Dexter: Scarlet

by Runswithtigers

This is a world where Dexter meets his match, in a very, very real sense. A serial killer with a terminal disease has to ask for the help of our favorite Dark Avenger, but as he learns more about this unique creature, he learns much more about himself.

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Innocence Lost

I was sitting at my desk, meandering through a few files. We had a new serial killer on the loose – a real slasher, but he kept his parties to only a few times a month, and deep in the woods no less, and as I had no real insights into this one (definitely not my style of killer, despite my sister's incessant hounding), I was working with the everyday stuff of which my days are made. And most of my days are boring.

She didn't really catch my eye at first, when she stopped at the main desk at the Miami-Dade County Police Department on our floor. She had on a business suit – par for the course, and she seemed a little on the thin side. The suit was a little strange – the puffed shoulders at the top, and the flowy skirt at the bottom, as though to camouflage the physique underneath. But I would only really realize these things much, much later, after getting to know her better. So I got back down to work – I was doing some blood spatter work for a domestic dispute/murder case. A real waste of my brilliant talents, as the wife was found holding a bloody butcher knife. But alas, such is the way of things. We all do what we have to, sometimes. One does what one must.

That was also going to become an interesting statement in a few minutes.

I was surprised when she knocked with a firm hand on my door. I wheeled over, only half paying attention, munching on my Bavarian cream (my favorite in the doughnut genre), swinging the door open. She stood there for a moment, and it took me a few seconds as I chewed to realize that she was actually polite (go figure), and waiting for me to invite her in. It crossed my mind that maybe she was a vampire. She was certainly pale enough.

That thought was going to be less funny in a minute.

So I swallowed, tried to wipe the powdered sugar from my face, and asked her into my office. I noticed quickly that she did not offer to shake hands, and upon a quick glance (us serial killers take note of little details) that said hands had a slight tremor to them. Not something the average person would notice, but of course, I am far from the average person. I gestured for her to sit, but I noted that she turned purposefully to close the door before she took the seat that I proferred. That was a little surprising.

I was in for some very big surprises in a moment.

She looked around the office, and a hint of a smile graced that face. She was far from a classic beauty, and the pallor would have been disconcerting if I were given to that sort of thing. Her green eyes were bright, in sharp contrast to her paleness, which struck me as a little odd. A little flat, kind of hollow, but with an intense flare of brightness inside them. Smooth, cool, almost icy, but brilliant at the same time. Odd. Contacts, maybe? Her remark, however, was quite unusual, as she looked around the enlarged images of blood spatter that decorated the walls of my tiny office. "Quite lovely," she said in a breathy voice, as though she were looking at a Renoir, rather than at a series of enlarged blood spatter pictures. "Genuinely striking. Beautiful."

She turned abruptly toward me. "The images. Are they yours?".

The green eyes pierced me like twin laser beams. I had seen that look before. In the mirror. The Dark Passenger perked, emitting a low dark chuckle. Perhaps something interesting here?

I caught myself before choking on the remains of the doughnut. I waved a hand, as I shook my head. But the Passenger blinked. And the Passenger doesn't blink. "No. Crime scene images."

She turned back to the images. "Blood can be so beautiful sometimes. People forget that, I think. Its own form of artwork, telling a story." She smiled again, although her eyes were far away from it. "If you know where to look." This came with a brief nod. "But of course, you know that better than I do, don't you?" It took me a whole click to realize that I had just been given a compliment.

I pay very little attention to the day to day interactions that form a part of my chosen profession. Autopilot normally works just fine, even among my colleagues. Most things I just handle on automatic, without real employment of the nervous centers.

I was paying attention now. I swallowed the last of my doughnut, dusting powder off my hands and face as best I could.

She tilted her head as she looked at me, the intensity of the gaze increasing, if that was possible, into the kilowatt range. "Excuse me," she said with a brief bow. "I do not mean to be rude. My name is Alyra." The Passenger spread his dark wings, a luscious chuckle arising from my darker half. I was definitely paying attention now. She had hair the color of blood, I noticed. Lovely hair. Bloody hair.

Did I just think that thought?

I extended my hand, " Dexter Morgan." She simply stared at it, and I looked down to see doughnut residue still on my fingers. I pulled it back, wiping it roughly on my pants.

"Yes, I know," came the reply. She didn't seem offended by the leftover markings of my breakfast. She simply sat down calmly, placing her hands on her lap. Her voice was cool and calm, soft yet rolling with something. Like there was a tsunami underneath what appeared to be a normal wave. Time to batten down the hatches. "I have come, of course, to speak about other matters." She leaned forward ever slightly. I found myself echoing her movement, as though we had a secret to share. "Do you think there is anyone else listening in this room?"

Again, she took me off guard. "What do you mean?" I said slowly.

She tilted her head back and forth as if considering, then ticked off, "Oh, you know, bugs, microphones, tape recorders, that sort of thing." She said this casually, like we were talking about bananas at the grocery store.

I shook my head with a frown. "I'm not that important."

That got a laugh. Not one of those tinkling, girly laughs, which you would expect from a tiny woman who was maybe five foot two in her stocking feet. A rippling, soaring laugh, from deep down. "Alas, if only they knew."

My Dark Passenger laughed delightedly, and I could feel a sinister twinge. But the Passenger wasn't worried. No threat here. Then what?

