A Not So Beautiful Mind
1.
When you think about it, the only thing that really belongs to us is our mind, whatever that is. Everything else is transient, destroyed by age or disease or accident or natural disaster or whatever. Or, sometimes, by fun-loving playmates like me. Our bodies are fleeting, but our minds are forever.
Yeah, right! And the Tooth Fairy pays good money for old rotten teeth.
I'm quite sure the mind I was born with is gone. Long gone. It was ripped away by the delicate kiss of a chainsaw, simmered in blood. Of course, my new-and-improved mind is here forever. I couldn't live without it. Neither could my friend, my Dark Passenger. You see, he has no mind of his own. Only mine. We share it. Actually, I suspect we may share his. But he doesn't object. We're close. Oh, so very close.
And on special nights, with a big blood-red moon grinning at us, beckoning us, we're especially close. We go off for a little recreation. He gets visceral ecstasy and I get – what? – relief, painful relief. Or joyless relief from pain. And some unsuspecting cupcake, like Mr. Johnson, provides the entertainment. How generous of him. All I have to do is find him at home, and off-guard. Not too much off-guard; it's no fun if there's no challenge. And my friend always insists on fun. Usually at my expense. But that's another story . . .
Dressed in my olive-drab long-sleeve kill-shirt and khaki cargo pants with my shoulder-bag of toys, I ran down the exterior stairs of my apartment building heading for my car. I've done it so many times, it feels like a recurring dream. Or a recurring nightmare. Coming up the stairs that night was my new neighbor, Riley. Moved into the apartment next to me a few weeks ago. From San Francisco. Helped him move in a few heavy things, too. I can be so friendly, sometimes. So human. I didn't mind, though. He's strangely non-threatening in a way I don't quite understand. But, then, I don't understand much about normal people, real humans. Why should I?
"Howdy neighbor!" he said, in that cheerful way of his. Like we'd been close friends since the Big Bang. Why are some people like that? Are they for real? I think Riley is. I don't think there's counterfeit bone in his body. He's as real as they get. My opposite. I kind of like him, sort of. Like they say, opposites attract. He's comfortable, like a friendly old dog or an old pair of worn-out slippers.
"Hey, Riley," I replied with enthusiasm and a smile, not having to pretend as with most of humanity. "You're getting home late." Normally I don't even mind chitchatting with him about whatever, but I was in a hurry.
"Yeah," he sighed, slumping with cartoon exhaustion, "you know how the ol' sweatshop can be."
"Do I ever," I lied. "Off to the ol' sweatshop myself, as we speak," I continued the lie. I'm incredibly good at lying, you know. I have no doubt I could lie my way through a polygraph test with flying colors. They only catch real humans.
"Sorry to hear that," he said with genuine concern, looking at his watch. "Well, I won't keep you. I can see you're in a hurry. Don't want to keep Mr. Johnson waiting."
"Catch you later," I said and slipped past him down the stairs. As we passed, he touched me lightly on the back, friendly, playful – caring? – I'm not really sure. That always annoys the hell out of me.
It wasn't until I was in my car, halfway across town, that it hit me like a brick in the face. Don't want to keep Mr. Johnson waiting. That's what he'd said. But how could he possibly have known about Mr. Johnson? How? I hadn't uttered the name aloud, or written it on a piece of paper or on my computer or anywhere else. I'd never done anything but roll it around in my mind like a piece of candy on my tongue. Tasting it, exploring it, savoring it, wanting it. How did he know? Did I mumble it out loud while sleeping? Loud enough to hear through the wall separating our apartments? Impossible, the wall's so soundproofed I can't even hear his toilet flush at night. How could he know? I'd have to find out, somehow. But it'd have to wait until I finished my little task.
As it turned out, Mr. Johnson came home falling-down drunk. A sleepy pre-schooler could have subdued him. He was no challenge, certainly no fun. My friend was profoundly disappointed. So was I. But it was probably for the best . . . I was so preoccupied with Riley's comment, constantly looking over my shoulder for a SWAT team or an FBI tactical squad, that my performance was a little off. A lot off, actually. I even felt unsatisfied taking a blood trophy. Instead of mounting the head of a ferocious nine-thousand pound rhinoceros on the wall, it seemed more like the head of a helpless little nine ounce goldfish, fished out of a medium-size Dixie cup. Where's the sport in that? Or the fun.
2.
Most people don't like to go to work, especially on Mondays. They'd rather stay in bed or go to a ballgame or the beach or something, anything, rather than go to work. Not me. I like what I do. I like helping take society's trash out. More than you could ever imagine. Sometimes I do it for free. In a sense, I combine work and pleasure. Sanity and insanity. Sanity, what a concept!
The only time I have a problem at work is when my extracurricular activities interfere with my work. Or, when my work interferes with my extracurricular activities. An unsatisfying kill and a neighbor's mysterious comment can do both. And did. The next day at work didn't go well.
"Dexter," Angel said, a touch of impatience in his fatherly long-suffering voice, "where's that report you promised me?"
"Uh, what report is that, Angel?" I said.
"You know, the Murphy stabbing."
"Oh yeah, got it right here," I said, handing him a manila folder.
He took it, gave it a quick look and handed it back. "This is the Burger Heaven shooting," he said. "Are you okay? This isn't you." Little did he know! I'm never me, or at least the me he thinks I am.
"Didn't sleep well last night," I said truthfully with cow eyes, "air conditioner on the fritz." A lie. The truth was, well, too complicated, too dangerous, too something.
"Yeah, know how that is," he said and touched me on the shoulder, that fatherly touch of his. Do I have a flashing neon sign on my back saying 'touch me'? I handed him the Murphy folder and he wandered off, satisfied for the moment.
"Dex!" Deborah barked at me from behind, "where the fuck were you!"
"Huh," I said, then "ow!" as she slugged me. Someone had apparently changed the 'touch me' sign to 'slug me'.
"You were supposed to pick me up. My car's in the shop. Remember?"
"Oh, yeah," I groaned, rubbing my shoulder. "Completely slipped my mind. No sleep. I'll buy you lunch to make up." I tried to look apologetic but it came out more like a grimace. Probably from the shoulder pain.
