Dark Rivers of the Heart

positive thought.
        Never lie to the dog.
        "We're in deep shit, pal," he amended as he curved into the intersection in a wide arc, around the front of the oncoming truck.
        As panic shifted his perceptions into slo-mo, Spencer saw the tanker sweep toward them, the giant tires rolling and bouncing and rolling and bouncing while the terrified driver adroitly pumped the brakes as much as he dared. And now it was not merely approaching but looming over them, huge, an inexorable and inescapable behemoth, far bigger than it had seemed only a split second ago, and now bigger still, towering, mense- Good God, it seemed bigger than a jumbo jet, and he was nothing but a bug on the runway. The Explorer began to cant to starboard, as if it would tip over, and Spencer corrected with a slight pull to the right and a ta of the brakes. The ener of the aborted rollover was channeled into a slide, however, and the back end traveled sideways with a shriek of tormented tires. The steering wheel spun back and forth through his sweat-dampened hands. The Explorer was out of control, and the gasoline tanker was on top of them, as large as God, but at least they were sliding in the right direction, away from the big rig, although probably not fast enough to escape it. Then the sixteen-wheel monster shrieked by with only inches to spare, a curved wall of polished steel passing in a mirrored blur, in a gale of wind that Spencer was certain he could feel even through the tightly closed windows.
        The Explorer spun three hundred sixty degrees, then kept going for another ninety. It shuddered to a halt, facing the opposite direction-and on the far side of the divided boulevard-from the gasoline tanker, even as that behemoth was still passing it.
        The southbound traffic, into the lanes of which Spencer had careened, stopped before running him down, although not without a chorus of screaming brakes and blaring horns.
        Rocky was on the floor again.
        Spencer didn't know if the dog had been thrown off the seat again or, in a sudden attack of prudence, had scrambled down there.
        He said, "Stay!" even as Rocky clambered up onto the seat.
        The roar of an engine. From the left. Coming across the broad intersection. The Chevy. Hurtling past the back of the halted tanker, toward the side of the Explorer.
        He jammed his foot down hard on the accelerator. The tires spun, then rubber got a bite of pavement. The Explorer bulleted south on the boulevard-just as the Chevy shot past the rear bumper. With a cold squeal, metal kissed metal.
        Gunshots erupted. Three or four rounds. None seemed to strike the Explorer.
        Rocky remained on the seat, panting, claws dug in, determined to hold fast this time.
        Spencer was headed out of Vegas, which was both good and bad. It was good because the farther south that he proceeded, toward the open desert and the last entrance to Interstate 15, the risk of being brought to a stop by a traffic jam quickly diminished. It was bad, however, because beyond the forest of hotels, the barren land would provide few easy routes of escape and even fewer places to hide. Out on the vast panoramas of the Mo'ave, the thugs in the Chevy could slip a mile or two behind and still keep a watch on him.
        Nevertheless, leaving town was the only sane choice. The turmoil at the intersection behind him was sure to bring the cops.
        As he was speeding past the newest hotel-casino in town-which included a two-hundred-acre amusement park, Spaceport Vegas-his only sane choice became no real choice at all. From across the boulevard, a hundred yards ahead, a northbound car swung out of the oncoming traffic, jumped the far side of the low median strip, smashed through a row of shrubs, and bounced into the southbound lanes. It slid to a stop at an angle, blocking the way, ready to ram Spencer if he tried to squeeze around either end of it.
        He stopped thirty yards from the blockade.
        The new car was a Chrysler but, otherwise, so like the Chevy that the two might have been born of the same factory.
        The driver stayed behind the wheel of the Chrysler, but the other doors opened. Big, troublesome-looking men got out.
        The rearview mirror revealed what he'd expected: The Chevy also had halted at an angle across the boulevard, fifteen yards behind him.
        Mell were getting out of that vehicle too-and they had