Dark Rivers of the Heart

various nationalities-or even by a demented-genius computer hacker, living in a cyberpunk fantasy, in Cleveland or London or Cape Town or Pittsburgh.
        As he walked along the shore, near the tide line, with the huge hotels piled one beside the other to his right, he rubbed lightly at his face.
        His beard itched. He'd had it for six months, and it wasn't a scruffy-looking beard. On the contrary, it was soft and full, and Ellie insisted that he was even more handsome with it than without it.
        Nevertheless, on a hot August day in Miami Beach, it itched as if he had fleas, and he longed to be clean-shaven.
        Besides, he liked the appearance of his beardless face. During the eighteen months since the night on which Godzilla had attacked the ranch in Vail, a superb plastic surgeon in the private-pay sector of the British medical establishment had performed three separate procedures on the cicatrix. It had been reduced to a hairline scar that was virtually invisible even when he was tanned. Additional work had been done on his nose and chin.
        He used scores of names these days, but neither Spencer Grant nor Michael Ackblom was one of them. Among his closest friends in the resistance, he was known as Phil Richards. Ellie had chosen to keep her first name and adopt Richards as her last. Rocky responded as well to "Killer" as he had to his previous name.
        Phil turned his back to the ocean, made his way between the ranks of sunbathers, and entered the lushly landscaped grounds of one of the newer hotels. In sandals, white shorts, and a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt, he resembled countless other tourists.
        The hotel swimming pool was bigger than a football field and as freeform as any tropical lagoon. Artificial-rock perimeter.
        Artificial-rock sunning islands in the center. A two-story waterfall spilling into one palmshaded end.
        In a grotto behind the cascading water, the poolside bar could be reached either on foot or by swimmers. It was a Polynesian-style pavilion with plenty of bamboo, dry palm fronds, and conch shells. The cocktail waitresses wore thongs, wraparound skirts made from a bright orchidpatterned fabric, and matching bikini tops; each had a fresh flower pinned in her hair.
        The Padrakian family-Bob, Jean, and their eight-year-old son, Mark-were sitting at a small table near the grotto wall. Bob was drinking rum and Coke, Mark was having a root beer, and jean was nervously shredding a cocktail napkin and chewing on her lower lip.
        Phil approached the table and startled Jean-to whom he was a stranger-by loudly saying, "Hey, Sally, you look fabulous," and by giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He ruffled Mark's hair: "How you doing, Pete?
        I'm going to take you snorkeling later-what do you think of that?"
        Vigorously shaking hands with Bob, he said, "Better watch that gut, buddy, or you're going to wind up looking like Uncle Morty." Then he sat down with them and quietly said, "Pheasants and dragons."
        A few minutes later, after he had finished a pinia colada and surreptitiously studied the other customers in the bar to be sure that none of them was unusually interested in the Padrakians, Phil paid for all their drinks with cash. He walked with them into the hotel, chatting about nonexistent mutual relatives. Through the frigid lobby.
        Out under the porte cochere, into the stifling heat and humidity.
        As far as he could tell, no one was trailing or watching them.
        The Padrakians had followed telephone instructions well. They were dressed as sun-worshipping tourists from New Jersey, although Bob was pushing the disguise too far by wearing black loafers and black socks with Bermuda shorts.
        A sightseeing van with large windows along the sides approached on the hotel entrance drive and stopped at the curb in front of them, under the porte cochere. The current magnetic-mat sips on each of its front doors declared CAPRAIN BLACKBEARD'S WATER ADVENTURES. Under that, above a picture of a grinning pirate, less bold letters explained GUIDED SCUBA TOURS, JET-SKI RENTALS, "WATER SKIING, I)FEP-SF.A 'ISfiING.
        The driver got out and came around the front of the van to open the sliding side door for them. He wore a stylishly wrinkled white linen shirt, lightweight white ducks, and bright pink canvas shoes with green laces.
        Even with dreadlocks and one silver earring, he