"Okay," she said, "but for a week," and stomped out.
One of those days. So I really wasn't in the mood for a ghost from the past to suddenly materialize at my door . . .
There was a tap on the doorjamb. I snapped out of my groggy stupor and looked up. "Yeah . . ." I started to say. Standing there was a disheveled young man with shoulder-length scraggly hair, a scruffy beard and mustache, and old rumpled clothes, wearing a guest pass, looking somewhat spaced. He looked familiar but, at first, I couldn't place him. Then, instant recall. "Jonah . . . ?" I said, feeling a chill go up my back. It was Jonah Mitchell, Arthur Mitchell's son. Trinity's son, the son of the Trinity Killer. The son of Rita's murderer. But where was the real Jonah? I looked around; did anyone else recognize him? "Jonah," I said again, almost a whisper, "what are you doing here? Not enough excitement in Nebraska?"
"I need to talk to you," he said. His somber expression didn't change. Mine got worse.
"Uh, sorry I didn't recognize you," I said, dressed like a latter-day hippy, I thought. Every time I'd seen him before he'd been clean-cut, clean-shaven with short glowing hair and immaculate clothes. The perfect incarnation of Jack Armstrong, the all-American boy.
"Yeah, understand," he said, "dad always expected me to dress like a store window manikin. Like someone, something, I wasn't. A decoration." Another mask? Arthur's mask? Will I make Harrison wear my mask someday? Never.
"Jonah," I said again, looking for an exit strategy, and to reduce my exposure, my execution. "It's almost noon," I said looking at the time in the corner of my computer display, which said ten thirty-seven. Close enough. "Let's go somewhere quiet." I wanted him out of the building before someone recognized him and started putting the pieces together. I didn't want anyone wondering why the son of a serial killer knew Dexter Morgan. Especially after I'd stupidly admitted to him that I killed his father, then decided not to kill him. Smart, Dex, real smart!
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Deborah growled, standing behind Jonah, burning a hole through him with her laser eyes. Just what I needed!
"Uh, I, uh, saw the story in the news about the death of his wife," he said uncomfortably, glancing at me. "It's been nagging me for months. I wanted to, uh, apologize for what my father did . . . to him, to his family." Deborah relaxed noticeably; her expression softened. Saved!
"Well, you don't have to apologize for your fucking father," she said, rather gently, for her. "But it's nice anyway. Especially after what he did to your family." She gave him one of those quick maternal hugs and walked away.
"That was close," Jonah replied, expressionless.
"Yeah, you have no idea how close," I agreed. Too close. "Let's get out of here."
The elevator doors opened and we stepped in, just as LaGuerta came bustling out in a much-too-tight, much-too-short skirt, looking her usual all-important self. Doesn't she realize how ridiculous she looks? Apparently not.
"Don't go too far, Dexter," she said, no, ordered, " need to see you about the Davenport fuck-up." She didn't look happy.
"You got it!" I said in my most upbeat tone and matching smile as the doors mercifully closed. More problems. What a day!
I found a booth way in the back of Acuppa, the little hole-in-the-wall coffeehouse down the block, to talk with Jonah. I ordered the blackest black Cuban coffee; he ordered a diet Coke and added cream and sugar. Not an encouraging sign. "So, Jonah," I said, "what's going on?" I tried to seem relaxed, not glare at him. "Why are you here?"
"Your advice didn't work. I can't forgive myself," he said.
"Just give it a little more time," I said, not telling him that there probably wasn't enough time in the universe to do any good. "After all, you only . . . uh, took care of your mother because she drove your sister to suicide and you snapped. You couldn't help yourself." Who says that all the time? "Don't let it ruin your life. You have a conscience. You're a good kid." Where have I heard that before, dad? Am I becoming Harry? Poor Harrison!
"I guess you're right," he said, "but it doesn't help. I feel empty inside. My whole family's gone. My sister killed herself; I killed my mother; you killed my father . . ."
"Not so loud," I said in a low voice, looking around the sparsely-populated shadowy room of caffeine addicts. "Your father deserved to die; he killed innocent people, lots of them. Your mother deserved to die; she effectively killed your innocent sister. Feel sorry for your sister, but not guilty. Keep telling yourself that, thanks to you, your mother will never hurt anyone else, ever again."
"And, thanks to you, my father will never hurt anyone else, ever again. Right?"
"Right. Our little secret." I locked eyes with him.
"Thanks," he said with an incomprehensible look: innocence, sadness, anger, hate, malevolence . . . I couldn't tell. Is that what I look like to other people, real people?
Jonah got a distant look in his eyes, then stood and walked away without another word. That chill went up my back again. Something wasn't right. Had I just heard a ghost speak? Or the son of a serial killer? Or myself? Who?
It was going to be a very long day . . .
3.
I picked up a medianoche sandwich, my favorite, on the way home from work. It was nine o'clock before I'd finished the last crumbs. I seriously considered getting another one, but I'd put it off long enough. Too long. I was about to explode. And that dark rumbling laughter deep inside was becoming annoying. So I grabbed a couple of cold beers out of the frig and headed for Riley's apartment. I was unusually apprehensive, certainly for me – cool, calm, collected Dexter Morgan; a rock, Deb always said. Riley answered the door and smiled. He always looked happy to see me. Presumably, his mask-piercing super-vision wasn't turned on that night, or ever. Unlike mine, which is always on.
"Hey, Dexter," he said, cheery as ever, "what's up?" He smiled that infectious smile of his and added, "or s'up? – as sixteen-year-olds say."
"Uh, wondered if you had a minute, neighbor," I said, a little uncomfortable.
"Yeah, three or four even," he said, then laughed. I forced a laugh, trying to relax, appear relaxed. "Come into my lair," he said in a really terrible Bela Lugosi voice as he stepped aside.
I looked around. It was the first time I'd been in his apartment since I'd helped him move in. It'd been a pile of boxes and furniture and stuff stacked every which way then. Now it looked, well, occupied. Occupied but not especially lived in. More like a very small art gallery.
