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 204
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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 econ-omy. 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 DEXTER IN THE DARK
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she seemed a little too enthusiastic about her role as a representa-tive 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.
I managed to stand up without whimpering, but my pants were torn, my knee hurt, and one leg of the pants was covered with the vile half-dry blood.
I really don’t like blood. And to look down and see it actually on my clothes, actually touching me, and on top of the complete tur-moil my life had become and the great empty Passenger-less pit I had fallen into—the blood completed the circuit. These were definitely emotions I was feeling now, and they were not pleasant. I felt myself shudder and I nearly shouted, but I managed, just barely, to contain myself, clean up, and soldier on.
I did not feel much better, but I made it through the day by changing into the extra set of clothing that wise blood-spatter techs keep handy, and it was finally time to head home.
As I drove south to Rita’s on Old Cutler a little red Geo got on my bumper and would not back off. I watched in the mirror, but I could not see the driver’s face, and I wondered if I had done something I wasn’t aware of to make him or her angry. I was very tempted to step on the brakes and let the chips fall where they 206
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might, but I was not yet so completely frazzled as to believe that wrecking my car would make anything better. I tried to ignore the other car, just one more semi-insane Miami driver with a mysterious hidden agenda.
But it stayed with me, inches away, and I began to wonder what that agenda might be. I sped up. The Geo sped up and stayed right on my bumper.
I slowed down; so did the Geo.
I moved across two lanes of traffic, leaving a chorus of angry horns and upraised fingers in my wake. The Geo followed.