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If this novel had been released after the bombing of the Oklahoma federal building, it would no doubt be condemned by the Washington establishment as paranoid, extremist, hate-filled, and un-American. In its criticism of the abuses committed by those possessing the weapon of governmental power, Dark Rivers of the Heart pulls no punches. The current political administration has seized on the tragedy in Oklahoma to wield a broad brush in its quest to paint all opponents of the federal behemoth as irrational enemies. Precisely because some seek to silence those who cry foul when they see their rights being shredded into ever finer threads, Dean Koontz's newest novel looms even more significantly in the struggle to unmask the smiling devil posing as our dearest friend.
Many authors writing today are either implicit or explicit defenders of our welfare state and a paternalistic government. Though Koontz's name is most closely associated with the horror genre, in this tale he portrays monsters of a different stripe: the dedicated servants of a secret governmental department which has taken upon itself the roles of judge, jury, and executioner.
The prime mover of this extra-legal organization is Roy Miro, "an equal-opportunity killer." The portrayal of this "slightly pudgy" yet "appealing, soft-featured" public servant as a "compassionate" man dedicated to moving our culture one small step at a time towards perfection and true equality is chilling in its cumulative effect. Case by case, he seeks to save those souls "too good for this world" from the corruption rampant in the devolving society in which he and they are forced to work. His sadness at the loss of such scattered elements of refinement and beauty is balanced by the joy he experiences in knowing that he has enabled these worthwhile individuals to escape the travails of daily life. While those whom he singles out for relief might not appreciate the merciful actions of their benefactor, Roy realizes that because he "feels their pain" he must shoulder the heavy burden of being a pistol-wielding good Samaritan giving the solace of oblivion to those who suffer.
Despite his "tender" disposition, however, Roy is not above giving a "comeuppance" to those who would thwart his goals or slight his character. He relishes opportunities to even scores against anyone who dares to disagree with his noble vision of "order, stability, and justice." Captain Harris Descoteaux of the LAPD discovers this to his horror when he is plunged into a continuing nightmare of manufactured charges, planted evidence, and property seizure which leaves him and his family destitute, homeless, and fearing for their lives.
Perhaps most frightening about Roy, however, is the fact that many people in this country would see nothing unusual about his views. For Roy, utopia will arrive when everyone is identical to everyone else; when morality is recognized as a relative guide in which the ends justify the means; when "social security and peace" are more valued than freedom; when it is acknowledged that anyone "obsessed with his privacy (is) an enemy of the people"; when the world envisioned in John Lennon's song, "Imagine," becomes a reality.
Contending against Roy and his all-too-willing accomplices are Spencer Grant and Valerie Keene. Seemingly alone and outnumbered, these two fugitives wage a high-tech computer war against an enemy all too eager to return fire with high-capacity machine guns. An ex-Army Ranger, ex-cop, and computer jock, Grant is drawn into the shadowy world of governmental special ops as he seeks the true identity and location of Valerie Keene. Targeted by Roy for extermination because of information she possesses that might compromise governmental secrecy, the young waitress leaves a camoflauged trail which gradually reveals a picture of a woman far different and deadlier than her working class persona would suggest.
In his battle for survival, Grant must deal not only with the human creatures seeking him and his companion but with demons of his own devising. Perched and waiting for him in the dark corridors of his repressed past, half-glimpsed images threaten to destroy all he has fought to become. Only by confronting them and their source is he freed to carry on the war into which he has stumbled.
Exciting and suspenseful as this story is, the truly refreshing aspect of the book is the way in which Koontz takes on the government and defends freedom, reason, and individuality. Asset forfeiture, environmental zealots, power-hungry politicians, and the dangers and benefits of an overly-computerized society all come under his scrutiny.
Ambitious in its scope, Dark Rivers of the Heart touches upon a variety of subjects of interest to friends of freedom: the dangers of relying upon a "compassionate" government to solve our problems; how satellite surveillance, interconnecting computer data bases, and other elements of burgeoning high technology can be used to subvert our rights as well as to provide us with the latest in entertainment; and the nature of and relationship between evil and personal responsibility.
With Roy Miro functioning as a metaphor for our "caring" government, we can understand Valerie Keene better when she says, "By insisting on a perfect world, we've opened the door to fascism."
Whether he is exploring the nature of the drug war; the excesses of the BATF, EPA, and DEA; the insanity of asset forfeiture in which you are considered guilty until proven innocent; or the abuses exhibited in the cases of Randy Weaver and the Branch Davidians, Koontz's ability to dramatize the negative effects of such issues is not only entertaining but educational. Too frequently, discussions of out-of-control government fail to combine emotional with intellectual arguments. By inducing readers to care for characters who must endure such atrocities, perhaps Koontz's audience will see the necessity of taking immediate steps to preserve their liberties before it is too late. With its broad appeal, Koontz's fiction may alarm people enough to ignite discussion of these critical issues on a wider scale than any number of factual publications might be able to do.
In the November, 1994, Locus, Koontz says that "I'm now afraid I'm living in a country where the ultimate parent, the government, is deranged and psychotic.... We're living in the bloodiest century in history, and it's also the most politicized century.... We're living in a sick society, with intrusion into people's lives going this far." As he points out, virtually no one in literary fiction concerns themselves with such themes in their writing.
For Koontz, Dark Rivers of the Heart is "a book about how government can come and take your property without charging you with a crime; about high-tech government surveillance; government intrusions into our lives; government attempts to control the Information Highway." He finds such abuses "absolutely frightening." With this book, he has added to the ammunition we can use against the real-life counterparts of such fictional predators as Roy Miro.
Dark Rivers of the Heart helps provide the kind of "emotional fuel" touted by Ayn Rand as one of the hallmarks of Romantic literature. As Koontz says, "We know what our problems are and why we have them, and I think it's just a matter of facing up to them. I want to write about characters who are driven to do that. It doesn't go as far as an Ayn Rand approach to characterization, although it does say that a lot of what we are we make."
What Dean Koontz has made in his latest novel is a watershed attempt to reach the hearts as well as the minds of his readers, perhaps most of whom have never before been exposed to awareness of the kinds of outrages committed by their supposed protectors.
In the wake of the Oklahoma bombing, our President has stated that it is unpatriotic to criticize or resist the government and the agents who enforce its laws. In contrast, Patrick Henry once said, "If this be treason, then make the most of it." If Dean Koontz's literary voice is unpatriotic, then I say, may more such treasonous prose flow from his pen.