"Wow," I said, looking back and forth, "it looks a lot like my place." Simply-furnished, neat, clean and orderly, but considerably more artistic, more stylish.
"Well, you know, the apartments are all the same," he said, matter-of-factly, "mine's just the mirror-image of yours. They do that to save money on the plumbing core and . . ."
"Oh, yeah," I interrupted with a smirk, "I forgot, you're an architect, so you know all those mysterious secrets hidden from mere mortals."
"Yeah, all those boring little details normal humans aren't allowed to know about." Normal humans! Was he talking about me?
"Actually, I was referring to your decorating style," I clarified. "My sister would say it looks half-lived-in. Like my place."
"How come?" he asked, looking puzzled.
"Too neat and orderly. You should see her place," I said, "like a bomb went off at a flea market." I rolled my eyes; he laughed.
"But hey, you brought the nectar of the gods, beer! The good stuff, too. What's the occasion?"
"Oh, just a pretentious welcome-wagon sort of thing. A thoroughly deceptive attempt at pretending to be neighborly." And hiding my true intentions. He laughed, not realizing I was being truthful. Truth, what a concept!
"Well, have a seat . . . uh, take two, they're small." I figured that was humor. He disappeared into the kitchen. "I'll get some chips."
A moment later, I was sitting in the middle of his sofa – more comfortable than mine and big enough to sleep on without curling into a pretzel – and he was in something he called a Barcelona Chair, patiently waiting.
"So . . ." I said, looking for an opening.
"So . . ." he mimicked me as he twisted the cap off the bottle, "I can tell there's something on your mind. Shoot." I started to tell him that I preferred knives to guns, but it didn't seem like a particularly good idea.
"Actually there is," I said, relieved that he opened the door so I didn't have to beat around the bush all night, trying to find just the right moment. "Uh, last night, when we passed on the stairs, you said something that's been driving me up the wall."
"Really?" His face crumpled in deep thought, then, "I remember saying something to the effect that you looked in a hurry and I didn't want to hold you up. Or something like that."
"Well, what you actually said was, you didn't want to keep Mr. Johnson waiting." I locked my eyes on his, hoping he was simply going to say I'd mentioned Mr. Johnson first. I could have; my mind was definitely on another planet when we passed.
"Aw, damn!" he said, looking annoyed. "I did it again. I'm sorry, Dexter. Really I am." There was a mixture of emotions on his face and in his voice: shame, sorrow, guilt. Suicide maybe. Would he save me the trouble of killing him?
"I'm just curious how you knew about Mr. Johnson. I don't recall dropping his name."
"You probably didn't." He sighed, started to speak several times but stopped, then swallowed hard and began again, "I know what you're thinking, but I haven't been spying on you. Honest. It's just that I'm, well, I'm . . ." his voice gave out and he reached for the beer.
Then he started again, this time his head down, not looking at me, like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "You see, Dexter, I'm, well . . . I'm kind of . . . slightly psychic. Sometimes. Have been since I was a little kid. Maybe always. Who knows." He took another swallow. "But you have to believe me, I don't go around reading other people's minds; I don't invade people's privacy. My father taught me that would be really wrong." He looked up at me. He was sincere, even I could tell. And he had a Harry, too, a set of rules.
"If you didn't read my mind, then how did you know?"
"It's complicated." He looked down again. "When I was a kid, I heard everyone, all the time. It drove me nuts. It was like being in a room full of people, all talking at the same time. Never a moment's peace. Nearly drove me crazy."
Ah, crazy. Crazy I understand. I was suddenly curious. Fascinated even. But worried.
"So my parents put me into heavy-duty therapy. One shrink after another. But it didn't work. Ultimately, the solution was years of biofeedback therapy and transcendental meditation, you know, a blessed marriage of Western technology and Eastern mysticism. I was finally able to block everyone out – monkey-chatter, they called it – and get some peace. Think of it as sort of a psychic firewall, to use computer lingo."
Huh, maybe it could work on me. "Got it," I said, "but . . ."
"Yeah, but, a really big but. Sometimes, when someone is really worked up about something or worried about something, you know, totally obsessed with something, they broadcast so loud, so violently, that it punches a hole in my firewall. That's the best way I can describe it. And when it happens, I can't stop it, no matter how hard I try. Bang! It just pops through."
"And that's what I did." Not a question. I'd been obsessively obsessed with Mr. Johnson, that's for sure.
"Looks like it. I'm really sorry," he said as he looked up at me briefly, then looked down again. "But the real problem is that I goofed. When someone pokes a hole, I'm just supposed to ignore it. Another of dad's rules. But sometimes, sometimes, their thoughts get accidentally reprocessed in my brain and get tossed out as my own thoughts. That's what probably happened with you. You threw Mr. Johnson at me and I unconsciously chewed it up and spit it back at you without realizing it." He looked at me and shrugged. "I'm sorry. I'm not perfect."
He's not perfect; I couldn't help but smile. "Join the crowd," I said, at least our little crowd of two. He laughed, uncomfortably, but laughed. Someone else laughed, too, deep inside me. Not a laugh I like since it's usually at my expense. But it was right. There was another issue, a bigger issue. I had to find out. "So," I asked slowly, cautiously, "did you pick up anything about why I was meeting Mr. Johnson?" I couldn't help but glare at him in my scary-eye mode. What if he said yes? Would I have to kill him? Could I kill him? He was about as sweet and innocent as they come, after all. Hardly a candidate for my table of woe. But which commandment governed? Don't get caught, or Don't hurt good people? The Code of Harry didn't cover situations like this.
"No, nothing. Just bits and pieces. You were in a hurry. To meet him. The end." He locked eyes with me. The sign of truth? With Riley, probably. But I had to be sure.
"Nothing about what my business was with him?" I asked, returning his stare. Was it my truthful stare? Do I even have a truthful stare?
"I swear, Dexter, nothing. Like I said, all I got was . . ." Suddenly, his face seemed to deconstruct. His jaw dropped; his eyes popped out like hardboiled eggs; his not-yet-Miami-like skin turned statuary-white; every vein in his face bulged as if they were going to burst and create the ultimate blood splatter pattern for my brilliant analysis. He jumped up, gagging, and ran to the bathroom. For what seemed like an eternity, I listened to him puking his guts up. Ah yes, he peeked under my mask. Big mistake, Riley . . .