She leaned back, crossing her arms deliberately. "Well then, how about this? I talk. You listen. You say nothing that might incriminate you. Do you understand?" The words were crisp, clean, neat, just like you would expect from a woman in a business suit. She used her tiny hands to brush down the front of her linen skirt. It was a dark purple. Strange I hadn't noticed that before. There would be a great deal of significance to that later. She leaned forward ever so slightly. I found myself doing the same.

Wait a minute. Did she just say incriminate?

I nodded carefully. It felt almost like I was engaging someone across a judo mat, acknowledging one another before we tried to kick the shit out of each other. A strange feeling. But no sense of genuine hostility. Just being on guard, as they say. The Passenger was definitely listening.

To say that I was unprepared for what came next is to say that you are ready for a cruise across the Atlantic Ocean in a row boat.

"We share a hobby, Mr. Morgan. A lovely little hobby. A nighttime hobby, for the most part. We both are very fond of men who like children. Men who are very, very fond of children. Men who like children so very much that they like to take children, do heinous, terrible things to those children, and they keep those children, so those children can never, ever see Mommy or Daddy, or brother or sister, or kitty or Sparky. They keep them forever. So very fond of children. So, you see, I am quite fond of these men. And I … deal with these men. Yes, I do. I deal with them.

"I can use another verb if you like. Let's see, kill, destroy, eliminate, sometimes amputate, eviscerate, vivisect, rip limb from limb. They all work. Very efficiently, I might add." I could feel the Passenger's laugh in my bones now.

"I love my hobby," she said with a wistful tone, her eyes drifting from mine as though she were thinking of some long ago memory. "I miss my hobby so very, very much." I felt the smile frozen on my face, and the Passenger chuckled. A rippling, dark chortle.

"I'm not sure…" I started, but she cut me off with a quick hand gesture.

"You see, I have cancer. The kind that ends the way my hobbies do. Probably worse than my hobbies do. Although I do my best, I am sure. It is unfortunate, of course, but I am quite sure I deserve this, in some way or another. Karma, the universe, God's wrath, something of that nature. But I can't help but like what I like." This got a genuine smile, that went to those eyes. Those cat like eyes. My smile was still plastered to my face like a clown's, but I could feel my face pulling away from it. I was thinking in my sister's vocabulary. Holy Shit.

"But you see, Mr. Morgan, my work is not yet done, and although the mind is willing, oh so very willing, the body is not." She held up a hand. The tiny, tiny tremor was still there. "You can see it, can't you? Very few people can. I do a very good job of concealment, but that is what we are all about, is it not? Hiding the true nature, walking like the tiger in the brush, the shark swimming in the murky waters, the wolf amidst the darkening wood." Again, her tone was wistful.

I opened my mouth to speak, but she said simply, "No. Say nothing. Just listen." So I shut my mouth. The Passenger was jumping up and down with glee, at this marvelous creature sitting before me. Could this be real? I had never, ever thought of this. I had never considered this, in my wildest dreams. I mean, women kill people, as I should well know given both profession and hobby. But this? I was enraptured. Enthralled. But I remained silent. I knew nothing about this woman, and all of this could be some part of an elaborate game to trap me into some kind of admission. And frankly, she didn't appear to be all that capable of engaging in the same playful hobbies as those I tend to engage in, playing with the flesh of other monsters like myself. A tiny creature. Almost fragile.

Appearances can indeed be very deceiving.

She reached inside her purple coat, and I felt myself tense. She smiled again, the smile that reached her eyes. "You know better, Mr. Morgan. Here, now, when I need something from you? How silly would that be?" But it was clear that she was quite amused at my reaction.

I, on the other hand, was not amused. I was perplexed. I don't do perplexed well – it is simply not a state I find myself in often.

She pulled out a piece of paper, fine linen paper, and handed it to me. I reached out with nerveless fingers and took it. I turned it around to see what was on it – there was a list of names. Seven names, written in a very careful hand. "I like children, Mr. Morgan. These men like children," she nodded towards the list that I held. I looked down at the names – none familiar. But all in a very elegant font. Almost calligraphy. "But they like to do to children what we like to do to them. Or at least, what I like to do to them." My head snapped back up. "They like children so much that they like to keep children, play with children in all kinds of terrible ways. I do not tolerate that sort of thing. I am hoping you do not either. Actually, I am rather certain that you don't. " Another genuine smile. The eyes were truly beautiful, like her mother had had a dalliance with a cat at some point. They couldn't be real.

But there was a hollowness there, a dull darkness, an abyss. The pupil seemed to go on forever. It was a look with which I was intimately familiar. When I was not engaged in the day to day persona that is Dexter the quirky charming lab geek, my eyes had a very similar cast to them.

It was like looking in a mirror, looking back at myself.

I started, as she spoke again. "These men need to be dealt with. And I, I am sorry to say, am not in a position to do so. You have no idea how much I wish I could. Oh, so very much." I could hear the longing in her voice.

I looked across at her, my smile long gone now. She gave out a sigh, long and tired. "I know what I am asking, and I am no fool. You have your … hobbies, I have mine. You are a busy man, I see." She put a particular emphasis on "busy", although she pointed at my desk. "This may not be a priority to you, and if it is not, then I will try to deal with things myself. I am no longer strong or fast, but I find myself effective… in other ways." I looked again at her hands. I saw her look at me looking at her hands. At the unusual cuffs that adorned both of her wrists – leather, almost like gauntlets… The tiny, tiny tremor…

If I could blush, I think I would have. I felt for the moment as though I were a peeping Tom, looking into windows on a dark night, at things I am not supposed to see. No one is supposed to see.

