Darkly Dreaming Dexter

by Jeff Lindsay

  “But what about my paper, miss?” he protested as she opened the door.

  “It’s Sergeant Miss,” I told him, and Deborah glared at me.

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  “Call the paper,” she told him. “They’ll give you a refund.” And she practically hurled him out the door, where he stood for a moment trembling with anger.

  “The bad guys are winning!” he shouted, and then, happily for us, Deborah closed the door.

  “He’s right, you know,” I said to her.

  “Well, you don’t have to look so goddamned happy about it,”

  she said.

  “And you, on the other hand, might try looking a lot happier,”

  I said. “It’s him, the boyfriend, what’s his name.”

  “Kurt Wagner,” she said.

  “Very good,” I said. “Due diligence. Kurt Wagner it is, and you know it.”

  “I don’t know shit,” she said. “It could still be a coincidence.”

  “Sure, it could be,” I said. “And there’s even a mathematical chance that the sun will come up in the west, but it’s not very likely.

  And who else do you have?”

  “That fucking creep, Wilkins,” she said.

  “Somebody’s been watching him, right?”

  She snorted. “Yeah, but you know what these guys are like.

  They take a nap, or take a dump, and swear the guy was never out of their sight. Meantime, the guy they’re supposed to watch is out chopping up cheerleaders.”

  “So you really still think he could be the killer? Even when this kid was here at exactly the same time Manny was killed?”

  “You were here at the same time,” she said. “And this one’s not like the others. More like a cheap copy.”

  “Then how did Tammy Connor’s head get here?” I said. “Kurt Wagner is doing this, Debs, he has to be.”

  “All right,” she said. “He probably is.”

  “Probably?” I said, and I really was surprised. Everything pointed to the kid with the neck tattoo, and Deborah was dithering.

  She looked at me for a long moment, and it was not a look of warm, loving filial affection. “It still might be you,” she said.

  “By all means, arrest me,” I said. “That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t it? Captain Matthews will be happy because 204

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  you made an arrest, and the media will love you for busting your brother. Terrific solution, Deborah. It will even make the real killer happy.”

  Deborah said nothing, just turned and walked away. After thinking about it for a moment, I realized what a good idea that was. So I did it, too, and walked away in the opposite direction, out of the apartment and back to work.

  The rest of my day was far more fulfilling. Two bodies, male, Caucasian, had been found in a BMW parked on the shoulder of the Palmetto Expressway. When somebody tried to steal the car, they found the bodies and phoned it in—after removing the sound system and the airbags. The apparent cause of death was multiple gunshot wounds. The newspapers are fond of using the phrase

  “gangland style” for killings that show a certain neatness and econ-omy. We would not be searching for any gangs this time. The two bodies and the inside of the car had been quite literally hosed with lead and spurting blood, as though the killer had trouble figuring out which end of the gun to hold on to. Judging from the bullet holes in the windows, it was a miracle that no passing motorists had been shot as well.

  A busy Dexter should be a happy Dexter, and there was enough awful dried blood in the car and on the surrounding pavement to keep me occupied for hours, but not surprisingly I was still not happy. I had such a large number of hideous things happening to me, and now there was this disagreement with Debs. It was not really accurate to say that I loved Deborah, since I am incapable of love, but I was used to her, and I would rather have her around and reasonably content with me.

  Other than a few ordinary sibling squabbles when we were younger, Deborah and I had rarely had any serious disagreements, and I was a bit surprised to find out that this one bothered me a great deal. In spite of the fact that I am a soulless monster who enjoys killing, it stung to have her think of me that way, especially since I had given my word of honor as an ogre that I was entirely innocent, at least in this case.

  I wanted to get along with my sister, but I was also miffed that DEXTER IN THE DARK

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  she seemed a little too enthusiastic about her role as a representa-tive of the Full Majesty of the Law, and not quite willing enough as my sidekick and confidante.

  Of course it made sense for me to be wasting my perfectly good indignation on this, since there was nothing else at all to occupy my attention at the time—things like weddings, mysterious music, and missing Passengers always sort themselves out, right? And blood spatter is a simple craft that requires minimal concentration. To prove it, I let my thoughts wander as I mentally wallowed in my sad state, and because of it I slipped in the congealed blood and went down to one knee on the roadside by the BMW.

  The shock of contact with the road was immediately echoed by an interior shock, a jolt of fear and cold air going through me, rising up from the awful sticky mess and straight into my empty self, and it was a long moment before I could breathe again. Steady, Dexter, I thought. This is just a small, painful reminder of who you are and where you came from, brought on by stress. It has nothing to do with operatic cattle.

  I managed to stand up without whimpering, but my pants were torn, my knee hurt, and one leg of the pants was covered with the vile half-dry blood.

  I really don’t like blood. And to look down and see it actually on my clothes, actually touching me, and on top of the complete tur-moil my life had become and the great empty Passenger-less pit I had fallen into—the blood completed the circuit. These were definitely emotions I was feeling now, and they were not pleasant. I felt myself shudder and I nearly shouted, but I managed, just barely, to contain myself, clean up, and soldier on.