When he finally came out, he didn't look like Riley anymore. He was a different person. Pale, emaciated, lifeless. A cadaver. I know, I've seen a lot of them. Not a pretty sight. I'm usually comfortable around stiffs, though. But not this one; cadavers usually don't move around. He dropped in the nearest corner of the sofa, gasping for breath; I guess hobbling the extra five feet back to his Barcelona Chair would have been like running the Miami Marathon, twice. He moved his blue lips, but nothing came out. I handed him his beer; he sipped a little.
"I'm guessing you saw what I did with Mr. Johnson," I said quietly, guardedly, not sure what to do. More internal laughter.
He took a deep breath and said, "Dexter . . . I saw . . . your . . . entire . . . life. No, I experienced your entire life. In a b-billionth of a second. It, it . . . overwhelmed me." He took another deep breath.
"I don't understand . . ."
"Neither do I," he said, "it's never happened before. It was like you lobbed a psychic bomb at me and it exploded in my head. I couldn't handle it. It was too much."
"Everything?" I asked, worried. And with increasing dread. Did he know everything about Dearly Demented Dexter? Everything?
"Everything," he repeated in a ragged whisper. "I saw – no, I experienced – everything . . . your mother's death, all your lessons from Harry, your loneliness growing up, your brother the Icetruck Killer . . . and your meeting with Mr. Johnson . . . finding Rita in the bathtub, your trophy collection, your . . . everything." He glanced up at me. I saw horror in his face but, surprisingly, no fear, fear of what I might do to someone who knew my little secret.
"All that in only a billionth of a second?" I purred, trying to ease the tension by acting cute.
"Well, maybe a couple of billionths," he said with a slight smile, then, "Dexter, I don't know how you survived."
"I didn't," I said, deadly serious. He looked at me like he actually understood. More surprising, I still didn't see a hint of fear in his face. How was that possible? He knew what I was, what I did to people. He saw under the mask like no one else ever had. How could he not be at least a little afraid. Terrified, actually.
"No, Dexter, you did survive." Suddenly life seemed to return to the bloodless corpse next to me. "I know everything – and I mean everything – about you. Everything you've ever done or wanted to do or even thought. And I also know, deep down inside, you're a good person. People like you because you're a good person, just like Harry always said. Hell, you even help little old ladies across the street!"
"I only do that because it looks good, human."
"No you don't. You do it because you know it's the right thing to do. You have a moral compass; you just don't realize it." Thanks, Harry.
Pay attention to him, son, Harry said. He's right.
"But I'm empty inside," I said, "I don't have feelings for anyone. Unlike real humans."
"No, Dexter, that's not true. You just can't let yourself admit you have feelings for others. Your friend won't let you." Then he glared at me. That's a switch.
"But what about my, uh, extracurricular activities, like that nice Mr. Johnson?"
"You're like someone with a whopper of a disability," he said, "but instead of letting it control you, you control it. You overcame it, sort of. You couldn't stop it so you managed to use it to do something positive, something the criminal justice system tries to do, but can't. You made a . . . a burlap purse out of a sow's ear. You're too hard on yourself, Dexter. Much too hard." Heard that before. Thanks again, dad!
"You make it sound like I'm protected by the American's with Disabilities Act," I said, having difficulty not laughing.
"Maybe you should be," he said.
"I don't understand you," I said, "you know my dirty little secret and yet you don't seem even a little scared."
"Why should I? I'm not the sort of person you, uh, ask out on – what? – a late-night date. You're too moral for that. You follow the Code of Harry like it's cast in stone." He looked at me in a way no one had ever looked at me ever before. "I know you too well, Dexter Morgan," he said. "I know you better than you know yourself. You're too close." Then he looked pissed. "And, besides, you have a live-in prison guard, your fucking friend, always yanking your chain. You need to ignore him."
He's right, son, Harry said. Listen to him.
"So, what do I do with you?" I said, completely lost.
"Whatever you want, I guess," he said as if he was saying his final farewell. "But you never have to worry about me, Dexter, because I'll never betray you. I promise. I'll always be your friend." I got goosebumps. The first time in my life that I recall.
We stayed up most of the night, talking. About me. About him. About life. About anything and everything and nothing. It was the first real conversation I'd ever had with anyone in my entire life. Even more real than those I had with Harry or Lumen. Nothing to hide. The mask was off. Really off. And it felt good, like having my head cast in a bucket of cement my whole life, then suddenly having it smashed to pieces and removed. Freedom! Fresh air! Sunshine! At least for a little while, with Riley.
To my surprise, he stayed awake longer than I did. I just assumed my frequent late-night activities and having a baby to take care of would have better prepared me for a long night. But I was wrong. It seems he belonged to a masochistic profession that requires frequent all-nighters to finish projects on time, even when unreasonable clients make impossible changes at the last minute. So I gave out first, mid-sentence, if I recall. The next morning we woke up, still on the sofa, me slumped over, he with his head on my knee, drooling, and his legs dangling over the end, both of us rolling around in a sea of crushed tortilla chips and empty beer bottles. Ordinarily that degree of closeness with another man would have made me uncomfortable, but with him, it was kind of like being close to myself. In a very real sense, he was me. He knew everything I knew, experienced everything I experienced, thought everything I thought. He was even closer than a flesh-and-blood brother that shared my unholy hunger, my ADA-protected disability.
I couldn't deny it: Riley was a friend. The only real friend I'd ever had. And I wasn't sure how to deal with him. I wasn't even sure he was a good thing. Maybe he was a bomb waiting to blow up in my face. But I was willing to give it a whirl. The thought of a friend made me light-headed . . . or was that just the beer and a lack of sleep?
And maybe he'd have some sage advice about my encounter with Jonah . . .
4.
Like a moth to a flame, I couldn't stay away. I had to talk to Jonah again. Irrational, I know, but I had to. After all, we all know what happened to the moth. And I'm usually rational when it comes to self-preservation; mad as a hatter, but rational. Just the same, I flew lickety-split toward the flame anyway.
