Dexter 4 - Dexter by Design (3 page)

ONE OF THE GREAT THINGS ABOUT MIAMI HAS ALWAYS been the total willingness of its residents to pave everything.

Our fair city began as a sub-tropical garden teeming with wildlife, both animal and vegetable, and after only a very few years of hard work all the plants were gone and the animals were dead.

Of course, their memory lingers on in the condo clusters that replace them. It is an unwritten law that each new development is named after whatever was killed to build it. Destroy eagles? Eagle's Nest Gated Community. Kill off the panthers? Panther Run Planned Living. Simple and elegant, and generally very lucrative.

I don't mean to suggest by this that Fairchild Gardens was a parking lot where all the Fairchilds and their tulips had been killed.

Far from it. If anything, it represented the revenge of the plants. You had to drive past a certain number of Orchid Bays and Cypress Hollows to get there, but when you arrived, you were greeted by a vast natural-looking wilderness of trees and orchids nearly devoid of hedge-clipping humanity. Except for the busloads of tourists, of course. Still, there were actually one or two places where you could look at a genuine palm tree without seeing neon lights in the background, and on the whole I usually found it a relief to walk among the trees and vegetate far from the hurly-burly.

But this morning, the parking area was overflowing when we arrived, since the gardens had been closed with the discovery of Something Awful, and the crowds of people who had scheduled a visit had backed up at the entrance, hoping to get inside so they could mark it off on their itinerary, and maybe even see something horrible so they could pretend to be shocked. A perfect vacation visit to Miami; orchids and corpses.

There were even two elfin young men with video cameras circulating through the crowd and filming, of all things, the people standing around and waiting. As they moved they called out, “Murder in the gardens!” and other encouraging remarks. Perhaps they had a good parking spot and didn't want to leave it, since there was absolutely no place left to park anything larger than a unicycle.

Deborah, of course, was a Miami native, and a Miami cop; she pushed her motor-pool Ford through the crowd and parked it right in front of the main entrance to the park, where several other official cars were already parked, and jumped right out. By the time I got out of the car she was already talking to the uniformed officer standing there, a short beefy guy named Meltzer, whom I knew slightly. He was pointing down one of the paths on the far side of the entrance, and Deborah was already headed past him along the trail he had indicated.

I followed as quickly as I could. I was used to tagging along behind Deborah and playing catch-up, since she always rushed onto a crime scene. It never seemed quite politic to point out to her that there was really no need to hurry. After all, the victim wasn't going anywhere. Still, Deborah hurried, and she expected me to be there to decipher the scene. And so, before she could get lost in the carefully tended jungle, I hurried after her.

I finally caught up to her just as she skidded to a halt in a small clearing off the main trail, an area called Rain Forest. There was a bench where the weary nature lover could pause and recuperate amid the blooms. Alas for poor panting Dexter, breathing hard now as a result of racing pell-mell after Debs, the bench was already occupied by someone who clearly needed to sit down far more than I did.

He sat beside running water in the shade of a palm tree, dressed in baggy cotton shorts, the flimsy kind that have somehow become acceptable to wear in public recently, and he wore the rubber flip flops that invariably go with the shorts. He also had on a T-shirt that said, “I'm with Butthead” and he was draped with a camera and pensively clutching a bouquet. Although I say pensively, it was a very different kind of pensiveness, because his head had been neatly removed and replaced with a colorful spray of tropical flowers.

Instead of flowers the bouquet consisted of a bright and festive heap of intestines, topped by what was almost certainly a heart and surrounded by an appreciative cloud of flies.

“Son of a bitch,” Deborah said and it was hard to argue with her logic. “Son of a god damn bitch. Three of “em in one day”

“We don't know for sure that they're connected,” I said carefully, and she glared at me.

“You want to tell me we got two of these assholes running around at the same time?” she demanded.

“It doesn't seem very likely,” I admitted.

“You're goddamned right it doesn't. And I'm about to have Captain Matthews and every reporter on the Eastern Seaboard on my ass.”