But I saw them. Which is why she was sitting here in her purple suit, admiring blood spatter in my office. With a list. Just for me.

I felt special.

"You see, I will have to try. I have no other choice. It is my way. It is what I have always done, what I have always chosen to do." She gave a quiet chuckle, which sent waves of something lush down my spine. The Passenger was almost dancing with enthusiasm. "Oh, what things I could tell you." Oh please, tell me. "But again, I can see that you are busy, Mr. Morgan." She nodded at my desk, which was indeed overflowing with work. But I think we both knew that that was not what she was talking about.

She stood up, and I immediately came to my feet. I was surprised that I didn't have to pick my jaw up off the floor. That or just fall over. I had a distinct sense of unreality, that this could not possibly be true, could not possibly be real. She moved towards the door.

It took me a moment to find my voice. "How can I reach you?" I finally managed to stammer, as I scrambled around the desk.

"If you are unable to take up the task, do not worry. I will … know. I watch them, as I am sure you can imagine. If you do not move, then I will." I rushed around my desk, to grab the door for her. She smiled, a vicious little thing – as she was basically under my shoulder, a smile meant only for me. She was a tiny creature. "In some ways, you know, I hope you don't do this for me. There are worse ways to die. But then, you and I are very well aware of that, aren't we? " Another tight little smile. This close, I could smell the illness, the death, the dying. The Passenger could taste it, the oncoming onslaught of death pervading her, past the thick shellac of her makeup, the elegance of her suit. But her strength ,her presence, my God, radiated from her like a sun. Like a brilliant dark sun. And the eyes were as alive as any I had ever seen. Deep, dark, inviting into a never ending abyss…

Scary as hell. Good thing I don't do emotions like scared.

As I watched her head toward the elevators, I sat down at my desk, so hard it hurt. I looked over the list again. It would have to wait until tonight, to start investigating the list. I did not have any current playmates scheduled, so it might be quite a blessing. If it was real. At least, it would be interesting. But there was something else I needed to do first.

That had to be the longest day in my career with the Miami PD. I simply could not wait to try to find this woman. But there were cases that needed to be finished – most of the work was rote, and I might get lucky and get out of work early.

I was not lucky.

Deborah stopped by as she was making to leave. "Dex, you heading home soon?"

I sighed. "Yes. I need to get these last two done, while they are fresh on my mind."

"Call me," she said, making the universal telephone sign. "Maybe we can get a few beers."

I shook my head. "Gotta clean up for the kids. They are coming home for the summer."

Deborah exclaimed, "Dexter, that's great!" I stifled my response, which would have been something like, "Yes, it is, but it is going to put a serious crimp in my playtime, at a time when I desperately need to play. And might even have a whole new list of playmates."

What I did say was, "Apparently, it was Astor's idea, so I am hoping that she has let me out of the doghouse, at least a little bit, while in Orlando. The last time I saw her, at Harrison's birthday party, we were getting along much better."

"Dex, that's great. So how soon 'til I can come over?"

"Probably by the end of next week, or the week after. Everyone should be good and settled in by then."

"Awesome," she murmured. "Catch you later, bro." As she turned to the elevators and made her exit, I was actually a bit surprised that she had not tried to pump me for further information on our new serial slasher. But you take the good things when you get them, and you don't ask questions.

Well, sometimes you don't ask questions. But other times, the situation begs the question.

As for myself, a small flicker of energy, a small ball of lightning, seemed to course down my back, almost like a second wind. I could not get that little purple suit out of my mind, those hollow green eyes, and their owner was the first truly intriguing thing I had on my plate in a long, long time.

I like intriguing. Life in general can be such a bore. Don't you think?

Chapter 2 Lost and Found

My early evening was spent cleaning the apartment. The children were coming back to Miami in a handful of days, to spend some time with Harrison, my toddling little boy wonder, and myself. Both their grandparents and myself had agreed that spending too much time away from their brother was not an ideal situation, and that actually Astor was looking forward to coming home, at least for a while. That in and of itself seemed like a small miracle. I did wonder if the grandparents just didn't want to get the children out from under them so retirement could return to its purported bliss.

Not that Astor didn't have every right to hate me. She did. She didn't even know how much she had a right to hate me. But with a fledgling teenager, reason very rarely comes into the situation.

So I worked to clean the apartment, absolutely immaculately, in preparation for their arrival. I was not expecting this to be an entirely pleasant experience, and I was unlikely to be disappointed. But I had missed Cody very much, and I knew that he wanted to see me just as much. That made the upcoming pains worth it. And as I said, it really did look like Astor was coming around, or at the very least was making a solid effort. I could do no less.

But thoughts of the small young woman in purple continued to invade my thoughts, as they were little engrossed in cleaning. So many questions I had for her. Necessary questions. But first, I had to find her. But then, I am a man of many talents, and locating people is one of my best. But we had priorities. Cleaning first.

Cleaning finished, I first tried the basic internet white pages. Who the hell would have thought that that many people would have named their child Alyra? Entirely too many Phillip Pullman fans out there, who wanted to name their kids Lyra with a little twist. But of course, I had other resources, but the Dade county police data base gave me nothing. Somehow, thinking of that wicked smile, I didn't think it would. Not even a damn speeding ticket. I tried tax records, anything I could think of. It took me over two hours to think of the way to find her, but I did.

