Dexter 3 - Dexter in the Dark (6 page)

“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 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 unusual 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-”

“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-”

“Dexter? Is that you?” Rita yodeled from the
kitchen.

“I'm not sure,” I called back. “Let me
check my wallet.”

Rita bustled in beaming and before I could protect myself she wrapped
herself around me, apparently intent on squeezing hard enough to interfere with
my breathing. “Hi, handsome,” she said. “How was your day?”

“Gross,” muttered
Astor.

“Absolutely wonderful,” I said, fighting for breath. “Plenty
of corpses for everybody today. And I got to use my cotton swabs, too.”

Rita made a face. “Ugh. That's-I don't know if you should talk
like that around the children. What if they get bad dreams?”

If I had been a completely honest person, I would have told her that
her children were far more likely to cause someone else bad dreams than to get
them, but since I am not hampered by any need to tell the truth, I just patted
her and said, “They hear worse than that on the cartoons every day. Isn't
that right, kids?”

“No,” said Cody softly, and I looked at him with surprise. He
rarely said anything, and to have him not only speak but actually contradict me
was disturbing. In fact, the whole day was turning out to be wildly askew, from
the panicked flight of the Dark Passenger this morning and continuing on
through Vince's catering tirade-and now this. What in the name of all that is
dark and dreadful was going on? Was my aura out of balance? Had the moons of
Jupiter aligned against me in Sagittarius?

“Cody,” I said. And I do hope some hurt showed in my voice.
“You're not going to have bad dreams about this, are you?”

“He doesn't have bad dreams,” Astor said, as
if everyone who was not severely mentally challenged ought to know that.
“He doesn't have any dreams at all.”

“Good to know,” I said, since I almost never dream myself,
either, and for some reason it seemed important to have as much as possible in
common with Cody. But Rita was having none of it.

“Really, Astor, don't be silly,” she said.
“Of course Cody has dreams. Everybody has dreams.”

“I don't,” Cody insisted. Now he was not only standing up to
both of us, he was practically breaking his own record for chattiness at the
same time. And even though I didn't have a heart, except for circulatory
purposes, I felt an affection for him and wanted to come down on his side.

“Good for you,” I said. “Stick with it. Dreams are very
overrated. Interfere with getting a good night's sleep.”

“Dexter, really,” Rita said. “I don't
think we should encourage this.”

“Of course we should,” I said, winking at
Cody. “He's showing fire, spunk, and imagination.”

“Am not,” he said, and I absolutely marveled
at his verbal outpouring.

“Of course you're not,” I said to him,
lowering my voice. “But we have to say stuff like that to your mom, or she
gets worried.”

“For Pete's sake,” Rita said. “I give
up with you two. Run outside and play, kids.”

“We wanna play with Dexter,” Astor pouted.

“I'll be along in a few
minutes,” I said.

“You better,” she said darkly. They vanished
down the hall toward the back door, and as they left I took a deep breath, happy
that the vicious and unwarranted attacks against me were over for now. Of
course, I should have known better.

“Come in here,” Rita said, and she led me by the hand to the
sofa. “Vince called a little while ago,” she said as we settled onto
the cushions.

“Did he?” I said, and a sudden thrill of danger ripped
through me at the idea of what he might have said to Rita. “What did he
say?”

She shook her head. “He was very mysterious. He said to let him
know as soon as we had talked it over. And when I asked him talked what over he
wouldn't say. He just said you would tell me.”

I barely managed to stop myself from the unthinkable
conversational blunder of saying, “Did he?” again. In my defense, I
have to admit that my brain was whirling, not only with the panicked notion
that I had to flee to some place of safety but also with the thought that
before I fled I needed to find time to visit Vince with my little bag of toys.
But before I could mentally choose the correct blade, Rita went on.

“Honestly, Dexter, you're very lucky to have a friend like Vince.
He really does take his duties as best man seriously, and he has wonderful
taste.”

