by Jeff Lindsay
But in this case, I had nothing whatsoever to tell Deborah. I had, in fact, been hoping she might have some small crumb of information to give to me, something that might explain the Dark Passenger’s peculiar and uncharacteristic shrinking act. That, of course, was not the sort of thing I really felt comfortable telling Deborah about. But no matter what I said about this burned double offering, she wouldn’t believe me. She would be sure I had information and some kind of angle that made me want to keep it all to myself. The only thing more suspicious than a sibling is a sibling who happens to be a cop.
Sure enough, she was convinced I was holding out on her.
“Come on, Dexter,” she said. “Out with it. Tell me what you know about this.”
“Dear Sis, I am at a total loss,” I said.
“Bullshit,” she said, apparently unaware of the irony. “You’re holding something back.”
“Never in life,” I said. “Would I lie to my only sister?”
She glared at me. “So it isn’t Santeria?”
“I have no idea,” I said, as soothingly as possible. “It seems like a really good place to start. But—”
“I knew it,” she snapped. “But what?”
“Well,” I started. And truly it had just occurred to me, and probably it meant nothing at all, but here I was in mid-sentence already, so I went on with it. “Have you ever heard of a santero using ceramics? And bulls—don’t they have a thing for goat heads?”
She looked at me very hard for a minute, then shook her head.
“That’s it? That’s what you got?”
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“I told you, Debs, I don’t got anything. It was only a thought, something that just now came to me.”
“Well,” she said. “If you’re telling me the truth—”
“Of course I am,” I protested.
“Then, you’ve got doodly-squat,” she said and looked away, back to where Captain Matthews was answering questions with his solemn, manly jaw jutting out. “Which is only slightly less than the horsepucky I got,” she said.
I had never before grasped that doodly-squat was less than horsepucky, but it’s always nice to learn something new. And yet even this startling revelation did very little to answer the real question here: Why had the Dark Passenger pulled a duck and cover? In the course of my job and my hobby I have seen some things that most people can’t even imagine, unless they have watched several of those movies they show at traffic school for driving drunk. And in every case I had ever encountered, no matter how grisly, my shadow companion had some kind of pithy comment on the proceedings, even if it was only a yawn.
But now, confronted by nothing more sinister than two charred bodies and some amateur pottery, the Dark Passenger chose to scuttle away like a scared spider and leave me without guidance—a brand-new feeling for me, and I discovered I did not like it at all.
Still, what was I to do? I knew of no one I could talk to about something like the Dark Passenger; at least, not if I wanted to stay at liberty, which I very much did. As far as I was aware, there were no experts on the subject, other than me. But what did I really know about my boon companion? Was I really that knowledgeable, merely because I had shared space with it for so long? The fact that it had chosen to scuttle into the cellar was making me very edgy, as if I found myself walking through my office with no pants on.
When it came down to the nub of things, I had no idea what the Dark Passenger was or where it came from, and that had never seemed all that important.
For some reason, now it did.
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A modest crowd had gathered by the yellow tape barrier the police had put up. Enough people so that the Watcher could stand in the middle of the group without sticking out in any way.
He watched with a cold hunger that did not show on his face—nothing showed on his face; it was merely a mask he wore for the time being, a way to hide the coiled power stored inside. Yet somehow the people around him seemed to sense it, glancing his way nervously from time to time, as if they had heard a tiger growling nearby.
The Watcher enjoyed their discomfort, enjoyed the way they stared in stupid fear at what he had done. It was all part of the joy of this power, and part of the reason he liked to watch.
But he watched with a purpose right now, carefully and deliberately, even as he watched them scrabble around like ants and felt the power surge and flex inside him. Walking meat, he thought. Less than sheep, and we are the shepherd.
As he gloated at their pathetic reaction to his display he felt another presence tickle at the edge of his predator’s senses. He turned his head slowly along the line of yellow tape—
There. That was him, the one in the bright Hawaiian shirt. He really was with the police.
The Watcher reached a careful tendril out toward the other, and as it touched he watched the other stop cold in his tracks and close his eyes, as if asking a silent question—yes. It all made sense now.
The other had felt the subtle reach of senses; he was powerful, that was certain.
But what was his purpose?
He watched as the other straightened up, looked around, and then seemingly shrugged it off and crossed the police line.
We are stronger, he thought. Stronger than all of them. And they will discover this, to their very great sorrow.
He could feel the hunger growing—but he needed to know more, and he would wait until the right time. Wait and watch.
For now.
S I X
Ahomicide scene with no blood splattered should have been a real holiday outing for me, but somehow I couldn’t get into the lighthearted frame of mind to enjoy it.
I lurked around for a while, going in and out of the taped-off area, but there was very little for me to do. And Deborah seemed to have said all she had to say to me, which left me somewhat alone and unoccupied.