  I did not feel much better, but I made it through the day by changing into the extra set of clothing that wise blood-spatter techs keep handy, and it was finally time to head home.

  As I drove south to Rita’s on Old Cutler a little red Geo got on my bumper and would not back off. I watched in the mirror, but I could not see the driver’s face, and I wondered if I had done something I wasn’t aware of to make him or her angry. I was very tempted to step on the brakes and let the chips fall where they 206

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  might, but I was not yet so completely frazzled as to believe that wrecking my car would make anything better. I tried to ignore the other car, just one more semi-insane Miami driver with a mysterious hidden agenda.

  But it stayed with me, inches away, and I began to wonder what that agenda might be. I sped up. The Geo sped up and stayed right on my bumper.

  I slowed down; so did the Geo.

  I moved across two lanes of traffic, leaving a chorus of angry horns and upraised fingers in my wake. The Geo followed.

  Who was it? What did they want with me? Was it possible that Starzak knew that it was me who had taped him up, and now he was coming after me in a different car, determined to revenge himself on me? Or was it someone else this time—and if so, who? Why? I could not bring myself to believe that Moloch was driving the car behind me. How could an ancient god even get a learner’s permit? But somebody was back there, clearly planning to stay with me for a while, and I had no idea who. I found myself flailing for an answer, reaching for something that was no longer there, and the sense of loss and emptiness amplified my uncertainty and anger and uneasiness, and I realized my breath was hissing in and out between clenched teeth and my hands were clenched on the wheel and covered with a chilly sheen of sweat, and I thought, that’s enough.

  And as I mentally prepared myself to slam on the brakes and leap out of the car to smash this other driver’s face into a red pulp, the red Geo sud
denly slid off my bumper and turned right, vanishing down a side street into the Miami night.

  It had been nothing after all, just a perfectly normal rush-hour psychosis. Another average crazed Miami driver, killing the boredom of the long drive home by playing tag with the car in front.

  And I was nothing more than a dazed, battered, paranoid former monster with his hands clenched and his teeth grinding together.

  I went home.

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  The Watcher dropped away and then circled back. He moved through the traffic invisible to the other now, and turned down the street to the house well behind the other. He had enjoyed tailing him so closely, forcing a display of mild panic. He had provoked the other in order to gauge his readiness, and what he found was very satisfying. It was a finely balanced process, to push the other precisely into the right frame of mind. He had done it many times before, and he knew the signs. Jumpy, but not quite on the ragged edge where he needed to be, not yet.

  It was clearly time to accelerate things.

  Tonight would be very special.

  T W E N T Y - S E V E N

  Dinner was ready when I got to Rita’s house. Considering what I had gone through and what I was thinking about it, you might have thought that I would never eat again. But as I walked in the front door I was assaulted by the aroma; Rita had made roast pork, broccoli, and rice and beans, and there are very few things in this world that compare to Rita’s roast pork. And so it was a somewhat mollified Dexter who finally pushed the plate away and rose from the table. And in truth, the rest of the evening was mildly soothing as well. I played kick the can with Cody and Astor and the other neighborhood children until it was bedtime, and then Rita and I sat on the couch and watched a show about a grumpy doctor before turning in for the night.

  Normality wasn’t all bad, not with Rita’s roast pork in it, and Cody and Astor to keep me interested. Perhaps I could live vicari-ously through them, like an old baseball player who becomes a coach when his playing days are over. They had so much to learn, and in teaching them I could relive my fading days of glory. Sad, yes, but it was at least a small compensation.

  And as I drifted off to sleep, in spite of the fact that I really do DEXTER IN THE DARK

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  know better, I caught myself thinking that maybe things weren’t that bad after all.

  That foolish notion lasted until midnight, when I woke up to see Cody standing at the foot of the bed. “Somebody’s outside,” he said.

  “All right,” I said, feeling half asleep and not at all curious about why he needed to tell me that.

  “They want in,” he said.

  I sat up. “Where?” I said.

  Cody turned and headed into the hallway and I followed. I was half convinced that he had simply had a bad dream, but after all, this was Miami and these things have been known to happen, although certainly seldom more than five or six hundred times on any given night.

  Cody led me to the door to the backyard. About ten feet from the door he stopped dead, and I stopped with him.

  “There,” Cody said softly.

  There indeed. It was not a bad dream, or at least not the kind you need to be asleep to have.

  The doorknob was moving, wiggling as someone on the outside tried to turn it.

  “Wake up your mom,” I whispered to Cody. “Tell her to call 9-1-1.” He looked up at me as if he was disappointed that I wasn’t going to charge out the door with a hand grenade and take care of things myself, but then he turned and walked back down the hall toward the bedroom.

  I approached the door, quietly and cautiously. On the wall beside it was a switch that turned on a floodlight which illuminated the backyard. As I reached for the switch, the doorknob stopped turning. I turned the light on anyway.

  Immediately, as if the switch had caused it to happen, something began to thump on the front door.

