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.

2. Chapter 2

Chapter 30

We all sat waiting in the conference room, waiting for the 72 hour meeting to begin. This was the fifteenth attack of the killer, with each of the killings escalating in violence and damage to the bodies, although a lot of that damage was indeed postmortem. At any rate, when the killer moved from prostitutes and junkies to women coming out of gym parking lots, the profile had extended and the news had gotten caught up in a flurry of exposition. The killer's real motivations were still elusive, and he was smart enough despite the brutality of the killings to leave very little trace evidence for us. He was also picking his locations carefully, to avoid the likelihood of interruption, and the sites were random enough to make the possibility of staking out a forest highly unlikely.

In other words, we were stumped. Now that we understood at least a little more about the techniques the killer was using, thanks to my intrepid intern, as well as the timing of his attacks, the hope was that we could make more educated explorations of potential motives and ultimately, trying to derive who his next target might be. I was not convinced entirely of the "werewolf" theory, so I kept that close to the chest. Batista and I were both reluctant to divulge both the nature of the theory and its author, at least this early in the game.

Captain Matthews was chairing the meeting, which was highly unusual and a testament to the increasing profile the news had been giving to the slasher. One of the local papers had actually designated him as "the lunatic killer," after the realization that the attacks only happened on nights of the full moon. It was some relief that they hadn't been able to piece that part of the puzzle together either, until it was released by the department.

As Captain Matthews took the podium, he seemed to be a little agitated, which was unusual to say the least. Matthews had a reputation for being unflappable, and he had seen his share of the grisly and morbid, including the sheer relentlessness of the press. It was a puzzle what might have him fidgeting.

That puzzle was soon solved. There was an unusual gentleman, quite dapper really, dressed smartly in a coal black suit and tie that probably cost more than I make in six months. He was wearing cufflinks, in addition to his tightly manicured hair. I am guessing he also had weekly manicures. He appeared to be at least somewhat athletic, although in overall size he was not impressive – perhaps five foot eight or nine. But he radiated a sense of cool and calm which belied his small size.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen. We know where we are on this case, which is basically nowhere. What we do know is that this is a brutal killer, who attacks only on the nights of the full moon, who is escalating his degree of violence with each attack. We believe that he is releasing his victims and literally hunting them down. Our evidence is severely lacking, so the FBI has sent us someone to try to help with the, well, chaos. This is Peter Duntry, a psychological profiler, and he is to become a part of the team trying to hunt this monster down. Let's give him your undivided attention. " I was actually impressed that the rest of the team did not emit a united groan. No one liked the FBI getting involved in a case, even if that involvement might be helpful. They were arrogant, and often did not like to play by team rules.

The well-dressed man stood gracefully, in one fluid movement taking the position that Matthews had vacated at the podium. "It is a pleasure to be able to work with all of you. I have heard good things about Miami homicide, but this case is a strange one. And sometimes when you can't get the physical evidence you need, it is time to look toward the psychological evidence."

Duntry moved slightly to the side, as a slide projector flared to life. Pictures we had all seen of each of the victims flashed before us, while Duntry remained silent. I could hear Alyra's intake of breath, as the series of pictures from a young woman who was clearly an addict or junkie filled the screen, frail of face and body, who had a series of slashing type wounds along her legs and body, coinciding with her track marks, with the terminal injury coming to her throat as a slash of a series of blades. The woman also had a very large laceration to the right leg, which we had determined was made first, before the "chase."

"It seems clear due to the level of violence and the devastating injuries to the body, that we are dealing with an unstable individual. And it appears that this lack of stability is increasing. It is my opinion that he may have actually sought psychiatric help in the past, possibly even in the prison system. This is something that needs to be explored, of course. Clearly, this man loves not only the thrill of the chase, the hunt, but as we can see," he flipped through the slides in a temporal fashion, moving towards later kills, "he has a passion for sheer destruction. The wounds on the victims are becoming progressively more violent."

"Then why are most of those injuries post-mortem?" Alyra asked. I couldn't make myself turn to look at her. This was simply not done in one of these meetings.

Duntry turned to her. "Obviously, he isn't aware of when his victim is actually dead. There are also pre-mortem leg wounds, a significant number on each victim.

"I agree with your assessment that he is using a "claw" type mechanism for his attacks, probably derived from his years of hunting experience. Five knives are better than one. Obviously, this man is an experienced hunter, and has now decided that he wanted to take on the most dangerous game." I could see Vince sit just a little bit taller at the reference.

"Then why is he choosing women and junkies as his targets?" Alyra asked. I almost felt my face flush, as I reached across to grab her arm. She looked at me, genuinely puzzled.

"Likely targets of opportunity."

"But if he was a skilled hunter, as you say, then why would he need to find such pitiful victims? Wouldn't he really want to try the most dangerous game with a man of his own size and strength?" she countered.

Duntry ignored the question. "In my opinion, you are looking for a man who is currently down on his luck, likely a war veteran as evidenced by his skill with weapons, and an avid hunter as evidenced by his excellent tracking abilities. He clearly has some types of issues with women that are unresolved – either the end of a long-standing relationship, an obsessive relationship, or simply a relationship with a maternal figure that has gone sour. A good place to start looking would be at hunting supply stores, where he may have made a significant purchase recently to create his claw like weapons. But not the major stores – army navy stores, second hand shops, those kinds of places."

"The kind of blades that made those injuries aren't cheap," Alyra protested.

Duntry merely eyed her. "I think that is for the forensics team to decide, not you." This left Alyra stumped – she couldn't exactly talk about her personal expertise, although she certainly had a tremendous amount. Likely Duntry had never touched a blade.

"How do you explain the pre-chase injuries to the victims?" Alyra asked. This time I pinched her hard. She looked over at me, yanking her arm away. "Ouch."

"Clearly, the killer is not yet sure of himself, and is trying to insure that he is able to take down his victims."

"Then why is he not doing that anymore?" she replied. I didn't remember telling her that our last victim, indeed, had had no pre-chase wounds. I needed to reflect on that, but it was an excellent question.

Duntry paused. "Well, he is getting better at the chase, isn't he? He doesn't require an initial insult to the body to help him catch his victims."

I could see that Matthews was getting edgy. He didn't like Alyra's questions of his new profiler, and he certainly didn't like that they were good questions. He stood. "Ms….?" He started.

"Montgomery," Alyra replied stiffly. I expected her to correct him. She might not be a practicing physician, but she was still a doctor. To my surprise, she said nothing.

"While we all appreciate your enthusiasm, you are not an official member of this team, and your skills are very forensically limited."

Alyra frowned. "I have a degree in psychology from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill."

Duntry laughed. "A degree in undergraduate psychology does not a profiler make."

She turned to him, and I could almost feel the light draining out of her eyes. "Well, of course not. I simply had a few questions."

"If you could refrain from asking questions at this time, we would appreciate it. Actually, I am reasonably sure that you have some other type of work you could be doing." Matthews' voice was curt and tight.

Alyra stood in one fluid motion, flashing a brilliant smile. "Far be it from me to keep you from taking the garden path," she replied, quickly making her exit from the room. As she reached the door. "Just so you know – his next victim will be male." She looked at me. "It was only a matter of time, really." And with that, she took her leave.

Matthews turned to Laguerta angrily. "What was she doing in here?" I ground my teeth. This was likely to get ugly.

To my surprise, Laguerta came quickly to Alyra's defense. "She has been doing some very good work with Dexter, and she is the one who figured out the nature of the weapons that this killer is using."

"As well as the recognition that the killings were happening on the full moon," Deborah added, again to my surprise. I had been pretty sure Debs was taking credit for that one. And I knew she wasn't all that fond of Alyra's presence either.

Matthews paused. "I see. Nevertheless, I don't think that the place for an intern is in a 72 hour homicide meeting, particularly if she is an intern in blood spatter." He gave me a meaningful look. I gave Matthews a tight smile and a nod.

The profiler continued. He gave an interesting picture, of a war veteran, skilled in the use of knives, who was an avid recreational hunter. Recent stressors, likely loss of a job or possible aggravation of a psychiatric problem from war time had led to an escalation in his need to kill, bringing him into the human realm in his search for victims. Because he was a hunter, he decided to make things interesting, incorporating the "claws" as a weapon for running down his victims. Ultimately, the motives for the killing were likely an underlying personality disorder, which increased to include the potential of psychopathy. Then he started in on things with relation to his family relationships – all of the victims were female, so he may have recently lost his mother or some other significant other, and he was taking his rage out on women in general. A long term relationship may have ended. But his victims were clearly female, and were likely to stay that way. Fortunately, we didn't get into the Freudian angle except obtusely, which he appeared to skate around but not delve into. That would have been too much, even for me.

Clearly, the gauntlet had been thrown down in the direction of Alyra. Well, at least it would be resolved quickly.

The good news, he assured us, is that you would know him if you found him. He was probably even homeless at this point, certainly unable to hold down a regular job with these kind of impulses. And with respect to the full moon, there were many theories that suggested that the moon can affect behavior, and the man just might know about that and use it as part of his motivation. Certainly he would be able to see better on a full moonlit night. It could be that hunting under a full moon simply gave him better light for his tracking.

It was an odd story, which didn't quite seem to fit the situation at all as far as I was concerned. Too many holes, too many gaps. Especially when he started along psychological patterns. But then, I was a killer. I see things differently than most profilers, as I have a bit of an insider connection. Men don't just go from recreationally hunting rabbits, deer, and quail to killing humans. Yes, serial killers start with animals, but not for sport. And oftentimes, they torture animals, as well as kill them. And there still was no good explanation for the methodology of the killing, choice of victims, or the remote locations. But everyone else was nodding, so I kept my mouth shut. In truth, I had very little insight into this killer, but I was pretty confident that he was, as Alyra had suggested, trying to learn how to kill. He didn't have the hallmarks of a disturbed serial killer – no specific patterns, no evidence of trophies, and while the attacks were getting more damaging, a lot of the damage was done postmortem. No explanation was given for that. And I found it highly unlikely that he just didn't know that his victims were dead - it was too consistent of a pattern.

At any rate, I needed to put a quash on the rumors that I was such a good profiler. The further off the mark this man was, the easier it would be for me to sidestep questions about what I thought about this monster. So I kept my opinions to myself, until I got out of the meeting.

I found Alyra in the lab, looking over the same images that the profiler had projected on the screen for us. She greeted me with a grimace. "Idiot," she said flatly.

"Look, I know it has been a long day, but you really don't have to start calling me names."

The laugh was beautiful, like tinkling chimes, drowned in a full guffaw. "No, that guy. Bet you money he is a psychiatrist. Did he bring up the guy's mother?"

"How did you know?"

"A Freudian. Even better. Grand."

I pulled out my chair, flipped it around, and sat down with my arms on the back of the chair. I put my chin on my hands. "What do you think?"

Alyra leaned back, raising her head to look at the ceiling. "My guess is that this is a normal guy, who just had some kind of traumatic event that flipped a switch in him. Kind of like us. But I am telling you – this guy is educated. He knows how animals hunt, track, and kill. He knows how young predators learn to be predators. And that is what he is trying to learn how to do. He is not a hunter who went bat-shit. This guy KNOWS about hunting, and the way animals do it, not people. Animals have to be a significant focus of his life, to choose this kind of route.

"There is a brutal, unthinking way of killing, and there is an intelligent, beautiful way of killing. This is clearly the latter."

"And the werewolf thing?"

"This guy is smart, Dexter. He knows his stuff. What better way for a man who is completely against killing, a normal, nice guy, to learn how to kill than to believe that he turns into a monster? It just makes sense. Like you said – practice. We just need to figure out what he is practicing for."

I had to admit – the theory had some merit to it. And it certainly explained the sheer viciousness of some of the attacks. Using the bodies to perfect his blade work, so that the next hunt might be smoother, easier. "But why is he wanting to learn how to kill?"

"Likely same reason I did."

"You think he was raped?"

"No," she said with a scowl. "I think something seriously traumatic happened to this man, something that has someone he can blame. And he is teaching himself to kill…"

"So he can try to find his justice."

"Bingo."

I smiled. "But you said that there was no justice. Remember?"

Her look was intense, her green eyes almost feverish. "No, I said there is no justice, there's just us. My guess is that this fellow wants to join our ranks. And anyway, just because there is no justice doesn't mean that people don't go looking for it. "

"And we haven't even been out recruiting." That got a laugh.

There was a faint knock on my office door, as Deborah poked her head in. Batista was right behind her. "We have a question."

"Shoot," I said magnanimously.

"No, Dex, for Alyra." Alyra turned to Deborah with a quizzical look. "What are we missing here? I mean, it's a decent theory and all, but even I can smell that there is more to this than just a crazy guy going more crazy."

Alyra tilted her head. "I am telling you, this man is educated. You need to check the University of Florida, and the University of Miami – look for guys in biology, especially those studying the larger predators. And I would bring someone in who specializes in animal behavior."

"That is a brilliant idea," I said, stunned. It simply wasn't something that I would have considered, but if the man is killing like an animal, and we could learn more about how animals kill, if this killer was going to follow those rules a chat with an animal behavior expert could give us some significant insights. "This man is killing like an animal. What better way to try to get in his head than to find an animal behavior specialist?"

"What was that term you were using?" Angel queried. I had hoped to keep a lid on this, but I knew how she would respond to a direct question.

Alyra turned to me, uncertain. I shrugged. What could it hurt? "Lycanthropy," Alyra repeated the term.

My sister just turned to her, looking at her as if she was crazy. "Isn't that some kind of fucking foot disease?"

Alyra laughed. "No. It's a psychological disorder where a person believes that he or she can actually turn into a wolf. Or some other type of animal form, most commonly a wolf. They often times commit heinous crimes in their 'wolf' forms."

Deborah just stared at her. "I am not trying to be rude, but on the list of crazy theories, that is a pretty damn crazy theory. The claws I buy. You sold me there. But a man who thinks he turns into a wolf?"

"I told you that each of these murders has happened on the night of or near a full moon."

Deb gave me a puzzled look. She had realized as soon as I had that this particular piece of information might allow us to actually figure out when the next strike would likely be. I looked back at her, and shrugged. "How did you know that?" Deborah queried. "Did Dexter let you see all the files?"

Alyra turned to me. "No question. It just fit the pattern. He has the claws. He uses those to bring down his victims, to shear and tear flesh. He may also have a "snout" or a "jaw" with "teeth." Where is that picture of that first woman who had her throat torn out?"

I shook my head in awe. "You mean like a second mouth, made out of blades?" Deborah had made a hasty exit, likely to get those images.

"It is certainly possible. He could even wire it to his own jaw, to open and close." She grabbed one of the pictures from the most recent kill, put it down in front of me. "Look at these hollowed out areas, where whole pieces of flesh were just sheared off. That looks like an animal bite, nothing like a human would or could do with a regular knife. I should know," she said with a smirk, "because I have tried it." I grabbed her arm to silence her, as I saw Deb coming back over, Angel in tow. They spread out the pictures of the woman we had found, whose throat had been removed completely by the killer. "Look at these puncture wounds at the edge of each "bite" – canine teeth, BIG canine teeth. Just like one of the great predators. The neck is a very terminal place for those who find themselves on the wrong end of one of the big cats, or wolves."

"Well, fuck, fuck, fuck, and fuck. So now we know when he is going to hit. Each killing falls on one of the nights of a full moon. And if he's what you say he is, he is going to stick to the woods for his attacks. That has to give us something." You could tell that Deborah was not in the mood to be pleased by this woman. "So how does that fucking help us to stop him? How do we find him?"

Alyra gave a terse nod in agreement, turning to face Deborah. "They won't stop. He can't stop. He has an animal side, and a human side. The animal side is winning. You said each kill is getting worse." It was not a question.