After hours of labor, I found her within fifteen minutes after hacking into the databases of the local hospice houses. I figured with clothes like that, she had to be pretty well off, so it would be a nice one, which limited my search. After a few spelling checks, and a phone call or two, I had a hit. And sure enough, there was only one Alyra. Southern Hills. What a lovely name for a place to go to die.

Well, I had a plan for my lunch hour tomorrow.

Chapter 3 Return to Sender

The morning was slow, so I was able to leave for lunch early. Southern Hills was across town, but traffic, while still somewhat homicidal this morning, just as I liked it, was actually pretty good, and I made good time. I had to watch the flowers, though, for fear that they would tip over and ruin my leather interior.

The hospice houses in the area were not places I would want to spend a lot of time in. They tried to make it "seem like home," but it was a hospital with pretty walls, nice clean floors, room to put up pictures, and the beds were certainly more comfortable than the basic hospital gurney. But in my humble opinion, they still smelled of antiseptic and piss, the classic aroma of any healthcare facility, and I was not pleased upon my arrival at this one either. Any more than I liked the place where my foster father Harry had spent his final days. But there was a reason for this visit, and it needed to be done.

I strode up to the main desk, my pretty bouquet in hand. Flowers get you into hospitals every time. That and a very good smile. I have a very, very good smile. The nurse, as all nurses seem to be these days, was fat and crabby. Her name tag said Bernice – need I say more? It should not be allowed to name one's child Bernice. It foretells much. So I gave her my most winning smile. I don't know how I do it, but I know that I am good, better than good, as she was stroking her graying hair back as she smiled back at me. "I am here to see Alyra Montgomery." She gave a start. She flipped through some paperwork, as I peered around the main room in utter boredom. There were some television sets in the main room, and some people watching them. All dying people. Some surrounded by what looked like family, others all alone on a couch meant for three. But the death was pervasive. The place reeked of it. Even the Passenger had to work to keep his disgust off of my face.

The room needed a blowtorch.

The nurse picked up an intercom. Then a bright faced blonde with curly hair and one of those bubbly effervescent personalities that makes you want to strangle them (I mean that literally, not metaphorically) came dancing up to me. Her name tag, a bright green, said, "Stephanie." It had a smiley face on it.

"This is wonderful! Alyra never gets visitors! Are you her brother?" There was a wistful, hopeful tone there.

"No," I said quickly, knowing there might be pictures in a file somewhere, putting a distant Southern twang in my voice. "Cousin. Got to say all the goodbyes and all of that."

The bright and bubbly disappeared for a click, and my dislike receded just for the moment. "She has been getting worse," the nurse confided in me, a certain violation of privacy, to be sure. But I listened. "They keep trying and keep trying, but we got this new doctor on who thinks that we should be sparing with the pain meds, and she just hurts all the time. But she won't ask for them – no she won't. Tough as nails, that girl."

I smiled winningly. "She always was when we was growing up. Could whip me in a fight in a heart beat." Playing stupid takes more brains than you might think. And I was getting tired of it. But I had to make a show of being harmless. Especially considering what I might need to do.

Stephanie came back, but she led me down the hallway to a closed dark door. A lot of the other doors had wreaths, or some other form of decoration. Lots of flowers. Bleck. The funeral preparations had already been started by some caring family members. But this door was blank, flat, empty. Like the eyes of its occupant.

But as I got closer, I could see a very small piece of paper taped to the doorway. I read it. '"There is no justice. There's just us." Terry Pratchett.' If that is what she considered a welcome mat, I knew I had to meet this woman. Those kind of words are those that radiate down to your soul. Well, they would, if I had a soul. They certainly were a masterful summation of that part of me that made me, well, me.

"Well, here we are," Bubbles said (I knew her name was Stephanie, but when the shoe fits…). "I won't disturb your visit. You can stay as long as you like." She knocked gently on the door. There was no answer, but she opened the door for me anyway, and then she left to go about her rounds (or whatever it is that bubbly, effervescent people do when they are not bothering people like me).

I entered the room as quietly as I could, noting that the person in the bed was facing away from the door, a serious serial killer no no. I know I made no sound as I entered the room, but Bubbles had given me away. When the voice filled the room, I almost jumped my skin. "You should probably close the door, were I you."

I turned to close the door as she rolled over. She was reading a book, which she laid carefully beside her. I peered at the cover. Wodehouse. Some British satirist, I thought. Long dead. Well, there was no question that she had a brain.

Without the makeup, the pallor was much more pronounced, as were the dark circles under her sunken eyes. The eyes had indeed been contacts, but the deep green of the eyes that met mine were even more disconcerting, more like a cat's eyes – just a meaner cat. Hollow. Flat. Her hand was covering her mouth, as she brought herself up to a sitting position. The shirt she wore was an old one, one of Heath Ledger's Joker from The Dark Knight. It said, "Let's put a smile on that face." Which seemed somehow appropriate, given that she was indeed smiling.

I, on the other hand, was not.

