Dexter by Design (Dexter 4)

“All right,” I said, and I stood up and led them to the hedge between their yard and the neighbors’.

It was not dark yet, but the shadows were getting longer as we stood there in the shaded grass beside the hedge. I closed my eyes for just a moment; something stirred in the dark backseat and I let the rustling of black wings rattle softly through me, feeling myself blend in with the shadows and become a part of the darkness—

“What are you doing?” Astor said.

I opened my eyes and looked at her. She and her brother were staring at me as if I had suddenly started to eat dirt, and it occurred to me that trying to explain an idea like becoming one with the darkness might be a tough sell. But it had been my idea to do this, so there was really no way around it.

“First,” I said, trying to sound casually logical, “you have to make yourself relax, and feel like you’re a part of the night around you.”

“It’s not night,” Astor said.

“Then just be a part of the late afternoon, okay?” I said. She looked dubious, but she didn’t say anything else, so I went on. “Now,” I said. “There’s something inside you that you need to wake up, and you need to listen to it. Does that make sense to you?”

“Shadow Guy,” said Cody, and Astor nodded.

I looked at the two of them and felt something close to religious wonder. They knew about the Shadow Guy—their name for the Dark Passenger. They had it inside them as certainly as I did, and were familiar enough with its existence to have named it. There could be no doubt about it—they were already in the same dark world I lived in. It was a profound moment of connection, and I knew now that I was doing the right thing—these were my children and the Passenger’s and the thought that we were together in this stronger-than-blood bond was almost overwhelming.

I was not alone. And I had a large and wonderful responsibility in taking charge of these two and keeping them safely on the Harry Path to becoming what they already were, but with safety and order. It was a lovely moment, and I am quite sure that somewhere music was playing.

And that really should have been how this day of turmoil and hardship ended. Really and truly, if there were any justice at all in this wide wicked world, we would have frolicked happily in the evening’s heat, bonding and learning wonderful secrets, and then ambling in to a delicious meal of French food and American pizza.

But of course, there is no such thing as justice, and most of the time I find myself pausing to reflect that it must be true that life does not really like us very much, after all. And I should not have been surprised when, just as I reached out a hand to each of them, my cell phone began to warble.

“Get your ass down here,” Deborah said, without even a hello.

“Of course,” I said. “As long as the rest of me can stay here for dinner.”

“That’s funny,” she said, although she didn’t sound very amused. “But I don’t need another laugh right now, because I am looking at another one of those hilarious dead bodies.”

I felt a small inquisitive purr from the Passenger, and several hairs on the back of my neck stood up for a closer look. “Another?” I said. “You mean like the three posed bodies this morning?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she said, and hung up.

“Har-de-har-har,” I said, and put my phone away.

Cody and Astor were looking at me with an identical expression of disappointment. “That was Sergeant Debbie, wasn’t it?” Astor said. “She wants you to go to work.”

“That’s right,” I admitted.

“Mom is going to be really mad,” she said, and it hit me that she was probably right—I could still hear Rita making furious cooking noises in the kitchen, punctuated with the occasional “damn it.” I was hardly an expert on the subject of human expectations, but I was pretty sure she would be upset that I was going to leave without tasting this special and painfully prepared meal.

“Now I really am on the poop van,” I said, and I went inside, wondering what I could possibly say and hoping some inspiration might hit me before Rita did.

SIX

I WAS NOT AT ALL CERTAIN I WAS GOING TO THE RIGHT place until I got there and pulled up in front—it had seemed like such an unlikely destination before I got to where I could see the yellow crime-scene tape, the lights of the patrol cars flashing in the dusk, and the growing crowd of gawkers hoping to see something unforgettable. It was almost always crowded at Joe’s Stone Crab, but not in July. The restaurant would not open again until October, which seemed like a long wait even for Joe’s.

But this was a different crowd tonight, and they weren’t here for stone crabs. They were hungry for something else tonight, something Joe would most likely prefer to take off his menu.

I parked and followed the trail of uniformed officers around to the back, where tonight’s entrée sat, leaning back against the wall beside the service door. I heard the sibilant interior chuckling before I actually saw any details, but as I got close enough, the lights strung up by the forensic team showed me plenty worth an appreciative smile.

His feet were crammed into a pair of those black glove-leather shoes that are usually Italian, and most often worn for the sole purpose of dancing. He also wore a pair of very nice resort-style shorts in a tasteful cranberry color, and a blue silk shirt with a silver embossed palm-tree pattern on it. But the shirt was unbuttoned and pulled back to reveal that the man’s chest had been removed and the cavity emptied out of all the natural and awful stuff that should go in there. It was now filled instead with ice, bottles of beer, and what ap

peared to be a shrimp-cocktail ring from the grocery store. His right hand was clutching a fistful of Monopoly money, and his face was covered with another of those glued-on plastic masks.

Vince Masuoka crouched on the far side of the doorway spreading dust in slow even strokes across the wall, and I stepped over beside him.

“Are we going to get lucky tonight?” I asked him.