“Wonderfully expensive, too,” I said-and
perhaps I was still recovering from my near-gaffe with almost repeating
“Did he?” but I knew the moment it was out of my mouth that it was
absolutely the wrong thing to say. And sure enough, Rita lit up like a
Christmas tree.

“Really?” she said. “Well, I suppose he would, after
all. I mean, it most often goes together, doesn't it? You really do get what
you pay for, usually.”

“Yes, but it's a question of how much you have to
pay,” I said.

“How much for what?” Rita said, and there it
was. I was stuck.

“Well,” I said, “Vince has this crazy idea that we
should hire this South Beach caterer, a very pricey guy who does a lot of
celebrity events and things.”

Rita clapped her hands under her chin and looked radiantly happy.
“Not Manny Borque!” she cried. “Vince knows Manny Borque?”

Of course it was all over right there, but Dauntless Dexter does not go
down without a fight, no matter how feeble. “Did I mention that he's very
expensive?” I said hopefully.

“Oh, Dexter, you can't worry about money at a
time like this,” she said.

“I can too. I am.”

“Not if there's a chance to get Manny Borque,” she said, and
there was a surprisingly strong note in her voice that I had never heard before
except when she was angry with Cody and Astor.

“Yes, but Rita,” I
said, “it doesn't make sense to spend a ton of money just for the
caterer.”

“Sense has nothing to do with it,” she said,
and I admit that I agreed with her there. “If we can get Manny Borque to
cater our wedding, we'd be crazy not to do it.”

“But,” I said, and there I stopped, because
beyond the fact that it seemed idiotic to pay a king's ransom for crackers with
endives hand-painted with rhubarb juice and sculpted to look like Jennifer
Lopez, I could not think of any other objection. I mean, wasn't that enough?

Apparently not. “Dexter,” she said.
“How many times will we get married?” And to my great credit I was
still alert enough to clamp down on the urge to say, “At least twice, in
your case,” which I think was probably very wise.

I quickly changed course, diving straight into tactics learned from
pretending to be human for so many years. “Rita,” I said, “the
important part of the wedding is when I slip the ring on your finger. I don't
care what we eat afterward.”

“That's so sweet,” she said. “Then you
don't mind if we hire Manny Borque?”

Once again I found myself losing an argument before I even knew which
side I was on. I became aware of a dryness in my mouth-caused, no doubt, by the
fact that my mouth was hanging open as my brain struggled to make sense of what
had just happened, and then to find something clever to say to get things back
onto dry land.

But it was far too late. “I'll call Vince back,” she said,
and she leaned over to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Oh, this is so
exciting. Thank you, Dexter.”

Well, after all, isn't marriage about compromise?

NATURALLY ENOUGH, MANNY BORQUE LIVED IN SOUTH Beach.
He was on the top floor of one of the new high-rise buildings that spring up
around Miami like mushrooms after a heavy rain. This one sat on what was once a
deserted beach where Harry used to take Debs and me beachcombing early on
Saturday mornings. We would find old life preservers, mysterious wooden chunks
of some unfortunate boat, lobster-pot buoys, pieces of fishnet, and on one
thrilling morning, an exceedingly dead human body rolling in the surf. It was a
treasured boyhood memory, and I resented extremely that someone had built this
shiny flimsy tower on the site.

The next morning at ten Vince and I left work together and drove over to
the horrible new building that had replaced the scene of my youthful joy. I
rode the elevator to the top in silence, watching Vince fidget and blink. Why
he should be nervous about facing someone who sculpted chopped liver for a
living, I don't know, but he clearly was. A drop of sweat rolled down his cheek
and he swallowed convulsively, twice.

“He's a caterer, Vince,” I told him.
“He isn't dangerous. He can't even revoke your library card.”

Vince looked at me and swallowed again. “He's got
a real temper,” he said. “He can be very demanding.”

“Well, then,” I said with great good cheer,
“let's go find somebody else more reasonable.”

