Double Dexter d-6, page 7
part #6 of Dexter Series
Well, you will, I said. When you re a little older, and you start to go to dances and things with a really great smile. You have to think of it in a long-term kind of way
Long-term! she said angrily, as if now I was the one using bad words. The long term is that I ll look like a freak for a whole year of middle school and everybody will remember that forever and I ll always be That Girl with Huge Awful Braces even when I m forty years old!
I could feel my jaw moving, but no words were coming out; there were so many things wrong with what Astor had said that I couldn t seem to pick one to start on and in any case she had walled herself into such a high tower of miserable anger that whatever I said would just set her off again.
But luckily for my reputation as an urbane negotiator, before I could say anything and have it slammed back down my throat, Rita s raised voice came floating down the hall. Dexter? Astor? Come to dinner! And while my mouth was still hanging open, Astor was up and out the door and my little encouraging chat about braces was over.
I woke up again on Monday morning in the middle of an enormous sneeze and feeling like a Turkish weight lifter had spent the entire weekend squeezing every bone in my body. For that one confused moment between waking and sleeping I thought the psycho who had hammered Detective Klein into a limp pudding had somehow gotten into my bedroom and worked me over while I slept. But then I heard the toilet flush, and Rita hurried through the bedroom and down the hall toward the kitchen, and normal life lurched up onto its feet and stumbled on into another day.
I stretched, and the ache in my joints stretched with me. I wondered whether the pain could make me feel empathy for Klein. It didn t seem likely; I d never been cursed with that kind of weak emotion before, and even Lily Anne s transformational magic couldn t turn me into a soft-shelled empathy feeler overnight. It was probably just my subconscious playing connect-the-dots.
Still, I found myself dwelling on Klein s death as I got up and went through my morning routine, which now included sneezing every minute or so. Klein s skin had not been broken; a remarkable amount of force had been used on him, but there had been no blood spilled at all. It was my guess and the Passenger hissed its agreement that Klein had remained conscious as every bone in his body had been shattered. He d been awake and alert for every smash and crunch, every agonizing smack of the hammer, until finally, after a very impressive period of agony, the killer had done enough internal damage to allow Klein to slip away into death. It was much worse than having a cold. It didn t sound like a lot of fun especially not for Klein.
But in spite of my distaste for the method, and the Dark Passenger s contempt, I really did start to feel the limp fingers of empathy tickling at the inside of my skull empathy, yes, but not for Klein. The fellow feeling that sent small tendrils curling into my thoughts was all for Klein s executioner. It was totally stupid, of course but nonetheless I began to hear a niggling little whisper in my inner ear that my only real objection to what had been done to Klein was the use of the wrong tools. After all, hadn t I made sure that Valentine, too, stayed awake to feel every moment of my attention? Of course, Valentine had earned it with his habit of molesting and killing young boys but were any of us truly innocent? Maybe Detective Klein had been a tax cheat, or a wife beater, or perhaps he had chewed food with his mouth open. He might have deserved what the so-called psycho had done to him and really, who was to say that what I did was any better?
I knew very well that there was a great deal wrong with that unpleasant argument, but it stayed with me anyway, a discontented murmur of self-loathing in the background as I ate my breakfast, sneezed, got ready for work, sneezed, and finally took two cold pills and headed out the door, sneezing. I couldn t shake the absurd notion that I was just as guilty perhaps far more so, since Klein was the only victim of this killer so far, and I had fifty-two glass slides tucked away in my rosewood souvenir box, each with its single drop of blood representing a departed playmate. Did that make me fifty-two times as bad?
It was completely ridiculous, of course; what I had done was totally justified, sanctified by the Code of Saint Harry, and beneficial to society, aside from being a great deal of fun. But because I was so wrapped up in navel-gazing, it was not until I crawled off U.S. 1 to merge onto the Palmetto Expressway that the insistent sibilance of self-preservation finally broke through my egotistical fog. It was just a quiet hiss of warning, but it was persistent enough to get my attention, and as I finally listened to it, it solidified into a single, very definite thought.
