But in this case, I had nothing whatsoever to tell Deborah. I had, in fact, been hoping she might have some small crumb of information to give to me, something that might explain the Dark Passenger’s peculiar and uncharacteristic shrinking act. That, of course, was not the sort of thing I really felt comfortable telling Deborah about. But no matter what I said about this burned double offering, she wouldn’t believe me. She would be sure I had information and some kind of angle that made me want to keep it all to myself. The only thing more suspicious than a sibling is a sibling who happens to be a cop.
Sure enough, she was convinced I was holding out on her.
“Come on, Dexter,” she said. “Out with it. Tell me what you know about this.”
“Dear Sis, I am at a total loss,” I said.
“Bullshit,” she said, apparently unaware of the irony. “You’re holding something back.”
“Never in life,” I said. “Would I lie to my only sister?”
She glared at me. “So it isn’t Santeria?”
“I have no idea,” I said, as soothingly as possible. “It seems like a really good place to start. But—”
“I knew it,” she snapped. “But what?”
“Well,” I started. And truly it had just occurred to me, and probably it meant nothing at all, but here I was in mid-sentence already, so I went on with it. “Have you ever heard of a santero using ceramics? And bulls—don’t they have a thing for goat heads?”
She looked at me very hard for a minute, then shook her head.
“That’s it? That’s what you got?”
40
JEFF LINDSAY
“I told you, Debs, I don’t got anything. It was only a thought, something that just now came to me.”
“Well,” she said. “If you’re telling me the truth—”
“Of course I am,” I protested.
“Then, you’ve got doodly-squat,” she said and looked away, back to where Captain Matthews was answering questions with his solemn, manly jaw jutting out. “Which is only slightly less than the horsepucky I got,” she said.
I had never before grasped that doodly-squat was less than horsepucky, but it’s always nice to learn something new. And yet even this startling revelation did very little to answer the real question here: Why had the Dark Passenger pulled a duck and cover? In the course of my job and my hobby I have seen some things that most people can’t even imagine, unless they have watched several of those movies they show at traffic school for driving drunk. And in every case I had ever encountered, no matter how grisly, my shadow companion had some kind of pithy comment on the proceedings, even if it was only a yawn.
But now, confronted by nothing more sinister than two charred bodies and some amateur pottery, the Dark Passenger chose to scuttle away like a scared spider and leave me without guidance—a brand-new feeling for me, and I discovered I did not like it at all.
Still, what was I to do? I knew of no one I could talk to about something like the Dark Passenger; at least, not if I wanted to stay at liberty, which I very much did. As far as I was aware, there were no experts on the subject, other than me. But what did I really know about my boon companion? Was I really that knowledgeable, merely because I had shared space with it for so long? The fact that it had chosen to scuttle into the cellar was making me very edgy, as if I found myself walking through my office with no pants on.
When it came down to the nub of things, I had no idea what the Dark Passenger was or where it came from, and that had never seemed all that important.
For some reason, now it did.
DEXTER IN THE DARK
41
A modest crowd had gathered by the yellow tape barrier the police had put up. Enough people so that the Watcher could stand in the middle of the group without sticking out in any way.
He watched with a cold hunger that did not show on his face—nothing showed on his face; it was merely a mask he wore for the time being, a way to hide the coiled power stored inside. Yet somehow the people around him seemed to sense it, glancing his way nervously from time to time, as if they had heard a tiger growling nearby.
The Watcher enjoyed their discomfort, enjoyed the way they stared in stupid fear at what he had done. It was all part of the joy of this power, and part of the reason he liked to watch.
But he watched with a purpose right now, carefully and deliberately, even as he watched them scrabble around like ants and felt the power surge and flex inside him. Walking meat, he thought. Less than sheep, and we are the shepherd.
As he gloated at their pathetic reaction to his display he felt another presence tickle at the edge of his predator’s senses. He turned his head slowly along the line of yellow tape—