot down on