I didn't even know if he was still in Miami. And if he was, I had no idea where. Staying with a friend, or in a motel or the back seat of his car. So the only possibility was a cellphone, assuming he had one. Even people living in Nebraska with cows and corn must have cellphones. Right? So, since you can't call information and ask for a cellphone number, I used other means. Not legal, of course. But since when have I ever worried about little illegalities? It took time, mostly to avoid being detected by the elaborate security systems intended to spot people improperly using the system; people like me. But I eventually got Jonah's number.
After many unsuccessful attempts to get him on his phone, I left a message. I told him I needed to talk to him. I must have been out of my mind. That dark laughter deep inside me confirmed my suspicions were right.
5.
It was a slow day at work the first time Riley visited the police station. Since we worked only a few blocks apart, we occasionally had lunch together, to talk. He'd already given me a tour of the architectural firm he worked at. Nice place. Lots of pretty pictures on the walls and none of blood or gore or dead bodies. No scuzzy people anywhere, either, at least that I could see; he said I just hadn't met any of the slimy real estate developers and contractors they dealt with. All very professional, very polite. No offensive language bouncing around, either. Probably because my foul-mouthed sister didn't work there. I did hear someone say damn, once; the perpetrator probably got his mouth washed out with soap. Or sent to bed without cookies and milk. Maybe both.
So, it was my turn to show him my digs. Or, show him again, since he'd already seen the place before, compliments of my psychic bomb. He'd told me the images he'd gotten from me weren't always clear or whole, often murky and dark fragments, so much of the experience would be like new. He said his first visit would be like a trip to an amusement park he'd seen in an old faded brochure, splattered with ketchup and half-eaten by a dog.
Through the venetian blinds in my lab, I saw the elevator doors open as he stepped onto the floor. He looked around, like he was getting his bearings, and turned toward the double doors leading to the Homicide Division, my dear home away from home. Deborah, on her way to the coffee room, noticed him and gave him a second look. She got that predatory look in her eyes; she liked what she saw. Big surprise.
"You looking for someone?" I heard her say to him in her usual in-your-face manner, through my ajar door.
He turned toward her, smiled knowingly and replied, "Uh, yeah, I'm looking for . . . oh, Officer Morgan . . ." reading her badge, or pretending to read it, ". . . uh, you must be Dexter's very lovely younger sister, Deborah." He smiled and got a twinkle in his eye.
Deborah looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled back, "Fuck, yeah, I must," she replied, surveying him head to toe. "And who must you be?"
Riley couldn't help but laugh. He would've been disappointed if she hadn't lived up to his expectations. "I'm, uh, Riley," he said, extending his hand.
"And I guess you're here to see Dexter," she said, just a hint of disappointment in her tone, taking his hand and keeping it a little too long.
"Boy, you're good! But, yeah, Dexter. He promised me the fifty-cent tour of his operation."
"You mean the cage we keep him in," she scoffed. "So, how do you know Dex?" I wondered if she was being protective of her big brother or just couldn't turn 'detective-mode' off.
"Oh, we're just friends, you know, so he . . .'
She got that funny, ironic, slightly cynical look on her face, cocking her head at an angle. "No, I don't think so," she said. "I've known Dexter an awful long time. He doesn't really have friends."
"Yeah, isn't that great!" he replied.
"Huh?"
"Well, that means I'm at the top of the list of candidates for the position of best friend."
"You're fucking weird!" she said. "Why would anyone want to be Dexter's best friend?"
"Because he's totally awesome and . . ."
"Dexter, awesome! If you think so, then you're probably the perfect person to be his best friend. You're fucking weird. Like him." She turned and grabbed his arm. "Come on. I'll show you where we keep him locked up."
"Uh, I already . . ." but he was too late. She was pulling him along toward the door to my little sanctum sanctorum, Blood Alley.
She elbowed the door all the way open and said, with her usual caustic overtones, "Your best friend is here to see you."
I stood up and, for reasons I don't understand, I gave him a quick one-arm buddy-hug, like you see all those macho guys do in the movies. Something completely out of character for Dearly Detached Dexter.
"Okay, what is this!" Deborah growled. "What's going on!" She glared back and forth at us.
"What?" I managed to say.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Riley said, "I thought I told you I was . . ."
"Not you," she interrupted, "him!" glaring at me.
I looked bewildered, then amused. "Uh, your brother, Dexter . . ." I began.
"No, no. Dexter doesn't hug people. He doesn't even hug me, his only sister."
I couldn't control my amused smirk. "That's because if I hug you," I said, "you hit me." I glanced at an amused Riley; he winked back.
Riley instantly jumped to the rescue. "Well, I sure don't want to make trouble between brother and only sister," he said, totally deadpan, "so I guess it's my place to smooth things over." He wrapped his arms around Deborah and gave her a hug. At first, she looked surprised, then puzzled, then pleased. Finally, she hugged him back. Long and passionate. A little too long and passionate, if you ask me. My little sister, the slut; hell, I'm surprised she didn't drag him to the floor. "Are we forgiven?" he asked her, hot and heavy, as they say in the movies. They locked eyes.
"Fuck, yes!" she said, and gave him a long, wet kiss on the lips, which he eagerly returned. She glared at me, gazed at him the way a hungry lion looks at a chunk of raw meat, then stormed out.
"Well, that went well," I said.
"Yeah, like Captain Jean-Luc Piccard always says, 'First contact, the most dangerous mission!' or something like that," he gasped and dropped into my chair, dazed or exhausted. I'm not sure which. Probably both.
Riley had managed to escape my grip the other night but I didn't think he'd escape Deborah's. And I suspected, from the look on his face, he didn't want to . . .
6.
Jonah finally returned my call. But by then, I'd come to my senses and really didn't want to talk to him. So there I was, stuck to a damned tar-baby of my own making. I should have just let him go when I had the chance, but something hadn't felt right. Still didn't.
"Jonah," I said, trying to sound upbeat, "I'm glad you called. I was uncomfortable the way we parted. You seemed upset or . . ."
