Dark Rivers of the Heart by Dean Koontz Read Free Book Online

struggled with a tight lug nut, the wrench slipped and he skinned one knuckle; instead of cursing, he began to whistle while he worked.
    When the job was done, the woman lowered the window two inches, so he didn’t have to shout. “You’re all set,” he said.
    Sheepishly, she began to apologize for having been so wary of him, but he interrupted to assure her that he understood.
    She reminded Roy of his mother, which made him feel even better about helping her. She was attractive, in her early fifties, perhaps twenty years older than Roy, with auburn hair and blue eyes. His mother had been a brunette with hazel eyes, but this woman and his mother had in common an aura of gentleness and refinement.
    “This is my husband’s business card,” she said, passing it through the gap in the window. “He’s an accountant. If you need any advice along those lines, no charge.”
    “I haven’t done all that much,” Roy said, accepting the card.
    “These days, running into someone like you, it’s a miracle. I’d have called Sam instead of that damn service station, but he’s working late at a client’s. Seems we work around the clock these days.”
    “This recession,” Roy sympathized.
    “Isn’t it ever going to end?” she wondered, rummaging in her purse for something more.
    He cupped the business card in his hand to protect it from the rain, turning it so the red glow of the nearest flare illuminated the print. The husband had an office in Century City, where rents were high; no wonder the poor guy was working late to remain afloat.
    “And here’s my card,” the woman said, extracting it from her purse and passing it to him.
    Penelope Bettonfield. Interior Designer. 213-555-6868.
    She said, “I work out of my home. Used to have an office, but this dreadful recession…” She sighed and smiled up at him through the partly open window. “Anyway, if I can ever be of help…”
    He fished one of his own cards from his wallet and passed it in to her. She thanked him again, closed her window, and drove away.
    Roy walked back along the highway, clearing the flares off the pavement so they would not continue to obstruct traffic.
    In his car once more, heading for his hotel in Westwood, he was exhilarated to have lit his one little candle for the day. Sometimes he wondered if there was any hope for modern society, if it was going to spiral down into a hell of hatred and crime and greed—but then he encountered someone like Penelope Bettonfield, with her sweet smile and her aura of gentleness and refinement, and he found it possible to be hopeful again. She was a caring person who would repay his kindness to her by being kind to someone else.
    In spite of Mrs. Bettonfield, Roy’s fine mood didn’t last. By the time he left the freeway for Wilshire Boulevard and drove into Westwood, a sadness had crept over him.
    He saw signs of social devolution everywhere. Spray-painted graffiti defaced the retaining walls of the freeway exit ramp and obscured the directions on a couple of traffic signs, in an area of the city previously spared such dreary vandalism. A homeless man, pushing a shopping cart full of pathetic possessions, trudged through the rain, his face expressionless, as if he were a zombie shuffling along the aisles of a Kmart in Hell.
    At a stoplight, in the lane beside Roy, a car full of fierce-looking young men—skinheads, each with one glittering earring—glared at him malevolently, perhaps trying to decide if he looked like a Jew. They mouthed obscenities with care, to be sure he could read their lips.
    He passed a movie theater where the films were all swill of one kind or another. Extravaganzas of violence. Seamy tales of raw sex. Films from big studios, with famous stars, but swill nonetheless.
    Gradually, his impression of his encounter with Mrs. Bettonfield changed. He remembered what she’d said about the recession, about the long hours that she and her husband were working, about the poor economy that