by Jeff Lindsay
Just to play it safe I continued to drive on the side streets all the way home, in case our follower was watching the highway. Besides, with the sun going down it was easier to see somebody behind us in darker house-lined streets, away from the bright orange glow of the lights along US 1. And there was nobody to see; once or twice headlights flared in the rearview mirror, and each time it was simply a homeward-bound commuter, turning down his own street and parking in his driveway.
We came finally to the cross street that took us to our own little bungalow. I turned onto it and edged up to US 1 carefully, looking in all directions. There was nothing to see but traffic, and none of it looked sinister, and when the light finally changed to green I crossed the highway and drove through the two more turns that took us to our street.
“All right,” I said, as our little patch of heaven heaved into sight. “Let’s not say anything about this to your mom. She’ll just worry. Okay?”
“Dexter,” Astor said, and she leaned forward against the back of the front seat, pointing ahead to our house. I slid my gaze along her outstretched arm and hit the brakes hard enough to rattle my teeth.
A small red car was parked directly in front of the house, nose pointed at us. The lights were on and the motor was running and I could not see inside it, but I did not need to see in order to feel the rapid beat of dark leathery wings and the angry hiss of a wide-awake Passenger.
“Stay here, doors locked,” I told the kids, and I handed Astor my cell phone. “If anything happens call nine-one-one.”
“Can I drive away if you’re dead?” Astor said.
“Just stay here,” I said, and I took a deep breath, gathering the darkness—
“I can drive,” Astor said, unsnapping her seat belt and lurching forward.
“Astor,” I said sharply, and there was an echo of the other voice, the cold commander, in my own. “Stay put,” I said, and she settled back into her own seat almost meekly.
I got out slowly and faced the other car. There was no way to see inside, and no sign of anything dangerous; just a small red car with the lights on and the engine running. I felt the equivalent of a long drumroll from the Passenger—ready for action but no hint of what; it could be flaming chain saws; it could be a pie in the face.
I stepped toward the car, trying to plan what to do, which was impossible because I did not know what they wanted, or even who they were. It was no longer believable that it was merely a random crazy—not if he knew where I lived. But who was it? Who had any reason to act like this? Among the living, I mean, because there were plenty of former victims who might have loved to come after me, but they were all far beyond any sort of action at all, other than decomposition.
I walked forward trying to be ready for everything, another impossibility. Still no sign of life in the other car, and nothing at all from the Passenger except a puzzled and cautious flutter of wings.
And when I was about ten feet away the driver’s window slithered down and I stopped in my tracks. For a long moment nothing happened, and then a face came out the window, a familiar face, wearing a bright fake smile.
“Wasn’t that fun?” the face said. “When were you going to tell me I’m an uncle?”
It was my brother, Brian.
NINE
I HAD NOT SEEN MY BROTHER SINCE THAT MEMORABLE evening several years earlier when we had met, for the first time as adults, in a storage container at Port of Miami, and he had offered me a knife so I could assist him in the vivisection of his chosen playmate. As it had happened, I had not been able to bring myself to do so, odd as it sounds. That may be because he had chosen Deborah, and Harry’s long-dead hand had squeezed my hypothetical soul so strongly I was unable to hurt her—even though she was not my blood relation, and Brian was.
In fact, he was my only biological relative, as far as I knew, although considering the little I had uncovered about our round-heeled mother, anything was possible. For all I knew, I could have a dozen half brothers and sisters living in a trailer park in Immokalee. At any rate, far more important than the bond of blood we shared was—well, another kind of bond of blood altogether. Because Brian had been forged in the selfsame fire that had turned me into Dexter the Dark, and it had also given him an inarguable need to slice and dice. Unfortunately, he had grown to maturity without the restraints of Harry’s guiding Code, and he was very happy to practice his art on anyone, provided they were youngish and female. He had been working his way through a string of Miami prostitutes when our paths had first crossed.
The last time I had seen him, he had been staggering off into the night with a bullet in his side, the only head start I could give him, considering that Deborah was there and somewhat anxious to speak with him in an official capacity. Apparently he’d found medical attention, because he looked quite healthy now; a little older, of course, but he still looked a lot like me. He was very close to my height and build, and even his features looked like a crude and battered imitation of my own, and the bright empty mockery I remembered was in his eyes as he looked up at me from his little red car.
“Did you get my flowers?” he asked, and I nodded, moving forward.
“Brian,” I said, leaning onto the car. “You look good.”
“As do you, dear brother,” he said, still smiling. He reached out and patted my stomach. “I believe you’ve put on a little weight—your wife must be a good cook.”
“She is,” I said. “She takes very good care of me. Body and, um, soul.”
We chuckled together at my use of that fairy-tale word, and I thought again how good it was to know somebody who really understood me. I’d had a brief and tantalizing glimpse of this all-accepting bond on that one night we were together, and now I realized just how much I had given up—and perhaps he did, too, because here he was.
But of course, nothing is ever that simple, especially not with us residents of the Dark Tower, and I felt a small flutter of suspicion. “What are you doing here, Brian?”
He shook his head with pretended self-pity. “Already feeling suspicious? Of your own flesh and blood?”
