Dark Rivers of the Heart Read Online Free PDF Page A

flashlight even as broken glass was still falling. In the gloom, the grenade thumped softly against the carpet.
        Before Spencer could turn away, he was hit by the explosion. No flash of light accompanied it, only ear-shattering sound-and hard shrapnel snapping into him from his shins to his forehead. He cried out. Fell.
        Twisted. Writhed. Pain in his legs, hands, face. His torso was protected by his denim jacket. But his hands, God, his hands. He wrung his burning hands. Hot pain. Pure torment. How many fingers lost, bones shattered? Jesus, Jesus, his hands were spastic with pain yet half numb, so he couldn't assess the damage.
        The worst of it was the fiery agony in his forehead, cheeks, the left corner of his mouth. Excruciating. Desperate to quell the pain, he pressed his hands to his face. He was afraid of what he would find, of the damage he would feel, but his hands throbbed so fiercely that his sense of touch wasn't trustworthy.
        How many new scars if he survived-how many pale and puckered cicatricial welts or red keloid monstrosities from hairline to chin?
        Get out, get away, find help.
        He kicked-crawled-clawed-twitched like a wounded crab through the darkness. Disoriented and terrified, he nevertheless scrambled in the right direction, across a floor now littered with what seemed to be small marbles, into the bedroom doorway. He clambered to his feet.
        He figured he was caught in a gang war over disputed turf Los Angeles in the nineties was more violent than Chicago during Prohibition.
        Modern youth gangs were more savage and better armed than the Mafia, pumped up with drugs and their own brand of racism, as cold-blooded and merciless as snakes.
        Gasping for breath, feeling blindly with aching hands, he stumbled into the hall. Pain coruscated through his legs, weakening him and testing his balance. Staying on his feet was as difficult as it would have been in a revolving fun-house barrel.
        Windows shattered in other rooms, followed by a few muffled explosions.
        The hallway was windowless, so he wasn't hit again.
        In spite of his confusion and fear, Spencer realized he didn't smell blood. Didn't taste it. In fact, he wasn't bleeding.
        The shrapnel hadn't cut him, so it wasn't actually shrapnel. Not marbles, either, littering the floor. Hard rubber pellets. From a sting grenade. Only law-enforcement agencies had sting grenades. He had used them himself.
        Seconds ago a swat team of some kind must have initiated an assault on the bungalow, launching the grenades to disable any occupants.
        The moving van had no doubt been covert transport for the assault force.
        The movement he had seen at the back of it, out of the corner of his eye, hadn't been imaginary after all.
        He should have been relieved. The assault was an action of the local police, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the FBI, or another law-enforcement organization. Apparently he had stumbled into one of their operations.
        He knew the drill. If he dropped to the floor, facedown, arms extended over his head, hands spread to prove they were empty, he would be fine; he wouldn't be shot; they would handcuff him, question him, but they wouldn't harm him further.
        Except that he had a big problem: He didn't belong in that bungalow.
        He was a trespasser. From their point of view, he might even be a burglar.
        To them, his explanation for being there would seem lame at best.
        Hell, they would think it was crazy. He didn't really understand it himself-why he was so stricken with Valerie, why he had needed to know about her, why he had been bold enough and stupid enough to enter her house.
        He didn't drop to the floor. On wobbly legs, he staggered through the tunnel-black hall, sliding one hand along the wall.
        The woman was mixed up in something illegal, and at first the authorities would