"I'm sorry, Dexter," he said, "I wasn't thinking. I was confused, I guess."
"Understandable," I said, a little relieved, my apprehension easing a bit. But not entirely. My friend was still chuckling. "Maybe you'd like to get together sometime. And talk. My sister says I'm good at helping her solve problems and make decisions. I have a fishing boat . . . we could go fishing." The middle of the ocean where no one could see us together. Or hear us.
"That sounds great," he said. "I'd like to talk. Really. To someone who knew the real Arthur Mitchell. And I love to fish. Dad always took me . . ." He stopped abruptly. That damned brontosaurus in the room again. Can't you stay extinct, Arthur!
"Then it's a date. How about Saturday?"
"Great. Where do you want to meet?"
"I'll pick you up. Say, nine AM?"
"Uh, I'm sort of moving around. Can I come by your place?"
"Sure, whatever you want," I said and gave him my address. "See you at nine sharp. Don't want to keep the fish waiting."
"Sounds great," he said, "see you."
I had no idea what we were going to talk about. It might be a disaster. What if something went wrong? Alas, letting him join Arthur in the deep dark ocean wasn't an option. The Code of Harry. Shit, being a moral serial killer with a conscience is goddamned inconvenient.
7.
"You two are worse than a couple of fucking old ladies," Deborah complained. "Let's go. I'm starved!"
I was trying to explain an especially interesting blood spatter pattern to an always-curious Riley. He seemed to have an insatiable child-like sense of wonder, like, well, a child. I think that's why I like him: I like little kids and he's sometimes like a little kid. My practical-pig sister, on the other hand, was focused on lunch, something the three of us did together whenever our work schedules allowed. Frequently a twosome, though, excluding dear ol' Dex, which meant less quality time with Riley. Less time to talk about important stuff. Important to me, that is. And there was something I really wanted – needed – to talk to him about: Jonah. So it'd have to wait until that evening at home. Except, as it turned out, they had a date. Again. And I had a problem. I think they call it a triangle. Not quite your normal garden-variety triangle, though. A Dexter triangle, slightly twisted and warped.
As I was finishing my dazzling explanation of the elegance of that particular blood splatter, Riley suddenly got an intense look on his face: fear. Something I'd never seen before, even when he'd removed my mask. But he looked terrified and instantly locked eyes with me.
"What ?" I asked, very concerned.
He turned and looked out the door, passed Deborah at Quinn, sitting at his desk, interviewing someone who looked like your standard run-of-the-mill Cuban gang member. "He has a knife!" Riley whispered, "plastic or glass . . . he's going to . . . stab Quinn when he turns his back . . ."
"What!" Deborah said, "what are you . . ." Before she finished, I saw Quinn begin to turn. I bolted out the door as he started rummaging through the filing cabinet behind his desk. The man reached into his sock and pulled out a knife. He stood up and raised his arm to stab.
I lunged.
Deborah, right behind me, pulling her gun out, screamed, "On the floor, asshole!" Quinn spun around, surprised to find me wrestling the knife out of the man's hand. When the excitement ended, the man was on the floor, Deborah on top of him with her gun to his smashed-into-the-floor face as Quinn dislocated his arms putting handcuffs on him. A little shouting later, most of it four-letter words, and Quinn dragged him away toward a holding cell.
"Thanks," Quinn said to me, somewhat begrudgingly, as he disappeared down the hall.
I glanced at Riley, who was still standing in the doorway looking somewhere between overwhelmed and bewildered. I gave him a thumbs-up and he relaxed. A little. Sort of smiled. A little. He looked like a six-year-old in a room with the lights out.
"Okay," Deborah said as she spun around and glared at me, then at Riley, then at me again. "What the fuck's going on!"
"Come on," I said, "let's get lunch before they run out of all the good stuff. All will be revealed." Riley walked across the room, looking a bit sheepish and joined us. We headed for the elevator.
A few minutes later, we were at our favorite table in the corner by the window, at Picante, our favorite lunch place. Good food, good waitresses, good prices. Lousy atmosphere. Except Riley liked it; unpretentious working-class ambience, he called it. And a sense of place, whatever that meant. A little like me, I guess, a sense of human without actually being one.
After Deborah swilled half a beer, she asked again, "Okay, what happened back there?"
Riley picked up his beer and said, "Why don't you explain, Dex. She's your sister. I'd rather she punched you. We architects are rather thin-skinned, so we bruise easily." He almost sounded serious.
"Okay," I said after taking a drink, "he's psychic." Direct. No use beating around the bush with Deb. Let her have it right between the eyes. I stiffened in anticipation of her fist.
"No fucking way!" she cried in her most ladylike manner. Everyone in the place turned and stared. You think they'd be used to her by now.
"Way," I said, amused.
"Way," Riley mumbled with a look of boyish innocence on his face. A little discomfort, too.
"You mean you, like, read minds?" she gasped.
"Sometimes," he answered. "But not very often. I've been, you know, fixed."
"You mean, when we're together," she glared at him, "you know what I'm thinking?"
"No, honest! Well . . . a little, maybe," he pleaded, looking to me for help, and went into a repeat of the explanation he gave me that night. "So I only get occasional bits and pieces," he looked at her with the expression of a naughty little boy, "in your case, mostly four-letter expletives. Undeleted." He gritted his teeth and cringed.
"Oh, that's' so much better!" She finished her beer and held it up, "Another beer over here," she called out.
Ah yes, the miracle I was hoping for. I figured she'd be so furious, she'd dump him like, well, like all her former boyfriends. I'd lost count. I could have Riley all to myself again. Was I being selfish? Should I feel ashamed? She is my only sister, after all. Ashamed? Never! Well, maybe a little.
Abruptly, though, midway through her third beer, Deborah got that look on her face again, smiled seductively at Riley and said, "Um, what a turn-on . . ." Like that, my fantasy evaporated and I was returned to the real world, Dexter's World. Riley glanced at me; I shrugged and rolled my eyes. The world's absolute weirdest ménage à trois was back. Lucky me. At least my Dark Passenger stopped laughing; I think he started giggling.