“Well,” I said, “I mean, really. Um, considering …?”
“True enough,” he said. “Why don’t you invite me in and we’ll talk?”
The suggestion was like sudden ice water flung on my neck. Invite him in? Into my house, where my other carefully separate life lay nestled in its bed of clean white cotton? Let a dribble of blood spatter onto the pristine damask of my disguise? It was a terrible idea and it sent a surge of horrid discomfort right through me. Besides, I had never even mentioned to anyone that I had a brother, and in this case the “anyone” was Rita, and she would certainly wonder at the omission. How could I invite him in—into the world of Rita’s pancakes, Disney DVDs, and clean sheets? Invite him inside, by all that was unholy, to the Inner Sanctum of Lily Anne? It was not right. It was sacrilegious, a blasphemous violation of …
Of what? Wasn’t he my very own brother? Shouldn’t that cover over everything else in a blanket of sanctimony? Surely I could trust him—but with everything? With my secret identity, my Fortress of Solitude—and even Lily Anne, my Kryptonite?
“Don’t drool, brother,” Brian said, interrupting my flight of panicked musing. “It’s so very unbecoming.”
Without thinking, I dabbed at the corner of my mouth with my sleeve, still floundering desperately for some kind of coherent response. But before I could even arrive at a single syllable, a car horn bleated nearby, and I turned to see Astor’s peevish face glaring through the windshield of my car. Cody’s head was right next to hers, silent and watchful. I could see Astor squirming and mouthing the words, Come on, Dexter! She beeped again.
“Your stepchildren,” Brian said. “Charming little sprats, I’m sure. May I meet them?”
“Um,” I said, with really impressive authority.
“Come on, Dexter,” Brian said. “I won’t eat them.” He gave a strange little laugh that did nothing to reassure me, but at the sa
me time I realized that he was, after all, my brother—and Cody and Astor were far from helpless, as they had shown several times. Surely there could be no harm in allowing them to meet their, ah, stepuncle?
“Okay,” I said, and I waved back at Astor, beckoning her to come and join us. With very commendable speed they both scrambled out of the car and came over to us, allowing Brian just barely enough time to clamber out of his car and stand beside me.
“Well, well,” he said. “What handsome children!”
“He’s handsome,” Astor said. “I’m just cute until I grow my boobs, and then I’m going to be hot.”
“I’m sure you are,” Brian said, and he turned his attention to Cody. “And you, little man,” he said. “Are you …” And he trickled to a halt as he met Cody’s gaze.
Cody stood looking up at Brian, his feet spread apart and his hands hanging stiffly at his sides. Their eyes locked together and I could hear the leathery unfolding of wings between them, the dark and sibilant greeting of twin interior specters. There was a look of belligerent wonder on Cody’s face, and he just stared for a long moment and Brian stared back, and finally Cody looked at me. “Like me,” he said. “Shadow Guy.”
“Amazing,” Brian said, and Cody turned back to meet his gaze. “Brother, what have you done?”
“Brother?” Astor said, clearly demanding equal time in the spotlight. “He’s your brother?!”
“Yes, my brother,” I said to Astor, and added to Brian, “I didn’t do anything. Their biological father did.”
“He used to beat us up really bad,” Astor said matter-of-factly.
“I see,” Brian said. “Thus supplying the Traumatic Event that spawns us all.”
“I guess so,” I said.
“And what have you done with this wonderful untapped potential?” Brian said, his eyes still on Cody.
I was now in very uncomfortable territory, considering that my plan had been to train them in Harry’s Way, a course I was now just as determined to avoid, and I found that I really didn’t want to talk openly about this, not at this point in time. “Let’s go inside,” I said. “Would you like a cup of coffee or something?”
Brian turned slow and empty eyes away from Cody and onto me. “I’d be delighted, brother,” he said, and with another glance at the children, he turned and walked toward my front door.
“You never said you had a brother,” Astor said.
“Like us,” Cody added.
“You never asked,” I said, feeling strangely defensive about the whole thing.
“You should have said,” Astor said, and Cody looked at me with an equal, unspoken accusation, as if I had violated some basic trust.
But Brian was already standing at the front door, so I turned away and followed. They came along behind, clearly fuming, and it occurred to me that this would not be the last time I heard similar words. What would I say to Rita when she asked the same thing, as she certainly would? I mean, of course I had never told them I had a brother. Considering that Brian was just like me but without any of Harry’s restraints on him, a kind of Dexter Unbound, what could I possibly say? The only really appropriate introduction would be, “This is my brother—run for your life!”
And in any case, I had not anticipated ever seeing him again after that one brief and dizzying encounter. I had not even known if he would survive. He clearly had—but why had he come back? I would have thought it made more sense to stay far away; Deborah would certainly remember him. Theirs had not been the sort of encounter one forgets, and she was, after all, exactly the kind of person who took great professional satisfaction from arresting people like him.
I knew very well, too, that he had not come back because of any kind of sentimental feelings for me, either. He did not have sentimental feelings. So why was he here, and what did I do about it?
Brian reached the front door and turned to look at me, raising one eyebrow. Apparently, the first thing I had to do about it was to open the door and let him in. I did; he gave me a small bow and entered, and Cody and Astor trooped in after him.
