Dark Rivers of the Heart

headache.
        Under the lambent light of the laser, another print appeared.
        Even Mother Teresa on powerful methamphetamines would have been stricken by depression in the company of David Davis and the Wertz thing.
        Nevertheless, Roy felt his spirits rise with the appearance of each new luminous print.
        The mystery man would not be a mystery much longer.
        The day WAS MILD, though not warm enough for sunbathing. At Venice Beach, however, Spencer saw six well-tanned young women in bikinis and two guys in flowered Hawaiian swim trunks, all lying on big towels and soaking up the rays, goose-pimpled but game.
        Two muscular, barefoot men in shorts had set up a volleyball net in the sand. They were playing an energetic game, with much leaping, whooping, and grunting. On the paved promenade, a few people glided along on roller skates and Rollerblades, some in swimwear and some not.
        A bearded man, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, was flying a red kite with a long tail of red ribbons.
        Everyone was too old for high school, old enough so they should have been at work on a Thursday afternoon. Spencer wondered how many were victims of the latest recession and how many were just perpetual adolescents who scammed a living from parents or society. California had long been home to a sizable community of the latter and, with its economic policies, had recently created the former in hordes to rival the affluent legions that it had spawned in previous decades.
        On a grassy area adjacent to the sand, Rosie was sitting on a concreteand-redwood bench, with her back to the matching picnic table.
        The feathery shadows of an enormous palm tree caressed her.
        In white sandals, white slacks, and a purple blouse, she was even more exotic and strikingly beautiful than she had been in the moody Deco lighting at The Red Door. The blood of her Vietnamese mother and that of her African-American father were both visible in her features, yet she didn't call to mind either of the ethnic heritages that she embodied. Instead, she seemed to be the exquisite Eve of a new race: a perfect, innocent woman made for a new Eden.
        The peace of the innocent didn't fill her, however. She looked tense and hostile as she stared out to sea, no less so when she turned and saw Spencer approaching. But then she smiled broadly when she saw Rocky.
        "What a cutie!" She leaned forward on the bench and made come-to-me motions with her hands. "Here, baby. Here, cutie."
        Rocky had been walking alon, tail wagging, taking in the beach scene-but he froze when confronted by the reaching, cooing beauty on the bench. His tail slipped between his legs, fell still. He tensed and prepared to spring away if she moved toward him.
        "What's his name?" Rosie asked.
        "Rocky. He's shy." Spencer sat on the other end of the bench.
        "Come here, Rocky," she coaxed. "Come here, you sweet thing."
        Rocky cocked his head and studied her warily.
        "What's wrong, cutie? Don't you want to be cuddled and petted?"
        Rocky whined. He dropped low on his front paws and wiggled his rear end, though he couldn't bring himself to wag his tail. Indeed, he wanted to be cuddled. He just didn't quite trust her.
        "The more you come on to him," Spencer advised, "the more he'll withdraw. Ignore him, and there's a chance he'll decide you're okay."
        When Rosie stopped coaxing and sat up straight again, Rocky was frightened by the sudden movement. He scrambled backward a few feet and studied her more warily than before.
        "Has he always been this shy?" Rosie asked.
        "Since I've known him. He's four or five years old, but I've only had him for two. Saw one of those little spots the newspaper runs every Friday for the animal shelter. Nobody would adopt him, so they were going to have to put him to sleep."
        "He's so cute. Anyone would adopt him."
        "He was a lot worse then."
        "You can't mean he'd bite anyone. Not this sweetie."
        "No. Never tried to bite. He was too beaten down for that. He whined and trembled anytime you tried to approach him. When you touched him, he just sort of curled into a ball, closed his eyes, and whimpered, shivering like crazy, as if it hurt to be touched."
        "Abused?" she said grimly.
        "Yeah. Normally, the people at the pound wouldn't have featured him in the paper. He