Dexter by Design (Dexter 4)

What did Weiss want? He was not simply feeding a Passenger of his own, I was reasonably sure of that. I had felt no sympathy twinges from my own anywhere near either Weiss or his handiwork, which ordinarily I would, in the presence of another Presence.

And the way he went about it, starting with already-dead bodies instead of creating his own—until he had killed Deutsch—argued that he was after something altogether different.

But what? He made videos of the bodies. He made videos of people looking at the bodies. And he had made a video of me at play—unique footage, yes, but it all added up to nothing that made any sense to me. Where was the fun in all that? I saw none—and that made it impossible for me to get inside Weiss’s head and figure him out. With normal, well-adjusted psychopaths who killed because they must and took a simple, honest pleasure from their work, I never had that problem. I understood them all too well, since I was one. But with Weiss, there was no point of contact, no place to feel empathy, and because of that I had no idea of where he would go or what he would do next. I had a very bad feeling that whatever it was, I would not like it—but I had no feeling at all of what it would be, and I didn’t like that at all.

I lay there in bed for a while thinking about it—or trying to think about it, since the good ship Dexter was clearly not yet ready to raise full steam. Nothing came to me. I didn’t know what he wanted. I didn’t know what he would do next. Coulter was out to get me. So was Salguero, and of course, Doakes had never given up. Debs was still in a coma.

On the plus side, Rita had made me some very good soup. She was really very good to me—she deserved better, even though she clearly didn’t know that. She thought she had everything, apparently, between me, the children, and our recent trip to Paris. And although she did, in fact, have these things, none of them remotely resembled what she thought they were. She was like a mother lamb in a wolf pack, and she only saw white fluffy wool all around her when in fact the pack was licking its lips and waiting for her to turn her back. Dexter, Cody, and Astor were monsters. And Paris—well, they did actually speak French there, just as she had hoped. But Paris had proved to have its own unique kind of monster, too, as our wonderful interval at the art gallery had shown. What was it called? Jennifer’s Leg. Very interesting; after all my years of toiling in the fields it was still possible for me to see something that surprised me, and for that reason I felt a certain warmth for Paris nowadays.

Between Jennifer and her leg, and Rita’s eccentric performance, and whatever it was that Weiss was doing, life was just full of surprises lately, and they all boiled down to one thing: People really deserve whatever happens to them, don’t they?

It may not do me very much credit, but I found this thought very comforting, and I drifted back to sleep soon after.

The next morning my head had cleared a great deal; whether it was from Rita’s attentions or just my naturally chipper metabolism, I couldn’t say, In any case, I jumped out of bed with a fully functioning and powerfully effective brain at my service once again, which was all to the good.

The downside to that, however, was that any effective brain, realizing it was in the situation in which I found myself, would also find itself fighting down a very strong urge to panic, pack a bag, and run for the border. But even with my mental powers in high gear, I could not think of a border that would protect me from the mess I was in.

Still, life gives us very few real choices, and most of them are awful, so I headed for work, determined to track down Weiss and not to rest until I had him. I still did not understand him, or what he was doing, but that did not mean I couldn’t find him. No, indeed; Dexter was part bloodhound and part bulldog, and when he is on your trail, you might as well give up and save yourself the needless bother. I wondered if there was a way to get that message to Weiss.

I got to work a little bit early and so managed to grab a cup of coffee that almost tasted like coffee. I took it to my desk, sat at the computer, and got down to work. Or to be perfectly accurate, I got down to staring at my computer screen and trying to think of the right way to go to work. I had used up most of my clues already and felt like I was at something of a dead end. Weiss had stayed one step ahead of me, and I had to admit that he could be anywhere now; holed up somewhere nearby or even back in Canada, there was no way to know. And although I had thought my brain was fully functional once again, it was offering me no way to find out.

And then, far away, on top of an ice-covered peak in the distant skyline of Dexter’s mind, a signal flag rose up the pole and fluttered in the wind. I stared across the distance, trying to read the signal, and finally I got it: Five! it said. I blinked against the glare and read it again. Five.

A lovely number, five. I tried to remember if it was a prime number, and discovered I could not recall what that meant. But it was a very welcome number right now, because I had remembered why it was important, prime or not.

There were five videos on Weiss’s YouTube page. One each for the sites where Weiss had left his modified bodies, one of Dexter at play … and one more that I had not seen yet when Vince clattered in and called me away to work. It could not be another “New Miami” commercial featuring Deutsch’s body, because Weiss had still been filming that when I arrived at the crime scene. So it showed something else. And although I did not really expect it to tell me how to get to Weiss, it would almost certainly tell me something I did not know.