“What a lovely home,” Brian said, looking around the living room. “So very homey.”
There were heaps of DVDs lying across the tattered couch, and a pile of socks on the floor, and two empty pizza boxes on the coffee table. Rita had been in the hospital for nearly three days, and naturally enough she had not had the energy to clean up since she returned this morning. And although I do prefer a neat environment, I had been far too distracted myself to do anything about it, and the place really was not at its best. In fact, it was a frightful mess.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Brian. “We’ve been, um—”
“Yes, I know, the blessed event,” he said. “Into each life some domesticity must fall.”
“What does that mean?” Astor demanded.
“Dexter?” Rita called from the bedroom. “Is that—Is somebody with you?”
“It’s me,” I said.
“His brother is here,” Astor said belligerently.
There was a pause, replaced by the sound of panicked rustling of some kind, and then Rita came out, still brushing at her hair with one hand. “Brother?” she said. “But that’s—Oh.” And she stumbled to a halt, staring at Brian.
“Dear lady,” Brian said with knife-edged mocking joy, “how lovely you are. Dexter always did have an eye for beauty.”
Rita fluttered her hands at her head. “Oh, my God, I’m such a mess,” she said. “And the house is—But, Dexter, you never even said you had a brother, and this is—”
“It certainly is,” Brian said. “And I apologize for the inconvenience.”
“But your brother,” Rita repeated. “And you never said.”
I felt my jaw muscles moving, but no matter how carefully I listened, I did not hear myself saying anything. Brian watched me with real enjoyment for a moment before he finally spoke up.
“I’m afraid it’s all my fault,” he said at last. “Dexter thought I was long dead.”
“That’s right,” I said, feeling like one of the Three Stooges picking up a bobbled line cue.
“Still,” Rita said, still fussing absently with her hair. “I mean, you never—You said you were—I mean, how could you not …?”
“It’s very painful,” I said tentatively. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Still,” Rita repeated, and even though there was no guidebook for the territory we had entered, I knew I had not heard the last of this. So, hoping to maneuver us back onto firmer terrain, I blurted out the only words I could find.
“Could we have a cup of coffee?” I said.
“Oh,” Rita said, her peevishness changing at once to a look of startled guilt. “I’m sorry—would you like—I mean, yes, here, sit down.” And she moved to the couch and removed the assorted litter that blocked it with a rapid series of precision moves that did us all proud, domestically speaking. “There,” she said, piling the armful of clutter beside the couch and waving at Brian. “Please—sit down, and—Oh! I’m Rita.”
Brian stepped forward with brittle gallantry and took her hand. “My name is Brian,” he said. “But please sit down, dear lady; you should not be on your feet so soon.”
“Oh,” Rita said, and she was actually blushing. “But the coffee, I ought to—”
“Surely Dexter is not so hopeless that he can’t make coffee?” Brian said, arching one eyebrow at her, and she giggled.
“I suppose we’ll never know unless we let him try,” she said, and she actually simpered at him as she sank onto the couch. “Dexter, would you please—It’s three scoops for six cups, and you put the water into the—”
“I think I can manage,” I said, and if I sounded a little surly, who had a better right? And as Brian sat beside my wife, on my couch, I stalked into the kitchen to make coffee. And as I clattered through the motions of filling the pot from the sink and pouring the water into the machine, I heard from deep inside a quiet settling of bat wings as the Passenger sto
od down. But from the icy coils of Dexter’s allegedly powerful brain I heard only stammers of confusion and uncertainty. The ground seemed to be turning under my feet; I felt exposed and threatened and assailed by all the wicked armies of the night.
Why had my brother returned? And why did that make me feel so terribly insecure?
TEN
A FEW MINUTES LATER I HAD POURED THE COFFEE INTO mugs and set them on a tray with the sugar bowl and two spoons. I carried it carefully to the doorway into the living room, and stopped dead. The picture I saw was one of domestic bliss, charming in every aspect—except for the fact that it did not include me. My brother had settled onto the couch with Rita as if he had always lived there. Cody and Astor stood a few feet away looking at him with fascination, and I froze in the kitchen door and stared at the tableau with a growing sense of discomfort. Seeing Brian here, on my couch, Rita leaning toward him as she spoke, and Cody and Astor watching—it was just too weirdly surreal. The images did not quite mesh, but they were very unsettling, as if you had entered a cathedral for high mass and found people copulating on the altar.
Brian, of course, seemed completely undisturbed. I suppose it is one of the great advantages of being incapable of feeling things; he looked as comfortable on my couch as if he had grown there. And just to emphasize the fact that he apparently belonged there more than I did, he saw me lurking with the coffee and waved a hand at the chair next to the couch.
“Sit down, brother,” he said. “Make yourself at home.” Rita jerked upright, and Cody and Astor swung their heads to me and watched as I approached with the coffee.
“Oh!” Rita said, and to me she sounded a little guilty. “You forgot the cream, Dexter.” And before anyone could speak she was gone into the kitchen.
“You keep calling him brother,” Astor said to Brian. “How come you don’t use his name?”