8.
The next morning, Deborah floated into my lab and kicked the door shut. Meaning she had something private to talk to me about. I never like that. Something I probably didn't want to hear. Then to my surprise, she hugged me. I wondered if I should have slugged her. It's only fair, you know.
"What's that for?" I asked, not really sure I wanted an answer.
"That's just thanks for introducing me to Riley," she hummed, she gushed. I froze, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "We had a fabulous night. Dinner, dancing, drinks . . . unbelievable sex . . ."
"Yeah, I know," I quickly interrupted, not wanting to hear any more, "you kept me up all night on the other side of the wall." The soundproofed wall. Memo to self: buy eighty-decibel earplugs.
"He has this wonderful thing he does with . . ."
"Uh, I really don't want to hear the details, Deb," I said, and I really didn't. "Riley's a friend, my best friend, he says. So I really don't want to hear what my slutty sister did to a sweet innocent boy like him. Any more than I already . . ."
"Sweet innocent boy! Really Dex, sometimes you're such a prude." She gave me another hug. "You need to get laid," she breathed into my ear.
"You just like him," I said with a smirk, "because he looks sort of like he could be my brother. A little." Without the homicidal tendencies, of course.
She looked surprised for a moment, then, "You know, you're right. He does look a little like you; something in the eyes. Like your younger brother, my age." She stared into space. "Huh . . ."
"You just like fantasizing that you're sleeping with your brother, with me . . ." That's as far as I got.
"Oh, yuck, Dex! You're a sick fuck!" she cried, then slugged me. Hard. Twice. No, three times. She stomped out, slamming the door.
What'd ol' Will say? The lady doth protest too much, methinks. And I thought I was the crazy one in the Morgan family . . .
9.
I had a few minutes alone with Riley in my apartment before he and Deborah went out for another night of their usual Friday night fun and games. I won't elaborate; I have a weak stomach when it comes to human mating rituals. But before I could talk to him about Jonah, he went off on another subject near and dear to his heart: The Fairytale Dexter (add trumpets and drumroll).
"Pinocchio?" I said with a mixture of confusion and disbelief, but mostly my usual cynical amusement.
"Right. Pinocchio," he said, dead serious. "I see you as a real-life Pinocchio. He was a wooden puppet who wanted to be a real boy. In your case, you're a cold, empty, unfeeling, homicidal monster – to use your own somewhat-prejudiced description of yourself – who, deep down inside, wants to be a real, feeling, caring, loving human being."
"You think so," I said in my trademark dry monotone, smirk included. I knew my usual bag of tricks never worked on Riley, of course, but they're hard to turn off.
"I know so!" he said emphatically. "And you're going to succeed. I can feel it." He leaned forward with that pleased-as-punch look on his face. "You're a perfect match. Instead of a kindly old Geppetto pulling your strings, you have your creepy friend in the back seat. And instead of Jiminy Cricket giving you moral advice, you have Harry."
He's right, son, Harry said, listen to him.
"Wasn't there supposed to be a Blue Fairy somewhere?" I asked, knitting my brow, forcing myself to look ultra-serious.
"Huh . . . what?" he said, taken aback.
"I've been reading to Harrison," I said. "He likes Disney."
"Oh, well, you're getting too literal . . . hell, maybe I'm the Blue Fairy for Christ's sake, or Deb or . . . who cares? Not important."
"Maybe Deb was right," I said, "you're weird."
"I think her exact phrase was fucking weird, but it doesn't matter. You're still going to become a real boy someday."
"And just how is this miraculous metamorphosis going to come about, pray tell? Am I suddenly going to . . ." I was interrupted by a tapping on the door. "Huh, who could that be?"
"A little early," Riley said, looking at his watch, "but maybe it's Deb."
"Can't be. She's never early," I said, "haven't you figured that out yet?" I opened the door. To my surprise, and considerable displeasure, it was Jonah. "Jonah," I said, trying not to sound too irritated, "you're a day early for our fishing trip." He didn't seem to hear me. He just floated past me like a ghost. "Why don't you come in," I said with just a touch of sarcasm.
"I couldn't wait until Saturday," he said. He looked through Riley like he wasn't there. "We have to talk."
My irritation turned to concern, then dread. Something was very wrong. I looked at Riley to see if he detected anything. He just shook his head slowly and shrugged slightly, looking bewildered.
"Riley," I said, turning to him, "why don't you come back later. We can finish what we . . ."
"He can stay," Jonah said. "This won't take long."
"Okay," I said, "let's have it then. Make it fast; you caught us at a bad time." Real bad. We were discussing Pinocchio. And the Blue Fairy.
Jonah stood very stiff for a few moments, appearing lost in thought. I glanced at Riley; again nothing. "I lied," he said, almost a whisper.
"About . . ."
"I watched you kill my father." He began breathing heavy, having difficulty talking. I was speechless. "I watched you cut him into pieces like a side of beef and wrap the pieces in plastic trash bags."
Impossible! "Impossible, we were alone in the middle of nowhere."
"Yeah, I know. But I was following dad on my motorcycle," Jonah said. "I watched the whole thing through the window."
That cold chill began crawling up my spine again and the laughter inside became deafening. I had difficulty clearing my head enough to speak. "Why didn't you stop me?" I asked with a dry mouth.
"Because he was a monster," he said. Just like you, I thought he was going to say, but didn't. "I knew our lives would be different. Better."
"So," I said cautiously, "you're here because . . ."
Suddenly, Riley turned white, looked at me with that look in his eyes and stood up. He tried to speak but couldn't. That got my attention.
"I'm here to kill you," Jonah hissed as he pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket and pointed it at me.
"Why," I asked calmly, "he was a monster. Remember? He broke your thumb." My reflexes shifted into high. Jonah was a nervous wreck, shaking so bad he could barely aim; I could take him.
"Yes, but he was my father. I loved him. He loved me. He loved all of us. Hurting us was just his way. He couldn't help himself." Ah yes, heard that before.
"Then why didn't you stop me when you had the chance?"