“Sounds like quite a party,” I said.

“So what am I supposed to tell them?”

“We are pursuing a number of leads and hope to have something more definite to tell you shortly,” I said.

Deborah stared at me with the look of a large and very angry fish, all teeth and wide eyes. I can remember that shit without your help,” she said. “Even the reporters can remember that shit. And Captain Matthews invented that shit.”

“What kind of shit would you prefer?” I asked.

“The kind of shit that tells me what this is about, asshole.” I ignored my sister's term of endearment and looked again at our nature-loving friend. There was an air of studied ease to the position of the body that created a very large contrast to the fact that it was actually a very dead and headless former human being. It had apparently been posed with extreme care, and once again I got the distinct impression that this final diorama was more important than the actual killing had been.

It was a little bit disturbing, in spite of the mocking chuckle from the Dark Passenger. It was as if someone admitted they went through all the bother and mess of sex only to smoke a cigarette afterwards.

Equally disturbing was the fact that, as at the earlier scene, I was getting no hints at all from the Passenger, beyond a kind of disconnected and appreciative amusement.

“What this seems to be about,” I said hesitatingly, “is making some kind of statement.”

“Statement?” Deborah said. “What kind of statement?”

“I don't know.”

Deborah stared at me for a moment longer, then shook her head.

“Thank God you're here to help,” she said and before I could think of some suitable stinging remark in my defense, the forensic team bustled into our peaceful little glen and began to photograph, measure, dust, and peer into all the tiny places that might hold answers. Deborah immediately turned away to talk to Camilla Figg, one of the lab geeks, and I was left alone to suffer in the knowledge that I had failed my sister.

I am sure the suffering would have been terrible if I was capable of feeling remorse, or any other crippling human emotion, but I am not built for it, and so I didn't feel it —or anything else except hunger.

I went back out to the parking area and talked to Officer Meltzer until someone came along who could give me a ride back to the South Beach site. I had left my kit there, and had not even made a start on looking for any blood evidence.

I spent the rest of the morning shuttling back and forth between the two crime scenes. There was very little actual spatter work for me to do, no more than the few small, nearly dry spots in the sand that suggested the couple on the beach had been killed elsewhere and brought out onto the beach later. I was pretty sure we had all assumed this already, since it was very unlikely that somebody would do all that chopping and re-arranging quite so publicly, so I didn't bother to mention this to Deborah, who was already in a pointless frenzy, and I didn't want any more of it aimed at me.

The only real break I got all day was at almost one o'clock, when Angel-no-relation offered to drive me back to my cubicle, and stop along the way at Calle Ocho for lunch at his favorite Cuban restaurant, Habanita. I had a very nice Cuban steak with all the trimmings, and two cafecitas with my flan dessert, and I felt a whole lot better about myself as I headed into the building, flashed my credentials, and stepped into the elevator.

As the elevator doors slid shut I felt a small flutter of uncertainty from the Passenger, and I listened hard, wondering if this was a reaction to the morning's carnival of carnage, or perhaps the result of too many onions with my steak. But I could get nothing more from it beyond a certain tensing of invisible black wings, very often a sign that things were not what they should be.

How this could happen in an elevator I did not know, and I considered the idea that the Passenger's recent sabbatical in the face of Moloch might have left it in a mildly dithering and unsettled state. It would not do, of course, to have a less than effective Passenger, and I was pondering what to do about that when the elevator doors opened and all questions were answered.

As if he had known we would be aboard, Sergeant Doakes stood glaring and unblinking at the exact spot where we stood, and the shock was considerable. He had never liked me; had always had the unreasonable suspicion that I was some kind of monster, which of course I was, and he had been determined to prove it somehow. But an amateur surgeon had captured Doakes and removed his hands, feet, and tongue, and although I had endured considerable inconvenience in trying to save him —and really, I did help save most of him —he had decided his new, trimmed-down form was my fault, and he liked me even less.