"He is going to keep escalating. And he is also likely to get even more aggressive with his knife work, really starting to practice how to tear a human body apart.

"In some ways, this is completely out of his control. Worse, on every other day, he probably looks just like you or me. Completely normal. Wears a suit, has a good job, maybe even a family."

"You mean like a multiple personality?" Debs asked.

"Very much like that.

"Probably kind of a loner, but not bad. But not an outcast by any means. May be a biologist, with a passion for animals, especially wolves. Or a veterinarian. A person who works at a zoo. Someone who works regularly with animals, even maybe a park ranger."

"But wolves don't act like this," I countered.

Alyra shook her head sadly. "Werewolves are a myth, and they are supposed to be a blending of man and beast. The worst parts. The killing power of the wolf, mixed with the creativity that only humans can come up with when it comes to violence. Hence, the monster. While wolves are pretty docile creatures on the whole with respect to humans, the myth of the wolf is of a fierce, ferocious, deadly killer – hence, Little Red Riding Hood, the Three Little Pigs. You know, the Big Bad Wolf. You get the power of the beast, with the wickedness of the man. In the myth, you get a cold hearted killer who has the strength of ten men, an animal that does things that animals would never do. And wa-la," she said, pointing to the pictures.

Then I saw a look of puzzlement cross her features, as she took the series of images. She lifted one image from each file, and then took them to the floor. I bent down. She was looking at the dates, and putting them in order according to date of the attack. And then, even I could see it.

"The victims are getting bigger, stronger, more muscular. His first targets were just frail creatures, tiny women, 90 lbs soaking wet, but now…"

"He is taking on women who appear to be athletic, trained. With visible musculature, height. Possibility of fighting back." Deborah leaned down, to examine the images.

Alyra turned to me. "You said the first victims had big wounds on the leg, like a knife wound, but different kind of knife. And you think he made it before he started the chase?"

"Yes." I was at least sure of that.

Alyra whistled. "He was hobbling them. Just like a mother wolf." She turned to face the three of our confused faces. "When a mother predator wants to teach a baby predator how to hunt, she goes out and catches a prey animal, but she wounds it, so it can't hurt her baby, to make it easier to catch. The baby learns how to make the kill. She gives her babies a chance to practice."

That word again. Practice.

"So this man is trying to learn to kill like a werewolf?"

"That's my theory," Alyra said flatly. There was no ego in the statement. It was simply what she thought. Even more, it made sense with every piece of evidence we had so far.

Debs leaned in close. Now that she knew where the information was coming from, she wasn't about to stop hounding Alyra for everything that she could. It was strange, to watch someone else as the information source, but my Passenger had very little to give me on this one. It was a different world from my surreal, clean world of killing. But as the theory began to grow in front of us, I could feel his murmured assent. This made sense. A twisted, horrible type of sense, but it fit all of the evidence that we had.

"How do we find him?" Deborah asked.

"In the real world, you wouldn't know him on the street. He is probably clean shaven, professional – likely a vet, maybe a biologist. A lover of animals, to be sure. Thinks that animals are better than people."

"One of those green whack-jobs?" Debs asked.

Alyra shook her head. "I doubt it. Like I said – he probably looks pretty normal, until the full moon."

"That's not what our profiler says," Deborah countered.

"Your profiler is wrong," Alyra said flatly.

"So, he really believes he can't control this? That sounds like crap to me," Angel said.

Alyra turned to him, carefully. "It depends on the case. If there is significant enough trauma, the personality can split into all kinds of things. Compared to a multiple personality disorder, having an animal side and a human side is a cake walk. He may not even KNOW about the animal side, until the day of the full moon.

"There is a long history of lycanthropy through the ages. Some want to be the wolf – it gives them power to destroy, to enhance those urges that they see as bestial. Others are just trying to get lost in the animal, because they have experienced something that caused tremendous pain. Who hasn't at some point just wished that they weren't human? What they forget is that a beast never kills just to kill. A monster does. That is why they aren't wolves – they are werewolves."

"The beautiful kill," I murmured. Alyra shot me a quick smile.

"What?" Angel said.

I shook my head to clear it. "Nothing. Just thinking about something else."

"So, you said he is going to escalate. How is he going to escalate?" Angel asked.

"This is the tricky part. In his world, escalation can mean several things. But at this point, my guess is that he is going to pick harder and harder victims. Up until now, he has picked women, hobbled them somehow, some kind of wound to slow them down, to make sure he can catch them. Now he is choosing women who are athletic, no hobbling wounds, someone who can really run. And then…"

Angel growled, "Then he just keeps moving up the fight chain. That's what you meant when you said his next victim would be stronger, likely male."

"That's how I see it. He finally finds his most dangerous game, someone his own height, his own weight, the ultimate challenge, to prove that he really is greater than a man, that he really is what he thinks he is. He is becoming. And then, he does what he set out to do. Kill the person or persons who hurt him."

"And what does he think he is?" said Debs.

"A monster."

Chapter 31

When the killer struck again on his monthly route, Alyra didn't quite get it right. But I had to admit, she was close. This time the victim was almost as much male as female. I hadn't seen a lot of female bodybuilders up close, but this was about as close as you could get to a man without the Y chromosome. Her muscles were bulging in every direction, and with all of the lacerations, you could see into the muscle bellies, particularly where the limbs had been removed. Again, her throat was missing, and a myriad of cross hatching scars covered her lower body. Once again, she had actually come close to getting out of the forest, but was taken down less than a mile from US-1.

But there was no tell-tale sign of an initial wound. All of these could be explained by the claws, with the exception of the throat. Once again, the meat of it was several feet away.

She had also been eviscerated, which at least kept the cops in blue at a good distance and upwind. This one looked the most like an animal kill of all of them. It was clear that the woman had run a long way – her legs were also covered with rips from briars and underbrush. And she also had fought, as the bloody tree limb lying next to her hand clearly indicated. There was a handprint made of blood on the limb, where clearly she had been trying to swing it.

Duntry was circling the site, but it was quite clear that he found the smells to be most unpleasant, as he made no effort to join the rest of us as we worked to collect evidence from the body. Apparently, he got plenty enough of a good view from where the other officers were standing.

So much for being part of the team.

Laguerta had grudgingly allowed Alyra to join us on the site. None of us had quite had the courage to put her theory before Laguerta – even Angel had been reticent. But it didn't mean that we couldn't use her eyes and ears on the scene. And even Laguerta had to admit that she had good eyes. And despite her reprimand for her questions at the 72 hour briefing, I think she had admired Alyra's spunk in the 72 hour meeting, asking the questions that all of us had really wanted to ask.

Alyra called out to me, and I will never forget the tremor in her voice. I could hear her agitation, almost feel it. "Dexter, can you come here a minute?" I ambled over, wondering what she had found. "You found the exit trail, right?"

I nodded – the location where the killer had re-entered the woods was spattered with blood, as he had left the scene. That trail ended quickly. But Alyra was pointing at another blood trail. "Then what is this one?"

I peered down, and could see a heavy pattern of spatter moving off into the woods. I stood up quickly. "Did we do a perimeter search?"

Batista nodded. "We always do a perimeter search."

I shook my head. "No, I mean it – did the team actually do a perimeter search?"

One of the policeman in blue said casually, "People who are dead don't get deader. What would we be looking for?"

Laguerta was on him in a flash. "You didn't search the perimeter."

The officer mumbled, "All of the sites have been the same. Why should we bother?" Of course, there was the other factor – likely, the men in blue did not WANT to find the man who could do something like this, particularly if he was still feeling a bit tetchy.

Alyra was on her feet and running before he even finished the last sentence, with me close behind. Alyra had an easier time seeing the spatter, because of her height. She had bent down, almost running on all fours now.

We exploded into a small clearing, and lying on a giant rock was a hiker. She was face down on the rock, with no movement that I could see, her backpack bulging like a dromedary hump. Her legs were covered in lacerations, bloody from knee to foot. Several large lacerations on her thighs.

Alyra got to her first. "Strong pulse, but not breathing."

I called out to the approaching team. "Get EMS."

The policeman who had decided the perimeter could have nothing important in it, like, say, a dying person, replied, "We don't call EMS for these. We never have survivors."

"Well, you are about to not have a survivor in just a few minutes if you don't get EMS." That sent the man running back down the hill, hopefully to dial 911.

Alyra turned the woman on her back, a tough feat with her backpack on. I worked at the tangles of the backpack, trying to get it off her in case she needed chest compressions. Alyra tilted her head back and began to breathe for her.

Finally, the pack came off, and at about the same time, I could hear a wretching sound. Alyra pulled back, rolling the young woman on her side. Her breaths were shallow, panting, but at least they were present. "Belts," Alyra said as I began investigating the woman's wounds. "We have to tourniquet those legs." I had my belt off in a flash, working to wrap it around the woman's right leg. Quinn was just pulling his belt out of the last loop as I finished tying mine. He handed it to me. Soon enough, both legs were tourniqueted. Alyra ripped off her shirt, and placed it on top of one of the biggest gashes, high on the right leg, and began pressing hard. I searched for other bleeding sites that might need pressure, and found one at the base of her left leg. My shirt was also donated to the cause.

Quinn said urgently, "It will take EMS 30-40 minutes to get here. Their vehicles aren't made for this kind of terrain." Laguerta had turned pale, and was almost choking. Batista just gaped, and Vince was just Vince, just standing there.

"What did you all do, walk?" came Alyra's retort. "Put her in someone's back seat with someone who has enough brains to do CPR."

Quinn stared at her, then turned to Laguerta. "For us, it would only take about 10 minutes."

Laguerta stood up. "Right. Now move."

As Quinn carefully lifted the woman, with Alyra and myself still applying pressure, we made our way back to the primary site, and of course, the vehicles. It took a few minutes, but Quinn managed to get one of the SUV's near the exit site, and the car was quickly loaded. Quinn said flatly, "You need to come with us." Alyra nodded her understanding – they likely all knew CPR, but it was clear that Alyra knew it better. Medical school was good for that. But as she made to climb into the back of the SUV, she looked at the policeman who had denied the perimeter search. "THIS is why you do a perimeter search. Not just for shits and giggles, or just to check off a box."

The man had the decency to blanche. I could see why she didn't have a lot of friends. But that didn't make her any less right.

Alyra looked at me, and without a word I climbed in beside her. As the vehicle began to move, the bounces were almost enough to throw me into Alyra's lap, but I did my best to hold pressure to the most serious wounds, with my chest bare to the world and Alyra's underwear (it was nice – a leopard print) in full view.

I realized for just a fraction of a moment that I had never seen her with her shirt off. Even when we went swimming, she had left her clothes on. And she looked nice. Then I reflected on how strange a thought like that was at the present moment.

Well, I mean, you couldn't really expect me to be all that concerned about the victim, could you? I didn't know her. But I could tell that her survival was something very important to Alyra, so I kept my hands steady on the wound my shirt was covering.

It seemed like it took forever but we finally made it to the hospital, and the patient was still breathing and had a pulse when we got in. They were waiting for us, and had already brought up blood. As they began working on her in the trauma bay, I saw Alyra lean up against one of the walls of the ER, then slide down it gently, slowly to a seated position.

"Damn, stupid motherfucking idiots," she muttered.

"You know, you sound more and more like my sister every day." That got me a glare. "No reason for us to stay here. She will likely be in the OR for some time."

Alyra turned to me. "I feel like I am almost too tired to move." I sat down next to her. "That woman better make it or I swear that fat cop will know what it means when they justice comes to those who wait."

"I haven't heard that saying." I had to smile. "But you saved her life."

The look I got carried a quiet intensity, a sense of focus I had not seen in her before. "I haven't saved anybody yet. She still may die, because those men were so damn stupid. They had been at the scene for hours, and just left her there, politely bleeding to death."

She turned to me. "This doesn't really bother you, does it?"

If I could blush, I probably would have. I thought about lying, with the hope that she would think better of me. But we had agreed. Between ourselves, no lies. "No, not really. I don't know her, and although I am sure she is a nice person, I just don't feel much either way."

"Fascinating. Damn, I wish I could do that."

"What?"

"Just shove all of my emotions into the back seat. I can't even think straight right now I am so angry."

I laid a careful hand on hers. She simply stared at it, but she made no effort to move away. "I'll bet you're hungry, though," I said. I really didn't want to be here when the other cops arrived. Alyra had done a stunning job of controlling her temper on the mountain, but I did not think that would hold if they came here. Quinn and Deborah were both talking to one of the ER docs. They didn't need us.

While the look she gave me was perplexed, she definitely responded in the affirmative. "Let's go get something to eat while we wait," I suggested.

"I want a beer. I want several beers."

I smiled. "Fine by me. You aren't driving."

"And maybe a trip to the docks?"

I smiled even broader. "Would be my pleasure, madam." I looked down. "But first, I think we need to set about getting some clothes."

Quinn and Deborah approached us. Quinn was rapidly divesting himself of his shirt, which at first I thought was quite odd, until he handed it to Alyra. She took it gratefully. "Thanks for what you did out there," he said fervently. "We never would have found that woman in time otherwise."

"We still don't know if we found her in time," Alyra countered.

Deborah jumped in. "The doctors are pretty confident that she will make it, but they said it was close. She is headed to surgery soon. Hopefully, we can get some answers when she gets out."

"Your first eyewitness," I said.

"The best chance for a lead we've got." We all didn't say that this would also put a seal on who was right, Duntry or Alyra. I think we all figured we knew how this was going to play out, and no one was really going to be happy.

"Where are you two headed?" Deborah said.

"Clothes," I said.

"Beer," Alyra said.

"First, quick spin on the boat."

"Quinn and I will join you for the latter. A few beers sounds like a very good idea." Debs said firmly.

"Fine by me," I said.

"What a hell of a day," Deborah said with a sigh.

She wasn't kidding either.

Chapter 32

The next evening, we had another kill, right on schedule, but this one was even more masculine looking than the first. Easily taller than me, and certainly with more muscle, her distorted body was an anatomy chart. Although clearly the hair and makeup defined her as female, virtually every other part of her body defined her as male. And it appeared that she had truly ran – brambles and briars had shredded the parts of her leg that the killer had not. And she had clearly not gone out without a fight. There was a very large tree limb next to her arm, saturated in blood. Given its condition, cracked in several places, it would appear that she got in a few good swings before he brought her down.

Due to the sheer amount of blood, Alyra and I were able to track the return path of the killer, almost a mile. But then it became lost in the underbrush. Both of us were frustrated. The savagery of the attack was even more gruesome than the others – I would not have thought that was even possible. Three of her limbs had been removed, and the evisceration was so severe that her spinal cord glistened at the back of her abdominal cavity. Even the major arteries had been removed, and there are some big arteries in the abdomen.

There could be no doubt that he was increasing the intensity of each attack – and yet, as far as I could discern, he still began with the legs, and after the victim was down, went straight for the throat. All of the rest of the dissection came after the victim was mortally wounded or dead. It still made no real sense to the killer in me.

But it did to Alyra. Which meant that one way or another, we had to bring her theory out into the open.

Chapter 33

Human beings are indeed fascinating creatures. You can hit them with enough evidence to constitute a two by four with a smack upside the head and a lot of times they just don't listen. Duntry was still making his presence known, but like most FBI, he was not making any effort to make friends. Even though Alyra's theory had been supported, he still maintained that his profile was the more accurate. We were sending all kinds of uniformed officers into the streets and the back alleys, looking for a man at least in my opinion they were not likely to find there.

While the kills themselves were messy, the truth was that this man, in his own way, was an artist. While the killing spoke of rampage and violence, the set-up, how he had to be getting his victims, spoke of a deliberate killer, someone who thought quite clearly about what he was doing. He might kill like an animal, but the fact that we never seemed to get enough evidence bespoke the fact that he, on some level, knew exactly what he was doing.