I grabbed my mouse and eagerly drove to YouTube, undeterred by the fact that I had watched myself on YouTube more often than modesty would really permit. I clicked through to the “New Miami” page. It was unchanged, the orange background still lighting up the screen behind the blazing letters. And on the right side were the five videos, neatly lined up in a thumbnail gallery, just as I remembered them.

Number five, the last one down, showed no picture in its box, just an area of blurry darkness. I moved the cursor over it and clicked. For a moment nothing happened; then a thick white line pulsed across the screen from left to right, and there was a blare of trumpets that was oddly familiar. And then a face appeared on the screen—Doncevic, smiling, his hair puffed out—and a voice began to sing, “Here’s the story—” and I realized why it had sounded familiar.

It was the opening to The Brady Bunch.

The horribly cheerful music bumped out at me and I watched as the voice warbled, “Here’s the story, of a guy named Alex, who was lonely, bored, and looking—for a change.” Then the first three arranged corpses appeared to the left of Doncevic’s happy face. He looked up at them and smiled as the song went on. They even smiled back, thanks to the plastic masks glued onto their faces.

The white line slid across the screen again, and the voice went on. “It’s the story, of a guy named Brandon, who had time of his own on his hands.” A picture of a man’s face appeared in the middle—Weiss? He was thirty or so, about the same age as Doncevic, but he was not smiling as the song continued. “They were two guys—living all together, until suddenly Brandon was alone.” Three boxes appeared on the right side of the screen, and in each one a dark and blurry frame appeared that was just as familiar as the song, but in a very slightly different way: these were three action shots lifted from the video of Dexter at play.

The first showed Doncevic’s body dumped in the tub. The second showed Dexter’s arm raising the saw, and the third was the saw slashing down on Doncevic. All three were short, two-second loops that repeated, over and over, as the song lurched on.

From the middle box Weiss looked on as the voice sang, “Until one day Brandon Weiss will get this fellow, and I promise he will not be saved by luck. There is nothing you can do to escape me. Because you have made me a crazy fuck.”

The cheerful tune crashed on as Weiss sang, “A crazy fuck. A crazy fuck. When you killed Alex—I became—a crazy fuck.”

But then, instead of a happy smile and dissolve to the first commercial, Weiss’s face swelled up to fill the whole screen and he said, “I loved Alex, and you took him away from me, just when we were getting started. In a way it’s very funny, because he was the one who said we shouldn’t kill anybody. I thought it would have been … truer …” He made a face and said, “Is that a word?” He gave a short and bitter laugh and went on. “Alex came up with the idea of taking bodies from the morgue so we didn’t have to kill anybody. And when you took him, you took away the only thing that stopped me from killing.”

For a moment he just stared at the camera. Then, very softly, he said, “Thank you. You’re right. It’s fun. I’m going to do it some more.” He gave a kind of twisted smile, as if he found something funny but didn’t feel like laughing. “You know, I kind of admire you.”

Then the screen went black.

When I was much younger, I used to feel cheated by my lack of human feelings. I could see the huge barrier between me and humanity, a wall built of feelings I would never feel, and I resented it very much. But one of those feelings was guilt—one of the most common and powerful, in fact—and as I realized that Weiss was telling me I had turned him loose as a killer, I also realized that I really ought to feel a little guilt, and I was very grateful that I did not.

Instead of guilt, what I felt was relief. Chilled waves of it, pulsing through me and snapping the tension that had been winding itself tighter and tighter inside me. I was well and truly relieved—because now I knew what he wanted. He wanted me. It had not been said out loud, but it was there: the next time it will be you and yours. And following the relief came a sense of cold urgency, a slow spreading and flexing of dark interior talons as the Dark Passenger caught the challenge in Weiss’s voice and responded in kind.

This was a great relief, too. Up until now the Passenger had been silent, having nothing at all to say about borrowed bodies, even when they were converted into patio furniture or gift baskets. But now there was menace, another predator sniffing down our back trail and threatening a territory we had already marked. And this was a challenge we could not allow, not for a moment. Weiss had served notice that he was coming—and finally, at last, the Passenger was rising from its nap and polishing its teeth. We would be ready.

But ready for what? I did not believe for a moment that Weiss would run away; that was not even a question. So what would he do?

The Passenger hissed an answer, an obvious one, but I felt its rightness because it was what we would have done. And Weiss had as much as told me himsel