Dexter in the Dark (Dexter 3)

61

just to my right, staring at me, was a man who was really supposed to be dead.

Sergeant Doakes.

Doakes had never liked me. He seemed to be the only cop on the entire force who suspected that I might be what, in fact, I was. I had always thought he could see through my disguise because he was somewhat the same thing himself, a cold killer. He had tried and failed to prove that I was guilty of almost anything, and that failure had also failed to endear me to him.

The last time I had seen Doakes the paramedics had been loading him into an ambulance. He had been unconscious, partly as the result of the shock and pain of having his tongue, feet, and hands removed by a very talented amateur surgeon who thought Doakes had done him wrong. Now it was true that I had gently encouraged that notion with the part-time doctor, but I had at least had the decency to persuade Doakes first to go along with the plan, in order to catch the inhuman fiend. And I had also very nearly saved Doakes at considerable risk to my own precious and irreplaceable life and limbs. I hadn’t quite pulled off the dashing and timely res-cue I’m sure Doakes had hoped for, but I had tried, and it was really and truly not my fault that he had been more dead than alive when they hauled him away.

So I didn’t think it was asking too much for some small ac-knowledgment of the great hazard I had exposed myself to on his behalf. I didn’t need flowers, or a medal, or even a box of chocolates, but perhaps something along the lines of a hearty clap on the back and a murmured, “Thanks, old fellow.” Of course he would have some trouble murmuring coherently without a tongue, and the clap on the back with one of his new metal hands could prove painful, but he might at least try. Was that so unreasonable?

Apparently it was. Doakes stared at me as if he was the hungri-est dog in the world and I was the very last steak. I had thought that he used to look at me with enough venom to lay low the entire en-dangered species list. But that had been the gentle laughter of a tousle-haired child on a sunny day compared to the way he was looking at me now. And I knew what had made the Dark Passenger 62

JEFF LINDSAY

clear its throat—it had been the scent of a familiar predator. I felt the slow flex of interior wings, coming back to full roaring life, rising to the challenge in Doakes’s eyes. And behind those dark eyes his own inner monster snarled and spat at mine. We stood like that for a long moment, on the outside simply staring but on the inside two predatory shadows screeching out a challenge.

Someone was speaking, but the world had narrowed to just me and Doakes and the two black shadows inside us calling for battle, an

d neither one of us heard a word, just an annoying drone in the background.

Deborah’s voice cut through the fog at last. “Sergeant Doakes,”

she said, somewhat forcefully. Finally Doakes turned to face her and the spell was broken. And feeling somewhat smug in the power—joy and bliss!—of the Passenger, as well as the petty victory of having Doakes turn away first, I faded into the wallpaper, taking a small step back to survey the leftovers of my once-mighty nemesis.

Sergeant Doakes still held the department record for bench press, but he did not look like he would defend his record anytime soon. He was gaunt and, except for the fire smoldering behind his eyes, he looked almost weak. He stood stiffly on his two prosthetic feet, his arms hanging straight down by his sides, with gleaming silver things that looked like a complicated kind of vise grip protruding from each wrist.

I could hear the others in the room breathing, but aside from that there was not a sound. Everyone simply stared at the thing that had once been Doakes, and he stared at Deborah, who licked her lips, apparently trying to think of something coherent to say, and finally came up with, “Have a seat, Doakes. Um. I’ll bring you up to date?”

Doakes looked at her for a long moment. Then he turned awkwardly around, glared at me, and clumped out of the room, his strange, measured footsteps echoing down the hall until they were gone.

On the whole, cops don’t like to give the impression that they are ever impressed or intimidated, so it was several seconds before anyone risked giving away any unwanted emotion by breathing DEXTER IN THE DARK

63

again. Naturally enough, it was Deborah who finally broke the un-natural silence. “All right,” she said, and suddenly everyone was clearing their throats and shifting in their chairs.

“All right,” she repeated, “so we won’t find the heads at the scene.”

“Heads don’t float,” Camilla Figg insisted scornfully, and we were back to where we had been before the sudden semi-appearance of Sergeant Doakes. And they droned on for another ten minutes or so, tirelessly fighting crime by arguing about who was supposed to fill out the paperwork, when we were rudely interrupted once again by the door beside me swinging open.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Captain Matthews said. “I’ve got some—ah—really great news, I think.” He looked around the room frowning, which even I could have told him was not the proper face for delivering great news. “It’s, uh, ahem. Sergeant Doakes has come back, and he’s, uh— It’s important for you people to realize that he’s been badly, uh, damaged. He has only a couple of years left before he’s eligible for full pension, so the lawyers, ah—we thought, under the circumstances, um . . .” He trailed off and looked around the room. “Did somebody already tell you people?”

“Sergeant Doakes was just here,” Deborah said.

“Oh,” Matthews said. “Well, then—” He shrugged. “That’s fine.

All right then. I’ll let you get on with the meeting then. Anything to report?”

“No real progress yet, Captain,” Deborah said.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll get this thing wrapped up before the press—I mean, in a timely fashion.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“All right then,” he said again. And he looked around the room once, squared his shoulders, and left the room.

“Heads don’t float,” somebody else said, and a small snort of laughter went around the room.