Jeff Lindsay - Double Dexter

That left either magical powers or coincidence, and although I have nothing at all against Harry Potter, coincidence got my vote. And to make it a little more likely, that abandoned house had been only a little more than a mile from where the Palmetto Expressway intersects U.S. 1. I had already assumed that he lived in the same area and if he did, he would almost inevitably drive to work along U.S. 1 and quite likely up onto the Palmetto, too. Work for most people started at roughly the same time every day, and everyone in this area drove to work along the same road. That was painfully obvious; it was what caused the perpetual traffic jam at this time each morning. So it was not as wildly coincidental as it had seemed at first. In fact, it was even likely that if we both repeated the same drive at the same time long enough, sooner or later he would see my car, and even me.

And he had. Once again, he had seen me, and this time he d had an opportunity to study me at length. I tried to calculate how long he might have been staring. It was impossible; traffic had been stop-and-go, with an emphasis on stop that had lasted for almost two minutes. But it was pure guesswork to decide how long he had known it was me. Probably only a few seconds; I had to trust my alarm system.

Still, it was long enough to note the make and color of my car, write down the plate number, and who knows what else. I knew very well what I could do with only half that much information it was entirely possible that with just the plate number he could find me but would he? So far he had done nothing but flee in terror. Was he really going to look me up and then plant himself outside my door with a carving knife? If it was me, I would have but he was not me. I was exceptionally good with computers, and I had resources that weren t available to most people, and I used them to do things that no one else did. There is only one Dexter, and he was not it. Whoever this was, he could not possibly be anything like me. But it was just as true that I had no idea what he was like, or what he might do, and no matter how many different ways I told myself that there was no real danger, I couldn t shake the illogical fear that he was going to do something. The voice of calm reason was battered into silence by the screams of pure panic that had taken over my brain. He had seen me again, and this time I was in my workaday secret identity, and that made me feel more naked and helpless than I could remember.

I have no memory of driving up onto the Palmetto and continuing my morning commute, and it was pure blind chance that I was not flattened like a wandering possum by the raging traffic. By the time I got to work, I had calmed down enough to present a reasonably convincing facade, but I could not shake that steady trickle of anxiety that was once again burbling up on the floor of my brain and leaving me just on the edge of panic.

Luckily for the tattered shreds of my sanity, I didn t have long to dwell on my own petty concerns. I had not even settled into my morning routine when Deborah came steaming in to distract me, with her new partner, Duarte, trailing along behind.

All right, she said, as if she was continuing a conversation we d already been having. So the guy has to have some kind of record, right? You don t just suddenly do something like that out of nowhere, and nothing before it.

I sneezed and blinked at her, which was not a very impressive response, but since I was mired in my own worries it took me a moment to connect with hers. Are we talking about whoever killed Detective Klein? I said.

Debs blew out an impatient breath. Jesus shit, Dex, what did you think I was talking about?

NASCAR? I said. I think there was a big race this weekend.

Don t be an asshole, she said. I need to know about this.

I could have said that asshole might better describe somebody who charged into her brother s office first thing Monday morning and didn t even say gesundheit or ask how his weekend had been but I knew very well that my sister had no tolerance for suggestions on workplace etiquette, so I shrugged it off. I guess so, I said.

I mean, something like what he did, that s usually the end of a long process that started with other things, and you know. The kind of thing that gets you noticed.

What kind of thing? Duarte said.

I hesitated; for some reason, I felt a little bit uncomfortable, probably because I was talking about this stuff in front of a stranger generally speaking, I don t really like to talk about it at all, even with Debs; it seems a little too personal. I covered the pause by grabbing a paper towel and blotting at my nose, but they both kept looking at me expectantly, like two dogs waiting for a treat. I was on the spot, with no real choice but to go on.

Well, I said, tossing the paper towel into the trash, a lot of the time they start with, you know, pets. When they re young, just twelve years old or so. And they kill small dogs, cats, like that. Just, um, experimenting. Trying to find what feels right. And, you know. Somebody in the family, or in the neighborhood, finds the dead pets, and they get caught and arrested.

So there s a record, Debs said.

Well, there might be, I said. But if he follows the pattern, he s young when he does that, so he goes to Juvie. So the record is going to be sealed, and you can t just ask a judge to give you every sealed case file in the system.

Then give me something better, Deborah said urgently. Give me something to work with here.

Debs, I protested, I don t have anything. I sneezed again. Except a cold.

Well, shit, she said. Can t you think up some kind of hint?

I looked at her, and then at Duarte, and my discomfort grew and mixed with frustration. How? I said.

Duarte shrugged. She says you re like some kind of amateur profiler, he said.

I was surprised, and a bit upset, that Debs had shared that with Duarte. My so-called profiling talent was highly personal, something that grew out of my firsthand experience with sociopathic individuals like myself. But she had shared it; that probably meant she trusted him. In any case, I was on the spot. Ah, well, I said at last. M s o menos.

Duarte shook his head. What is that, yes or no? he said. I looked at Debs, and she actually smirked at me. Alex doesn t speak Spanish, she said.

Oh, I said.

Alex speaks French, she said, looking at him with hard-edged fondness.

I felt even more uncomfortable, since I had made a social blunder by assuming that anybody with a Cuban name who lived in Miami would speak Spanish but I also realized that this was one more clue to why Debs liked her new partner. For some reason, my sister had taken French in school, too, in spite of the fact that we grew up in a city where Spanish was used more widely than English, and French was no more useful than lips on a chicken it didn t even help her with the city s growing Haitian population. They all spoke Creole, which was only slightly closer to French than Mandarin.

And now she had found a kindred spirit, and clearly they had bonded. I am sure a real human being would have felt a warm glow of affectionate satisfaction at my sister s newly happy work situation, but this was me, and I didn t. All I felt was irritation and discomfort. Well, bonne chance, I said. But even speaking French to a judge won t get him to unseal a juvenile record especially since we don t even know which record.

Deborah lost her annoying fond look. Well, shit, she said. I can t just wait around and hope I get lucky.

You may not have to, I said. I m pretty sure he s going to do it again.

She just looked at me for a long moment, and then she nodded.

Yeah, she said. I m pretty sure he will. She shook her head, looked at Duarte, and walked out of the room. He followed right behind her, and I sneezed.