It took me a minute to realize that she was also laughing. She removed her hand, tilted her head, those piercing eyes staring me down, like two lions on the savanna giving each other the stink eye. I had to remind myself that I was bigger and faster. Probably. "Fuck you," she said crisply. "Had your bleeding eyeful yet? Like to see you look this good dying. You can kiss my ass if you don't like it." The smile was still there, a deep smirk, in direct contrast to the words. She was warning me, and she meant it. You don't mention these things, or I make you pay for them. Boundaries.

I took the warning. One could at least be civilized, in a complicated situation like this one.

"The flowers are nice, though. I don't have much use for those, since they die even faster than I do, but the thought was a good one. Always a good disguise for a hospital. You can put them on the coffee table, if you like." Her tone was matter of fact, conversational. "But I know I look like death warmed over, and actually not warmed all that much."

"I think you look quite lovely, thank you very much." I put on the charming smile, for which I was well known.

That got a guffaw, but at least allowed me to get a chair and sit down, as she motioned her hand for me to do so. "Put a lid on the charm, will you? I am afraid I will go blind. Or the lightning that strikes you will hit me with a byblow. I mean, I know I am dying, but I don't want to die because of smarminess. So what brings the prettiest Boy Scout of the company to grace my miserable piss smelling door step?"

Apparently, this girl doesn't miss much.

"You know what brings me here." The Dexter wit. Don't leave home without it.

"Of course," she smiled. "But I want you to ASK. Much more fun when you ASK. Kind of like BEGGING. I used to love BEGGING."

The Dark Passenger convulsed into, I am embarrassed to say it, girlish giggles. I had to say, if nothing else, this woman was fun. Really fun. I don't often meet people that actually require significant brain power with whom to engage. I had to suppress my smirk, but I know a little got through because I saw the smirk reflected on her face. "How did you find me?" I said simply. I couldn't help it. The Passenger was absolutely delighted with this little find. But we did need to know where the weaknesses were. That was important.

The smile toned itself down a bit. "You won't like the answer to that one."

The smile vanished from my face. "You will like it less if you don't answer me."

This got an open faced grin, full of perfect teeth which bled full into those deep green eyes. "Oh yes, threaten me, please threaten me." She leaned toward me. I could see the muscles in her arms as she pressed forward. Not as skinny as she looked, apparently. "I am dying, moron. Did you see the big sign on the door when you came in – H-O-S-P-I-C-E. Need a dictionary? Shall I fetch one? They put you in here to DIE. And given this hell hole it would be nothing but a mercy killing – they probably wouldn't even prosecute you. All the fun, none of the punishment. Beautiful all the way around."

I hesitated. "I can hurt you."

This time there was an explosion of laughter, pealing from one side of the room to the other, a lovely sound. "No, no, no, no – this is NOT how you do it. Boy, you don't KNOW what pain is until you sit where I am sitting. What you gonna do? Peel off my skin? Been there, done that, got the T-shirt – every inch of my skin hurts like a bitch. Break my bones? I got bone metastases – need another dictionary? Cancer in the fucking bones – so THEY hurt like a bitch. Cut me up? You should see my legs where I have sliced and diced, to try to take the other pain away," and sure enough, she lifted up the blanket and kicked up a slender leg, and there were deep red scars, just above her knee on the right thigh, that could only have been made with a very sharp knife or a razor. They looked like claw marks. "Fuckers take away my blades. Didn't understand. We don't want you to HURT yourself. I hurt, bastards. This makes it hurt LESS. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. But like my Dad always used to say, the world is made up of stupid. And stupid makes the world go around."

She smiled again. "Or, at least, they THINK they take all my blades." I made a mental note of this comment. It didn't sound in any way like a threat, but it pays to be attentive. The Passenger was still merely amused, enjoying himself. Again, he saw no sign of threat.

I was stymied. More than that, I was unarmed. I could do several things to inflict pain – I was actually quite good at that, if I say so myself. Serial vivisection provides many opportunities to find these things out. Goes with the job. But she was right – under the current circumstances, I was unlikely to impress. And one scream and the entire place would probably collapse, as everyone ran to her aid. So I fell on the old standby.

"Please?"

Now the genuine smile returned. She leaned back into the pillows. "Now, see, that is better. Ask like a gentleman. Then you get what you want. And you bring me a damn burrito from across the street – and you use that stealth you got because they treat that stuff like crack around here. You gotta eat healthy – for what? The only stuff I don't puke is the stuff that goes down great, the good old fashioned greasy stuff, and the great stuff ain't as bad when it comes back up. The grease acts as a great lubricant."

I felt my stomach give a lurch, but I waited. She was certainly direct. Anyway, it was close to lunch time. And I hadn't eaten either. Given my high metabolism, a trip across the street would serve me well to get my brain cells back into tip top shape. Because in truth, this little miracle was leaving me more than a little flabbergasted (see – I was still able to do big words, which is a good sign. Brain still functional. Good Dexter. Pat, pat.).

Her smile faded, as she looked directly at me. She pulled herself up to a more formal sitting position, pillows braced behind her. She held her hands in her lap, where I could see them. How I knew that was for me, I don't really know, but the Passenger nodded agreement. She was making sure that I could see her hands. Something told me that this didn't make her any less dangerous.

"We selected the same mark. The same target. But I guess I took longer than you to get ready, you squirrelly bastard. I come into the yard, ready to climb over his back fence – and who do I see, but sexy Boy Scout heading over the fence first. And I see you take him out of the house, and he was not exactly walking. Or rather, he was walking, but you were really, really close behind him. Looked like you had him on a leash." She leaned over, "It was a good look for him."

