Dexter 3 - Dexter in the Dark (21 page)

She glared at me, and for the very first time, I
glared back.

Finally she spoke. “I
still have to report this,” she said. “Officially, you can't come
anywhere near this for now.” “Nothing would make me happier,” I
said. She stared at me for a moment longer, then made her mouth

very small and returned to
Camilla Figg. I watched her back for a moment, and then headed for the door.
There was really no point in hanging around, especially since I had been told,
officially and unofficially, that I was not welcome. It would be nice to say
that my feelings were hurt, but surprisingly, I was still too

angry to feel miffed. And
in truth, I have always been so shocked that anyone could really like me that
it was almost a relief to see Deborah taking a sensible attitude for once. It
was all good all the time for Dexter, but for some reason, it didn't really
feel like a very large victory as

I headed for the door and
exile. I was waiting for the elevator to arrive when I was blindsided by a
hoarse shout of “Hey!” I turned and saw a grim, very angry old man
racing at me wearing sandals and black socks that came up

almost to his knobby old
knees. He also wore baggy shorts and a silk shirt and an expression of
completely righteous wrath. “Are you the police?” he demanded.
“Not all of them,” I said.

“What about my goddamn paper?” he said.

Elevators are so slow, aren't they? But I do try to be polite when it
is unavoidable, so I smiled reassuringly at the old lunatic. “You didn't
like your paper?” I asked.

“I didn't get my goddamn paper!” he shouted at me, turning a
light purple from the effort. “I called and I told you people and the
colored girl on the phone said to call the newspaper! I watch the kid steal it,
and she hangs up on me!”

“A kid stole your newspaper,” I said.

“What the hell did I just say?” he said, and he was getting a
little bit shrill now, which did nothing to make waiting for the elevator any
more enjoyable. “Why the hell do I pay my taxes, to hear her say that? And
she laughs at me, goddamn it!”

“You could get another paper,” I said
soothingly.

It didn't seem to soothe him. “What the hell is
that, get another paper? Saturday morning, in my pajamas, and I should get
another paper? Why can't you people just catch the criminals?”

The elevator made a muted ding sound to announce its arrival at last,
but I was no longer interested, because I had a thought. Every now and then I
do have thoughts. Most of them never make it all the way to the surface,
probably because of a lifetime of trying to seem human. But this one came slowly
up and, like a gas bubble bursting through mud, popped brightly in my brain.
“Saturday morning?” I said. “Do you remember what time?”

“Of course I remember what time! I told them when I called, ten
thirty, on a Saturday morning, and the kid is stealing my paper!”

“How do you know it was a kid?”

“I watched through the peephole, that's how!” he yelled at
me. “I should go out in the hall without looking, the job you people do?
Forget it!”

“When you say 'kid,'” I said, “how old
do you mean?”

“Listen, mister,” he said, “to me, everybody under
seventy is a kid. But this kid was maybe twenty, and he had a backpack on like
they all wear.”

“Can you describe this kid?” I asked.

“I'm not blind,” he said. “He stands up
with my paper, he's got one of those goddamn tattoos they all have now, right
on the back of his neck!”

I felt little metal fingers flutter across the back of my neck and I
knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “What kind of tattoo?”

“Stupid thing, one of those Jap symbols. We beat
the crap out of the Japs so we could buy their cars and tattoo their goddamn
scribbles on our kids?”

He seemed to be only warming up, and while I really
admired the fact that he had such terrific stamina at his age, I felt it was
time to turn him over to the proper authorities as constituted by my sister,
which lit up in me a small glow of satisfaction, since it not only gave her a
suspect better than poor Disenfranchised Dexter but also inflicted this beguiling
old poop on her as a small measure of punishment for suspecting me in the first
place. “Come with me,” I said to the old man.

“I'm not going
anywhere,” he said. “Wouldn't you like to talk to a real
detective?” I said, and the hours of practice I had spent on my smile

must have paid off, because
he frowned, looked around him, and then said, “Well, all right,” and
followed me all the way back to where Sergeant Sister was snarling at Camilla
Figg. “I told you to stay away,” she said, with all the warmth and
charm I had come to expect from her. “Okay,” I said. “Shall I
take the witness away with me?” Deborah opened her mouth, then closed and
opened it a few more times, as if she was trying to figure out

how to breathe like a fish. “You can't-it
isn't-Goddamn it, Dexter,” she said at last. “I can, it is, and I'm
sure he will,” I said. "But in the meantime, this nice old gentleman
has something

interesting to tell you.“ ”Who the hell are
you to call me old?“ he said. ”This is Detective Morgan,“ I told
him. ”She's in charge here.“ ”A girl?“ he snorted. ”No
wonder they can't catch anybody. A girl detective.“ ”Be sure to tell
her about the backpack,“ I told him. ”And the tattoo.“
”What tattoo?“ she demanded. ”What the hell are you talking
about?“ ”The mouth on you,“ the old man said. ”Shame!“
I smiled at my sister. ”Have a nice chat," I said.

I COULD NOT BE SURE THAT I WAS OFFICIALLY INVITED BACK
to the party, but I didn't want to go so far away that I missed the chance to graciously
accept my sister's apology. So I went to loiter just inside the front door of
the former Manny Borque's apartment, where I could be noticed at the
appropriate time. Unfortunately, the killer had not stolen the giant artistic
ball of animal vomit on the pedestal by the door. It was still there, right in
the middle of my loitering grounds, and I was forced to look at it while I
waited.

I was wondering how long it would take Deborah to ask the
old man about the tattoo and then make the connection. Even as I wondered, I
heard her raise her voice in official ritual words of dismissal, thanking the
old man for his help and instructing him to call if he thought of anything
else. And then the two of

them came toward the door, Deborah holding the old man
firmly by the elbow and steering him out of the apartment. “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.
“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 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 economy. 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 she
seemed a little too enthusiastic about her role as a representative 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
turmoil 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 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 suddenly
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.

image

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.