Worse, the FBI profiler did not make himself readily available to the team, so when we had questions, it took entirely too much time to get his answers. So basically myself, Batista, and Deborah were using Alyra's answers, and she hadn't failed us yet.

Even when the story doesn't fit, people still like to believe in the story. It gives them a way to make sense of the madness. Even a crazy story, sometimes. And when the witness woke up, we got one hell of a crazy story, about a monster, covered head to foot in hair, with huge claws and teeth. But there was still Duntry's story, and a lot of people were clinging to that. Because people like to believe a story, even when it doesn't make sense anymore.

Luckily for me, Laguerta was not one of those people.

As I brought Laguerta into the blood lab, I could see Batista watching. He made a move to stand, and I gave him a gesture, a wave of the hand. He sat back down. This was a command decision on my part, partly to insure that Alyra didn't get kicked off of the team, my team, but also because, quite frankly, I thought that she was right.

"Can you show the Lieutenant the things that you have been showing me?"

Alyra's eyes narrowed, and that sense of flatness, lifelessness quickly returned. "It's a waste of time. They aren't listening. You've got your little profiler and you are happy."

Laguerta's eyes got wide. "First, you don't get cheeky with someone who ranks above you, and I rank above you. Second, you have no idea what I am going to think of what you show me, and third, I am giving you a direct order."

Taking a deep breath, Alyra stood and marched us back into the blood spatter lab. To my shock, she had actually written out most of the theory, including evidence we had, evidence we needed, and where we needed to be looking. I told you - she could type like a demon.

First, we showed Laguerta the claws, which even the profiler had agreed with. Well, he kind of had to. Especially now. They were what they were. "Where did you get these?" Laguerta said curtly.

"Bought them at an army navy store – I was supposed to be Wolverine that year."

"That's a male character," Angel said. He had sneaked in behind us. Alyra only smiled. "Yeah, but he's short and he has claws so..."

Then came the pictures, the close ups of the wounds on the legs of the victims. Just as they had before, the claws fit the markings almost perfectly.

Laguerta held up her hand. "The claws are nice, but they don't explain anything. We already knew the weapon he is using." She turned to Batista. "I appreciate that piece of information, but it doesn't tell me much more than I already know. He uses blades – just more than one."

Alyra nodded, and said quickly, "But you can't just order a set of claws with 10 matching blades. You would either have to get this as a custom order, which I don't think this man would do, or you have to buy the knives yourself and make them. As a matter of fact, I would not be surprised if the claws aren't retractable, so he doesn't injure himself if he makes a fist.

"And then there is his other weapon."

"What other weapon?" Laguerta said.

Alyra went back to the back of the lab, and produced a very strange looking metal cylinder – it had been cut open halfway, and the first part of the cylinder had rows of triangular objects. I peered at them – razor blades. They looked remarkably like teeth.

Without a word, she handed the device to me. I did not take my eyes off her until I found the pictures of the throat wounds. All of us, except Alyra, crowded around the picture, as I placed the "jaws" around the edge of the wounds on the woman's neck in the image. As I closed the "teeth," sure enough – they were a match. Even the size was accurate.

"What you said in the 72 hour conference…"

"Yes, these are very expensive blades. Very few knives have hooks on the end. He wanted real claws, real teeth, not just knife blades. And this guy can't possibly live on the streets – where would hide these things? And quite frankly, they cost a fortune. And just moving them would require a significant vehicle of some sort."

Quick on the uptake, Laguerta asked, "How much were yours?"

Without a beat, Alyra replied, "Originally $3000, but he marked them down to $2000 because he just thought it would be cool to see a chick wearing them."

As Laguerta inspected the gloves, Alyra reached out quickly. "Be careful – the blades are very, very sharp."

"I can see that," Laguerta replied coolly. I turned the "jaws" in my hand – Alyra had even created a small device, a lever action, that allowed the set of teeth to be molded to a human's jaws, so they would open and close with the mouth. Like I said, she was smart. "Likely the real 'teeth' are blades, not razor blades, but I had to work with what I had at hand."

"Alright, he uses claws to kill his victims. We knew that. And now, your theory about a set of jaws." She eyed Angel with that comment. "What else do you have?"

Alyra looked at me. "We know that he chases his victims, probably over a mile at least, maybe 4-5 miles."

"And how did you find that out?"

"Educated guess. He has to start these things somewhere – he would need a safe place, to Change (I could hear the capital letter). I am guessing he picks up his victims as a normal man, then takes them someplace where they can be kept. He has to be a pretty normal looking guy, I think, to be able to do that. And it has to be a good distance, because the chases would likely be long, and at any rate, you haven't found one of his 'home bases' yet, so they must be further out than your perimeter searches encompass."

"'Home bases'?" Batista asked.

"Where he starts the hunt. Where he holds the victim until he is ready for them to run."

"There are no signs of ligature marks on any of the victims."

"Clearly, this man is not a scary man, until he Changes. I am guessing that his victims are actually well treated, until he lets them run. Honestly, he may not even really know what he is doing, until that moon rises – then he becomes someone, something else.

"But if you could find one of those places where he would keep his victims, I think that will tell you a lot more about his motivations, why he is doing what he is doing, and how he sets things up. I know you haven't had much luck, but in this case, the fact that he is making these bloodier and bloodier works in your favor. Any decent dog should be able to follow that trail backwards."

Again, the idea was simply brilliant. What we could not see with the eye, a tracking dog could certainly scent with a nose. Where our trackers had come up short, a dog would likely have no trouble. It was something we should have already done.

"So we need to start looking for these homebases," Laguerta said carefully. She turned to look at me. My reputation as amateur profiler had taken quite a tarnish (thank goodness), but I had no problems agreeing with Alyra's assessments.

"I would say yes," I replied. "There may be a lot more evidence there than at the kill sites. It seems that he must put a lot of preparation into these things, making sure that the victims end up in places where the body may be found." And then I paused. Where had that idea come from? I turned to Alyra, as my first genuine insight into this man blossomed. He was not a cold killer. He was a very calculated killer.

"Don't you think it is strange that you have found every victim that he has killed? Clearly, he could do this in the middle of nowhere…" Alyra said softly.

Batista laughed. "Actually, he does do 'middle of nowhere' pretty well, if you ask me." Angel had also lost a good pair of shoes because of said remote locations.

Alyra shook her head. "He puts them in places where the rangers will see them, or where the circling buzzards would be seen. It is important to him that the victims are found. Don't you think that is strange?"

Laguerta tilted her head slightly, looking at me carefully. I said, almost in a whisper, "He wants their families to know. He doesn't want them to just disappear." My voice was barely a whisper, as I stared at Alyra in awe. We should have been more aware of this. This should have been obvious.

"Why would he do that?" Batista sounded genuinely puzzled. By this time, both Deborah and Quinn had come into the blood lab, and to say that we were cramped was a serious understatement. The lab fits about three people comfortably, on a good day, and it wasn't designed for that.

Maybe the cramped space was helping our brains to function better. I certainly felt like I was starting to understand this killer, and my respect for him was increasing by the minute. Not only did he chase down his victims, somehow he corralled them to specific locations, areas where they would be found. THAT took serious planning and foresight. A crazy man couldn't do that.

"My guess, detective, is that he lost someone very close to him, and they were almost never found. He knows what it feels like, and he doesn't want to do that to anyone else." Alyra's voice was quiet, respectful.

Deborah whistled. "You really do think that this is not a bad guy, don't you?"

Alyra paused, her brows furroughed. "I don't know what you mean by 'not a bad guy,' but if you mean do I think he has specific reasons for everything he is doing, well, yes I do. If we stop thinking of him as a sadistic maniac and think about him as a logical if lost human being, trying to find a way to learn how to kill, to try to make something terribly wrong somehow, in some small way, right, then there are things that can be done to confirm or deny those theories."

It sounded crazy. How could a mad slashing killer, who would tear a body into small pieces, possibly care what the family knew or didn't know? It made no sense. But it was the first evidence of humanity that we had seen. And the truth was although the bodies were battered, it still appeared that he killed cleanly and fast. As though this was something he simply had to do. He didn't have to be brutal about it, not while his victims were still alive. No, he reserved his terrorizing for the dead body.

I was getting a picture of this killer that did show a very intelligent mind, indeed.

This was going well. Very well. Better than I had anticipated. Alyra could tell a story with an artist's touch. Get all the evidence out there, then drop the bombshell.

"So, you know so much about this – tell me who is doing it?"

Alyra took a deep breath, slowly in and slowly out. "A lycanthrope."

Laguerta's eyes narrowed. "Do you think this is some kind of joke? Some kind of game? "

Angel leaned over, "A lycanthrope is…"

"Hell, I know what a lycanthrope is. It's a man who thinks he turns into a wolf. But you can't be serious. Do you think this is a game? I mean, we are in the twenty-first century, last time I checked. " Laguerta's anger was almost palpable.

"No, ma'am. I am only telling you what I see. He hunts the nights of the full moon. He started off with very frail, easy to catch victims. He even wounded them first. Then he escalated, and starting trying to find women who were physically fit. The last female victims even looked more like men that most men." That was true – they had been a female bodybuilders. And good ones. "And your witness said that he was covered in hair, head to foot, with claws and razor sharp teeth."

"We had thought that she was just delirious from fear."

"I don't think so, ma'am."

Laguerta took a deep breath. "Any idea why is he doing this?"

"To learn how to hunt, and how to kill."

Laguerta shook her head. "This is just crazy."

"Hear her out, please," I pleaded. Even the Passenger was alert. This felt right. It made sense.

Even Batista joined in. "Let her finish, Maria. There is more."

Alyra looked at me, and I nodded. "In a predator family, the way that the young learn how to hunt is that the mother brings back a prey animal, wounded but still alive. And she lets them learn how to hunt safely."

"What the hell does that have to do with this?"

Angel stepped in. "Each one of the earlier victims had a very large premortem cut on the lower leg, and the medical examiner was convinced that these injuries were made prior to letting them run. We figured he was just trying to slow them down, make them easier to catch. But there may be more here than that. I mean, this is something like none of us have ever seen. It speaks of an intelligence behind this. He is doing what a mother animal would do, to teach her young how to kill."

"He isn't still doing that, though," Laguerta argued.

"He got better," Alyra said flatly. "He didn't need it anymore. He is learning, growing, becoming."

Laguerta sat down hard at my desk (luckily without breaking the chair – it was a favorite). "You are expecting me to believe that we have a werewolf in Miami."

Alyra froze. When she spoke, her voice was soft, quiet. "Didn't Vince find hairs this time, at the scene, that he said didn't look human?"

Just then, Vince started to make his way to the lab, likely to find out who and what the party was for. And of course, why he hadn't been invited. "What's up?" He was munching on a powdered doughnut, and leaving half of it in my carpet. And he had officially turned the lab, with his arrival, into a sardine can.

Laguerta pounced on him. "Did you finish looking at those fibers we found at the last scene?"

Vince waved his hands. "It was nothing. Just background noise. One of the neighboring denizens stopping by."

Alyra turned to him. "Was it a wolf hair?"

Vince gave her an astonished look. "How in the world could you know that?"

Even though there was no movement, there was a tremendous sensation of movement stilled.

Alyra turned to Laguerta, "We don't get wolves this far south. There are some pet wolves around, but there was no other evidence of an animal present at the scene. And it works with what your witness saw."

Deborah, who had been sitting on the edge of my desk, turned to me. Her expression was searching. I am not sure what she expected to find, but clearly she had something on her mind. "He left a victim alive. He didn't have to do that. He easily could have just, well, killed her."

"From what she is telling you, you have part of your answer," Alyra said. "But remember – the full moon isn't finished for this month. You don't have a lot of time."

Laguerta stood abruptly. Her eyes bored into Alyra's. Then she turned to Angel. "Where do we find an expert on this?"

Alyra was quick to respond. "On lycanthropy? No one, except an old guy at Scotland Yard with nothing else to do with his time. There is evidence that there have been other cases in the 20th century, but they were hushed up by embarrassed family members. But any decent libraries should have a section on lycanthropy. It is a psychological disease, so it should be easy to find.

"But what you really need right now is an expert on animal behavior. From the hobbling, which is the term for the injuring of the prey prior to the chase, sticking to one target at a time, and leaving most of the gruesome stuff to postmortem, a researcher who knows a lot about animal behavior and animal archetypes is what you need."

"Animal archetypes?" Vince queried.

"Animals have been worshipped for years as gods, and you need to find out what a man would become like if he were to worship a wolf. And an archetype is an idea that flows across culture, across boundaries. Every country in the world has vampires and werewolves in their mythologies.

"Wolves are actually pretty docile animals. But men carry a myth about them, that they are vicious, pack hunting killers. This goes back to Little Red Riding Hood and the Grimm's Fairy Tales. The Big, Bad Wolf. They are extremely intelligent, and no attack on a human being has ever been recorded. But men think of them as vicious brutes, wicked killers of the forest.

"But clearly, this man has rules. There are things he won't do. He won't go after another victim, even if it is gift-wrapped…"

"Hold on," Laguerta interjected, "He went after that hiker."

"Wolves will chase anything that runs from them. So will most predators. I think he made a mistake."

"I am sure that is a comfort to her family and friends."

Alyra gave Laguerta a harsh look. "Yes, I would imagine it is, because otherwise, he would have bitten her throat out. Just like the others." There were murmurs among the assembled.

Laguerta clapped her hands for silence. "Alright, you lot – we know what we need to start doing, so let's start doing it. I still think this may be a garden path. But it isn't like the other profiler has given us anything that we can use. I have men searching the alleyways for anything suspicious, but searching all of Miami for someone who can't function as a human being has netted us nothing. Half of Miami can't function as human beings. We may have traded one needle in a haystack for an even crazier haystack. But at this point, I will try anything. I don't care how we find this man, but we have to find him, and soon."

Alyra turned back to Laguerta. "I meant what I said in that meeting. This next victim will be male. Probably a strung out junkie, but still male."

"Why?" Laguerta queried. "Duntry says that he is choosing female victims for a reason."

Alyra waved a hand in dismissal. It was easy to see why she didn't have a lot of friends. It wasn't arrogance, it was just the knowledge that she was right. "He is moving up the hunting difficulty food chain. The last woman was over six feet tall, over 200 lbs. There is no further to go with this chain. He has to move forward. He must move forward."

"How does that buy us anything?" Laguerta snapped.

Alyra's smile blossomed. It was clearly making Laguerta uncomfortable, but she seemed to be enjoying herself, although I did give her arm a covert pinch. She met my frown, and altered her expression to be appropriately dour. "He is going to have to take his target where he has more help with his tracking. This man is an expert tracker, but he has no idea what hunting a man will do. What it will be like. How much harder it will be. "

I felt my mouth drop open. "You know where he is going to be next full moon? Where he is going to hit?"

"Yes, I do."

Laguerta simply stared. "Where is he taking this one?"

"The swamps, so he can hear him running. And it will still be close enough to civilization that he can bring him down in a place where he will be found."

Laguerta turned back to me, taking in a deep breath. "This is on you Dexter. If you can't control her, she's out. I understand that she doesn't agree with our profiler, but you have to keep her under control. We don't want Matthews involved with this, or we will get specific instructions regarding our investigations. I don't like specific instructions, and you will like them even less."

She shifted her gaze to Alyra. "Officially, I can't follow this line of inquiry." At Alyra's protest, she shook a dismissive hand. "Officially. But at the present time I think we can invest one or two people, just to make sure that we are covering all avenues, to take a look."

Deborah didn't miss a beat. "You tell me where to be, and I will be there."

"You are looking for a swamp, but one that is close to a populated area. He should have at least a 5-6 mile circumference, for the victim to run. But again, it will be close enough to either the rangers or some other branch of civilization that the victim will be found."

As she made to open the door, Laguerta said "I still don't think I quite believe this, but your ability to put the details into a story is good. Impressive.