Even the fact that without his tongue he was now incapable of saying anything that was minimally coherent was no help; he said it anyway, and the rest of us were forced to endure what sounded like a strange new language made up of all “G” and “N” sounds, and spoken with an urgent and threatening delivery that made you look for an emergency exit even while you strained to understand.

So I braced myself for some angry gibberish and he stood there looking at me with an expression that is usually reserved for grandmother-rapers, and I began to wonder if I could possibly just push past him, but then the elevator doors began to close automatically.

Before I could escape back downstairs, Doakes shot out his right hand —actually a gleaming steel claw —and stopped the doors from closing.

“Thank you,” I said, and took a tentative step forward. But he did not budge and he did not blink and without knocking him down, I did not see how I could get by.

Doakes kept his unblinking loathing stare on me and brought up a small silver thing about the size of a hardcover book. He flipped it open to reveal that it was a small hand-held computer or PDA and, still without looking away from me, he jabbed at it with his claw.

“Put it on my desk,” said a disjointed male voice from the PDA, and Doakes snarled a little more and jabbed again. “Black with two sugars,” the voice said, and he poked again. “Have a nice day,” it said in a very pleasant baritone that should have come from a happy, pudgy white American man, instead of this glowering dark cyborg so bent on revenge.

But at least he finally had to look away, down to the keyboard of the thing he held in his claw, and after staring for a moment at what was clearly a cluster of pre-recorded sentences, he found the right button.

“I am still watching you,” said the happy voice. Its cheerful, positive tone should have made me feel very good about myself, but the fact that it was Doakes saying it by proxy somehow spoiled the effect.

“That's very reassuring,” I said. “Would you mind watching me get off the elevator?”

For a moment I thought he did mind, and he moved his claw to the keyboard again. But then he remembered that it hadn't worked out too well before to poke it without looking, so he glanced down, punched a button, and looked up at me as the cheerful voice said, “Motherfucker,” in a tone that made it sound like, “Jelly doughnut.” But at least he moved aside slightly so I could get by.

“Thank you,” I said, and because I am sometimes not a very kind person, I added, “And I will put it on your desk. Black with two sugars. Have a nice day.” I stepped past him and headed down the hall, but I could feel his eyes on me all the way down to my cubicle.

THE ORDEAL OF THE WORKING DAY HAD BEEN nightmarish enough, from being stranded without doughnuts in the morning all the way through to the terrifying encounter with what was left of Sergeant Doakes, the vocally enhanced version. Even so, none of this prepared me for the shock of arriving home.

I'd been hoping for the warm and fuzzy glow of a good meal and some down time with Cody and Astor my adopted children perhaps a game of Kick the Can out in the yard before dinner. But as I pulled up and parked at Rita's house —now my house, too, which took some getting used to —I was surprised to see the two small tousled heads sitting in the front yard, apparently waiting for me. Since I knew full well that SpongeBob was on TV right now, I could not imagine what would make them do this. So it was with a growing sense of alarm that I climbed out of my car and approached them.

“Greetings, citizens,” I said. They stared at me with a matched set of mournful looks, but said nothing. That was to be expected from Cody, who never spoke more than four words at a time. But for Astor, it was alarming, since she had inherited her mother's talent for circular breathing, which allowed them both to talk without pausing for air. To see her sit there without speaking was almost unprecedented. So I switched languages and tried again.

“What up, yo?” I asked them.

“Poop van,” said Cody. Or at any rate, that's what I thought I heard. But since none of my training had prepared me to respond to anything remotely like that, I looked over at Astor, hoping for some hint about how I should react.

“Mom said we get to have pizza but it's the poop van for you, and we didn't want you to go away, so we came out here to warn you. You're not going away, are you, Dexter?” It was a small relief to know that I had heard Cody right, even though that now meant that I had to make sense of “poop van'. Had Rita really said that? Did it mean that I had done something very bad that I didn't know about? That didn't seem fair —I liked to remember and enjoy it when I do something bad. And one day after the honeymoon —wasn't that just a little abrupt?