He looked confused. His mouth opened and closed several times but nothing came out. Then, "I didn't know what to do. I loved him. And I hated him. I couldn't decide. I wanted to stop you and beg his forgiveness for being a disappointment, for not living up to his expectations. But it took me too long to move. I waited too long. So I decided to get revenge. I decided to . . ."
"God, no!" Riley gasped.
"Relax," I said quietly to Riley, glancing at him. "Let him finish." I needed time to strike. I'd only have one chance.
"I decided to hurt you the way you hurt me," Jonah continued. "So while you were disposing of him at sea, I went back to town and . . . and took something of yours. I took your wife from you. I killed her. The way my father would have." Was that a smile on his face?
"You . . . killed . . . Rita . . ." I said, almost in a trance, suddenly ice-cold.
My blood froze in my veins. I couldn't move. The laugher within me was drowned out by the roar in my ears. I could hardly see. I stopped breathing. But I was no longer dead inside. Nothing brings the dead to life quite as well as anger. And I was angry; no, I was enraged. But, in control. Always in control. So, Arthur didn't kill Rita. Trinity didn't kill Rita. Jonah killed Rita.
I was consumed by rage, raw animal rage like I'd never experienced before. But I was alive. Then, just a suddenly, I was myself, cold calculating Dexter. I would have no mercy on Jonah. Not now. Not again. Not ever.
"Why would you hurt someone as innocent as Rita, my wife?" I asked him. "I thought you had a conscience."
And he smiled, a cruel demonic sort of smile. "Like father, like son," he said and giggled slightly. "You see, Dexter, I'm a monster, too. Just like dad." Then he laughed, a hideous mocking laugh.
It all suddenly made sense. Right out of Psych 101. If the son of an abusive father can become an abusive father, then it follows that the son of a monster can become a monster, too. Jonah had said it, like father, like son. Will this happen to my son? Never!
In my mind, I saw Jonah on my table being slowly carved into little tiny painful pieces. But that would have to wait; I needed time to strike. "So, if you've already gotten your revenge," I said, amazingly calm, "why are you here, pointing a gun at me?"
"Dad always taught me to do things in threes. Why do you think they called him the Trinity Killer?" he said. "So, when I finish with you, your adorable little son is next." I don't think so, Jonah, I thought to myself, controlling my anger. Jamie had taken Harrison to a birthday party, but it was getting late and I knew they'd be back soon. I had to act fast.
"You don't want to do this, Jonah," I said. Did I sound fatherly or threatening? I don't know. Maybe both.
"Oh, but I do. You, of all people, know I do." He giggled and extended the gun toward me, squeezing the trigger.
"No!" Riley screamed. And before I realized what he was doing, he threw himself in front of me just as the gun fired. I felt his body slam into me when the bullet hit him. Instinctively, I grabbed him with both arms and eased him gently to the floor.
"Noooooo!" I roared like a wild beast, glaring at Jonah as he lowered the gun toward me.
"He doesn't count, just a little collateral damage . . ." Jonah said with a sneer.
"Drop it, asshole!" a voice shrieked from the door. It was Deb. Jonah looked toward her and turned the gun on her. There were three gunshots in rapid succession. Jonah looked surprised and froze. He was dead before his body hit the floor.
"Call for medics!" I cried to her, then to Riley, softly, "You should have stayed put? I could have taken him." His mouth opened but no words came out, only blood.
"They'll be here soon; I told them an officer was down," Deborah said with shaky voice as she dropped to both knees, then, "Riley! Riley, are you alright?" I saw pain in her eyes like I'd never seen before as she held his head. "It's going to be alright, sweetie," she whispered, tears mixing with the pain.
"Kiss . . . make . . . all . . . better . . ." he gurgled, almost lifeless, but trying to smile. She gently complied. I couldn't watch.
When the paramedics arrived, she jumped up, flashed her badge and began barking orders. Always the professional. When Angel and Quinn arrived a few minutes later, she cornered them and began explaining what happened. Hopefully she'd seen and heard very little. And Jonah wouldn't be talking any time soon.
As the paramedics worked on Riley, I leaned close and whispered, "Why, Riley? Why'd you do it?"
"Wanted . . . make sure. . ." he said with difficulty, "Pinocchio becomes . . . real boy . . ." His voice faded out.
"We have to take him now," one of the paramedics said. I jumped out of the way as they loaded him onto a stretcher and took him away. I stood there, frozen in a trance, motionless, thinking. Riley had more than lived up to his promise: he'd never betrayed me, ever, and never would, and he'd definitely been my friend, my best friend, my only friend. Maybe to the end . . .
Deborah grabbed me by the arm. "Let's go," she said with uncharacteristic tenderness, and pulled me toward the door.
10.
As we followed the ambulance in her car, Deborah asked, "What the fuck happened back there? I thought he wanted to apologize for his fucking father."
"No, he wanted to tell me he killed Rita," I replied, dead man talking. I was overwhelmed with concern for Riley and disappointment that Jonah would never be the main attraction on my table.
Deborah looked like someone had slugged her in the gut, then, "What the fuck! So why'd he try to kill you? And Riley?"
"Said he didn't want any witnesses," I lied. It comes so naturally and easily to me, I don't even have to try anymore.
"Fucking asshole psycho! Trinity Junior!" she cried, pounding her fists on the steering wheel.
We didn't speak for the rest of the trip to the hospital. Deborah was terrified at the possibility of losing Riley and all I could do was think that I should have known better; when I let anyone get close, it always ends bad. Always. When we got to the hospital, we sat in the waiting room for what seemed like centuries, silent, holding on to each other. We'd never done that before, ever, not even when Harry was dying.
Riley was in surgery for hours, most of the night. It wasn't until the next morning that the doctors told us that they'd done all they could and didn't know whether he was going to live or die, that it was out of their hands and in God's. Not something I found very encouraging or comforting. Since then, he's been in a deep coma. I hope he lives, more than anything I've ever hoped for in my entire life. I wish I knew how to pray, but I don't. But if I did, is there anyone out there listening? I doubt it.
I can't bear the thought of being alone again. Alone in the dark with my goddamned friend, my Dark Passenger.
I'm afraid.