Dark Rivers of the Heart

couple of cans of Pepsi out of a Styrofoam cooler.
        Having reeled his kite all the way to the earth, the bearded man headed for the parking lot by a route that brought him past Spencer.
        He looked like a mad prophet: untrimmed; unwashed; with deeply set, wild blue eyes; a beaky nose; pale lips; broken, yellow teeth. On his black T-shirt, in red letters, were five words: ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL DAY IN HELL.
        He cast a fierce glance at Spencer, clutched his kite as if he thought every blackguard in creation wanted nothing more than to steal it, and stalked out of the park.
        Spencer realized he had put a hand over his scar when the man had glanced at him. He lowered it.
        Rosie was standing a few steps in front of the picnic table now, shooing Rocky away, apparently admonishing him not to keep his master waiting.
        She was beyond the reach of the palm shadows, in sunlight.
        As the dog reluctantly left his new friend and trotted toward his master, Spencer was once again aware of the woman's exceptional beauty, lerie's. And if it was the role of savior and healer that he yearned to fill, this woman most likely needed him more than the one he sought.
        Yet he was drawn to Valerie, not to Rosie, for reasons he could not explain-except to accuse himself of obsession, of being swept away by the fathomless currents of his subconscious, regardless of where they might take him.
        The dog reached him, antin and rinning.
        Rosie raised one hand over her head and waved good-bye.
        Spencer waved too.
        Maybe his search for Valerie Keene wasn't merely an obsession. He had the uncanny feeling that he was the kite and that she was the reel.
        Some strange power-call it destiny-turned the crank, wound the line around the spool, drawing him inexorably toward her, and he had no choice in the matter whatsoever.
        While the sea rolled in from faraway China and lapped at the beach, while the sunshine traveled ninety-three million miles through airless space to caress the golden bodies of the young women in their bikinis, Spencer and Rocky walked back to the truck.
        With Roy Miro trailing after him at a more sedate pace, David Day' is rushed into the main data processing room with the photographs of the two best prints on the bathroom window. He took them to Nella Shire, at one of the workstations. "One is clearly a thumb, clearly, no question," Davis told her. "The other might be an index finger."
        Shire was about forty-five, with a face as sharp as that of a fox, frizzy orange hair, and green fingernail polish. Her half-walled cubicle was decorated with three photographs clipped from bodybuilding magazines: hugely pumped-up men in bikini briefs.
        Noticing the musclemen, Davis frowned and said, "His. Shire, I've told you this is unacceptable. You must remove these pinups."
        "The human body is art."
        Davis was red-faced. "You know this can be construed as sexual harassment in the workplace."
        "Yeah?" She took the fingerprint photos from him. "By who?"
        "By any male worker in this room, that's by whom."
        "None of the men working here looks like these hunks. Until one of them does, nobody has anything to worry about from me."
        Davis tore one of the clippings from the cubicle wall, then another.
        "The last thing I need is a notation on my management record, saying I allowed harassment in my division."
        Although Roy believed in the law of which Nella Shire was in violation, he was aware of the irony of Davis worrying about his management record being soiled by a tolerance-of-harassment entry.
        After all, the nameless agency for which they worked was an illegal organization, answering to no elected official; therefore, every act of Davis's working day was in violation of one law or another.
        Of course, like nearly all of the agency's personnel, Davis didn't know that he was an instrument of a conspiracy. He received his paycheck from the Department of Justice and thought he was on their records as an employee. He had signed a secrecy oath, but he believed that he was part of a legal-if potentially controversial-offensive against organized crime and international terrorism.
        As Davis tore the third pinup off the cubicle walls and wadded it in his fist, Nella Shire said, "Maybe you hate those pictures so much because they turn you on, which is