Dexter 3 - Dexter in the Dark (18 page)

A COPY OF AN INCIDENT REPORT LAY ON MY DESK WHEN I
finally got to work, and I realized that someone expected me to be a productive
drone today, in spite of it all. So much had happened in the last few hours
that it was hard to adjust to the idea that most of the workday was still
looming over me with its long sharp teeth, so I went for a cup of coffee before
submitting to servitude. I had half hoped that someone might have brought in
some doughnuts or cookies, but of course it was a foolish thought. There was
nothing but a cup and a half of burned, very dark coffee. I poured some into a
cup-leaving the rest for someone truly desperate-and slogged back to my desk.

I picked up the report and began to read. Apparently someone had driven
a vehicle belonging to a Mr. Darius Starzak into a canal and then fled the
scene. Mr. Starzak himself was thus far unavailable for questioning. It took me
several long moments of blinking and sipping the vile coffee to realize that
this was the report of my incident this morning, and several minutes longer to
decide what to do about it.

To have the name of the car's owner was little enough
to go on-almost nothing, since the odds were good that the car was stolen. But
to assume that and do nothing was worse than trying it and coming up empty, so
I went to work once again on my computer.

First, the standard stuff: the car's registration, which showed an
address off Old Cutler Road in a somewhat pricey neighborhood. Next, the police
records: traffic stops, outstanding warrants, child support payments. There was
nothing. Mr. Starzak was apparently a model citizen who'd had no contact at all
with the long arm of the law.

All right then; the name itself, “Darius Starzak.” Darius was
not a common name-at least, not in the United States. I checked immigration
records. And surprisingly, I got a hit right away.

First of all, it was Dr. Starzak, not Mister. He held a Ph.D. in
religious philosophy from Heidelberg University, and until a few years ago had
been a tenured professor at the University of Kraków. A little more digging
revealed that he had been fired for some kind of uncertain scandal. Polish is
not really one of my stronger languages, although I can say kielbasa when
ordering lunch at a deli. But unless the translation was completely off,
Starzak had been fired for membership in an illegal society.

The file did not mention why
a European scholar who had lost his job for such an obscure reason would want
to follow me and then drive his car into a canal. It seemed like a significant
omission. Nevertheless,

I printed the picture of Starzak from the immigration
file. I squinted at the photo, trying to imagine it half hidden by the large
sunglasses I had seen in the Avalon's side mirror. It could have been him. It
could also have been Elvis. And as far as I knew, Elvis had just as much reason
to follow me as Starzak.

I went a little deeper. It isn't easy for a forensics
wonk to access Interpol without an official reason, even when he is charming
and clever. But after playing my online version of dodgeball for a few minutes,
I got into the central records, and here things became more interesting.

Dr. Darius Starzak was on a special watch list in four
countries, not including the States, which explained why he was here. Although
there was no proof that he had done anything, there were suspicions that he
knew more than he would say about the traffic in war orphans from Bosnia. And
the file casually mentioned that, of course, it is impossible to account for
the whereabouts of such children. In the language of official police documents,
that meant that somebody thought he might be killing them.

I should have filled up with a great thrill of cold
glee as I read this, a wicked gleam of sharp anticipation-but there was
nothing, not the dullest echo of the smallest spark. Instead, I felt a very
small return of the human-style anger I had felt this morning when Starzak was
following me. It was not an adequate replacement for the surge of dark, savage
certainty from the Passenger that I had been used to, but at least it was
something.

Starzak had been doing bad things to children, and
he-or someone using his car, at least-had tried to do them to me. All right
then. So far I had been battered back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball, and I
had been content to take it, passively and without complaint, sucked into a
vacuum of miserable submission because I had been deserted by the Dark
Passenger. But here was something I could understand and, better, act upon.

The Interpol file told me that Starzak was a bad man,
exactly the kind of person I normally tried to find in pursuit of my hobby.
Someone had followed me in his car, and then gone to the extreme measure of
driving his car into a canal to escape. It was possible that someone had stolen
the car and Starzak was completely innocent. I didn't think so, and the
Interpol report argued against it. But just to be sure I checked the stolen
vehicle reports. There was no listing for Starzak or his car.