Someone is watching me.
I don t know why I was certain, but I was. I could feel the gaze in a nearly physical way, almost as if somebody was trickling the razor-sharp point of a knife along the back of my neck. It was a sensation as definite and inarguable as the heat from the sun; someone was watching me, specifically me, and they were watching me for some reason that did not have my best interests at heart.
Reason argued that this was Miami at morning rush hour; almost anyone might stare at me with distaste, even hatred, for any reason at all maybe they didn t like my car, or my profile reminded them of their eighth-grade algebra teacher. But whatever Reason said, Caution argued back: It didn t matter why someone was watching me. It only mattered that they were. Someone was watching me with mischief in mind, and I needed to find out who.
Slowly, oh-so-casually, I looked around me. I was in the middle of an exceptionally normal crush of morning traffic, indistinguishable from what I drove through every morning. To my immediate right there were two lanes of cars: a battered Impala, and beyond it an old Ford van with a camper roof. Behind them was a line of Toyotas, Hummers, and BMWs, none of them appearing to be any more menacing than any of the others.
I looked ahead again, inched forward with the traffic, and then slowly turned to look to my left and before my head had turned more than six inches, there was a screech of tires, a chorus of blaring horns, and an old Honda accelerated off the Palmetto s on-ramp, down the shoulder, and back onto U.S. 1, where it squealed north, slid through a yellow light, and vanished down a side street, and as it went I could see the left taillight dangling at an odd angle, and then the dark birthmark stain on the trunk.
I watched it go until the drivers behind me began to lean on their horns. I tried to tell myself that it was pure coincidence. I knew very well how many old Hondas there were in Miami; I had them all on my list. And I had visited only eight of them so far, and it was very possible that this was one of the others. I told myself that this was just one more idiot changing his mind and deciding to drive to work a different way this morning; probably someone had suddenly remembered that he d left the coffeepot on, or left the disk with the PowerPoint presentation at home.
But no matter how many good and banal reasons I thought up for the Honda s behavior, that other, darker certainty kept talking back, telling me with calm and factual insistence that whoever had been driving that car, they had been staring at me and thinking bad thoughts, and when I had turned to look at them they had rocketed away as if pursued by demons, and we knew very well what that really meant.
My breakfast began to churn in my stomach and I felt my hands turn slick with sweat. Could it be? Was it remotely possible that whoever had seen me that night had found me? Somehow tracked me down and learned my license number, long before I found them and now they were following me? It was wildly, stupidly unlikely the odds against it were monumental; it was ridiculous, impossible, totally beyond the bounds of belief but was it possible?
I thought about it: There was no connection between Dexter Morgan, Boy Forensics Whiz, and the house where I had been seen with Valentine. I had gone to and from the house in Valentine s car, and I had not been followed when I fled. So hunting along my back trail was impossible: There wasn t one.
That left either magical powers or coincidence, and although I have nothing at all against Harry Potter, coincidence got my vote. And to make it a little more likely, that abandoned house had been only a little more than a mile from where the Palmetto Expressway intersects U.S. 1. I had already assumed that he lived in the same area and if he did, he would almost inevitably drive to work along U.S. 1 and quite likely up onto the Palmetto, too. Work for most people started at roughly the same time every day, and everyone in this area drove to work along the same road. That was painfully obvious; it was what caused the perpetual traffic jam at this time each morning. So it was not as wildly coincidental as it had seemed at first. In fact, it was even likely that if we both repeated the same drive at the same time long enough, sooner or later he would see my car, and even me.
And he had. Once again, he had seen me, and this time he d had an opportunity to study me at length. I tried to calculate how long he might have been staring. It was impossible; traffic had been stop-and-go, with an emphasis on stop that had lasted for almost two minutes. But it was pure guesswork to decide how long he had known it was me. Probably only a few seconds; I had to trust my alarm system.
