Dexter in the Dark (29 page)

“Used to get,” she said.

I really had to look away again. “It’s gone, Deborah,” I said. “Something about all this Moloch stuff scared it away. That’s never happened before.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time, and I saw no reason to say it for her.

“Did you ever tell Dad about this voice?” she said at last.

“I didn’t have to,” I said. “He already knew.”

“And now your voices are gone,” she said.

“Just one voice.”

“And that’s why you’re not telling me anything about all this.”

“Yes.”

Deborah ground her teeth together loud enough for me to hear them. Then she released a large breath without unlocking her jaw. “Either you’re lying to me because you did this,” she hissed at me, “or you’re telling the truth and you’re a fucking psycho.”

“Debs—”

“Which one do you think I want to believe, Dexter? Huh? Which one?”

I don’t believe I have felt real anger since I was an adolescent, and it may be that even then I was not able to feel the real thing. But with the Dark Passenger gone and me slipping down the slope into genuine humanity, all the old barriers between me and normal life were fading, and I felt something now that must have been very close to the real thing. “Deborah,” I said, “if you don’t trust me and you want to think I did this, then I don’t give a rat’s ass which one you believe.”

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.

TWENTY-SIX

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.