Darkly Dreaming Dexter

by Jeff Lindsay

  Ramirez was certain it had been a couple of kids trying to get some kind of reaction from us, and if so they had certainly succeeded. Williams tried very hard to be reassuring, telling us it was just a prank and now it was over, and as they were leaving Ramirez added that they would drive by a few times the rest of the night.

  But even with these soothing words still fresh, Rita sat in the kitchen with a cup of coffee for the rest of the night, unable to get back to sleep. For my part, I tossed and turned for more than three minutes before I drifted back to slumberland.

  And as I flew down the long black mountain into sleep, the music started up again. And there was a great feeling of gladness and then heat on my face . . .

  And somehow I was in the hallway, with Rita shaking me and calling my name. “Dexter, wake up,” she said. “Dexter.”

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  “What happened?” I said.

  “You were sleepwalking,” she said. “And singing. Singing in your sleep.”

  And so rosy-fingered dawn found both of us sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. When the alarm finally went off in the bedroom, she got up to turn it off and came back and looked at me. I looked back, but there didn’t seem to be anything to say, and then Cody and Astor came into the kitchen, and there was nothing more we could do except stumble through the morning routine and head for work, automatically pretending that everything was exactly the way it should be.

  But of course it wasn’t. Someone was trying to get into my head, and they were succeeding far too well. And now they were trying to get into my house, and I didn’t even know who it was, or what they wanted. I had to assume that somehow it was all connected to Moloch, and the absence of my Presence.

  The bottom line was that somebody was trying to do something to me, and they were getting closer and closer to doing it.

  I found myself unwilling to consider the idea that a real live ancient god was trying to kill me. To begin with, they don’t exist. And even if they did, why would one bother with me? Clearly some human being was using the whole Moloch thing as a costume in order to feel more powerful and important, and to make his victims believe he had special magical powers.

  Like the ability to invade my sleep and make me hear music, for instance? A human predator couldn’t do that. And it couldn’t scare away the Dark Passenger, either.

  The only possible answers were impossible. Maybe it was just the crippling fatigue, but I couldn’t think of any others that weren’t.

  When I arrived at work that morning, I had no chance to think of anything better, because there was an immediate call to a double homicide in a quiet marijuana house in the Grove. Two teenagers had been tied up, cut up, and then shot several times each, just for good measure. And although I am certain that I should have considered this a terrible thing, I was actually very grateful for the opportunity to view dead bodies that were not cooked and beheaded.

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  It made things seem normal, even peaceful, for just a little while. I sprayed my luminol hither and yon, almost happy to perform a task that made the hideous music recede for a little while.

  But it also gave me time to ponder, and this I did. I saw scenes like this every day, and nine times out of ten the killers said things like “I just snapped” or “By the time I knew what I was doing it was too late.” All grand excuses, and it had seemed a bit amusing to me, since I always knew what I was doing, which was why I did it.

  And at last a thought wandered in—I had found myself unable to do anything at all to Starzak without my Dark Passenger. This meant that my talent was in the Passenger, not in me by myself.

  Which could mean that all these others who “snapped” were tem-porarily playing host to something similar, couldn’t it?

  Until now, mine had never left me; it was permanently at home with me, not wandering around in the streets hitchhiking with the first bad-tempered wretch that wandered by.

  All right, put that aside for the time being. Let’s just assume that some Passengers wander and some of them nest. Could this account for what Halpern had described as a dream? Could something go into him, make him kill two girls, and then take him home and tuck him into bed before leaving?

  I didn’t know. But I did know that if that idea held water, I was in a lot deeper than I had imagined.

  By the time I got back to my office it was past time for lunch, and there was a call waiting from Rita to remind me that I had a 2:30

  appointment with her minister. And by “minister” I don’t mean the kind with a position in the cabinet of a foreign government. As unlikely as it seems, I mean the kind of minister you will find in a church, if you are ever compelled to visit one for some reason. For my part, I have always assumed that if there is any kind of God at all He would never let something like me flourish. And if I am wrong, the altar might crack and fall if I went inside a church.

  But my sensible avoidance of religious buildings was at an end now, since Rita wanted her very own minister to perform our wedding ceremony, and apparently he needed to check my human credentials before agreeing to the assignment. Of course, he hadn’t 216

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  done a very good job of it the first time, since Rita’s first husband had been a crack addict who regularly beat her, and the reverend had somehow failed to detect that. And if the minister had missed something that obvious before, the odds of him doing better with me were not very good at all.

  Still, Rita set great store by the man, so away we went to an ancient coral-rock church on an overgrown lot in the Grove, only half a mile from the homicide scene I had worked that morning. Rita had been confirmed there, she told me, and had known the minister for a very long time. Apparently that was important, and I supposed it should be, considering what I knew about several men of God who had come to my attention through my hobby. My former hobby, that is.

  Reverend Gilles was waiting for us in his office—or is it called a cloister, or a retreat, or something like that? Rectory always sounded to me like a place where you would find a proctologist.

