Dexter by Design (Dexter 4)

“Did he?” she said. “Or are you making that up? And even if he did set it up, was he right to do it that way? Or was he just another bitter, burned-out cop?”

“He was Harry,” I said. “He was your father. Of course he was right.”

“I need more than that,” she said.

“What if there isn’t any more?”

She turned away at last, and didn’t beat on the steering wheel, which was a relief. But she was silent for long enough that I began to wish she would. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I just don’t know.”

And there it was. I mean, I could see that it was a problem for her—what to do with the homicidal adopted brother? After all, he was pleasant, remembered birthdays, and gave really good presents; a productive member of society, a hardworking and sober guy—if he slipped away and killed bad people now and then, was it really such a big deal?

On the other hand, she was in a profession that generally frowned on that kind of thing. And technically, it was supposed to be her job to find people like me and escort them to a reserved seat in Old Sparky. I could see that it might pose something of a professional dilemma, especially when it was her brother who was forcing the issue.

Or was it?

“Debs,” I said. “I know this is a problem for you.”

“Problem,” she said. A tear rolled down one cheek, although she did not sob or otherwise seem to be crying.

“I don’t think he ever wanted you to know,” I said. “I was never supposed to tell you. But…” I thought about finding her taped to the table with my real genetic brother standing over her, holding one knife for him and one for me, and realizing I could not kill her no matter how much I needed to, no matter how close it would have brought me to him, my brother, the only person in the world who really understood me and accepted me for what I am. And somehow, I couldn’t do it. Somehow, the voice of Harry had come back to me and kept me on the Path.

“Fuck,” Deborah said. “What the fuck was Daddy thinking?” I wondered that sometimes, too. But I also wondered how people could possibly believe any of the things they said they did, and why I couldn’t fly, and this seemed to be in the same category.

“We can’t know what he was thinking,” I said. “Just what he did.”

“Fuck,” she said again.

“Maybe so,” I said. “What are you going to do about it?” She still didn’t look at me. “I don’t know,” she said. “But I think I have to do something.”

We both sat there for a very long moment with nothing left to say. Then she put the car in gear and we rolled back out onto the highway.

ELEVEN

THERE ARE REALLY VERY FEW BETTER CONVERSATION stoppers than telling your brother you’re considering arresting him for murder, and even my legendary wit was not equal to the task of thinking of something to say that was worth the breath spent on it. So we rode in silence, down U.S. 1 to 95 North and then off the freeway and into the Design District, just past the turnoff for the Julia Tuttle Causeway.

The silence made the trip seem a lot longer than it really was. I glanced once or twice at Deborah, but she was apparently absorbed in thought—perhaps considering whether to use her good cuffs on me or just the cheap extra pair in the glove compartment. Whatever the case, she stared straight ahead, turning the wheel mechanically and moving in and out of traffic without any real thought, and without any attention wasted on me.

We found the address quickly enough, which was a relief, since the strain of not looking at each other and not talking was getting to be a bit much. Deborah pulled up in front of it, a sort of warehouse-looking thing on Northeast Fortieth Street, and pushed the gear lever into park. She turned off the engine and still did not look at me, but paused for a moment. Then she shook her head and climbed out of the car.

I guess I was supposed to just follow along like always, Little Deb’s hulking shadow. But I do have some small smidgen of pride, and really: If she was going to turn on me for a paltry few recreational killings, should I be expected to help her solve these? I mean, I don’t need to think that things are fair—they never are—but this seemed to be straining at the bounds of decency.

So I sat in the car and didn’t really watch as Debs stalked up to the door of the place and rang the buzzer. It was only out of the uninterested corner of my eye that I saw the door open, and I barely noticed the boring detail of Deborah showing her badge. And from where I sat unwatching in the car, I couldn’t really tell if the man hit her and she fell over, or whether he simply pushed her to the ground and then disappeared inside.

But I was mildly interested again when she struggled to one knee, then fell over and did not get up again.

I heard a distinct buzzing in Alarm Central: something was very wrong and all my huffishness with Deborah evaporated like gasoline on hot pavement. I was out of the car and running up the sidewalk as fast as I could manage it.

From ten feet away I could see the handle of a knife sticking out of her side and I slowed for a moment as a shock wave rolled through me. A pool of awful wet blood was already spreading across the sidewalk and I was back in the cold box with Biney, my brother, and seeing the terrible sticky red lying thick and nasty on the floor and I could not move or even breathe. But the

door fluttered open and the man who had knifed Deborah stepped out, saw me, and went to his knees reaching for the knife handle, and the rising sound of wind that fluttered in my ears turned into the roar of the Dark Passenger spreading its wings and I stepped forward quickly and kicked him hard in the side of the head. He sprawled beside her, face in the blood, and he did not move.

I knelt beside Deborah and took her hand. Her pulse was strong, and her eyes fluttered open. “Dex,” she whispered.

“Hang on, sis,” I said, and she closed her eyes again. I pulled her radio from its holster on her belt and called for help.

A small crowd had gathered in the few minutes it took for the ambulance to get there, but they parted willingly as the emergency medical techs jumped out and hurried to Deborah.

“Whoof,” the first one said. “Let’s stop the bleeding fast.” He was a stocky young guy with a Marine Corps haircut, and he knelt beside Debs and went to work. His partner, an even stockier woman of about forty, quickly got an IV bag into Deborah’s arm, sliding the needle in just as I felt a hand pulling my arm from behind.