A reasonable being might very well be pardoned for sulking just a tiny bit, but I had never claimed to be reasonable, and that left me with very few options. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to get on with life and think about the many important things that demanded my attention—the kids, the caterer, Paris, lunch . . . Considering my laundry list of things to worry about, it was no wonder the Passenger was proving a wee bit shy.
I looked at the two overcooked bodies again. They were not doing anything sinister. They were still dead. But the Dark Passenger was still silent.
I wandered back over to where Deborah stood, talking to Angel-no-relation. They both looked at me expectantly, but I had no readily available wit to offer, which was very much out of charac-
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ter. Happily for my world-famous reputation for permanently cheerful stoicism, before I could really turn gloomy, Deborah looked over my shoulder and snorted. “About fucking time.”
I followed her gaze to a patrol car that had just pulled up and watched a man dressed all in white climb out.
The official City of Miami babalao had arrived.
Our fair city exists in a permanent blinding haze of cronyism and corruption that would make Boss Tweed jealous, and every year millions of dollars are thrown away on imaginary consulting jobs, cost overruns on projects that haven’t begun because they were awarded to someone’s mother-in-law, and other special items of great civic importance, like new luxury cars for political support-ers. So it should be no surprise at all that the city pays a Santeria priest a salary and benefits.
The surprise is that he earns his money.
Every morning at sunrise, the babalao arrives at the courthouse, where he usually finds one or two small animal sacrifices left by people with important legal cases pending. No Miami citizen in his right mind would touch these things, but of course it would be very bad form to leave dead animals littered about Miami’s great temple of justice. So the babalao removes the sacrifices, cowrie shells, feath-ers, beads, charms, and pictures in a way that wi
ll not offend the orishas, the guiding spirits of Santeria.
He is also called upon from time to time to cast spells for other important civic items, like blessing a new overpass built by a low-bid contractor or putting a curse on the New York Jets. And he had apparently been called upon this time by my sister, Deborah.
The official city babalao was a black man of about fifty, six feet tall with very long fingernails and a considerable paunch. He was dressed in white pants, a white guayabera, and sandals. He came plodding over from the patrol car that had brought him, with the cranky expression of a minor bureaucrat whose important filing work had been interrupted. As he walked he polished a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses on the tail of his shirt. He put them on as he approached the bodies and, when he did, what he saw stopped him dead.
For a long moment he just stared. Then, with his eyes still glued 44
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to the bodies, he backed away. At about thirty feet away, he turned around and walked back to the patrol car and climbed in.
“What the fuck,” Deborah said, and I agreed that she had summed things up nicely. The babalao slammed the car door and sat there in the front seat, staring straight ahead through the windshield without moving. After a moment Deborah muttered, “Shit,”
and went over to the car. And because like all inquiring minds I want to know, I followed.
When I got to the car Deborah was tapping on the glass of the passenger-side window and the babalao was still staring straight ahead, jaw clenched, grimly pretending not to see her. Debs knocked harder; he shook his head. “Open the door,” she said in her best police-issue put-down-the-gun voice. He shook his head harder. She knocked on the window harder. “Open it!” she said.
Finally he rolled down the window. “This is nothing to do with me,” he said.
“Then what is it?” Deborah asked him.
He just shook his head. “I need to get back to work,” he said.
“Is it Palo Mayombe?” I asked him, and Debs glared at me for interrupting, but it seemed like a fair question. Palo Mayombe was a somewhat darker offshoot of Santeria, and although I knew almost nothing about it, there had been rumors of some very wicked rituals that had piqued my interest.
But the babalao shook his head. “Listen,” he said. “There’s stuff out there, you guys got no idea, and you don’t wanna know.”
“Is this one of those things?” I asked.
“I dunno,” he said. “Might be.”
“What can you tell us about it?” Deborah demanded.
“I can’t tell you nothing ’cause I don’t know nothing,” he said.
“But I don’t like it and I don’t want anything to do with it. I got important stuff to do today—tell the cop I gotta go.” And he rolled the window up again.
“Shit,” Deborah said, and she looked at me accusingly.
“Well I didn’t do anything,” I said.
“Shit,” she said again. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I am completely in the dark,” I said.
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“Uh-huh,” she said, and she looked entirely unconvinced, which was a little ironic. I mean, people believe me all the time when I’m being somewhat less than perfectly truthful—and yet here was my own foster flesh and blood, refusing to believe that I was, in fact, completely in the dark. Aside from the fact that the babalao seemed to be having the same reaction as the Passenger—and what should I make of that?
Before I could pursue that fascinating line of thought, I realized that Deborah was still staring at me with an exceedingly unpleasant expression on her face.
“Did you find the heads?” I asked, quite helpfully I thought. “We might get a feel for the ritual if we saw what he did to the heads.”
“No, we haven’t found the heads. I haven’t found anything except a brother who’s holding out on me.”
“Deborah, really, this permanent air of nasty suspicion is not good for your face muscles. You’ll get frown lines.”
“Maybe I’ll get a killer, too,” she said, and walked back to the two charred bodies.