"But this is only between us. Until we have some firmer evidence, we act like we are running with the profiler's take."

As the rest of the crew left us, I turned to Alyra. "Jaws." The device was actually very simple, the mechanism that allowed them to be tied to the lower jaw of the person wearing them was impressive.

"I brought them to show you. I wanted it to be a surprise, for later. I thought you would like them."

I turned the object over and over. "I do. It certainly explains how he gets a throat out with one go. And they are wired to him?"

"He could probably make a device that would let them open and close with his own jaws, not just attaching them, like this mechanism. This one will give you a small bite, but you could design the mechanism to allow even more force than the human jaw can exert to come into play." She pointed to the lower jaw of the mechanism she had put together. Almost like clockwork, you could link the jaws to the face, and open and close them with subtle movements.

I looked at the clock. 5:30. "Let's go home. Something tells me we are going to have a busy morning."

And we did.

Then came the night. The night of the last full moon of the month. Sleeping was hard, knowing that at any time your phone would ring. And it would ring.

And it did ring. Alyra had crashed at the house again, as we were waiting for the phone call. Lucky for me, I woke first. I picked up the phone. "Good morning, brother mine."

It was Deborah, sounding happier than I had heard her in a very, very long time. "What's up? Did he strike again?"

"Dexter, we almost caught him. We were on one of those water boats for the swamp, and this man just came running towards us, screaming his head off, talking about a monster. We got him safely in the boat when we saw him. Saw it."

I sat bolt upright. "You saw him? You honestly saw him?"

"Dex, Alyra was right. He has some kind of, well, suit, that is covered in fur. He has blades for his fingers, and he is just plain huge. And this jaw piece that is all blades."

"Did you follow him?"

She snorted. "We tried, but both Angel and I mired up in the mud much too fast to really give chase, and the boat wouldn't fit between the trees. But we saw him. And we got off a couple of shots. I think we hit him."

"And you saved a man's life." Didn't want to leave that one out.

"That, too. That still puts Alyra up one, and the FBI profiler still has got nothing. And of course, the guy was male, just like she said. We are planning to get the team together this morning, so get here ASAP. And Laguerta says to bring your girl – we may need her help with this." I could tell from the tension in her voice that Deborah did not like this last order, but she would do what needed to be done.

"Who was the victim?"

"Some alligator wrangler trying to steal eggs out of alligator's nests."

"Is that legal?"

"Are you kidding me, Dexter? Now get out here. What? Hold on a minute, Dex." I could hear tense conversation – I think the voice was Batista's. Debs came back on the line. "They are taking the victim to the hospital. Damn. He has a wound on his leg. Just like those first girls."

"Congratulations, Debs. You are the hero of the hour. You saved a man's life."

Deborah sighed. "No, your girl saved him, sure as shit."

I reflected on the odd turn of phrase. But I suppose shit is pretty sure, if you take the time to ask.

Chapter 34

It was too early in the morning to be early in the morning. And while I had many reasons to be deprived of sleep, tromping around in a swamp was not high on my list of favored activities for the early morning set.

At least I had remembered to bring my boots. Most of the policemen were standing in the mire of the swamp with little to no mobility.

A perfect time for our friend to strike. If he had felt such an inclination.

I felt an arm on my shoulder, and I turned to see Alyra, a look of concern on her face. "I think I may have found something."

I nodded. She was good at finding things, and sure enough, there was a blood trail heading out of the swamps and into the nearby forest. A good blood trail. The kind you might get from, say, a bullet wound.

I grabbed a bottle of luminal, and we headed into the swamp. And about 2-3 miles inward, where the swamp merged with a dampened wood, we found the little shack. It could just be another old shack, but I knew in my gut that it wasn't.

Careful not to leave fingerprints, or destroy what fingerprints might be there, I carefully opened the door. And what we found inside was pure gold.

The man had made a small altar, on which small symbols and statues were placed. I could identify the series of teeth that made up a necklace/chain, and a series of claws, spread out to form rough shape of a wolf. A howling wolf. The smell of incense was strong, and we found its source in a small basin, lying in the corner of the room. There was a massive O ring in the middle of the floor, with attached chains, just the kind of thing to tie a man to while you were busy with some other aspects of your current occupation. Well, if you can call becoming a werewolf an occupation. And an explanation for the lack of ligature marks. He didn't use rope to bind his victims. He used iron.

But when we went behind the small wall, obviously newly constructed in the falling down shed, we came to our biggest surprises. There were additional knife like "claws," as well as a set of tools, likely for repair as needed. And fur was everywhere, on everything.

This was where our boy had started his hunt.

I called the information to Deborah, and we soon had almost too many people inside the tiny little shed. What a long day , and we had only just started – luckily the babysitter needed more money, so a long night for her would not be as insufferable as a long night for me (at least she could sleep). When I finished the first site's blood spatter (difficult to make any serious conclusions because of all of the mud and mire), I returned to the shed. I looked inside, expecting to find Alyra, but I did not. She told me that she didn't like enclosed spaces, especially those with people in them, so I ambled out a bit into the woods, trying to see if there might be something, some kind of clue outside.

I knew there wouldn't be. But a man has to try.

I had a nasty sense, as the Passenger gave a harsh growl, deep in my gut. I thought I heard the breaking of tree limbs, as something made its way through the forest. I kept walking toward the sound, probably not nearly as afraid as I should have been. Somehow, I knew what I was going to see.

It was a small clearing, and there they were. Alyra stood, barely feet from the thing – it was massive, easier taller than her by a foot and a half. Entirely covered in hair, I could see the flicker of moonlight off the blades that extended, curling from each finger.

The head, also fur covered, had a giant muzzle, and the twilight danced on a series of what appeared to be knife blades. The creature was very still, as he towered over her. She reached out a hesitant hand, and a clawed hand touched it, palm to palm. Slowly, ever slowly, the hands began to close. I could see the trickle of blood coming from Alyra's hand as the bladed hand descended over hers.

Suddenly, Alyra took two steps backward, releasing the hand/paw. She then extended her arms wide, thrusting her neck forward. The creature began to move forward, and I could see the powerful jaws begin to open.

Suicide by werewolf.

The scream tore out of me like a guttural thing, as I could feel the wings of the Passenger swing wide. The creature turned to look at me, as I stood frozen in a moment of anguish and anger, as both fear for my friend and a desire to eliminate the threat warred inside me. I was running before I knew what I was doing, my eyes searching for some kind of weapon. For once, I wish I had been a cop, so that I might at least have a side arm.

The creature looked directly at me, cocking its head to the side almost like a puzzled puppy. And then he was gone, running like a deer into the forest, almost too fast to be human. But then, he wasn't human, was he? Not as far as he was concerned.

I had Alyra in my arms before I could stop myself, and I heard her own desperate cry as the creature fled. She used her arms to push me away, and her blood stained my shirt. I could feel the wisps of her anger, at the denial of her hope to end her pain. She hit me over and over, hard. I did not let her go, and finally her struggles ceased. I kept my arms around her.

Then we were not alone. I turned to Deborah, "He's up here." Quinn looked off into the direction I was looking.

Batista did not waste words. "Which way?" I pointed into the direction of the forest through which the creature had descended. Batista had his side arm out and began to run. Deborah gave me a quizzical look as she saw the blood saturating Alyra's hand, dripping onto the ground. Then she plunged into the woods after the creature, Quinn right behind her.

I released her carefully, slowly. I didn't want her to bolt. Alyra stood very still, just in front of me. I took her hand in mine, and she made no effort to resist as I reached for her boot knife. I saw her eyes catch the flicker of the moonlight off the blade as I used it to cut a strip from my shirt, and drew the piece of cloth over her bleeding hand. I tied it tight. The moon lit up the night almost as well as the day, but giving everything a silver cast. The blood looked almost like molten metal as it ran down her fingers.

"Funny," she murmured.

"What?" I saw very little amusing in this particular episode.

"Serial killer knowing first aid." She smiled. I, on the other hand, did not.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Alyra looked up into my eyes as I continued to hold pressure on her bleeding hand. It was a look of almost embarrassment, as though she had been caught doing something dirty by a scolding parent. "I think it is safe to say I wasn't thinking."

I choked. "That seems almost self-evident at this point. Dammit. Do you really want to die that much?"

She lowered her head. "It was the moment. He was here. I hurt. I wanted it. I can't explain it any better than that."

Although of course I wanted more answers, I knew it would be to no avail. We didn't lie to each other – if she didn't know, she didn't know.

"You saved my life," she said quietly, without meeting my eyes. "Again."

"No, I just almost got BOTH of us killed." My voice rippled with sarcasm, but the truth of it was all too apparent. I had no weapons – my charge into the maw of the beast would have been meaningless.

But it was not meaningless to Alyra. That was just as evident.

Finally, she lifted her eyes to mine again. "I'm sorry."

Suffice to say, this was not the reaction I was expecting. I was expecting to be lit into right there on the spot. I could feel the wings of the Passenger begin to close.

I put my arms around her for the briefest moment. It was clear that Alyra had never really been held, as her body tensed at my touch. She was still learning how to do physical affection. I could feel her trying to force herself to relax, but years of isolation had taken their toll. I let her go. "Apology accepted."

Angel and Deborah came back into the clearing from different directions. "Damn, he was right here," Deborah spat. "Right here." Quinn came up behind them, breathless. He leaned down onto his knees.

"Probably watching us the entire time," Batista added.

"But he didn't attack anyone," I said carefully.

"Not full moon," Alyra replied, as she looked at the sun slowing raising into what had been the night sky.

"Looks like he got you," Deborah said as she eyed Alyra's hand.

"No," I said quickly. "That is my fault. I was trying to get her knife out of her boot, and she reached for it."

Alyra closed her eyes, but I could see the relief on her face. This was not something she would want to have to explain.

"What did he look like? I mean, up close?" Deborah asked. Her frustration of being so close to her adversary without even being aware of it rippled in her voice. She seemed to forget that she had seen him, not all that long ago.

"Hairy," I said.

"Big," Alyra added.

"He does have blades on each of his fingers, and the jaw he has made is indeed made up of knife blades. Curved knife blades. Just like you said. I could see them in the moonlight."

Debs gave Alyra a look. "Did you see his face?"

Alyra paused. "I saw the wolf's face. The man's face was covered."

Batista cursed. Vince walked into the clearing. "What did I miss?" We all stared at him.

"Ancient Chinese proverb. Do not do as fools in the movies do and run toward someone who is screaming. Lay back and get the lay of the land first." He made a smoothing gesture with his hand. Vince was not brave, and he had not an ounce of shame in that.

"Sounds reasonable," Batista said with a shrug. Vince was not supposed to play the hero, although his readiness to admit this was unique.

"Card carrying coward," Vince added. For once, he and Deb were not exchanging their horrible sexual innuendo banter. Vince was clearly shaken up. "That thing was up here, and we were all up here. And he didn't touch any of us. What does that tell us?"

Debs smiled. It was not a happy smile. "It tells us that he does have a plan, and there is motivation in his attacks. He isn't just a wanton killer, like Matthews' profiler keeps trying to tell us. He had opportunity, and even surprise. And he just watched."

"There is method to his madness," Alyra whispered. At least that was a statement we could all agree with.

Vince gave us all a weak smile. "I say we come back out here tomorrow with some reinforcements to finish up. Anyone with me?"

"Vince," Deborah said patiently, "It is tomorrow."

When we all finished up, it was after 2:00 in the afternoon, and we were all exhausted. A committee decision was made for everyone to take off early that day, and be prepared to be in early the next morning. We had a lot of new evidence to review, and we needed to be sharp for it.

In the end, Alyra's hand needed 16 stitches, from where the claws had penetrated flesh. But the wound appeared to be relatively clean (we apparently had a hygienic monster). She made no protest when I drove directly to my house, rather than offering to take her back to the hospice.

I tossed her a T-shirt to sleep in, and I said quietly, "Do I need to put all the knives away?" I eyed her boot deliberately. I knew where Alyra was sleeping, and she wasn't going to like it.

"No," she said softly. "It's gone. It was just the moment. It was just there, and now I feel fine."

"I can sleep on your couch," she said quietly. Astor had finally claimed the guest bedroom as her own, even though the bed slept like a plank.

"Nope. Into the big bedroom with you."

I could see her preparing to argue. "No arguments, please. You know I can behave myself. But I want you where I can see you and hear you."

She looked down. "I can understand that. I am sorry, Dexter."

I forced a smile. "Like you said, it was the moment. I just want to make sure you don't have any other "moments" on my watch. And no more Kate Winslet Titanic moments, either. No."

That got a smile. "That was a good movie."

"Hah," I riposted. "But how can a movie be good when absolutely everyone dies?"

"Point."

As she went into the bathroom to get ready for bed, I reflected on the evening/morning. We had finally found one of the starting places for the killer's hunts, and we had even found the killer. And I had found a side to Alyra that I hadn't known about – an important one. Finding out that a friend is actively suicidal is big news – and it certainly meant that I needed to be more careful. But the take home message appeared to be that she really didn't want to kill herself – she wanted the pain to stop. It wasn't a conscious process – yet.

That would require thinking about. Because I wanted to keep her alive for as long as possible. It might be selfish, but I was going to do my damnedest not to let her go before I had to. Do not go gentle into that good night, indeed. I had to smile at the image of me, beautiful, handsome, brilliant me, running unarmed at a six and a half foot menace with blades for teeth and claws. There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and I couldn't think of a better example.

So why had I done it? The best answer I could come up with was almost a caveman answer, and one I am sure Alyra would not think fondly of – woman, my woman. My friend. Mine.

I could hear the correction of the Passenger. Ours.

There could be no doubt this time. These were feelings, but not unpleasant ones. I had never had a real friend before, although perhaps I had thought I had with Miguel, Lumen. This was altogether different. And not unpleasing, when she wasn't trying to run like a scared cat or openly trying to get herself killed. I cared. It was an unusual feeling.

When she finally came out of the bathroom, shirt dragging at her knees, she looked as tired as I felt. She went around the bed, and lay down, curling herself into the tight ball I had come to know so well. As I moved to begin my own ablutions, once again I reflected on the fact that yet again, for some odd reason, I had come to value someone else's life almost as much as my own.

These situations had never ended well. But in this case, I knew it wasn't ultimately going to end well. She was dying. So it made it a little easier. But there was clearly a sense of attachment that I needed to be careful with.

As I lay down on the bed, I could feel Alyra stirring. I was genuinely concerned that she wouldn't sleep at all. I felt bad about that, but not as bad as I would feel if she found a good knife in the cabinet and put it to use. I was very tired, so sleep was going to come easy for me.

"Dexter?"

"Yes," I murmured.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." I knew she was not just thanking me for interrupting her terminal moments, but at my awareness that this was now an active issue, and I would help her deal with it.

And I would help her. And that meant learning more about my little friend. Much more.

Chapter 35

It was several days later, and the team was all aflurry about this new theory for our serial slasher. Mostly, I think they were all surprised at how well it fit with what we knew. We still had to keep our investigation of the "werewolf" quiet, but Duntry didn't make an effort to really work with us as a team, acting more as a supervisor. We now knew that the killer had his own, as Alyra put it, "batsuit," covered with animal fur. Duntry had written that off as a fluke, maintaining his theory that the man was likely a war veteran, possibly with post-traumatic stress disorder, who lived on the streets – although he did not comment on where he would keep the wolf suit. He said that many killers would often don animal furs or skins when they would "hunt," and that this did not demean his theory in any way. Nor did he comment on the altar, or wolf teeth we found at the shed that had served as a place to start his hunt. He said most serial killers had some kind of ritual patterns, and this was just this man's pattern.