  I turned and ran for the front of the house—and halfway there Rita stepped into the hall and crashed into me. “Dexter,” she said.

  “What—Cody said—”

  “Call the cops,” I told her. “Someone is trying to break in.” I 210

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  looked behind her at Cody. “Get your sister and all of you get into the bathroom. Lock the door.”

  “But who would—we’re not—” Rita said.

  “Go,” I told her, and pushed past her to the front door.

  Once again I flipped on the outside light, and once again the sound stopped immediately.

  Only to start up again down the hall, apparently on the kitchen window.

  And naturally enough when I ran into the kitchen the sound had already stopped, even before I turned on the overhead light.

  I slowly approached the window over the sink and carefully peeked out.

  Nothing. Just the night and the hedge and the neighbor’s house and nothing else whatsoever.

  I straightened up and stood there for a moment, waiting for the noise to start up again at some other corner of the house. It didn’t.

  I realized I was holding my breath, and I let it out. Whatever it was, it had stopped. It was gone. I unclenched my fists and took a deep breath.

  And then Rita screamed.

  I turned around fast enough to twist my ankle, but still hobbled for the bathroom as quickly as I could. The door was locked, but from inside I could hear something scrabbling at the window. Rita shouted, “Go away!”

  “Open the door,” I said, and a moment later Astor opened it wide.

  “It’s at the window,” she said, rather calmly I thought.

  Rita was standing in the middle of the bathroom with her clenched fists raised to her mouth. Cody stood in front of her pro-tectively holding the toilet plunger, and they were both staring at the window.

  “Rita,” I said.

  She turned to me with her eyes wide and filled with fear. “But what do they want?” she demanded, as if she thought I could tell her. And perhaps I could have, in the ordinary course of things—

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  when I had my Passenger to keep me company and whisper terrible secrets. But as it was, I only knew they wanted in and I did not know why.

  I also did not know what they wanted, but it didn’t seem quite as important at the moment as the fact that they obviously wanted something and thought we had it. “Come on,” I said. “Everybody out of here.” Rita turned to look at me, but Cody stood his ground.

  “Move,” I said, and Astor took Rita by the hand and hurried through the door. I put a hand on Cody’s shoulder and pushed him after his mother, gently prying the plunger from his hands, and then I turned to face the window.

  The noise continued, a hard scratching that sounded like someone was trying to claw through the glass. Without any real conscious thought I stepped forward and whacked the window with the rubber head of the toilet plunger.

  The sound stopped.

  For a long moment there was no sound except for my breathing, which I realized was somewhat fast and ragged. And then, not too far away, I heard a police siren cutting through the silence. I backed out of the bathroom, watching the window.

  Rita sat on the bed with Cody on one side of her and Astor on the other. The children seemed quite calm, but Rita was clearly on the edge of hysteria. “It’s all right,” I said. “The cops are almost here.”

  “Will it be Sergeant Debbie?” Astor asked me, and she added hopefully, “Do you think she’ll shoot somebody?”

  “Sergeant Debbie is in bed, asleep,” I said. The siren was near now, and with a squeal of tires it came to a stop in front of our house and wound its way down through the scale to a grumbling halt.

  “They’re here,” I told them, and Rita lunged up off the bed and grabbed the children by the hand.

  The three of them followed me out of the bedroom, and by the time we got to the front door there
was already a knock sounding on the wood, polite but firm. Still, life teaches us caution, so I called out, “Who is it?”

  “This is the police,” a stern masculine voice said. “We have a 212

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  report of a possible break-in.” It sounded authentic, but just to be sure, I left the chain on as I opened the door and looked out. Sure enough, there were two uniformed cops standing there, one looking at the door and one turned away, looking out into the yard and the street.

  I closed the door, took the chain off, and reopened it. “Come in, Officer,” I said. His name tag said Ramirez, and I realized I knew him slightly. But he made no move to enter the house; he simply stared down at my hand.

  “What kind of emergency is this, chief?” he said, nodding at my hand. I looked and realized I was still holding the toilet plunger.

  “Oh,” I said. I put the plunger behind the door in the umbrella stand. “Sorry. That was for self-defense.”

  “Uh-huh,” Ramirez said. “Guess it would depend what the other guy had.” He stepped forward into the house, calling over his shoulder to his partner, “Take a look around the yard, Williams.”

  “Yo,” said Williams, a wiry black man of about forty. He walked down into the yard and disappeared around the corner of the house.

  Ramirez stood in the center of the room, looking at Rita and the kids. “So, what’s the story here?” he asked, and before I could answer he squinted at me. “I know you from somewhere?” he said.

  “Dexter Morgan,” I said. “I work in forensics.”

  “Right,” he said. “So what happened here, Dexter?”

  I told him.

  T W E N T Y - E I G H T

  The cops stayed with us for about forty minutes.

  They looked around the yard and the surrounding neighborhood and found nothing, which did not seem to surprise them, and which truthfully was not a great shock to me, either.

  When they were done looking Rita made them coffee and fed them some oatmeal cookies she had made.