For example, Solomon built a temple to something called Moloch, apparently one of the n
aughty elder gods, and he killed his brother because “wickedness” was found inside him. I could certainly see that, from a biblical perspective, interior wickedness might be a fine description of a Dark Passenger. But if there was a connection here, did it really make sense that someone with an “inner king” would kill somebody inhabited by wickedness?
It was making my head spin. Was I to believe that King Solomon himself actually had a Dark Passenger of his own? Or because he was supposedly one of the Bible’s good guys, should I in-terpret it to mean that he found one in his brother and killed him DEXTER IN THE DARK
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because of it? And contrary to what we had all been led to believe, did he really mean it when he offered to cut the baby in half?
Most important of all, did it really matter what had happened several thousand years ago on the far side of the world? Even supposing that King Solomon had one of the original Dark Passengers, how did that help me get back to being lovable deadly me? What did I actually do with all this fascinating historical lore? None of it told me where the Passenger came from, what it was, or how to get it back.
I was at a loss. All right, then, it was clearly time to give up, accept my fate, throw myself on the mercy of the court, assume the role of Dexter, quiet family man and former Dark Avenger. Resign myself to the idea that I would never again feel the hard cool touch of the moonlight on my electrified nerve endings as I slid through the night like the avatar of cold, sharp steel.
I tried to think of something to inspire me to even greater heights of mental effort in my investigation, but all I came up with was a piece of a Rudyard Kipling poem: “If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs,” or words to that effect. It didn’t seem like it was enough. Perhaps Ariel Goldman and Jessica Ortega should have memorized Kipling. In any case, my search had taken me no place helpful.
Fine. What else could someone call the Passenger? “Sardonic commentator,” “warning system,” “inside cheerleader.” I checked them all. Some of the results for inside cheerleader were really quite startling, but had nothing to do with my search.
I tried “watcher,” “interior watcher,” “dark watcher,” “hidden watcher.”
One last long shot, possibly having to do with the fact that my thoughts were once again turning toward food, but quite justified nevertheless: “hungry watcher.”
Again, the results were mostly New Age blather. But one blog caught my eye, and I clicked on it. I read the opening paragraph and, although I did not actually say “Bingo,” that was certainly the gist of what I thought.
“Once again into the night with the Hungry Watcher,” it began.
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JEFF LINDSAY
“Stalking the dark streets that teem with prey, riding slowly through the waiting feast and feeling the pull of the tide of blood that will soon rise to cover us with joy . . .”
Well. The prose was somewhat purple, perhaps. And the part about the blood was a little bit icky. But that aside, it was a pretty good description of how I felt when I went off on one of my adventures. It seemed likely that I had found a kindred spirit.
I read on. It was all consistent with the experience as I knew of it, cruising through the night with hungry anticipation as a sibilant inner voice whispered guidance. But then, when the narrative came to the point where I would have pounced and slashed, this narrator instead made a reference to “the others,” followed by three figures from some alphabet I didn’t recognize.
Or did I?
Feverishly, I scrabbled across my desk for the folder holding the file for the two headless girls. I yanked out the stack of photographs, flipped through them—and there it was.
Chalked on the driveway at Dr. Goldman’s house, the same three letters, looking like a misshapen mlk.
I glanced up at my computer screen: it was a match, no question about it.
This was way too much to be a coincidence. It clearly meant something very important; perhaps it was even the key to understanding the entire mess. Yes, highly significant, with just one small footnote: Significant of what? What did it mean?
On top of everything else, why was this particular clue afflicting me? I had come here to work on my own personal problem of a missing Passenger—had come late at night so I would not be harried by my sister or other demands of work. And now, apparently, if I wanted to solve my problem I would have to do it by working on Deborah’s case. How come nothing was fair anymore?
Well, if there was any real reward for complaining I hadn’t seen it so far, in a life filled with suffering and verbal skill. So I might as well take what was offered and see where it led.
First, what language was the script? I was reasonably certain it wasn’t Chinese or Japanese—but what about some other Asian al-
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phabet I knew nothing about? I pulled up an online atlas and began checking off countries: Korea, Cambodia, Thailand. None of them had an alphabet that was even close. What did that leave? Cyrillic?
Easy enough to check. I pulled up a page containing the whole alphabet. I had to stare at it for a long time; some of the letters seemed close, but in the end I concluded that it was not a match.