A lot of the blues involved with the case where still working the alleyways and backstreets, but the main part of the team was very focused on Alyra's theory. It just made more sense, as crazy as that sounds. But Alyra wanted to stay at the hospice that next morning, claiming that she was just too tired to deal with the politics right now. I didn't much blame her. But I told her I would call her and I did on my way home. We chatted for a few minutes, and then she said she had to go.

I wasn't sure what unnerved me quite so much as I hung up the phone. Perhaps the tone of her voice, something in what she said, how she said it. But something in the Depths of Dexter could sense that all was not quite right in Alyra's world. Deborah had agreed to take the kids for the night, leaving me a free Friday evening, which would have been much nicer had she not set me up with yet another of her blind dates. I have no idea what made Debs think that as my sister, she was somehow entitled sovereignty of my dating life, but once again, I had felt forced to yield. Deborah never makes these overtures in private, and to maintain the disguise, I am most often forced to accede. She definitely knew how to play it, but then, I had always known that she was smart. But I was not looking forward to the experience. Again.

I checked my watch – it was only just after 5:00. I had plenty of time to stop by the hospice, say a quick hello to Alyra, to see if we could set up plans for later in the weekend. OUR kind of plans, which would hopefully brighten her mood a bit. I needed a bit of playtime. The sheer homicidal madness of Miami traffic did a bit to brighten my own mood, as I steered my way to the facility. These days, no one really required that I check in. I simply waved as I sauntered down the hallway to the left, and was surprised to find the door shut. As I reached for the door, I could hear the flapping footsteps of the Nurse Nazi (Bernice, if I was not mistaken) trailing after me. She halted as I turned, panting like an animal taking a dash in a hot desert. A fat animal.

I nodded politely as the massive mound of flesh attempted to gather her wind, almost doubling over to do so. When Bernice stopped, it took several moments for the outlying regions of Bernice to agree to the general plan. The Passenger let out a deep chuckle. She would be a challenge on my table. How in the world could you reach anything vital under all that blubber? I could see that even though her legs had stopped moving, the rest of her bulk had to adjust to the requirements of gravity, as waves flew across her abdomen and legs.

Not a pleasant experience to witness, I don't have to tell you.

Finally, she raised her head, still breathing quite hard. "Miss Alyra is not taking visitors today."

"Is that so?" I replied, keeping my charming smile in place. "My guess is that she would make an exception for me, don't you think?"

"No, sir, in this case, I think not." The pants were coming slower, as the whale of a woman finally managed to calm herself somewhat.

I cocked my head, keeping my smile in place. "Are you sure?" My hand stayed on the doorknob, starting to turn it.

The beedy little black eyes glimmered. "Quite sure, sir. She was most adamant."

Who knew that Bernice had such a vocabulary. ""Well I am reasonably sure that she would not bar my presence from her room, without good reason. Would you not agree?"

Bernice just stared up at me, her pudgy little hands on her pudgy not so little hips.

"So I suggest that I simply open the door, find out her reason, and then we can all go about our business. That is a quite reasonable solution, don't you think?" To my surprise, the Passenger was uneasy, and I had only had that experience here once before. And things had been far from well. As I turned my attention back to the door, the squat little nurse reached for my hand.

Enter Bubbles, aka Nurse Stephanie, to the rescue, as she stayed her boss's fat little hand (which I honestly didn't know what I would have done with if she had genuinely tried to grab me, but breaking part of it was one of the options that had come to mind).

Bubbles said softly, "Maybe she will listen to him. She certainly isn't listening to any of us."

Nurse Bernice replied "The doctor's orders were quite clear. We have to obey orders."

"That's what the Nazis said," I said brightly.

This really brought up my darker half. When you hear someone say something like "we were only obeying orders," something very bad awaits beyond the closed door. Guaranteed. Bubbles replied, with a spark of spirit I would not have anticipated, "Did you ever think that the one giving the orders might be wrong?"

Nurse Nazi Bernice threw up her hands. "If she winds up hurting him, I will not be held responsible!"

Hurt me? What the hell was going on? I turned to Bubbles. Bubbles face was drawn. "She has a very high fever, and we think she is delirious. She may not know you. You need to be careful."

I felt my brows knit tightly. "How high?"

She lowered her eyes. "105, last time we checked. You really can't get close to her right now. I think she is in a lot of pain , but her doctor thinks she is getting addicted to her pain meds, so we have had to hold most of them."

I was stunned. "What have you given her?"

A flush creeped up to the nurse's cheek. "Tylenol, Ibuprofen."

I kept waiting for the list to get longer. It didn't. "That's it? Nothing else? No antibiotics? No real pain killers?"

"I…" she started.

I flung the door open, charging inside. Bubbles made no effort to follow. One look at the bed, and I turned back to her. She had the decency to look away. I slammed the door shut, turning the lock.

Alyra was lying on the bed, fully clothed, in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She lay on her side, curled into a tight ball, with her knees drawn tight against her chest, with her arms wrapped around her legs. Not an inch of her was not soaking wet – even the length of her red hair was soaked from the roots to the tips of her hair, which fell almost to her waist. Coughs were racking her tiny body – you could hear each breath coming across her lips, as though it took all of her strength to push herself from breath to breath.

I hadn't thought about what effect her exertions of the previous night might have on her. A nice little pneumonia, perhaps?

Her eyes were tightly closed, and tremors were raging through her body, over and over and over. From her emanated a sound, an odd sound – not a whine, not a groan – almost a whistle, over and over again. A constant cough, deep and rattling, seemed to follow each breath.

I approached the bed cautiously, remembering not so little Nazi Nurse Bernice's admonition. I kept my voice quiet, soft, as I repeated her name as I drew closer. She showed no sign of acknowledgement of my presence, no recognition, until I was almost on top of her.

To say that I was not adequately prepared for her reaction would be a substantive understatement, along the lines of going alligator hunting in a cardboard box during the wet season. Her eyes snapped open, as she delivered a scything kick to my hip. She scrambled backwards to the opposite side of the bed. Her golden green eyes were wild, like pools of pure flame. She was desperately trying to bring herself to her knees, but somehow, she kept sliding back down. Her eyes were unfocused, but her arms came up in front of her quickly, as she at least managed to get to her hips, to a quasi sitting position.

Personally, I just sort of stood there, hurting tremendously for a bit. The woman could kick like a mule. I had surmised that would be likely, but it was far more impressive to experience it in the flesh. I tried to keep my voice soothing, but that is hard to do when someone has just kicked the hell out of you. Finally, I knelt down, leaning on the edge of the bed, with one hand nursing my wounded hip, the other just barely touching the bed.

"Get out!" she shrieked. "Get away from me!" She was dangerously close to falling off the bed, and I did not want to be the precipitating event to this eventuality. She fell into a spasm of coughing, but I wasn't fast enough to grab hold of her.

"Alyra, it's me. It's Dexter. You know I am not going to hurt you. You know that I would never do that." I know – it sounded ridiculous, especially to me. But I meant it. I moved the hand a little further along the bed.

She moved backward again, wavering. I froze. "Liar! That's what they always say. Don't worry. This won't hurt. I promise. Cross my heart. Hope to die. Die! Go away!"

We stood in this tableau for quite some time, me trying to approach her, her backing away. Then something else seemed to catch her attention for a moment, as she fell into a paroxysm of coughing, and I reached in to try to grab her. I caught her arm, pulling her towards me, earning myself a good old fashioned scream, and be damned if I didn't get bit this time. She must have had a good dentist for all of her life, because she put at least 30 good old fashioned enamels right into my hand. But I at least got her pulled back onto the bed. I also got another kick for my troubles.

I was afraid I was going to have to pry her tooth by tooth out of my arm, but she released the bite quickly, looked up at me, the hazy look gone, the smoky haze replaced by a moment of clarity. "Dexter?"

I loosened my grip on her arm, and pulled myself to a sitting position on the bed. She lay sprawled on her back, looking at me, with my forearm clasped by one hand. I had to fight to stay still, as I desperately wanted to take my arm from her grasp, quite honestly concerned that I might get bitten again. There is being a friend, and there is protecting the integrity of one's fleshy shell. I wanted to close my eyes and sigh, but I knew that in this instance, eye contact was critical. I limited myself to the sigh. "Yes, it's me, it's Dexter."

She shook her head, first slowly, then violently. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You can't be here. You have to go."

I stroked her arm, gently. Carefully. "Why? Why can't I be here?"

She averted her eyes. I reached down, a gentle nudge on the arm, pulling her gaze back to me. "Tell me. Why can't I be here?"

The answer came in a soft whisper, so soft, I could barely hear it. "I don't want you to see me like this."

As quickly as she had relaxed into my grip, she began fighting again, and I simply could not hold her. She was too fast. Every inch of her was slick with sweat, and there was just no place to grab hold, except her clothes, which tore almost like tissue paper in my hands. I tried to use my weight, but she would simply slide around me, and I began to realize, that sooner or later, one of us would get hurt, and badly. And I was betting that someone would likely be me. And honestly, Alyra would probably not be very happy if she hurt me, when her head got clearer. Probably.

I let go and stood up. "Alright, I give up. You win. I am going." Deliberately, I opened the sliding glass window, hearing her hoarse breath sounds, watching as she curled back into her tight ball, whistling. The cough was almost rattling. Her lungs had to be full of something awful. "Can't see me like this. No. Too much. Too much." She murmured, over and over, as the tremors took hold again.

I proceeded immediately to the car, and after unlocking the doors, went straight for the glove compartment, and quickly found what I wanted. One characteristic of a neat serial killer is that you always come prepared. I grabbed the syringe, pocketed it quickly, and went straight back into the room. I opened the sliding glass door as quietly as I could. I found a rag that I had put in to wipe down my interior. It was clean. I wrapped it around my left hand as I entered the room again.

She heard me. I knew that she would. She could hear a mouse fart in a hurricane. Not a bad trick in Miami. She looked up at me, her eyes focused narrowly this time. "I told you to go away."

I knelt down beside the bed. "Yes, I know that. You were very clear." I pointed to the bloody teeth marks on my arm. "Most pointedly. But you see. I just can't do that. Because you see, these idiots are just going to leave you like this, in tremendous pain, thrashing around, with a fever that can cook brains. I like your brain. It keeps me entertained. Immensely so. But you know when it comes down to it, I am just a selfish bastard. I would miss you. I like talking to you. You let me be myself. So, I find that I have to do something. Sorry about that. But you know how things are."

With lightning speed I reached for her left arm, and as she turned to thwart this attack on her person, I had the syringe out, the cover quickly gripped in my teeth, and smoothly plunged into her neck.

She fell forward into my arms. I gripped her hard. I placed a hand on her forehead. She was searing hot. I lifted her quickly into my arms, after grabbing a quick overnight bag, filling it with a few necessities. I then unlocked the door, and Nurse Nazi Bernice fell almost flat on her face where she had been listening at the door. I looked down at her. I was not smiling this time. I stepped over her (it was quite a large step). Even on the floor, she was irritating. "Where are you going?"

"Leaving," I replied abruptly.

"She is very sick. You can't just take her out of here."

I turned on her. "I absolutely agree on point one. But since you aren't doing anything about point one, I think I should find someone who will. And on the second point, I have taken her from this facility on multiple occasions, so my bet is that I can actually 'just take her out of here.'"

There were forms. This was no time for forms. But the miracle of all miracles was that the legal guardianship document from our first little outside tour was still valid, so yes, I could just take her the hell out of there. Finally, I got myself and my friend out of what I had begun to think of as the Hotel de Death. As I began to head toward the exit, Bubbles came up to me quickly. I anticipated some resistance from her, but I found none. "Dr. Andrews at the Miami General ER. He knows her. He can help if you need it." She pressed a card into my hand.

Then I carried my unwilling patient outside. I laid her gently across the backseat, and to my stunned surprise as I buckled myself into the driver's seat, I heard the soft whistle, over and over again. I had to admit a certain amount of trepidation. I was no doctor, but even I had enough sense to know that something had to be done. But the hospital was not likely the best place to start, if for no other reason than Alyra would kill me.

When we finally got home, I had the delight of calling Deb's Date of the Week selection and canceling. I had some of my tools in the car, and I grabbed one as I then lifted Alyra to carry her into the house. I made straight for the guest bedroom and carefully laid her down.

First priority – get off the soaking wet clothes. As I had suspected, the jeans were not coming off. They were shellacked to her skin. I pulled out my skinning knife, and used the hook end to reach up under the pants, and began to cut them off her.

Who would have thought that serial killer training would help me in this type of situation? I felt almost like a doctor.

Given her earlier reaction, I should have thought to dose her again, but I didn't. She began to thrash wildly, barely missing the blade edge of the knife. But this time, she was more disoriented, foggy from the drugs, and it was much easier to grasp her hands and pin them, using a leg to brace her legs. However, there was one thing that I had not counted on, something I had never really considered in my encounters with Alyra. Fear.

This wasn't anger, rage or embarrassment. She was completely bound by another human being, and that human being was male. And she was terrified. The room stank of fear, and even the Passenger could smell it.

She didn't cry out. She didn't scream. She just looked up at me, without an ounce of recognition in her face. Only that veneer of terror. The realization that she could not break free, that she had no weapon. That she was at my mercy.

Immediately, I loosened my grip. I wasn't a complete idiot. But I was not about to get bitten again, either. She began to move again, and I held my grip only as much as I needed to keep her still. That was my Alyra. Never give up. Never surrender.

"Alyra, it's me. Remember. Dexter? Your friend, Dexter? Right?"

"Let me go!" she cried.

"I want to help you. I just want to help you. Please let me help you!"

She was still scrambling, but to no avail. I had a solid grip on her this time. "Why are you holding me down?"

"Well," I said in my most placid voice, "Last time I let you go, you kind of bit me."

She paused, as I presented my hand for her inspection. Apparently, that sounded reasonable enough to her. "Looks like me, alright."

She looked back at me. "I know you." She raised one eyebrow questioningly.

"I work in forensics, down at the Miami PD. Blood splatter. We met because we share, well, a hobby," I said carefully.

"A hobby," she repeated.

"Yes."

"We kill people," she said flatly.

"We kill bad people," I corrected. I kept my grip loose. One hard torque, and she would be loose. But now, she lay still.

"But I'm sick."

I took in a deep breath. "You are very sick. And I want to help you."

Lifting her head, she looked down at the knife in my hand. "And what exactly were you planning on doing with that?"

"You sweated through your clothes. I can't get them off you. So I am going to have to cut them off."

Her reply was quiet, but adamant. "I really like these jeans."

"I will buy you two pairs."

She shrugged, as if to say that this sounded reasonable. "Not the T-shirt." It was a Joker T-shirt. She loved The Joker. Regrettably, it had already ripped lengthwise during our earlier struggles, but no need to mention that.

"I think the shirt will come off no problem."

"No funny stuff," she admonished.

I laughed. "Haven't we already had this conversation? I don't do funny stuff."

"Point."

Her voice was high, almost like a child's voice. I could hear her confusion, not only in her words but in her panting breaths. She was disoriented, out of place. I had to try to keep her, and her mind, here with me.

I took the knife back up, and got back to work. The jeans came off readily, if in a few pieces, and the T-shirt, with some assistance from her, came off in a slick pile. I had wanted to leave her underwear alone, as she had drifted off to sleep again, but there was no help for it. They were completely soaked, and I removed them with care. I then used a damp towel to mop as much of the sweat and grit off of her as I could. But there were other priorities.

I took out the card, for a Dr. Andrews. I dialed the ER number, and was informed that he was not working that evening. I asked if there was someone else I could contact, for some information about Alyra Montgomery. The nurse's attitude changed from vapid indifference to rapid attention, and she asked me to hold for one moment as she connected me.

"Andrews here. What trouble has my favorite patient gotten into this time?"

"She has a very high fever, over 105."

Andrews paused. "You don't sound like someone from the Hospice. Are you new?"

