Dark Rivers of the Heart Read Online Free PDF Page B

not black. The lights of the sprawling metropolis reflected off the bellies of the eastbound storm clouds, painting the vault of the night with deep and sour yellows that, toward the oceanic west, faded into charcoal gray.
        Though familiar to Spencer, the unnatural color of the city sky filled him with a surprising and superstitious dread, for it seemed to be a malevolent firmament under which men were meant to die-and to the sight of which they might wake in Hell. It was a mystery how the yard could remain unlit under that sulfurous glow, yet he could have sworn that it grew blacker the longer he squinted at it.
        The stinging in his legs subsided. His hands still ached but not disablingly, and the burning in his face was less intense than it had been.
        Inside the dark house, an automatic weapon stuttered briefly, spitting out several rounds. One of the cops must be trigger-happy, shooting at shadows or ghosts. Curious. Hair-trigger nerves were uncommon among special-forces officers.
        Spencer scuttled across the sodden grass to the shelter of a nearby triple-trunk ficus. Rising to his feet, with his back against the bark, he surveyed the lawn, the shrubs, and the line of trees along the rear property wall, half convinced he should make a break for it, but also half convinced that he would be spotted and brought down if he stepped into the open.
        Flexing his hands to work off the pain, he considered climbing into the web of wood above him and hiding in the higher bowers.
        Useless, of course. They would find him in the tree, because they would not admit to his escape until they had searched every shadow and cloak of L'reenerv. both high and low.
        In the bungalow: voices, a door slamming, not even a pretense of stealth and caution any longer, not after the precipitous gunfire.
        Still no lights.
        Time was running out.
        Arrest, revelation, the glare of videocam lights, reporters shouting questions. intolerable.
        He silently cursed himself for being so indecisive.
        Rain rattled the leaves above.
        Newspaper stories, magazine spreads, the hateful past alive again, the gaping stares of thoughtless strangers to who he would be the walking, breathing equivalent of a spectacular train wreck.
        His booming heart counted cadence for the ever quickening march of his fear.
        He could not move. Paralyzed.
        Paralysis served him well, however, when a man dressed in black crept past the tree, holding a weapon that resembled an Uzi. 'Though he was no more than two strides from Spencer, the guy was focused on the house, ready if his quarry crashed through a window into the night, unaware that the very fugitive he sought was within reach. Then the man saw the open window at the bathroom, and he froze.
        Spencer was moving before his target began to turn. Anyone with Swat-team training-whether local cop or federal agent-would not go down easily. The only chance of taking the guy quickly and quietly was to hit him hard while he was in the grip of surprise.
        Spencer rammed his right knee into the cop's crotch, putting everything he had behind it, trying to lift the guy off the ground.
        Some special-forces officers wore 'ockstraps with aluminum cups on every enter-and-subdue operation, as surely as they wore bullet-resistant Kevlar body 'jackets or vests. This one was unprotected. He exhaled explosively, a sound that wouldn't have carried ten feet in the rainy night.
        Even as Spencer was driving his knee upward, he seized the automatic weapon with both hands, wrenching it violently clockwise. It twisted out of the other man's grasp before he could convulsively squeeze off a burst of warning fire.
        The gunman fell backward on the wet grass. Spencer dropped atop him, carried forward by momentum.
        Though the cop tried to cry out, the agony of that intimate blow had robbed him of his