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

precautionary dress, he was going to get soaked, but he couldn't in good conscience drive on as if he'd never seen the stranded motorist.
        As Roy walked back to the Cadillac, the passing traffic cast an all but continuous spray of filthy water across his legs, pasting his pants to his skin. Well, the suit needed to be dry-cleaned anyway.
        When he reached the car, the woman did not put down her window.
        Staring warily at him through the glass, she reflexively checked the door locks to be sure they were engaged.
        He wasn't offended by her suspicion. She was merely wise to the ways of the city and understandably skeptical of his intentions.
        He raised his voice to be heard through the closed window: "You need some help?"
        She held up a cellular phone. "Called a service station. They said they'll send somebody."
        Roy glanced toward the oncoming traffic in the eastbound lanes.
        "How long have they kept you waiting?"
        After a hesitation, she said exasperatedly, "Forever."
        "I'll change the tire. You don't have to get out or give me your keys.
        This car-I've driven one like it. There's a trunk-release knob.
        Just pop it, so I can get the jack and the spare."
        "You could get hurt," she said.
        The narrow shoulder offered little safety margin, and the fast-moving traffic was unnervingly close. "I've got flares," he said.
        Turning away before she could object, Roy hurried to his own car and retrieved all six flares from the roadside-emergency kit in the trunk.
        He strung them out along the freeway for fifty yards behind the Cadillac, closing off most of the nearest traffic lane.
        If a drunk driver barreled out of the night, of course, no precautions would be sufficient. And these days it seemed that sober motorists were outnumbered by those who were high on booze or drugs.
        It was an age plagued by social irresponsibility-which was why Roy tried to be a good Samaritan whenever an opportunity arose. If everyone lit just one little candle, what a bright world it would be: He really believed in that.
        The woman had released the trunk lock. The lid was ajar.
        Roy Miro was happier than he had been all day. Battered by wind and rain, splashed by the passing traffic, he labored with a smile.
        The more hardship involved, the more rewarding the good deed. As he 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