"No, I am a friend. Dexter Morgan. I took her out of there earlier this evening."

Andrews guffawed. "Let me guess. Tylenol and ibuprofen, right?"

"That was it."

I could almost feel the man shaking his head. "That man who works out there should be drug out and shot. I understand treating the fever only with Tylenol – it's a hospice, people are going to die of something. But not giving pain medications because you are afraid a dying person is going to get addicted is tantamount to torture."

I could have kissed this man. I heard a noise, recognized it as the shower starting. Hopefully, a shower would help her to feel better.

"I can get a package together for you. Do you know how to give an injection?"

I stated with a firm affirmative that I was quite good with a needle.

"We'll have instructions for everything, and prescriptions, just in case there are any questions for why you have what you have. Give me your address. I can have the package delivered in the next hour or so."

"I could come and get it," I hazarded.

"No," Andrews said definitively. "I would much rather you stay with her. She tends to get obstinant, do stupid things. She needs to just rest, but she'll get up if she can get away with it."

My happy little bubble burst. I heard a loud thump. "Like trying to get in a shower?"

Andrews let out a bitter laugh. "Better you than me. If you need anything else, just call. Or bring her down here."

I tossed the phone on the bed as I made a mad dash for the shower. I opened the door, to find her in a seated position, with her knees pulled up, arms wrapped around her legs. The spray from the water was ice cold. Her eyes were closed, with her head resting on her knees.

I knelt down. "Would you rather take a bath?"

She glared at me. "Old people take baths. Invalids take baths." She looked at me, daring me to say anything, anything about her current condition.

I put the Dexter brain into action, and sure enough, a solution presented itself. It wasn't a fun idea, but if she wanted a shower, there was a way to do it. I walked back into my office, where I found a piece of rope, took a few minutes to form two loops out of it, and trudged back to the bedroom. I changed quickly into a pair of boxers (hideous things – little Tabasco sauce bottles all over them) and an old T shirt. I stepped into the shower, trying to remind myself that the cold water would feel better in a moment.

It is important to tell oneself lies of this nature. It makes such experiences far more pleasant.

I took Alyra's hands, and looped the rope around them. She gave me a quizzical look as I wrapped her arms around my neck, and stepped back into the water, with her facing the stream. I picked up the loofah, put some of the liquid soap on the device, and proceeded to scrub the grime and salt from her skin. She leaned her head back against my chest, as I cleaned her upper body as thoroughly as I could.

I then turned her around, took some shampoo, lathered up her lengths of hair, which felt like it had been dipped into the ocean it was so thick with salt. I decided a repeat shampoo was in order. I should have swiped some of Astor's conditioner, but I did the best I could with what I had, as I cleansed her back. Finally, I lifted her arms, took the rope off, and sat her down directly in the stream of cold water and washed her legs and feet.

Turning the water off, I grabbed one of the fluffy "guest" towels (I never really did understand the necessity of having lush, fluffy towels for guests while keeping the miserable thin stuff for the family) and began to dry her, seating her on the bathmat (which was a soft carpet). She tugged at my sopping shirt and shorts, and smiled at me. I touched her face again – she was still hot, but much, much better. I went and grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of underwear from her bag. She took the underwear, but refused the shirt. "Want one of yours."

A strange request, but easy enough to oblige. As I went for the drawers, she said, "No. Dirty one."

So this was delirium. Not quite what I expected. I went into the laundry basket and found an old T-shirt I had worn to play kick the can with the kids. Not completely disgusting, but with some personality to it. She put it on, with only minimal assistance.

Of course, she tried to get up by herself, but forewarned, I had stepped up behind her, and she fell right into my arms. I sat her carefully on the toilet (seat down, of course), and set about finding myself a change of clothing. I usually sleep in next to nothing, but that did not seem appropriate, under the circumstances. So I grabbed a T-shirt, and a pair of long boxers.

Just as I dressed myself, the doorbell rang, and a young delivery boy presented me with a box, and I had to scramble to find my wallet to give him an appropriate tip. I reached into a closet to get a new set of sheets, setting the box on the bedside table. I peeked into the bathroom. Alyra had tipped over gently, apparently sleeping with her head against the shower door.

I quickly changed the sheets, and lifting Alyra gently, trying not to wake her, I put her in the bed. Then I set about the box. It was a serial killer's dream, with everything from mild pain killers to extremely potent analgesics, with a side of sedatives up to straight anesthetics. There were also a couple of IV bags of fluids, with instructions for how to use them, as well as anti-nausea medications. And a couple of oral antibiotics.

Andrews had explicit instructions, and recommended starting with a pain killer, and a strong one, to start, in addition to a mild sedative, as well as Tylenol for her fever. Well, the Tylenol would have to come first – he sent a couple of the suppository form, but that just seemed a little too intimate for me at the present time. I really didn't want to get bit again. I would prefer the oral alternative first. So I grabbed one of the ginger beers Alyra had brought for me when I got sick, woke her up, propped her up against my shoulder, and got her to take the Tylenol as well as an antibiotic. She also took a huge slug of the drink. "Thirsty," she whispered softly. Her hands were shaking a bit to let her hold the drink, but with my help, she was able to get the entire bottle down. I filled the syringes, expecting a fight. I didn't get one. She just watched me carefully, looking at the bottles that I was drawing from. I started with the pain killer – I could literally feel the tightness of her muscles release, as a sigh escaped her lips. This pleased me for some reason. I was not sure why I wanted to comfort her so much. It was an odd connection for me. But what can you do? The sedative was mild, more a muscle relaxant than anything else, but it was also well received by its target audience.

I felt like a mother hen as I fluffed up the pillows behind her as I stood up, lowering her gently to the bed. She immediately rolled to her side, bringing her knees up, curling her arms up so that her hands were just under her face. It was incredibly cute, but I said nothing, as Alyra considered the word cute to be a four letter word and had a very powerful reaction to the use of the word in her presence. I pulled up the sheet, and brought the comforter up close enough that she could reach it if she needed it.

I went to my side of the bed and set my alarm clock for two hours. Andrews had warned me that she would be unlikely to tell me if she hurt, particularly if it required waking me. As I took my own sleeping position, I felt something touch my arm. I turned. She was looking at me. I could tell that she recognized me.

"Why are you doing this?" she said, her voice soft. The violent coughs had stripped her of much of her voice.

"I owed you."

Her expression was wry. "This isn't the same."

"Close enough."

I could feel the heat of her skin, but I could also feel the slowing of her breathing, the reduction of her heart rate. I was still a bit puzzled as to why I felt so satisfied with this. At first, it had just been a debt owed. But now. There was more. It wasn't just trying to pay her back for taking care of me, although that was certainly a factor. But this was far more serious. I had been risking a severe headache for several days – Alyra's life was in the balance for this one. I had to make sure that I did things right.

Sometimes, it is better not to fathom things, to ponder too long. Just take things as they are, and move from there. Sleep stirred, just outside my consciousness. The truth was that I was very tired. Trying to corral a crazy woman, with a raging temperature and full delirium certainly can take a lot out of a man. To my surprise, despite the adventure, or perhaps because of it, I fell asleep.

When I woke up, around 2:00 am, I could feel the entire bed shaking. It took a few moments to orient myself, but I realized that Alyra was trembling. Violently. Coughs were tearing through her. I could see a hint of blood on her lips. I touched her skin, and it was almost searing to the touch. Her skin was pale and clammy, and when I touched her, she pulled away as though she had been burned. She did not respond to my repeated attempts to wake her. This was no longer just about comfort – I was honestly afraid that she might die on me. Again, I didn't take the time to ponder why this would be such a distressing event for me – likely I really was just a selfish bastard, and I wanted to keep her because I enjoyed the company. Whatever the reason, I had to do something.

This time we didn't have a fight. She got a shot. Period. I was in no mood, as the thermometer was telling me that her fever had climbed to 107. I called Debs. I figured I would be in for another battle, but Debs just hung up the phone, and within minutes, she was at the house.

That was unexpected.

It was a strange drive. Deborah had insisted that she come along, which brought the kids in tow. We had Harrison in his car seat, surrounded by Astor and Cody. This left little room for the patient, so I wound up sitting in the back of the SUV, with Alyra's head basically in my lap. While my sister is a great many things, a wonderful driver she is not, and the panic of the moment was catching. The children were bursting with questions, but realized quickly enough that I didn't have any real answers. Alyra was sick, and she needed help that we couldn't give. The car veered wildly as Deb took a curve at speed. I braced my legs hard on the opposite side of the truck, to try to keep Alyra as stable as possible, but we were all swerving as we got close to the hospital.

Debs was laying on the horn as we finally reached Miami General, taking the turn on what felt like two wheels. "Try not to kill us before we get there, eh, sis?" I managed.

Deborah just grunted in reply. We came to a stop several car lengths from the entrance of the Emergency Department, in an area where horns have no meaning. Deborah cursed, opened her door and came around to the tail end of the car to let me out. With a resounding thwack I hit my head hard as I made the mistake of actually completely sitting up, but somehow I managed to extricate myself from the stranded vehicle, pulling Alyra into my arms. I gave Cody and Astor a Look. "You stay with your Aunt Deborah, and you do what she tells you to do." Deb gave me a quick hug, and made her way back to the driver's door, ready to get the car out of the way before SHE got stuck.

Alyra's skin was scorching to the touch, as her head lolled into the curve of my arm. Maybe the sedative had not been the hottest idea. But my hand was still stinging from my earlier encounter with her pearly whites. I pulled her in tight as we maneuvered past the smokers and others who were apparently just catching a bit of the Emergency Room ambience as it wafted from the sliding doors. By the time I reached the nurse's station/counter, there were three people ahead of me, and they were taking their sweet time about this whole emergency stuff. If you can walk, it isn't an emergency –that's just my opinion, but I do have some experience with these things. I know life-threatening when I see it.

One of the nurses with a clipboard approached us, as calm as an iceberg and moving at about the same pace. "Hello, sir." I swung around to fully face her, and I guess something she saw scared her enough to give that iceberg a jet propeller. I looked down, to see the haggard and pale figure in my arms. She literally threw the clipboard at the desk, as I lowered Alyra so the nurse could reach her.

"How high?" the question was crisp and sharp. Her stethoscope was out and already being put to good use.

"At the hospice, they measured it as 105. We got 107 at home." Some of the panic was draining away. We were here. We were where we needed to be.

"She's from the hospice? She's at the hospice now?" the nurse gave me an odd look I could not interpret.

"Yes. Is that some kind of problem?"

The nurse paused, looking at the nurses' station behind us. "Technically, we don't accept hospice patients except through the hospice itself."

I closed my eyes as I could feel my own monster swelling in my depths. "Look. They wouldn't do anything. They gave her Tylenol and Motrin. She was completely delirious. In tremendous pain. I tried to take her home, but I just didn't know what to do. I called here, talked to a Dr. Andrews. He sent me some supplies, but the fever just kept climbing."

Hanging the stethoscope around her neck, she grabbed my arm and shuffled me out of the waiting area. She took us into a room, pulling the curtain tightly closed behind us. "You can lay her here," she gestured to the gurney, and I carefully placed Alyra on the bed. The nurse grasped her wrist, feeling for the pulse. "How long has she been unresponsive?"

How to confess this one up? "Well, actually, I gave her a sedative so she wouldn't try to kill me, thanks" probably wasn't going to cut it. "I think they gave her a sedative at the hospice," was the best I could come up with.

The nurse continued her examination, looking into her eyes, mouth. She eyed me carefully as she listened again with her stethoscope. "Help me sit her up – I need to listen to her back." I lifted Alyra to a sitting position, holding her head steady with my hand.

"Yep. Junky," came the answer, as the nurse indicated that I could lie Alyra back down. "No rashes, vomiting, coughing – anything else you can think of?"

"She was coughing, hard, when I first came in to see her. Now it's more of a rattling noise when she breathes."

As the nurse made to leave, I called out, "Her name is…"

The nurse waved her hand at me. "I know who she is. Poor thing," she reached out a hand to touch Alyra's wet red hair. "Stay in here, and be quiet. If anyone opens that curtain, tell them you are waiting on Dr. Andrews, and don't say anything else."

Before I could decipher the reason for the conspiracy, she was gone, curtain closed behind her. There was a chair in the corner of the room, and I pulled it up to the bed and sat down, hard. I touched Alyra's forehead with my hand, running my fingers across the pale flesh. Her eyes flickered for a moment, then closed again.

She looked deader than some of my playmates. I did not like this.

The trembling was getting worse again, so I pulled up one of the blankets tight around her neck. For some strange reason, I simply could not stop touching her. I had to be in contact with some part of her body – her face, her hand, her foot. I could hear that soft whistle again, coming with each breath.

Panic, as has been noted by far better individuals than I, is an over-rated emotional state. It solves little, causes far more trouble than it rectifies, and it is just plain uncomfortable. Finally, I tried to settle myself in the chair, holding onto her hand. But I simply couldn't do it. I had to be doing something. That Y chromosome kicking in again, I suppose. So I saw a hand towel by the sink – I wet it, and began stroking it across her face. Not productive, but something to do.

Several individuals poked their heads in, but my response was firm and adamant. "Waiting for Dr. Andrews." When a woman came in with another clipboard, I thought I had truly had enough – the Passenger was getting restless, and that doesn't bode well for people with clipboards – a large man swept past her. I rose to an extended hand, and the returning handshake was firm and strong. "Good evening, my young man. I heard you had someone special for me." The voice was a rich tenor, and rippled with the timbre of command. In a smooth maneuver, he quickly exchanged places with the incoming hospital employee, and escorted her right out through the curtain. "Just a minute, if you please."

If the name tag hadn't been a clue that this was the eminent Dr. Andrews, then the rapid way he proceeded through a complete physical exam would have been another. I stepped back. The stethoscope came out, and he pulled her up to listen to her back. "My, my," he whispered, "What trouble have you been getting in today, my dear?"

Still holding her hand, and feeling a bit of a Burke for doing so, I watched him intently. As he looked up, he regarded me with a bit of a jolt. "I apologize," he said swiftly. "I thought you were with the hospice."

"No, I'm a friend."

The laugh was piercing. "So, Alyra is making friends now. I never knew her to expend the effort. You were the one who called, right? " He pulled the blankets back over her. "So you must be something special?"

"I'm Dexter. Dexter Morgan."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan. Now, if you could give me a hand here we need to get her out of these wet clothes and into something more appropriate for the ambience." Within minutes, we had her stripped and in a garish hospital gown. "She'll hate it, but we need to get some IV access. Has she been eating? Drinking?"

I was utterly overwhelmed. "I'm sorry – I honestly don't know. I went to see her, just for a visit, and she was delirious, striking out at people."

"I see you got a love bite there."

I looked down at my hand, which was still oozing blood. "Don't worry – she's up to date on her shots. We make sure of that." I almost laughed at the joke. "But I can take a look at it anyway.

"Have a seat, Mr. Morgan. Before you fall over." I planted myself in the chair, as Dr. Andrews took a seat on the end of the gurney. As I started to explain, he held up a hand. "No need for explanations. That man who is running that hospice just doesn't quite understand what we have here. Which is why, when we are lucky, she ends up here."

"They weren't doing anything for her. I didn't understand," I protested.

"To some people, that is what a hospice is supposed to do. You let dying people get on with dying, and you don't treat things like infections. But Alyra is different. She only stays there for the access to pain medications, which she needs and more often than not they don't give her. She is dying, but not yet. Oh, no, not nearly yet. With most hospice patients, you don't treat infections or fevers, as it is part of the natural course of the terminal process. But Alyra fights. She fights everything. So she comes in here, we patch her up, and off she goes back to the Hotel de la Muerte." He leaned outside of the room, barking a series of orders.

"So, I take it you aren't fond of hospices in general."