I said nothing.

She sat back. " Well, to say the least, my curiosity is peaked, as this is not a nice man – and I don't know much about you, but I figure I want to see what you plan to do with him, since you were not holding hands and doing a sing-song, and in case I need to make sure that you aren't just giving him a warning or some bullshit. Even that you might be a family member of one of the victims, to make sure you cover your tracks. So I follow at a discreet distance, and you go into this barn, taking our mutual friend with you, and stay there for a long, long time. I waited forever. Your hobbies must be very impressive. Skilled, even. Creative. I like creative. I always did enjoy creative. And you come out with some garbage bags that look vaguely familiar, some even like," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "appendages, if you can believe that, and you just drive away. All by your lonesome, in our lovely friend's car.

"I go into the barn – nothing, nada, zip, zero, zilch. I am dismayed, I am disappointed. But then, I notice there is no Reymondo either. I watch his house for a few days, and nothing. And so I jump to the logical conclusion."

I just stared. "There are lots of Reymondos in Miami."

She raised an eyebrow. "Reymondo Castillo something or another. I could never pronounce the last name. Montenegrava? (actually, she did remember the name, quite well). What I DO remember is that he had a fondness for little children. Such a fondness for little children. " She sounded wistful. Wistful like a razor blade. "He liked to take them to isolated places, and do lovely things to them with knives, and then rape them, and then kill them so they don't tell Mommy and Daddy. So very fond." She wiped away a mock tear. "I am so sorry that I did not have a chance to really get to know him. I am sure we would have gotten along famously." The smile returned. "Or at least, viscerally.

"Have I mentioned that I miss my hobby?"

I said nothing. I turned my gaze to the window. She could have a tape recorder under the bed, in the bathroom, anywhere. But she knew the man's name, and I certainly remembered him. He had indeed been very fond of children, and he cried like one too. It had been a good night.

"Now I have a question for you," she said, in that strong yet quiet voice. "Don't answer – just nod. Did you hurt him before?"

I hesitated, but then I nodded tersely.

"Please tell me that you hurt him very, very, very much."

I nodded again. Then I smiled. I couldn't resist. I just couldn't. "Cried like a school girl." Well, a man does have to have his fun, doesn't he?

She smiled back. "These are the moments that hearten me and yet dishearten me." I gave her a puzzled look. "These are the times that I believe in a God in heaven, but if there is a God in heaven, I know which damn way I am headed. "

I could not suppress the laugh. I had had that thought many many times. That one even gave the Passenger a deep chuckle. "Indeed."

" Toasty toes for Alyra, yes, indeed. As to how I found you, simple license plate tracing – you should watch that shit. Use another car or something, son. I always had a special car for my nights out."

"Can't afford one."

"You can now. How you feel about a Lexus four wheel drive in a beautiful glowing green, complete with tag and title, in someone else's name no less?"

My mouth fell open. That was worth months of my salary. A year of my salary. "I can't…"

"What do you think I am going to do with it – sleep in it? I am in debt up to my eyeballs – if you don't take it now, the credit card companies will, and to hell with that. You help me, I help you. Simple enough. And you get a safer car for your hobbies, I get some extracurriculars knocked out. And on top of that, I get a burrito with everything on it."

She sighed. "I followed you a few more times, just to see that you weren't specifically targeting the one man. And you clearly were not. But they were all slime, to a man. So I decided then and there, that I liked you. And I do.

"I know what you are thinking. Women don't do things like this. Well, let me tell you – we do. We are just better at it, and WE don't get caught." Again, that smile. "But now, I need help, and handing you the keys to my nice car when this is all over sounds like a reasonable price for services rendered.

"So, do we have a deal?"

If I could feel, I think I would have been very happy. I extended my hand. This time she took it. Her grip was pretty firm for someone dying, but I could feel that she was working for it. I let her work for it, as I didn't let go. She wanted to play this game, I let her. "Agreed."

And she got her burrito. With everything on it.

Chapter 4 Animal

This morning, I came bearing no gifts for my colleagues, hoping that Masouka had actually remembered that it was his day for the delightful pastries we forensic geeks seem to live on. As I made my way to the forensics lab, the box was indeed there, and yes, to my wonderment, was my staple, the Bavarian crème. As I heard others approaching behind me, I made myself the mighty hunter and grabbed my quarry before the other hunters arrived.

Vince smiled, his brittle, fake smile. I like Vince. There was just this part of him, trying so hard to be human, but not quite making the leap. I am not the only one with secrets to hide, and the stash of antibiotics that Vince kept in the lab was full proof that there were things about my colleague that I honestly did not need to know, nor have any desire to know. But it was still nice to see someone else faking human every morning.

"Grab your stuff, Stud-Muffin. We got another one out in the boonies."

I bit down on my doughnut, but managed to get out, "Similar to the others?"

"Nay, identical. We are starting the field trip in a few minutes. So, get your kit." Vince then turned back to assembling his own set of forensic exploratory tools.

I made my way to the office, only to be ambushed by my sister. "Another one, eh, Dex?" Internally, I groaned. This was usually Deborah's not so subtle way of trying to pick my brain. I had a certain "skill" if you will, with searching out some of the most vicious monsters, getting into their heads. Which of course was easy enough, since I am also a vicious monster and I could certainly get into my own head. I knew my way around. My hints had many times kept murder investigations from heading in the wrong direction. But one could not be too good at these things. Who would I have to play with?