  Perhaps it was a sacristy—I admit that I am not up on my terminol-ogy here. My foster mother, Doris, did try to get me to church when I was young, but after a couple of regrettable incidents it became apparent that it wasn’t going to stick, and Harry intervened.

  The reverend’s study was lined with books that had improbable titles offering no doubt very sound advice on dealing with things God would really prefer you to avoid. There were also a few that offered insight into a woman’s soul, although it did not specify which woman, and information on how to make Christ work for you, which I hoped did not mean at minimum wage. There was even one on Christian chemistry, which seemed to me to be stretching the point, unless it gave a recipe for the old water-into-wine trick.

  Much more interesting was a book with Gothic script on the binding. I turned my head to read the title; mere curiosity, but when I read it I felt a jolt go through me as if my esophagus had suddenly filled with ice.

  Demonic Possession: Fact or Fancy? it said, and as I read the title I distinctly heard the far-off sound of a nickel dropping.

  It would be very easy for an outside observer to shake his head and say, Yes, obviously, Dexter is a dull boy if he has never thought DEXTER IN THE DARK

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  of that. But the truth is, I had not. Demon has so many negative con-notations, doesn’t it? And as long as the Presence was present, there seemed no need to define it in those arcane terms. It was only now that it was gone that I required some explanation. And why not this one? It was a bit old-fashioned, but its very hoariness seemed to argue that there might be something to it, some connection that went back to the nonsense with Solomon and Moloch and all the way up to what was happening to me today.

  Was the Dark Passenger really a demon? And did the Passenger’s absence mean it had been cast out? If so, by what? Something overwhelmingly good? I could not recall
encountering anything like that in the last, oh, lifetime or so. Just the opposite, in fact.

  But could something very very bad cast out a demon? I mean, what could be worse than a demon? Perhaps Moloch? Or could a demon cast itself out for some reason?

  I tried to comfort myself with the thought that at least I had some good questions now, but I didn’t feel terribly comforted, and my thoughts were interrupted when the door opened and the Right Reverend Gilles breezed in, beaming and muttering, “Well, well.”

  The reverend was about fifty and seemed well fed, so I suppose the tithing business was working. He came right to us and gave Rita a hug and a peck on the cheek, before turning to offer me a hearty masculine handshake.

  “Well,” he said, smiling cautiously at me. “So you’re Dexter.”

  “I suppose I am,” I said. “I just couldn’t help it.”

  He nodded, almost as if I had made sense. “Sit down, please, relax,” he said, and he moved around behind the desk and sat in a large swivel chair.

  I took him at his word and leaned back in the red leather chair opposite his desk, but Rita perched nervously on the edge of her identical seat.

  “Rita,” he said, and he smiled again. “Well, well. So you’re ready to try again, are you?”

  “Yes, I—that’s just—I mean, I think so,” Rita said, blushing furiously. “I mean, yes.” She looked at me with a bright red smile and said, “Yes, I’m ready.”

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  “Good, good,” he said, and he switched his expression of fond concern over to me. “And you, Dexter. I would really like to know a little bit about you.”

  “Well, to begin with, I’m a murder suspect,” I said modestly.

  “Dexter,” Rita said, and impossibly turned even redder.

  “The police think you killed somebody?” Reverend Gilles asked.

  “Oh, they don’t all think that,” I said. “Just my sister.”

  “Dexter works in forensics,” Rita blurted out. “His sister is a detective. He just—he was only kidding about the other part.”

  Once again he nodded at me. “A sense of humor is a big help in any relationship,” he said.

  He paused for a moment, looked very thoughtful and even more sincere, and then said, “How do you feel about Rita’s children?”

  “Oh, Cody and Astor adore Dexter,” Rita said, and she looked very happy that we were no longer talking about my status as a wanted man.

  “But how does Dexter feel about them?” he insisted gently.

  “I like them,” I said.

  Reverend Gilles nodded and said, “Good. Very good. Sometimes children can be a burden. Especially when they’re not yours.”

  “Cody and Astor are very good at being a burden,” I said. “But I don’t really mind.”

  “They’re going to need a lot of mentoring,” he said, “after all they went through.”

  “Oh, I mentor them,” I said, although I thought it was probably a good idea not to be too specific, so I just added, “They’re very eager to be mentored.”

  “All right,” he said. “So we’ll see those kids here at Sunday school, right?” It seemed to me to be a bald-faced attempt to black-mail us into providing future recruits to fill his collection basket, but Rita nodded eagerly, so I went along with it. Besides, I was reasonably sure that whatever anyone might say, Cody and Astor would find their spiritual comfort somewhere else.

  “Now, the two of you,” he said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the back of one hand with the palm of the other. “A rela-

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  tionship in today’s world needs a strong foundation in faith,” he said, looking at me expectantly. “Dexter? How about it?”

  Well, there it was. You have to believe that sooner or later a minister will find a way to twist things around so they fall into his area.