All right: I was sure it had been him, and this confirmed his guilt. I
knew what to do about this: Just because I was alone inside, did that have to
mean I couldn't do it?

The warm glow of certainty flickered under the anger and brought it to
a slow, confident simmer. It was not the same as the gold-standard sureness I
had always received from the Passenger, but it was certainly more than a hunch.
This was right, I was sure. If I did not have the kind of solid proof I usually
had, too bad. Starzak had escalated the situation to a point where I had no
doubt, and he had moved himself to the top of my list. I would find him and
turn him into a bad memory and a drop of dried blood in my little rosewood box.

And since I was running on emotion for the first time anyway, I allowed
a small feeble flicker of hope to bloom. It might well be that dealing with
Starzak and doing all the things I had never before done alone might bring back
the Dark Passenger. I knew nothing about how these things worked, but it made a
certain kind of sense, didn't it? The Passenger had always been there urging me
on-wouldn't it just possibly show up if I created the kind of situation it
needed? And wasn't Starzak right in front of me and practically begging to be
dealt with?

And if the Passenger didn't come back, why shouldn't I
begin to be me by myself? I was the one who did the heavy lifting-couldn't I
carry on with my vocation, even in my empty state?

All the answers clicked up an angry red
“yes.” And for a moment I paused and waited automatically for the
accustomed answering hiss of pleasure from the shadowy inside corner-but of
course, it did not come.

Never mind. I could do this alone.

I had been working at night a good deal lately, so there
was no surprise at all on Rita's face when I told her after dinner that I had
to go back to the office. Of course, I was not off the hook with Cody and
Astor, who wanted to come with me and do something interesting, or at least
stay home and play kick the can. But after some minor wheedling and a few vague
threats I plucked them off me and slid out the door into the night. My night,
my last remaining friend, with its feeble half-moon flickering in a dull soggy
sky.

Starzak lived in an area with a gate, but a minimum-wage guard in a
little hut is really much better at raising property values than it is at
keeping out someone with Dexter's experience and hunger. And even though it
meant a little bit of a hike after I left my car up the road from the guardhouse,
the exercise was welcome. I'd had too many late nights, too many sour mornings
lately, and it felt good to be up on my legs and moving toward a worthwhile
goal.

I circled slowly through the neighborhood, finding Starzak's address
and moving on past as if I was no more than a neighbor out for an evening
constitutional. There was a light on in the front room and a single car in the
driveway; it had a Florida plate that said Manatee County on the bottom. There
are only 300,000 people living in Manatee County, and at least twice that many
cars on the road that claim to be from there. It's a rental-car trick, designed
to disguise the fact that the driver has rented a car and is therefore a
tourist and a legitimate target for any predator with a yen for easy prey.

I felt a small surge of hot anticipation. Starzak was home, and the
fact that he had a rental car made it more likely that he was the one who had
driven his car into the canal. I moved past the house, alert for any sign that
I had been seen. I saw nothing, and heard only the faint sound of a TV
somewhere nearby.

I circled the block and found a house with no lights
on and hurricane shutters up, a very good sign that no one was home. I moved through
the darkened yard and up to the tall hedge that separated it from Starzak's
house. I slipped into a gap in the shrubbery, slid the clean mask over my face,
pulled on gloves, and waited as my eyes and ears adjusted. And as I did it
occurred to me just how ridiculous I would look if someone saw me. I had never
worried about that before; the Passenger's radar is excellent and always gave
me warning of unwanted eyes. But now, without any interior help, I felt naked.
And as that feeling washed over me, it left another in its wake: sheer,
helpless stupidity.

What was I doing? I was violating nearly every rule I had lived by,
coming here spontaneously, without my usual careful preparation, without any
real proof, and without the Passenger. It was madness. I was just asking to be
discovered, locked up, or hacked to bits by Starzak.