Since my usefulness was apparently at an end, at least as far as my sister was concerned, there was really not a great deal more for me to do on-site. I finished up with my blood kit, taking small samples of the dried black stuff caked around the two necks, and headed back to the lab in plenty of time for a late lunch.
But alas, poor Dauntless Dexter obviously had a target painted on his back, because my troubles had barely begun. Just as I was tidying up my desk and getting ready to take part in the cheerfully homicidal rush-hour traffic, Vince Masuoka came skipping into my office. “I just talked to Manny,” he said. “He can see us tomorrow morning at ten.”
“That’s wonderful news,” I said. “The only thing that could possibly make it any better would be to know who Manny is and why he wants to see us.”
Vince actually looked a little hurt, one of the few genuine expressions I had ever seen on his face. “Manny Borque,” he said.
“The caterer.”
“The one from MTV?”
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“Yeah, that’s right,” Vince said. “The guy that’s won all the awards, and he’s been written up in Gourmet magazine.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, stalling for time in the hope that some brilliant flash of inspiration would hit to help me dodge this terrible fate.
“The award-winning caterer.”
“Dexter, this guy is big. He could make your whole wedding.”
“Well, Vince, I think that’s terrific, but—”
“Listen,” he said, with an air of firm command that I had never heard from him before, “you said you would talk to Rita about this and let her decide.”
“I said that?”
“Yes, you did. And I am not going to let you throw away a wonderful opportunity like this, not when it’s something that I know Rita would really love to have.”
I wasn’t sure how he could be so positive about that. After all, I was actually engaged to the woman, and I had no idea what sort of caterer might fill her with shock and awe. But I didn’t think this was the time to ask him how he knew what Rita would and would not love. Then again, a man who dressed up as Carmen Miranda for Halloween might very well have a keener insight than mine into my fiancée’s innermost culinary desires.
“Well,” I said, at last deciding that procrastinating long enough to escape was the best answer, “in that case, I’ll go home and talk to Rita about it.”
“Do that,” he said. And he did not storm out, but if there had been a door to slam, he might have slammed it.
I finished tidying up and trundled on out into the evening traffic. On the way home a middle-aged man in a Toyota SUV got right behind me and started honking the horn for some reason. After five or six blocks he pulled around me and, as he flipped me off, juked his steering wheel slightly to frighten me into running up on the sidewalk. Although I admired his spirit and would have loved to oblige him, I stayed on the road. There is never any point in trying to make sense of the way Miami drivers go about getting from one place to another. You just have to relax and enjoy the violence—and of course, that part was never a problem for me. So I smiled and DEXTER IN THE DARK
47
waved, and he stomped on his accelerator and disappeared into traffic at about sixty miles per hour over the speed limit.
Normally I find the chaotic mayhem of the evening drive home to be the perfect way to end the day. Seeing all the anger and lust to kill relaxes me, makes me feel at one with my hometown and its spritely inhabitants. But tonight I found it difficult to summon up any good cheer at all. I never for a moment thought it could ever happen, but I was worried.
Worse still, I didn’t know what I was actually worried about, only that the Dark Passenger had used the silent treatment on me at a scene of creative homicide. This had never happened, and I could only believe that something unus
ual and possibly Dexter-threatening had caused it now. But what? And how could I be sure, when I didn’t really know the first thing about the Passenger itself, except that it had always been there to offer happy insight and commentary. We had seen burned bodies before, and pottery aplenty, with never a twitch or a tweet. Was it the combination? Or something specific to these two bodies? Or was it entirely coincidental and had nothing whatever to do with what we had seen?
The more I thought about it, the less I knew, but the traffic swirled around me in its soothing homicidal patterns, and by the time I got to Rita’s house I had almost convinced myself that there was really nothing to worry about.
Rita, Cody, and Astor were already home when I got there. Rita worked much closer to the house than I did, and the kids were in an after-school program at a nearby park, so they had all been waiting for at least half an hour for the opportunity to torment me out of my hard-won peace of mind.
“It was on the news,” Astor whispered as I opened the door, and Cody nodded and said, “Gross,” in his soft, hoarse voice.
“What was on the news?” I said, struggling to get past them and into the house without trampling on them.
“You burned them!” Astor hissed at me, and Cody looked at me with a complete lack of expression that somehow conveyed disapproval.
“I what? Who did I—”
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“Those two people they found at the college,” she said. “We don’t want to learn that,” she added emphatically, and Cody nodded again.
“At the—you mean at the university? I didn’t—”
“A university is a college,” Astor said with the underlined certainty of a ten-year-old girl. “And we think burning is just gross.”
It began to dawn on me what they had seen on the news—a report from the scene where I had spent my morning collecting dry-roasted blood samples from two charred bodies. And somehow, merely because they knew I had been out to play the other night, they had decided that this was how I had spent my time. Even without the Dark Passenger’s strange retreat, I agreed that it was completely gross, and I found it highly annoying that they thought I was capable of something like that. “Listen,” I said sternly, “that was not—”