Still, it was long enough to note the make and color of my car, write down the plate number, and who knows what else. I knew very well what I could do with only half that much information it was entirely possible that with just the plate number he could find me but would he? So far he had done nothing but flee in terror. Was he really going to look me up and then plant himself outside my door with a carving knife? If it was me, I would have but he was not me. I was exceptionally good with computers, and I had resources that weren t available to most people, and I used them to do things that no one else did. There is only one Dexter, and he was not it. Whoever this was, he could not possibly be anything like me. But it was just as true that I had no idea what he was like, or what he might do, and no matter how many different ways I told myself that there was no real danger, I couldn t shake the illogical fear that he was going to do something. The voice of calm reason was battered into silence by the screams of pure panic that had taken over my brain. He had seen me again, and this time I was in my workaday secret identity, and that made me feel more naked and helpless than I could remember.
I have no memory of driving up onto the Palmetto and continuing my morning commute, and it was pure blind chance that I was not flattened like a wandering possum by the raging traffic. By the time I got to work, I had calmed down enough to present a reasonably convincing facade, but I could not shake that steady trickle of anxiety that was once again burbling up on the floor of my brain and leaving me just on the edge of panic.
Luckily for the tattered shreds of my sanity, I didn t have long to dwell on my own petty concerns. I had not even settled into my morning routine when Deborah came steaming in to distract me, with her new partner, Duarte, trailing along behind.
All right, she said, as if she was continuing a conversation we d already been having. So the guy has to have some kind of record, right? You don t just suddenly do something like that out of nowhere, and nothing before it.
I sneezed and blinked at her, which was not a very impressive response, but since I was mired in my own worries it took me a moment to connect with hers. Are we talking about whoever killed Detective Klein? I said.
Debs blew out an impatient breath. Jesus shit, Dex, what did you think I was talking about?
NASCAR? I said. I think there was a big race this weekend.
Don t be an asshole, she said. I need to know about this.
I could have said that asshole might better describe somebody who charged into her brother s office first thing Monday morning and didn t even say gesundheit or ask how his weekend had been but I knew very well that my sister had no tolerance for suggestions on workplace etiquette, so I shrugged it off. I guess so, I said.
I mean, something like what he did, that s usually the end of a long process that started with other things, and you know. The kind of thing that gets you noticed.
What kind of thing? Duarte said.
I hesitated; for some reason, I felt a little bit uncomfortable, probably because I was talking about this stuff in front of a stranger generally speaking, I don t really like to talk about it at all, even with Debs; it seems a little too personal. I covered the pause by grabbing a paper towel and blotting at my nose, but they both kept looking at me expectantly, like two dogs waiting for a treat. I was on the spot, with no real choice but to go on.
Well, I said, tossing the paper towel into the trash, a lot of the time they start with, you know, pets. When they re young, just twelve years old or so. And they kill small dogs, cats, like that. Just, um, experimenting. Trying to find what feels right. And, you know. Somebody in the family, or in the neighborhood, finds the dead pets, and they get caught and arrested.
So there s a record, Debs said.
Well, there might be, I said. But if he follows the pattern, he s young when he does that, so he goes to Juvie. So the record is going to be sealed, and you can t just ask a judge to give you every sealed case file in the system.
Then give me something better, Deborah said urgently. Give me something to work with here.
Debs, I protested, I don t have anything. I sneezed again. Except a cold.
Well, shit, she said. Can t you think up some kind of hint?
I looked at her, and then at Duarte, and my discomfort grew and mixed with frustration. How? I said.
Duarte shrugged. She says you re like some kind of amateur profiler, he said.
I was surprised, and a bit upset, that Debs had shared that with Duarte. My so-called profiling talent was highly personal, something that grew out of my firsthand experience with sociopathic individuals like myself. But she had shared it; that probably meant she trusted him. In any case, I was on the spot. Ah, well, I said at last. M s o menos.