He gave me a shocked look. "No, I think they are wonderful, for people who need to be in one. Alyra is highly functional, and entirely too intelligent to waste away. She'll be dead long before that happens."

His comment caught me up sharp, but I didn't have a chance to ask him about it as a parade of nurses came in. Dr. Andrews extended his hand, gesturing for me to step outside for a moment.

The man was the size of a small grizzly bear, and about as hairy. His hair fell in tangled knots to his shoulders, and the beard and moustache were in an all out battle to cover his entire face. But his eyes were intelligent, and very focused. I actually almost had to look up to talk to him.

"We have an agreement with the hospice, that she can come here, but for some reason, they get reluctant to send her."

"Might biting have something to do with that?" I queried.

"And how. Well, that and a lot of the attendings won't even bother. She hates the hospital, and God bless her for it. The last place she should be is in a hospital, to catch every latent bug in the place. But sometimes, every now and again, she just picks up something, and we treat her for it. Ah, the X-ray technician – just who I have been waiting for."

A young man with what appeared to be a portable X-ray pushed back the curtain, placed a film under the bed, and took an X-ray of her chest. It took him only a few minutes to develop. He handed it to Dr. Andrews, who held it up to the light. "And there we have – the money shot." Of course, to me, it just looked like a pair of lungs and a heart with a few bones keeping everything in place, but there appeared to be something at the base of the lungs the doctor was calling my attention to. "She has some fluid in her lungs – probably a developing pneumonia, mostly on the right. Not a problem for a tough girl like her. We will get some antibiotics hung with her fluids."

He turned to me quietly, and whispered, "And when can we be expecting her to wake up?"

I felt my face flush. "Within the next hour or so. How did you…"

He waved a hand dismissively. "They wouldn't give her a sedative at the hospice – they would just stay out of the room.

"She can't stay in the hospital – too many bad bugs she might pick up. And I am guessing you are not taking her back to the hospice tonight?" There was more than a hint in that question.

"Hell no."

"Very good, very good. Ah, I see our patient is starting to rouse," he commented as the troop of nurses scattered like ants exploding from a burning anthill. Clearly, these people knew her. And well. He pulled back the curtain to see a very surly face eying him, as they had propped up the head of the bed. "Greetings, little one."

"Fuck." One word. Simple. Statement made.

Her eyes were still unfocused, but she had enough of a sense of where she was to know that she didn't like it. Dr. Andrews, a bear of a man, stepped right behind me. "He's the one who brought you here."

I tried to smile, but it came out twisted as my eyebrows quickly furrowed. I rubbed the bite I had on my left arm, which had decided that it had bled quite enough now. The eyes were coming to a focus, and that focus was definitely on me. I kept trying to come up with some kind of witty repartee, but the great Dexter mind was on hiatus. Finally, I managed to mutter, "I was worried about you."

She closed one eye, cocked her head to the side, and seemed to be contemplating something. "Are you serious?"

I found myself stumbling through some kind of explanation. "I came to see you today, and they wouldn't let me in, and from that last time, I knew to be worried, and so I found you with a really high fever, and they weren't doing anything, so I tried to take you home, but you kept getting sicker…"

Both eyes opened wide. "You stuck me, you little shit!" Her angry cry came out barely as a whisper.

"You weren't coming willingly."

"Why not?"

"I don't think you knew who I was, or where you were."

She guffawed, eying Dr. Andrews again. "I probably didn't know who I was, eh?"

Dr. Andrews smiled, a genuine smile. "You know how much we love to see you. One of our favorite patients. Never complains, whines, or bitches. Will fight like an animal, but once that's done, everything turns out alright. I think I have a bite scar on here somewhere," he was peering at his right arm.

A nurse came up beside Dr. Andrews, and he turned to us. "Duty calls. Don't make us use the restraints again, young lady. Behave, like a nice little girl, and I might even have a lollipop for you." With that and a wave, he was gone.

I stood at the foot of the bed. "What are you standing there for?" Alyra asked.

"I figure you can't bite me from here." I showed her my hand.

She extended a hand, and I cautiously moved forward. She inspected her handiwork, or should I call it teethwork. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, letting my hand go. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

I smiled, although honestly I had very little confidence in that last statement. She had definitely meant to hurt somebody.

I sat down, beside the bed. She turned her head to face me. "Bet you can't say I look beautiful now, Boy Scout."

I bowed my head. "You would be wrong. You look absolutely lovely, in comparison to most things you might find in a crypt."

Her smile broadened. "So, enter my knight errant, to save me?"

I sobered. "I couldn't just leave you. I couldn't. I owed you."

She nodded, inspecting her hospital garb. "Fascinating, really."

That brought a furrow to my brow. "What do you mean?"

She tilted her head again, as though looking at me for the first time. "Usually I am the one who drags myself in here. I have never had anyone else, well, care enough. They just let me sweat it out, come nice and close to dying, and then somehow, as I always seem to, disappoint them in the end."

"Well, I mean, isn't this what friends are supposed to do?" My knowledge of human habits and habitats was by no means exhaustive, but I thought I understood at least that much.

"So we're friends now, eh?" she murmured.

"After what you did when I got sick? Are you kidding me? With what you did for Cody? Even for Astor? Even the kids and Deborah are out there right now, worrying about you."

"Even Harrison?"

"Well, I mean if he could express it…"

"Get out."

"What?" I said hesitantly, not sure I heard her correctly. You don't tell your friends to get out.

She promptly repeated, "Get out." As I stood to leave, truly and honestly confused, "Come back after you tell them I'm not dead. And you owe me seriously for this headache."

I displayed my bitten hand again, just to make sure she had seen it. As I closed the curtain behind me, I thought I heard a soft whisper, "Friends? What an original idea."

By the time we got home, it was almost daylight. Deborah insisted that the children stay with her – in case it was a catching bug, but I reassured her, as Dr. Andrews had me, that the things that make Alyra sick are likely things that we normal folks can fight off with ease. But I agreed that it was better to be safe than sorry.

Dr. Andrews explained why checking her into the hospital would be a bad idea (too many ugly bugs), so we took her home. To my home. Her temperature had come down (she had sweated through three hospital gowns and one pair of scrubs), but was still high enough to be of concern.

The kids were taken by their loving Aunt Deborah. She told me to call her if I needed anything. I assured her that I would do so.

When I got back to the house, I heard a strange noise. It sounded like a bird whistle, something you would hear in the brush, not something that you would hear in a house. I made my way to the bedroom, and Alyra lay there, pale as a ghost, her red hair knotted at the base of her neck. The whistling was coming from her. With each breath, almost like a moan, a soft, not unpleasant, whistling sound.

I remembered asking Dr. Andrews what that soft whistling sound that she made actually meant. He had turned to me with no humor in his eyes. "We think that is her screaming."

Luckily for me, Dr. Andrews had been an excellent physician, with keen acumen, and rather terrible taste in making quick personal judgments. He sent me home with another big box of goodies that would make any drug dealer sing, but which he confirmed to me were the meds she should have been receiving at the hospice. All kinds of pain killers, light sedatives, muscle relaxants – the kinds of things that creatures of the night like myself have to work dearly to get. I even had an IV antibiotic.

I didn't hesitate. I picked up the first vial, carefully read the attached dosing instructions, and prepared an injection.

Alyra didn't flinch. I hadn't expected her to. Now that I had a better idea of how much pain she really was experiencing daily, I had to admit that I was in a certain kind of awe. Clearly, most of the medical staff at the ED were also in a similar state. When a woman that tough comes to the ED, it is time to put up the clipboard and listen.

Very, very slowly, the whistle lost its note, fading into the depths of her breathing. I felt myself smile. It was almost as exhilarating as preparing for a kill. I was learning, slowly and painfully, but learning about this very strange woman, whose hobbies brought her directly into my own sphere. I had no idea if these were feelings, but whatever it was, they were not unpleasant. The Passenger certainly had a fondness for her. And we were not prepared to lose her.

The bed in the guest room was a glorified cot, so I lifted her and took her into the master bedroom. As I lay her down, I could feel some of the tightness of her muscles beginning to relax, as I debated on a sedative versus a muscle relaxant. As I went back to the box to peruse my selections, I heard a noise coming from the bedroom, and a resounding thump.

I rushed back to the bedroom, to find Alyra sitting on the floor, her legs sprawled beneath her, with her weight also resting on her hands. "Damn, that first step is a doozy. They shouldn't make tall people like you. That was completely not my fault."

I smiled to see a teasing brightness in her eyes. "At my earliest convenience, I will lower the bed appropriately, your highness. I am sure I have an ax out back. Or how about I just help you get up for now?"

"I don't need help getting up," was her firm reply. And I had to watch, as she slowly moved her weight from her hands and grasped the edge of the bed, pulling herself up to her knees. As she pushed one foot firmly on the ground, she began to rise, and the other foot took an appropriate if splayed position. Finally, her chest and upper body were firmly on the bed, but the legs were being a bit of a bugger.

I didn't say a word as I reached down, grabbed her feet, and swung her legs onto the bed. "Well, maybe just a little help…" she muttered, as she now lay face first on my bed.

"Now, rolling over may be a real bitch…" I smiled, and extended my arms – she took them and I pulled her around so she was now face up on the bed.

She eyed me, as though trying to size up an opponent. "Speaking of which, why are you helping me?"

"Because I am just a charming, lovable guy who can't stand to see a girl in need." I dodged the pillow she threw at me.

"Honesty," she spat angrily.

I sat on the edge of the bed. "I just like you, I think. As a person. I like hanging out with you, talking to you. I feel better when you are around. And I don't like to see you sick or hurting. Not to mention the fact that you cleaned me up after I shat myself. That is kind of a big one. "

She stared at me, mouth agape. "You're nuts. Them's feelings, boy. You said you don't have those. Nutty."

I rolled my eyes to look at the ceiling. "I think you and I get pretty high marks on any standard scale of intelligence, but sanity? Who knows?"

Her eyes narrowed, then widened. "I am not hurting. Why am I not hurting?"

I beamed, "I took care of it."

"How?"

"Dr. Andrews sent me home with one hell of a doggie bag."

"And you knew that I needed this how?"

I could hear the suspicion, and I realized quickly that this had to be handled carefully. In other words, lie. "You were a little agitated, and the directions said that you should get a dose every morning, so… It is what you should have been receiving at the hospice, but I am guessing that you don't."

That seemed to satisfy. "Goddamit."

I leaned forward. "What now?"

She sighed. "I am very, very thirsty." I made haste to the kitchen, grabbed one of the drinks she had left here while caring for me, and brought it to her. She took a hesitant sip.

"I didn't poison it or anything."

"No," she said firmly, "I have to have a conversation with the digestive system to know if she is receiving at the moment."

"Ah, yes." The big swig she took next seemed to confirm that all was well with her gastrointestinal tract.

She looked down at the hospital scrubs. "You wouldn't happen to have something, somewhere?" She plucked at the blue garment.

I went to the dresser, opening a few drawers to find what I was looking for. "This shirt is a little small on me, and the shorts have a tie in them."

She took the clothes as I tossed them to her, and eyed me again. Finally, she said,
"Ah, hell, you saw it all the first time, so…" She began to strip, starting with the paper scrub top. Somehow, it just didn't seem to want to come off, so finally, I just ripped it up from the back. She sat back, holding out my T-shirt. "Pink Floyd?"

"Hey, they put out some good music, I'll have you know. I saw them in concert when I was younger – it was amazing."

As we finally got the shirt over her head, she smirked at me. "I know. I saw them too. I just wouldn't have pictured you as a Pink Floyd type."

"Right back at you," I said, turning away as she struggled out of the scrub pants. Finally, she gave in and I just tore the paper garments up both legs, and pulled them out from under her. As she maneuvered to get into the shorts, she actually smiled.

"You actually don't care that much about this sort of thing, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Sex, nudity, shame over being seen stark naked."

I paused. "No, not really. I mean, I look. Sometimes I like to look. But for the most part, I find sex to be more work than gratifying."

"Do you know how many women would fall in love with you, just for that?"

I smiled sadly. "I knew one."

She closed her eyes, lying her head back on the pillows. There was no response to my comment, and I knew it. Still far too pale for my liking, I brought in the thermometer. "102."

"That's practically normal for me."

"Try it on someone who doesn't have kids."

She smirked, sinking down onto the bed. I pulled up the covers so that she could reach them. "You should probably take me back, you know. I could have some kind of dangerous bug that could kill your whole family."

I laughed. "Try again. Dr. Andrews said you likely have an infection that a normal immune system would scoff at."

"Rat bastard."

"What did I do now?"

"No, that damn doctor. I can only imagine what he told you about me."

I leaned over, conspiratorially. "He told me that you are a pain in the ass, that you keep him up at nights with your antics, but that you are one of the toughest grade A human beings he has ever met and you are his absolute favorite patient."

"He said that?"

"Yep."

She smiled. "That is high praise. High praise indeed, from that man."

I nodded. "Do you need anything else?"

"A stuffed animal would be nice."

As you can imagine, this was not one of the responses I had anticipated. "A what?"

"You know, a stuffed dog or cat or something. Something to hold onto, curl up around."

"How old are you again?"

She rolled away from me, her voice tight. "Fine. Nothing. I am fine. No problems. Don't need anything – just some peace and quiet."

For all intents and purposes, she went to sleep. But after scouring Astor's room, when I stuck the soft stuffed leopard in the bed next to her, sure enough, she grasped it and curled herself tight up around it. It had to be one of the cutest things I had ever seen, and I knew if I ever mentioned this again to any person I would be a dead man. Literally.

I settled myself in to the other side of the bed, facing her. I was exhausted. I knew I would fall asleep soon. But for some reason, I felt oddly good about the current situation. There had been a problem, and we dealt with it. There would be other problems. We would deal with those.

As I understood things, that was what friendship was all about.

Chapter 36

For the next few days, Alyra had crashed in our guest bedroom, with an almost permanent overnight bag in there. I still worried about the kids reaction to us sleeping together, and Astor, to my surprise, quite readily gave up the room for Alyra. She had some awesome T-shirts. Astor and Cody had already conned her out of several of her Joker T-shirts – she was clearly a Dark Knight junkie – and the Batman shirt Cody wore with pride, although tucking it into his pants was a struggle. She had a Wicked the musical T-shirt (Defying Gravity), as well as several T-shirts with Rogue and Storm from the X-men (those, the kiddies could not have, but I apparently was good enough to manage one of the XL Rogue shirts, which according to Bubbles meant that I was very, very special).

We had all gone out to a movie (Wall-E had been replaying on the wide screen, and as movies go, it wasn't bad, so I endured it again), and when we got back, we let the sitter for the baby go home, tucked the baby in, got the kids into their bedroom and tucked in, and we sat down on the couch to watch a little television. I gave her one of my big T-shirts (the skirt was awkward to sit on a couch in and be comfortable), and quite frankly, the thing almost went to her ankles.

I don't know what came over me. Maybe I was flashing back to married life, but I doubt it. I never did these kind of things in married life. I had stretched my arms out around the back of the couch – honestly, just to stretch them, with no ill intentions whatsoever – and felt myself curl my arm around her.

I felt her body stiffen, and just as I was about to move my arm, she gave me a look, then settled down beneath my arm. It was a very satisfying moment. I am still not sure quite why. Clearly, I was feeling something. But what?

About an hour into The Tudors marathon, she fell asleep. But then, I had to push it just that one step too far.

I am still not sure why I did what I did. I certainly knew better. Maybe it was because she let me put that arm around her. It was just what it was, as I looked down at this tiny creature, curled up in my arms, so strong and yet so fragile. So amazingly beautiful, and yet so not. Unique. Individual. But within a world that was not so unlike my own. It was a perplexing thing to me. And what I did was equally perplexing, as I leaned down and I placed a gentle kiss on her lips.

