Dark Rivers of the Heart

the Lord God Almighty on a golden airborne throne than anyone with a law degree.
        Using whatever methods might be necessary to obtain truthful answers, they would question him about his relationship with the woman and her current whereabouts. When they had what they needed-or were convinced that they had squeezed out of him all that he knew-they would dispose of him.
        Roy would conduct the disposal himself, releasing the poor scarred devil from the misery of this troubled world.
        The first of the other three agents, call Dormon, wore white slacks and d on the breast. He rent from would be driving a small white van with a matching logo, which was one of many magnetic-mat signs that could be attached to the vehicle to change its character, depending on what was needed for any particular operation.
        Alfonse Johnson was dressed in work shoes, khaki slacks, and a denim jacket. Mike Vecchio wore sweats and a pair of Niles.
        Roy was the only one of them in a suit. Because he had napped fully clothed on Davis's couch, however, he didn't fit the stereotype of a neat and well-pressed federal agent.
        "All right, this isn't like last night," Roy said. They had all been part of the SWAT team in Santa Monica. "We need to talk to this guy."
        The previous night, if any of them had seen the woman, he would have cut her down instantly. For the benefit of any local police who might have shown up, a weapon would have been planted in her hand: a Desert Eagle .50 Magnum, such a powerful handgun that a shot from it would leave an exit wound as large as a man's fist, a piece obviously meant solely for killing people. The story would have been that the agent had gunned her down in self-defense.
        "But we can't let him slip away," Roy continued. "And he's a boy with schooling, as well trained as any of you, so he might not just hold out his hands for the bracelets. If you can't make him behave and he looks to be gone, then shoot his legs out from under him. Chop him up good if you have to. He isn't going to need to walk again anyway.
        Just don't get carried away-okay? Remember, we absolutely must talk to him."
        Spencer had obtained all the information of interest to him that was contained in the files of the Nevada Gaming Commission. He retreated along the cyberspace highways as far as the Los Angeles Police Department COMPuter.
        From there he linked with the Santa Monica Police Department and examined its file of cases initiated within the past twenty-four hours.
        No case could be referenced either by the name Valerie Ann Keene or by the street address of the bungalow that she had been renting.
        He exited the case files and checked call reports for Wednesday night, because it was possible that SMPD officers had answered a call related to the fracas at the bungalow but had not given the incident a case number.
        This time, he found the address.
        The last of the officer's notations indicated why no case number had been assigned: "A.T.F OP IN PROG. FED assigned. Which meant: Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms operation in progress; federal jurisdiction asserted.
        The local cops had been frozen out.
        On the nearby couch, Rocky exploded from sleep with a shrill yelp, fell to the floor, scrambled to his feet, started to chase his tail, then whipped his head left and right in confusion, searching for whatever threat had pursued him out of his dream.
        "Just a nightmare," Spencer assured the dog.
        Rocky looked at him doubtfully and whined.
        "What was it this time-a giant prehistoric cat?"
        The mutt padded quickly across the room and jumped up to plant his forepaws on a windowsill. He stared out at the driveway and the surrounding woods.
        The short February day was drawing toward a colorful twilight.
        The undersides of the eucalyptuses' oval leaves, which were usually silver, now reflected the golden light that poured through gaps in the foliage; they glimmered in a faint breeze, so it appeared as if the trees had been hung with ornaments for the Christmas season that was now more than a month past.
        Rocky whined worriedly again.
        "A pterodactyl cat?" Spencer suggested. "Huge wings and giant fangs and a purr loud enough to crack stone?"
        Not amused, the dog dropped from the window and hurried into the kitchen. He was always like this when he