He set his jaw like a man
facing a firing squad and shook his head. “No,” he said bravely,
"we're going to

go through with this.“ And the elevator door slid open, right on
cue. He squared his shoulders, nodded, and said, ”Come on."

We went down to the end of the hall, and Vince stopped in front of the
last door. He took a deep breath, raised his fist, and, after a slight
hesitation, knocked on the door. After a long moment in which nothing happened,
he looked at me and blinked, his hand still raised. “Maybe,” he said.

The door opened. “Hello Vic!” the thing in
the doorway warbled, and Vince responded by blushing and stammering, “I
only hi.” Then he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stammered
something that sounded like, “Er wellah,” and took a half step
backward.

It was a remarkable and thoroughly engaging performance, and I was not
the only one who seemed to enjoy it. The manikin who had answered the door
watched with a smile that suggested he might enjoy being in the audience for
any kind of human suffering, and he let Vince squirm for several long moments
before he finally said, “Well come in!”

Manny Borque, if this was really him and not some strange hologram from
Star Wars, stood a full five foot six inches tall, from the bottom of his
embroidered high-heeled silver boots to the top of his dyed orange head. His
hair was cut short, except for black bangs which parted on his forehead like a
swallow's tail and draped down over a pair of enormous rhinestone-studded
eyeglasses. He was dressed in a long, bright-red dashiki, and apparently
nothing else, and it swirled around him as he stepped back from the door to
motion us in, and then walked in rapid little steps toward a huge picture
window that looked out on the water.

“Come over here and we'll have a little
talk,” he said, sidestepping a pedestal holding an enormous object that
looked like a giant ball of animal vomit dipped in plastic and spray-painted
with Day-Glo graffiti. He led the way to a glass table by the window, around
which sat four things that were probably supposed to be chairs but could easily
have been mistaken for bronze camel saddles welded onto stilts.
“Sit,” he said, with an expansive wave of his hand, and I took the
chair-thing nearest the window. Vince hesitated for a moment, then sat next to
me, and Manny hopped up onto the seat directly across from him.
“Well,” he said. “How have you been, Vic? Would you like some
coffee?” and without waiting for an answer he swiveled his head to his
left and called, “Eduardo!”

Beside me Vince took a ragged breath, but before he could do anything
with it Manny whipped back around and faced me. “And you must be the
blushing bridegroom!” he said.

“Dexter Morgan,” I said. “But I'm not a
very good blusher.”

“Oh, well, I think Vic is doing enough for both
of you,” he said. And sure enough, Vince obligingly turned just as scarlet
as his complexion would allow him to do. Since I was still more than a little
peeved at being subjected to this ordeal, I decided not to come to his aid by
offering Manny a withering remark, or even correcting him on the subject of
Vince's actual identity as “Vince,” not “Vic.” I was sure
he knew the right name quite well and was simply tormenting Vince. And that was
fine with me: let Vince squirm-it served him right for going over my head to
Rita and getting me into this.

Eduardo bustled in holding a vintage Fiestaware coffee service in
several bright colors, balanced on a clear plastic tray. He was a stocky young
man about twice the size of Manny, and he, too, seemed very anxious to please the
little troll. He set a yellow cup in front of Manny, and then moved to put the
blue one in front of Vince when he was stopped by Manny, who laid a finger on
his arm.

“Eduardo,” he said
in a silky voice, and the boy froze. "Yellow? Don't we remember? Manny
gets the

blue cup."

Eduardo practically fell over himself grinding into reverse, nearly
dropping the tray in his haste to remove the offensive yellow coffee cup and
replace it with the proper blue one.

“Thank you, Eduardo,” Manny said, and
Eduardo paused for a moment, apparently to see if Manny really meant it or if
he had done something else wrong. But Manny just patted him on the arm and
said, “Serve our guests now, please,” and Eduardo nodded and moved
around the table.