“As far as I know, I'm not going anywhere,” I said. “Are you sure that's what your mom said?” They nodded in unison and Astor said, “Uh-huh. She said you'd be surprised.”

“She was right,” I said, and it really didn't seem fair. I was totally at a loss. “Come on,” I said. “We'll go tell her I'm not going.” They each took one of my hands and we went inside.

The air inside the house was filled with a tantalizing aroma, strangely familiar and yet exotic, as if you sniffed a rose and instead smelled pumpkin pie. It was coming from the kitchen, so I led my small troop in that direction.

“Rita?” I called out, and the clatter of a pan answered me.

“It's not ready,” she said. “It's a surprise.” As we all know, surprise is usually ominous, unless it is your birthday —and even then, there are no guarantees. But I pushed bravely into the kitchen anyway, and found Rita wearing an apron and fussing over the stove, a lock of blonde hair falling unnoticed down across her forehead.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked.

“What? No, of course not. Why would— damn it!” she said, sticking a singed finger into her mouth, and then stirring the contents of the pan furiously.

“Cody and Astor say you're sending me away,” I said.

Rita dropped her stirring spoon and looked at me with an expression of alarm. “Away? That's silly, I— why would I ...” She bent to pick up the spoon and jumped to the skillet to stir again.

“So you didn't call the poop van?” I said.

“Dexter,” she said, with a certain amount of stress in her voice, “I am trying to make you a special meal, and I'm working very hard not to ruin it. Can this please wait until later?” And she jumped to the counter and grabbed a measuring cup, and then rushed back to the skillet.

“What are you making?” I said.

“You liked the food so much in Paris,” she said, frowning and slowly stirring in whatever was in the measuring cup.

I almost always like the food,” I said.

“So I wanted to make you a nice French meal,” she said. “Coq au vin.” She said it with her best Bad French accent, caca van, and a very small light bulb came on in my head.

“Caca van?” I said, and I looked at Astor.

She nodded. “Poop van,” she said.

“Damn it!” said Rita again, this time trying vainly to stick a burned elbow into her mouth.

“Come along, children,” I said in a Mary Poppins voice. “I'll explain it outside.” And I led them through the house, down the hall, and out into the backyard. We sat together on the step and they both looked at me expectantly.

“All right,” I said. “Caca van is just a misunderstanding.” Astor shook her head. Since she knew absolutely everything, a misunderstanding was not possible. “Anthony said that caca means poop in Spanish,” she said with certainty. “And everybody knows what a van is.”

“But coq au vin is French,” I said. “It's something your mother and I learned about in France.” Astor shook her head, a little doubt showing on her face.

“Nobody speaks French,” she said.

“Several people speak it in France,” I said. “And even over here, some people like your mother think they speak it.”

“So what is it?” she asked.

“It's chicken,” I said.

They looked at each other, then back at me. Oddly enough, it was Cody who broke the silence. “Do we still get pizza?” he asked.

“I'm pretty sure you do,” I said. “So how about rounding up a team for Kick the Can?”

Cody whispered something to Astor, and she nodded. “Can you teach us stuff? You know, the other stuff?” she said.

The “other stuff she referred to was, of course, the Dark Lore that went with training to be Dexter's Disciples. I had discovered recently that the two of them, because of the repeated trauma of life with their biological father, who regularly beat them with furniture and small appliances, had both turned into what can only be described as My Children. Dexter's Descendants.

They were as permanently scarred as I was, forever twisted away from fuzzy puppy reality and into the sunless land of wicked pleasure. They were far too eager to begin playing fiendish games, and the only safe way out for them was through me and onto the Harry Path.

Truthfully, it would be a very real delight to conduct a small lesson tonight, as a baby step back in the direction of resuming my “normal life', if one could apply such an expression to my existence. The honeymoon had strained my imitations of polite behavior beyond all their previous limits, and I was ready to slither back into the shadows and polish my fangs. Why not bring the children along?