Duarte shook his head. What is that, yes or no? he said. I looked at Debs, and she actually smirked at me. Alex doesn t speak Spanish, she said.
Oh, I said.
Alex speaks French, she said, looking at him with hard-edged fondness.
I felt even more uncomfortable, since I had made a social blunder by assuming that anybody with a Cuban name who lived in Miami would speak Spanish but I also realized that this was one more clue to why Debs liked her new partner. For some reason, my sister had taken French in school, too, in spite of the fact that we grew up in a city where Spanish was used more widely than English, and French was no more useful than lips on a chicken it didn t even help her with the city s growing Haitian population. They all spoke Creole, which was only slightly closer to French than Mandarin.
And now she had found a kindred spirit, and clearly they had bonded. I am sure a real human being would have felt a warm glow of affectionate satisfaction at my sister s newly happy work situation, but this was me, and I didn t. All I felt was irritation and discomfort. Well, bonne chance, I said. But even speaking French to a judge won t get him to unseal a juvenile record especially since we don t even know which record.
Deborah lost her annoying fond look. Well, shit, she said. I can t just wait around and hope I get lucky.
You may not have to, I said. I m pretty sure he s going to do it again.
She just looked at me for a long moment, and then she nodded.
Yeah, she said. I m pretty sure he will. She shook her head, looked at Duarte, and walked out of the room. He followed right behind her, and I sneezed.
Gesundheit, I told myself. But it didn t make me feel any better.
EIGHT
Over the next few days I picked up the pace of my Honda hunt. I stayed out a little later each evening, trying to squeeze in just one more address, driving when it was too far to walk. I went home only when it was too dark to see any longer, trudging past the family tableau in the living room and into the shower without speaking, a little more frustrated every evening.
On the third night of my enhanced search, I walked in the front door, very sweaty, and realized that Rita was staring at me, her eyes running over me as if she was searching for a blemish, and I stopped in front of her. What? I said.
She looked up at me and blushed. Oh, she said.
It s just late, and you re so sweaty, I thought It s nothing, really.
I was jogging, I said, not sure why I felt like I was on the defensive.
You took the car, she said.
It seemed to me that she was paying far too much attention to my activities, but perhaps this was one of the little perks of marriage, so I shrugged it off. I went over to the track at the high school, I said.
She looked at me for a very long moment without saying anything, and there was clearly something going on in there, but I had no idea what it might be. Finally, she just said, That would explain it. She stood up and pushed past me into the kitchen, and I went to my hard-earned shower.
Perhaps I just hadn t noticed it before, but each evening when I came in after my exercise, she would watch me with that same mysterious intensity, and then head into the kitchen. On the fourth night of this exotic behavior, I followed her and stood silently in the kitchen doorway. I watched as she opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of wine, and poured herself a full glass, and as she raised it to her lips I backed away, unobserved.
It made no sense to me; it was almost as if there was a connection between my coming home sweaty and Rita wanting a glass of wine. I thought about it as I showered, but after a few minutes of musing I realized that I didn t know enough about the complex topics of humans and marriage, and Rita in particular, and in any case I had other worries. Finding the right Honda was far more important, and even though it was something I did know a lot about, I wasn t getting that done either. So I put the Mystery of Rita and the Wine out of my mind as just one more brick in the wall of frustration that was forming all around me.
A week later my cold was gone, and I had crossed many more names off my list, enough of them that I was beginning to wonder whether it wasn t a waste of precious time. I could feel hot breath on the back of my neck, and a growing urgency to do before I was done to, but that got me no closer to finding my Witness than anything else I tried. I was more jittery with each day, and with each dead-end name I crossed off my list, and I actually began to bite my fingernails, a habit I had dropped in high school. It was annoying, and added to my frustration, and I began to wonder whether I was starting to fall apart under the strain.