I turned. "Deborah, I haven't even seen it yet."

She groaned. "From what I hear, just like all the others so far."

"This makes seven, right?"

"Yep. Seven. And no doubt more to come." You could hear Deborah's enthusiasm. And in truth, she was a great cop. Getting involved in cases like this had always been her dream. "Wanna ride?"

When we reached the scene, indeed, it was like all of the others we had seen, with a little twist. Well, a lot of twist. There was a lot more blood this time. Blood spatter in the woods is not always a fun way to spend the day. Leaves move, officers step right in the middle of the evidence because they can't see it. But I had my luminal at the ready, as I headed down the rough track heading down towards the body.

Batista was already there. He nodded to me, as I leaned down to investigate the body. Young woman, multiple slashing wounds, almost parallel in places, particularly on the lower body and the legs, with one very large wound on the lower leg on her right side – it was covered in leaves and bracken. The final deed was usually the throat, and that is where this one got hit as well. There was spray evidence of a fountain of blood coming from her severed neck, which covered her, the ground, and even a low hanging tree. She lay splayed in a most undecorous position, her clothes torn in all kinds of slashing and interesting ways, her arms a myriad of cuts where she had no doubt tried to fend off her attacker.

"What do you make of it?" I asked Angel, before he could ask the same of me.

"I don't know. Something doesn't feel right. He just hauls them out here, to cut them up. I can't see a motive in that. No ligature marks, nothing. I mean, he isn't tying them up or anything. He just has at them. "

"I agree – most perplexing. He could easily find a safe place to do all of this. Get rid of his leftovers. Why in the middle of the woods? Just to make it hard for us to get here?"

Batista grunted.

"It may be for concealment," I ventured. "Maybe he thinks we won't find them up here." I knew that was not the answer.

Batista snorted. "But we always find them the next morning, or the park rangers do. Each of the kills is close to access roads, which is how we find the things."

"Do you think he has a schedule for the park rangers? Do they follow morning rounds, the same paths each day?"

"Now THAT is a thought. A hell of a way to scare somebody though. I have heard that two of the local rangers have quit and one is on sick leave."

"Were they lucky enough to find the bodies?"

"Yep."

I looked at the wrists. No sign of ligature marks, only more slices. Each of the wounds was clearly made by a blade. And the spray agreed with it.

But there was something I was missing, as I could hear the Passenger's sibilant chuckle. I lifted my head, and realized that there was a rain of blood, only a few yards away. I stood up, walked over to the tree that was almost dripping blood. I walked a little further into the woods, and indeed, there was a path of blood, descending into the forest.

Or ascending from the forest.

I called out to Angel, amazed that I hadn't noticed it before. "He's chasing them. Hunting them down."

Angel turned to me. "What do you say?"

"He is letting them loose somewhere, and chasing them. Check out this blood spatter, coming up from the woods, right to this site." I gestured, and Angel followed me into the woods. "Here," I said, "look at this pattern. He hit her here," I looked around me, "possibly for the first time." We both looked back toward the crime scene, which was fifty yards away. We walked upward toward the primary scene. There were several other small pools of spray. "And it looks like he hit her three or more times before he finally brought her down.

"And each victim has had a significant wound to the leg, and this one looks much older than the other wounds." I gestured around the scene. "This is a big cut, but no spatter. And it's covered in dirt, debris. He made this somewhere else."

"So that's the ticket – he is hunting them. Maybe cutting a leg to slow them down?"

"That's what I see here. I can't believe I didn't catch it before." I would need to review the files when I got back to the office. This was the first sign of a real pattern that we could discern, that might hint at a motive.

"Maybe this one is the first one that made it any distance before he got them, who actually got hit before he ultimately brought her down. I mean, we have had a lot of prostitutes and junkies, and I don't think they would be that mobile. This girl looks healthy, like she can run. The other vics have all been pretty light weights, wouldn't be a real challenge to catch. But this one – has a little muscle on her."

"Maybe," I said, but I was doubtful. A pattern is a pattern, and most serial killers, myself included, usually stick to the rules of our own engagements. Unless his needs were changing.

Angel stood up. "We gotta expand the perimeter search. Good catch, Dexter."

I pulled out my bottle of luminal. "At least it's something." I tried to follow the blood trail further in the woods, but there was no luck there, although there was a lot of broken branches, torn ground. I called out to Angel. "We should probably get a tracker up here." Angel nodded tersely, as he continued on his way to talk to Lieutenant Laguerta, his wife and his boss. I have no idea how that sort of thing works, but I can't imagine it was easy.

Laguerta wanted to be shown the blood trail. As we leaned down, now with the spots glowing blue under my dark light, we could all see that there was evidence of a struggle here, as the ground was ripped in places. I reached inside one of the patches carefully with a pair of tweezers, finding myself holding a broken fingernail.

Laguerta whistled as she kneeled down. "So she was clawing at the ground to get away from him." Clearly, Angel had filled her in on my theory.

"Looks that way," I said, as I deposited the fingernail in an evidence bag. "It also explains all those wounds on her legs – as she ran, he was grabbing at her, and the fastest way to get down a moving target is the legs. Just watch a night of NFL football."

That almost got a smile. "Haven't watched a game since the Dolphins and Marino." But Laguerta nodded, "We need to go through the other sites, see if maybe there is other evidence that he is running his victims down."