I closed my eyes and listened to the novel emotions
gurgling through me. Feeling-what authentic human fun. Next I could join a
bowling league. Find a chat room online and talk about New Age self-help and
alternative herbal medicine for hemorrhoids. Welcome to the human race, Dexter,
the endlessly futile and pointless human race. We hope you will enjoy your
short and painful stay.

I opened my eyes. I could give up, accept the fact
that Dexter's day was done. Or-I could go through with this, whatever the
risks, and reassert the thing that had always been me. Take action that would
either bring back the Passenger or start me on the path to living without it.
If Starzak was not an absolute certainly, he was close, I was here, and this
was an emergency.

At least it was a clear
choice, something I hadn't had in quite some time. I took a deep breath and
moved

as silently as I could through the hedge and into
Starzak's yard.

I kept to the shadows and got to the side of the house
where a door opened into the garage. It was locked-but Dexter laughs at locks,
and I did not need any help from the Passenger to open this one and step into
the dark garage, quietly closing the door behind me. There was a bicycle along
the far wall, and a workbench with a very neat set of hanging tools. I made a
mental note and crossed the garage to the door that led into the house and
paused there for a long moment with my ear against the door.

Above the faint hum of air-conditioning, I heard a TV and nothing else.
I listened a little longer to be sure, and then very carefully eased open the
door. It was unlocked and opened smoothly and without sound, and I was into
Starzak's house as silent and dark as one of the shadows.

I slipped down a hallway toward the purple glow of the TV, keeping
myself pressed against the wall, painfully aware that if he was behind me for
some reason I was brilliantly backlit. But as I came in sight of the TV, I saw
a head rising above the back of a sofa and I knew I had him.

I held my noose of fifty-pound-test fishing line ready
in my hand and stepped closer. A commercial came on and the head moved
slightly. I froze, but he moved his head back to center again and I was across
the room and on him, my noose whistling around his neck and sliding tight just
above his Adam's apple.

For a moment he thrashed in a very gratifying way, which only pulled
the noose tighter. I watched him flop and grab at his throat, and while it was
enjoyable I did not feel the same cold, savage glee that I was used to at such
moments. Still, it was better than watching the commercial, and I let him go on
until his face started to turn purple and the thrashing subsided into a
helpless wobble.

“Be still and be quiet,” I said, “and I
will let you breathe.”

It was very much to his credit that he understood at
once and stopped his feeble floundering. I eased off on the noose just a bit
and listened while he forced in a breath. Just one-and then I tightened up
again and pulled him to his feet. “Come,” I said, and he came.

I stood behind him, keeping the pressure on the line
just tight enough so that he could breathe a little if he tried really hard,
and I led him down the hall to the back of the house and into the garage. As I
pushed him to the workbench he went down to one knee, either a stumble or a
foolish attempt to escape. Either way, I was in no mood for it, and I pulled
hard enough to make his eyes bulge out and watched as his face got dark and he
slumped over on the floor, unconscious.

Much easier for me. I got his dead weight up onto the workbench and
duct-taped securely into place while he still wallowed in gape-mouthed
unconsciousness. A thin stream of drool ran from one corner of his mouth and
his breath came very rough, even after I loosened the noose. I looked down at
Starzak, taped to the table with his unlovely face hanging open, and I thought,
as I never had before, this is what we all are. This is what it comes to. A bag
of meat that breathes, and when that stops, nothing but rotting garbage.

Starzak began to cough, and
more phlegm dribbled from his mouth. He pushed against the duct tape, found he
could not move, and fluttered open his eyes. He said something
incomprehensible, composed of far too many consonants, and then rolled his eyes
back and saw me. Of course he could not see my face through my mask, but I got
the very unsettling feeling that he recognized me anyway. He moved his mouth a
few times, but said nothing until he finally rolled his eyes back down to point
at his feet and said in a dry and raspy voice with a Central European accent,
but very little of the expected emotion in it, “You are making a very
large mistake.”