  I don’t know if it’s worse to lie to a minister than to anyone else, but I did want to get this interview over quickly and painlessly, and could that possibly happen if I told the truth? Suppose I did and said something like, Yes, I have a great deal of faith, Reverend—in human greed and stupidity, and in the sweetness of sharp steel on a moonlit night. I have faith in the dark unseen, the cold chuckle from the shadows inside, the absolute clarity of the knife. Oh, yes, I have faith, Reverend, and beyond faith—I have certainty, because I have seen the bleak bottom line and I know it is real; it’s where I live.

  But really, that was hardly calculated to reassure the man, and I surely didn’t need to worry about going to hell for telling a lie to a minister. If there actually is a hell, I already have a front-row seat.

  So I merely said, “Faith is very important,” and he seemed to be happy with that.

  “Great, okay,” he said, and he glanced covertly at his watch.

  “Dexter, do you have any questions about our church?”

  A fair question, perhaps, but it took me by surprise, since I had been thinking of this interview as my time for answering questions, not asking them. I was perfectly ready to be evasive for at least another hour—but really, what was there to ask about? Did they use grape juice or wine? Was the collection basket metal or wood? Was dancing a sin? I was just not prepared. And yet he seemed like he was truly interested in knowing. So I smiled reassuringly back at Reverend Gilles and said, “Actually, I’d love to know what you think about demonic possession.”

  “Dexter!” Rita gulped with a nervous smile. “That’s not— You can’t really—”

  Reverend Gilles raised a hand. “It’s all right, Rita,” he said. “I think I know where Dexter’s coming from.” He leaned back in the chair and nodded, favoring me with a pleasant and knowing smile.

  “Been quite a while since you’ve been to church, Dexter?”

  “Well, actually, it has,” I said.

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  “I think you’ll find that the new church is quite a good fit for the modern world. The central truth of God’s love doesn’t change,” he said. “But sometimes our understanding of it can.” And then he actually winked at me. “I think we can agree that demons are for Halloween, not for Sunday service.”

  Well, it was nice to have an answer, even if it wasn’t the one I was looking for. I hadn’t really expected Reverend Gilles to pull out a grimoire and cast a spell, but I admit it was a little disappointing.

  “All right, then,” I said.

  “Any other questions?” he asked me with a very satisfied smile.

  “About our church, or anything about the ceremony?”

  “Why, no,” I said. “It seems very straightforward.”

  “We like to think so,” he said. “As long as we put Christ first, everything else falls into place.”

  “Amen,” I said brightly. Rita gave me a bit of a look, but the reverend seemed to accept it.

  “All right, then,” he said, and he stood up and held out his hand, “June twenty-fourth it is.” I stood up, too, and shook his hand. “But I expect to see you here before then,” he said. “We have a great contemporary service at ten o’clock every Sunday.” He winked and gave my hand an extra-manly squeeze. “Gets you home in time for the football game.”

  “That’s terrific,” I said, thinking how nice it is when a business anticipates the needs of its customers.

  He dropped my hand and grabbed Rita, wrapping her up in a full embrace. “Rita,” he said. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thank you,” Rita sobbed into his shoulder. She leaned against him for a moment longer and snuffled, and then stood upright again, rubbing her nose and looking at me. “Thank you, Dexter,”

  she said. For what I don’t know, but it’s always nice to be included.

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  For the first time in quite a while I was actually anxious to get back to my cubicle. Not because I was pining for blood spatter—but because of the idea that had de-scended on me in Reverend Gilles’s study. Dem
onic possession. It had a certain ring to it. I had never really felt possessed, although Rita was certainly staking her claim. But it was at least some kind of explanation with a degree of history attached, and I was very eager to pursue it.

  First I checked my answering machine and e-mail: no messages except a routine departmental memo on cleaning up the coffee area.

  No abject apology from Debs, either. I made a few careful calls and found that she was out trying to round up Kurt Wagner, which was a relief, since it meant she wasn’t following me.

  Problem solved and conscience clear, I began looking into the question of demonic possession. Once again, good old King Solomon figured prominently. He had apparently been quite cozy with a number of demons, most of whom had improbable names with several z’s in them. And he had ordered them about like indentured servants, forcing them to fetch and tote and build his great temple, 222

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  which was a bit of a shock, since I had always heard that the temple was a good thing, and surely there must have been some kind of law in place about demon labor. I mean, if we get so upset about illegal immigrants picking the oranges, shouldn’t all those God-fearing patriarchs have had some kind of ordinance against demons?

  But there it was in black and white. King Solomon had con-sorted with them quite comfortably, as their boss. They didn’t like being ordered around, of course, but they put up with it from him.

  And that raised the interesting thought that perhaps someone else was able to control them, and was trying to do so with the Dark Passenger, who had therefore fled from involuntary servitude. I paused and thought about that.

  The biggest problem with that theory was that it did not fit in with the overwhelming sense of mortal danger that had flooded through me from the very first, even when the Passenger had still been on board. I can understand reluctance to do unwanted work as easily as the next guy, but that had nothing to do with the lethal dread that this had raised in me.

  Did that mean the Passenger was not a demon? Did it mean that what was happening to me was mere psychosis? A totally imagined paranoid fantasy of pursuing bloodlust and approaching horror?