I shook my head. "Weather would have gotten most of the evidence by now. But we could bring in a tracker, see if he finds evidence that this man is literally letting his victims run for their lives." She gave me a confused look. "Blood spatter and other evidence may wash away, or get blown away, but torn earth, broken tree limbs, things a tracker could see might still be evident."

"The most dangerous game," Masouka grinned, apparently proud to display his literary knowledge. I started. I hadn't even heard him approach. I hoped I wasn't slipping.

Laguerta snorted. "I find very little dangerous about a woman who is maybe 5 foot 4 inches and probably 100 lbs soaking wet."

"No, you see, it's from a story…"

Cutting him off with a hand gesture, Laguerta stood. "We expand the perimeter search, see if we can get an idea of how he is doing this. Good job, Dexter."

I nodded, not that I thought they would have any luck. As vicious as this monster was, he also didn't appear to be stupid, and he was carefully covering his tracks. His kills were fast, and while his knifework looked like something out of a science fiction book starring Jack the Ripper, his aim was not without purpose. And the killing stroke was always masterfully done.

I turned to Vince. "Well, I got the joke."

He bowed to me. "You are coming along well, grasshopper."

"My thanks, sensei. You walk with ninja stealth today."

Vince bowed. "As always, I live to learn." With a fake smile, he turned back to his own explorations of the site.

As I set about doing my job, I felt the agony of a stiff arm punch. I turned to see Deborah, glaring at me. "You find something, and you don't tell me. What kind of brother are you?"

I rubbed my arm, trying to nurse some feeling back into it. "I was going to tell you, but Angel was just there, and he brought Laguerta."

"Alright, so spill - what do we know?," Deborah demanded. For a loving sister, she could be seriously tetchy sometimes. But since she was the only person in the world who really cared whether I lived or died (unless you count the kids, and sometimes, I don't think I can), I make it a point to do what I can to make her happy. This time, I just didn't have anything significant. But there was something. Itching at me. Something I just couldn't place.

I sighed. "He isn't just killing them, he is chasing them down. He is taking them somewhere into the woods, letting them go, letting them run. And then he catches them, and kills them."

"So? What kind of information is that?"

This time, my sigh was deeper. I cared very much for my sister, as close to love as I can personally do, but sometimes trying to explain things to her was just difficult. We didn't have the same vocabulary of dastardly deeds done with enthusiasm. "We didn't have a motive, Debs. Now we do. He's a hunter, not just a killer."

"Which buys us jack-shit," Deborah retorted.

I turned to her. "It changes everything, Debs. He isn't just bringing women out here to just carve apart. He is setting them loose, chasing them down, and then killing them. The killing is not the only part of the game."

"You can seriously call this a game."

"No, but he might. Part of the fun is the chase, maybe most of the fun. He kills quick, he kills fast. The chase may be the most important part of the kill."

"Then why are they all so marked up, cut to pieces?"

I shook my head, "I can't answer that. You don't need that much damage to bring someone down, especially the types of women he has been targeting. Maybe it is a part of his ritual, something that he just has to do. And we don't even know if it is all pre-mortem. Actually, I am pretty confident that it isn't. I know with the other victims, the ME commented that a lot of the wounds were done post-mortem."

"How do you know?"

I leaned over the lower half of the body. "You see all these deep lacerations, almost parallel. There isn't that much blood. If you still had a living person, you would expect streams of blood covering her and everything around her."

Deborah snorted. "When you get something real to tell me about, you know where to find me. Speaking of which, do you have plans for lunch today?"

"Yep," I answered. And then I realized, I really did have plans. I just hadn't thought about it before.

"You? Lunch? With who?" she retorted, clearly angry at the deprivation of a beloved brother. Not. More like missing another 'let's see how much information we can get out of Dexter' party. So I pulled out the best card that I had. And in this case, it was the truth. I didn't realize how much I had wanted to go back there, but each day had taken my lunch breaks closer and closer to Southern Hills.

"A friend. Lives in one of the hospices downtown." I was surprisingly reluctant to divulge too much information about my "friend." And I was equally surprised at my own use of the term – is that what I wanted from this? Could it be possible?

"You have a friend? For real?"

I laughed. "It appears that she thinks so, at any rate." At least, I hoped she would.

Her mind apparently finished playing catch up. "Hospice. She?"

I let my facial expression soften. "Yes. She has cancer."

"Jesus, Dex, you know how to pick 'em. Can't you do better than dying? Haven't you had enough of that?" The oblique reference to my deceased wife was not particularly appreciated, but then Deborah never really did subtle. "Now, I know some girls, lovely women, who would be perfect for you…"

"Friend, Deborah. She's my friend."

Deborah just stared at me, as though I was the idiot. I stared back. "Friend, huh?"

"Friend."

"Well, I guess that's something. Even though she's going to kick the bucket. But watch yourself, bro. You've been through a lot. Don't put yourself through something you don't have to. There's being nice, but don't be stupid."

She pointed at the corpse. "Like I said. I need one of your hunches. You know where to find me."

As she stood up, stomping off to do something else that detectives do at crime scenes, I knew not what, I bent down to start my job. I looked around me at the sprays of blood that had hit the trees, almost up to my height. This was going to be a long day. No doubt on that score. But it could be interesting. I got out the camera and got started.