All right,” I said. “Go get some kids for Kick the Can, and I'll show you something you can use.”

“By playing Kick the Can?” Astor said with a pout. “We don't want to know that.”

“Why do I always win when we play Kick the Can?” I asked them.

“You don't,” Cody said.

“Sometimes I let one of you win,” I said loftily.

“Ha,” Cody said.

“The point is,” I said, I know how to move quietly. Why could that be important?”

“Sneak up on people,” Cody said, which were a lot of words in a row for him. It was wonderful to see him coming out of his shell with this new hobby.

“Yes,” I said. “And Kick the Can is a good game to practice that.” They looked at each other, and then Astor said, “Show us first, and then we'll go get everybody”

“All right,” I said, and I stood up and led them to the hedge between our yard and the neighbors'.

It was not dark yet, but the shadows were getting longer and we stood there in the shaded grass beside the hedge. I closed my eyes for just a moment; something stirred in the dark back seat and I let the rustling of black wings rattle softly through me, feeling myself blend in with the shadows and become a part of the darkness ...

“What are you doing?” Astor said.

I opened my eyes and looked at her. She and her brother were staring at me as if I had suddenly started to eat dirt, and it occurred to me that trying to explain an idea like becoming one with the darkness might be a tough sell. But it had been my idea to do this, so there was really no way around it.

“First,” I said, trying to sound casually logical, “you have to make yourself relax, and feel like you're a part of the night around you.”

“It's not night,” Astor pointed out.

“Then just be a part of the late afternoon, okay?” I said. She looked dubious, but she didn't say anything else, so I went on.

“Now,” I said. “There's something inside you that you need to wake up, and you need to listen to it. Does that make sense to you?”

“Shadow Guy,” said Cody, and Astor nodded.

I looked at the two of them and felt something close to religious wonder. They knew about the Shadow Guy —their name for the Dark Passenger. They had it inside them as certainly as I did, and were familiar enough with its existence to have named it. There could be no doubt about it —they were already in the same dark world I lived in. It was a profound moment of connection, and I knew now that I was doing the right thing —these were my children and the Passenger's and the thought that we were together in this stronger-than-blood bond was almost overwhelming.

I was not alone. I had a large and wonderful responsibility in taking charge of these two and keeping them safely on the Harry Path to becoming what they already were, but with safety and order.

It was a lovely moment, and I am quite sure that somewhere music was playing.

And that really should have been how this day of turmoil and hardship ended. Really and truly, if there were any justice at all in this wide wicked world, we would have frolicked happily in the evening's heat, bonding and learning wonderful secrets, and then ambling in to a delicious meal of French food and American pizza.

But of course, there is no such thing as justice, and most of the time I find myself pausing to reflect that it must be true that life does not really like us very much, after all. And I should not have been surprised when, just as I reached out a hand to each of them, my cell phone began to warble.

“Get your ass down here,” Deborah barked, without even a hello.

“Of course,” I said. “As long as the rest of me can stay here for dinner.”

“That's funny,” she said, although she didn't sound very amused.

“But I don't need another laugh right now, because I am looking at another one of those hilarious dead bodies.” I felt a small inquisitive purr from the Passenger, and several hairs on the back of my neck stood up for a closer look. “Another?” I said. “You mean like the three posed bodies this morning?”

“That's exactly what I mean,” she said, and hung up.

“Har-de-har-har,” I said, and put my phone away.

Cody and Astor were looking at me with identical expressions of disappointment. “That was Sergeant Debbie, wasn't it?” Astor said. “She wants you to go to work.”

“That's right,” I admitted.

“Mom is going to be really mad,” she said, and it hit me that she was probably right —I could still hear Rita making furious cooking noises in the kitchen, punctuated with the occasional “damn it'. I was hardly an expert on the subject of human expectations, but I was pretty sure she would be upset that I was going to leave without tasting this special and painfully prepared meal.

“Now I really am on the poop van,” I said, and I went inside, wondering what I could possibly say and hoping some inspiration might hit me before Rita did.