As it turned out, I got the yellow cup, which was fine
with me, although I wondered if it meant that they didn't like me. When he had
poured the coffee, Eduardo hustled back to the kitchen and returned with a
small plate holding half a dozen pastelitos. And although they were not, in
fact, shaped like Jennifer Lopez's derriere, they might as well have been. They
looked like little cream-filled porcupines-dark brown lumps bristling with
quills that were either chocolate or taken from a sea anemone. The center was
open, revealing a blob of orange-colored custardy-type stuff, and each blob had
a dab of green, blue, or brown on top.

Eduardo put the plate in the center of the table, and
we all just looked at it for a moment. Manny seemed to be admiring them, and
Vince was apparently feeling some kind of religious awe, as he swallowed a few
more times and made a sound that may have been a gasp. For my part, I wasn't
sure if we were supposed to eat the things or use them for some bizarre, bloody
Aztec ritual, so I simply studied the plate, hoping for a clue.

It was finally provided by Vince. “My God,”
he blurted.

Manny nodded. “They're wonderful, aren't
they?” he said. “But so-o-o-o last year.” He picked one up, the
one with the blue top, and gazed at it with a kind of aloof fondness. “The
color palette really got tired, and that horrible old hotel over by Indian
Creek started to copy them. Still,” he said with a shrug, and he popped it
into his mouth. I was glad to see that it didn't seem to cause any major
bleeding. “One does grow fond of one's own little tricks.” He turned
and winked at Eduardo. “Perhaps a little too fond sometimes.” Eduardo
went pale and fled to the kitchen, and Manny turned back to us with a huge crocodile
smile. “Do try one, though, won't you?”

“I'm afraid to bite one,” Vince said.
“They're so perfect.”

“And I'm afraid they might bite back,” I
said.

Manny showed off a few dozen teeth. “If I could
teach them that,” he said, “I would never be lonely.” He nudged
the plate in my direction. “Go ahead,” he said.

“Would you serve these at my wedding?” I
asked, thinking perhaps somebody ought to find some kind of point in all this.

Vince elbowed me, hard, but it was apparently too late. Manny's eyes
had narrowed to little slits, although his impressive dental work was still on
display. “I do not serve,” he said. “I present. And I present
whatever seems best to me.”

“Shouldn't I have some idea ahead of time what that might
be?” I asked, “I mean, suppose the bride is allergic to wasabi-basted
arugula aspic?”

Manny tightened his fists so
hard I could hear the knuckles creak. For a moment I had a small thrill of

hope at the thought that I might have clevered myself out of a caterer.
But then Manny relaxed and laughed. “I like your friend, Vic,” he
said. “He's very brave.”

Vince favored us both with a smile and started to breathe again, and
Manny began to doodle with a pad and paper, and that is how I ended up with the
great Manny Borque agreeing to cater my wedding at the special discounted price
of only $250 a plate.

It seemed a bit high. But after all, I had been
specifically instructed not to worry about money. I was sure Rita would think
of some way to make it work, perhaps by inviting only two or three people. In
any case, I didn't get a great deal of time to worry about mere finances, as my
cell phone began its happy little dirge almost immediately, and when I answered
I heard Deborah say, without even attempting to match my cheery hello, “I
need you here right away.”

“I'm awfully busy with some very important canapés,” I told
her. “Can I borrow twenty thousand dollars?”

She made a noise in her throat and said, “I don't
have time for bullshit, Dexter. The twenty-four hours starts in twenty minutes
and I need you there for it.” It was the custom in Homicide to convene
everybody involved in a case twenty-four hours after the work began, to make
sure everything was organized and everyone was on the same page. And Debs
obviously felt that I had some kind of shrewd insight to offer-very thoughtful
really, but untrue. With the Dark Passenger apparently still on hiatus, I
didn't think the great light of insight would come flooding in anytime soon.

“Debs, I really don't have any thought at all on
this one,” I said.

“Just get over here,” she told me, and hung
up.