I could feel her eyes snap open, as she quickly pushed herself away from me, the full length that the couch would allow. The look in her eyes was haunting, something I can't truly describe – a sense of confusion, betrayal, loss, but more than all of that, honest and sheer befuddlement.

She stood up quickly, searching the room for her other clothes. "I have to go now."

I stood also, fumbling an apology. "I am sorry. I don't know what came over me. I didn't mean to offend you."

Her eyes never met mine. "You didn't offend me. Where are my clothes?" She finally found the neat and tidy pile that she had left the night before on the chair beside the window, and rapidly began pulling up the long skirt, tucking in the T-shirt she had been sleeping in. Everything else got shoved into her overnight bag, including her knives (which she always wore on her person, not carried in a bag), as she made her way for the hallway.

"Please wait. Let me try to explain."

"Nothing to explain," she said, her voice casual, belying the drama of her actions. "I just need to go."

"Please," I whispered, as she placed her hand on the lock, turning it. "Be sure you lock the door behind me. All sorts creeping through the night. We should know." I expected at least a hint of a grin, but still, she avoided my eyes. I longed to push the door closed, stopping her flight, but I knew that was the wrong response. How I knew, I could not be sure. This was not a force to be contained, but one to be teased into submission.

She slid outside the door, into the night. I could see her pulling out her cell phone, I was hoping to call a cab. I did not want to think of even her walking the streets at night, even though it would probably be far more dangerous for mugger than muggee.

I watched in the open door as she strode boldly around the corner at 2:00 am, as though she didn't have a care in the world, as though the warm night of Miami didn't surround her with its humid silence. I watched her until I couldn't see her anymore. I knew better than to chase her. If she wanted to be alone, she needed to be alone. Why had I done it? What had come over me? How utterly stupid!

I closed the door, sliding the lock into place, sliding myself to the floor hard, wondering if in one stupid gesture I had cost myself one of the best relationships that I had had in a very long time. I sincerely hoped not.

I left it alone for a full week, then I had had enough. There was being stubborn, and then there was being stupid, and as far as I was concerned, Alyra was crossing the line. How could one stupid kiss be that bad? It was a mistake, and I hadn't meant to do it. It wasn't like I was the anti-Christ or something (at least, not in this context).

I went to the hospice, bearing no gifts this time (I was in a mood), only to be rebuffed at the door. Alyra Montgomery was no longer in residence at the facility, and she had decided at least temporarily to return to her home (I had not realized that she had a home in Miami, at least I hoped it was in Miami). No, they could not disclose that information to strangers, even though I was a regular visitor, and a "cousin." Only to immediate family members. I cursed myself for not coming up with a more intimate lie. Even Bubbles was stymied, saying that she too had not really known where Alyra lived – all she knew is that every now and then Alyra would disappear for a few days at a time, "going home."

But I had resources, and I put them to use. Now that I had her last name, she was much easier to find. And after a few minutes in the Miami-Dade police data base and the local government tax assessor's office, I found the address. She didn't own the property, but she paid the taxes on it. And what an address. It was located in one of the most elite parts of Miami.

I took off from work early, pleading some kind of kid's event or another (how odd to plead to the kids one sort of work event or another, and plead to work some kind of kid's event or another – but it was effective at least), and I drove through the homicidal ranges of Miami traffic to one of the most tailored parts of upper Miami.

I checked the address three times before I pulled my car in. But there was the Corvette, so it had to be the right place. It was quite a house, a multitude of colors, almost garish but not quite, as though someone had decided to find out exactly how many colors you could put onto a house without making it completely tasteless. Upon a second perusal, I realized that it had a kind of class, a statement that said, "This is my house, I dare you to say a damn thing about it." I knocked on the front door, choking back my anger, and of course, got no response, not that I had been expecting any. But then, that is rarely a problem for the Devious Dauntless Dexter.

I snuck around back with my humble set of tools, and within seconds, I was inside the house. To be greeted by a most unpleasant sight.

Lying sprawled on the couch was Alyra, for all intents and purposes dead to the world. There were several cans of Ensure sitting on the small coffee table in front of her, and my nostrils rapidly told me that she had neither changed nor bathed in quite a while. I knelt down, satisfying myself that she was, indeed, not dead, and made my way into one of the largest and most well kitted out kitchens I have ever seen. Granite counter tops, cabinet after cabinet, a refrigerator you could put a body in (now that gave me some interesting thoughts), and a very large pantry. What I first noticed was that the majority of said pantry and said refrigerator were empty, with the exception of a few shakes and some milk and cereal. And the milk looked about ready to take off for the hills all by itself – I was surprised it didn't moo. That needed to be remedied quickly. I had noticed a health food store on the way in to the house (read this as ridiculously expensive), but it would have to do.

I quietly snuck out of the house, and made a quick grocery run, settling for the basics, as well as enough to prepare a hasty meal. This time, I parked in her driveway. When I got back, I took the layout of the house, and I saw well enough why my friend lay sprawled on the couch sans shower. And I was not pleased that she still had not moved when I got back.

The house was indeed beautiful, but the layout was far from conducive to someone who was not at their peak of strength. While there was a tiny bathroom on the ground floor, all of the showers were on the third floor with the master bedroom, a neighboring bedroom, and what appeared to be a study (door was locked, and I mean really locked – I don't think I could even pick this one, so I did not make the effort). Two smaller bedrooms were on the second floor with a much smaller bath, with what appeared to be a music room and an art room. Not good maneuverability if you don't take stairs all that well these days. I could tell that she had done the best she could with towel and soap, but even changing clothes had probably been hard with that master climb to the third floor.

I made no effort to wake her as I set about learning my way around the kitchen, and started cooking. I pulled out a slab of sushi grade tuna (like I said – expensive), and started it to searing on the stove, while putting together the rudiments of a salad. I do not, despite my expansive skills in other areas, consider myself to be an extraordinary cook, but I make do. Having kids hones said skills. I began slicing some fresh vegetables, and set them to searing in another pan. I looked over at the couch – Alyra appeared to be stirring. I could see a hand extending itself alongside the back of the couch.

"What the hell are you doing in my house?"

"Feeding you," came my retort. "It would appear that this is something you have neglected for some time. I intend to remedy that situation. I would also prefer it if you would be kind enough to bathe – I can smell you from here."

That got a snort. But it also got her up. She was wearing a Joker T-shirt and a pair of leggings, wrapped in a blanket with a giant tiger sewn into it. She dropped the blanket, grumbling about having serial killers and thieves for friends. No privacy whatsoever. She made her way to the staircase, and though I could see her struggle, I made no offer to help her. Even I have some common sense sometimes, although when I heard the water start to run, I quickly made my way up to the third floor and grabbed another T-shirt and some jeans from one of the dressers – I even braved the underwear drawer, which I think says a lot for my basic loyalty as a friend, and stuck them just outside the bathroom door.

I then made my way back to the kitchen. The tuna had seared perfectly, and the vegetables were perfect, nice and crisp without being too soggy. The salad had some feta cheese and a variety of veggies tossed in as well, with a raspberry vinaigrette (like I said – expensive), and I finished it off with some ridiculously expensive tea in a bottle. I set her a place at the dining table, just as she came stumbling down the stairs in her clean clothes, her waist length hair sopping wet. But she looked better.

Of course, rather than coming to the table, she promptly made her way back to her residence on the couch. I think they refer to this as "nesting" behavior. I did not take this as an act of belligerence, but rather an act of fatigue. I lifted the full plate, walked over to the couch (black velvet no less), and placed it in front of her. She looked up at me, bearing a striking resemblance to a sodden cat. The look she gave me was confused, but she did have manners. A nice touch in a serial killer. "Thank you," she said quietly.

"You are welcome. There are more groceries in the refrigerator and pantry. I expect you to make use of them. I will leave you to your meal." I bowed graciously, knowing full well not to overstay my welcome. I had not been invited, and I had accomplished what I meant to accomplish, to make sure that she was alright, and so I meant to take my leave.

Although I could feel the fatigue radiating off of her, as I reached the back door I turned to see her picking up knife and fork and setting about eating. I felt a sense of relief. I am not sure why. It was odd for me to take such an active concern in a person's welfare, but she had given me some lovely playmates, and I had certainly enjoyed her company. I hoped sincerely that I had not lost the pleasure of that company. I had begun to realize that while I had had friends (although each situation seemed to end worse than the last), this was a friend I was loathe to lose. Ironic, considering the fact that I knew full well that I would lose her.

Damn.

It took another week before I heard a tentative knock on the door. I knew who it was, because I do have a doorbell, and Alyra almost never used it, since the first time she had come over and I had not responded to it. So did the kids, and Astor was at the door faster than I could get there. "Alyra!" she yelled as she opened the door.

Alyra looked much better, her curls spiraling down her back, and yes, she was in a Joker shirt, this time surrounded by her trademark hoodie ("Let's put a smile on that face"), in a pair of black jeans and high boots (this time, I knew where the knife was located). In her hands I could see a handful of movies, and a massive bag of flavored popcorn (where she got the stuff she refused to divulge, but the kids absolutely loved it). She looked hesitant, an expression I honestly don't think I had ever seen on her face. I greeted her with what I hoped was my most winning smile. But a genuine smile.

"If you all have plans for the evening…" she began.

"Not at all," I said quickly, ushering her inside. "Just playing some video games and reading a few books." Cody made a face in response to the last. While he enjoyed reading, he did not enjoy it as a family pastime, as the books we chose were often not the kind that he liked – not enough blood, guts, and gore. He preferred a good game of Mortal Combat – I never said I was a good father, I just said that I try hard.

I took the selection of movies from her, and Cody grabbed the popcorn, already struggling with the multicolored tie that the little shop was famous for. We might not know where it was, but we knew a pretty good amount about what the little shop had in its repertoire, and the kids preferred the mixed bag. And this bag was massive.

"I brought a couple of movies for the kids – not sure what they have already seen."

Astor gave a squeal of delight. Several of the films were ones that we simply had not had time to see in the theater, since my work kept me busy and our nanny didn't like to leave the house with the troop, given the hassle of taking the baby. Lucky for us that night, the baby was sound asleep.

Our first film of the evening wound up being Disney's "Up," and despite his grumblings, even Cody had to admit that with the dinosaurs and the dog, he actually kind of liked it. This was followed by "Journey to the Center of the Earth," which was followed by more serious grumblings, as the children had well surpassed their bedtimes. It was a Friday, so we could circumvent some of the rules, but I didn't think that our last film choice, "Underworld: Rise of the Lycans" was quite the choice for the younger set.

Now, during the films, the kids had parked themselves between Alyra and myself, so we had occupied opposite sides of the couch. As I put in the final movie of the evening, I did not know if this arrangement was likely to change. And at first, it did not. I could see Alyra's eyelids drooping, and I knew that she was tired, but she meant to make an evening of it, and I didn't want to discourage this. I had seriously pushed my luck, and I didn't want to make another mistake any too soon. So I took my seat, and we started to watch the movie.

"Dexter."

I turned to her carefully, afraid to dispel the quiet moment, afraid I would do or say something else stupid that would make her disappear like a puff of smoke.

"Do you know what it means when you kiss the girl, and the girl comes back?"

I felt my heart start to pound. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer to this one, but I bit. "No, actually I don't, but I remain hopeful."

"You do."

"I do."

"I can tell you, if you like."

I swallowed hard. "Okay."

"It means one of two things."

"Two things?"

"Yes, one of two things."

I took in a deep breath. "Alright. Hit me."

She smiled. The Joker reference did not pass her by.

"A: She has decided to let it pass, and well, kind of act like it never happened, or B: she is interested."

Now, my heart really started to pound. "And pray tell, to which of these do you subscribe?"

The laughter was pealing, a lovely sound. "Quite frankly, I have no idea, but I think it is safe to say that you do not have to stay all the way on the other side of the couch."

I smiled, as the early credits ended, and the movie began. I slid my way over closer to her. I raised a tentative arm, and she shifted herself under it. "But don't push your luck, Boy Scout."

"Aye, aye. No luck pushing."

And all in all, the movie was pretty good. When the movie got to one of the most intense love scenes I have seen in quite some time, there was a little bit of squirming on both of our parts, but we both managed.

There was no kissing. But she was there. And that was what mattered.

Chapter 37

I was even more delighted that she decided to return to work with me. On that first time back, she was greeted warmly by everyone, even to my shock, Deborah, and she was told that she had been very much missed. Working together was now becoming more of the norm, the daily routine. She loved blood, hers and other peoples', and she found my work absolutely fascinating (which very few people do, so I took that for all it was worth). So, as we headed home at the close of the day, we talked about some of my more interesting cases, where I had been the lynchpin in the case.

"That had to be fun," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"To know that they couldn't make the case without you."

I shrugged. "I never really thought much about it, much less felt much about it. I like to know that I did good work, that what I did actually matters in the case. But I just do what I do. I am not the one chasing bad guys."

"So it doesn't really matter to you if they catch the bad guys?"

I laughed. "If they caught all of the bad guys, who would I have to play with?"

"Ah yes, I forget. Heartless, emotionless Dexter."

I suppose I had been the "lynchpin" in several cases, but there was one case that was going to come back and haunt me in a serious way.

We were driving home a little late, after a quick stop at a Cuban eatery for a pick up of a nice dinner for the family when my cell phone squawked. It was Deborah. I ignored it. But after the third time, I decided to be an honorable brother.

"Dexter! Where the hell are you?"

"Well, Love you too, sis!"

"Dexter, they let him out today. They fucking let him out today!"

The Passenger lifted his head, lizard tongue extended, and I knew now to pay attention. "Who, Deborah?"

"James Patterson."

My brain was not working fast enough. "The guy you put away, Dexter. The one who said he was going to kill you!"

I turned to Alyra, who was obviously catching enough of the conversation. "When?" she said urgently.

"When did they let him out, Deborah?"

"About two hours ago. Dex, they should have told you. They were supposed to tell you! I mean, weeks ago you should have known!"

"Debs, I have to go," I said as I grabbed the stick shift and revved the car. "I'll see you there," I heard her say as I threw the phone into the foot of the car. In the middle of homicidal Miami traffic is not a good place to be when you decide that you desperately have to be somewhere.

"The kids are at home?" Alyra asked, but it wasn't really a question. We had just found a rental house in the suburbs, and we were trying it out as the apartment had been getting a bit cramped. Would he be able to find the address?

"Yes."

Another thing I like about Alyra – she knows when to shut up and just let me concentrate – this time on driving. I am sure I broke several traffic laws that weren't even invented yet as I crossed streams of traffic to get off at an earlier exit, to get home faster.

As I pulled the car to a halt, basically in the middle of the lawn, the silver car was unmistakable in the driveway.

I had company.

I heard Alyra scream at me as I burst out of the car, heading straight for the front door. I lifted my foot and felt the door frame explode as the door caved in.

And in my living room, in the arms of a terrified babysitter, were my children. Both Astor and Cody stood frozen, staring at the man who was standing behind the couch, with a revolver in his hand. Harrison was in the babysitter's arms, clinging to her, but even he had picked up on the fear that pervaded the room. Tears were streaming down my son's face, as a killer stood in front of all of them. Very armed and very dangerous.

"Mr. Morgan! So glad you could join us! We can make this a family affair!" I could smell the burnt leather of his black jacket, but my eyes were riveted on the muscles of his right hand, as he stood poised to pull the trigger. "Astor, right? And Cody? I do hope I got the names right. And the baby. What is his name, Mr. Morgan?"

I raised my hands, placating. "Please…"

"Now you know," Patterson said conversationally, "No one asked me "please" before they decided to take away 15 years of my life. Astor is about 15, isn't she? Maybe I should kill her first, just for the sentiment."

I took a step forward, but Patterson raised the gun dramatically. "Oh, no. There will be no last minute, heroic rescue from Dad. I don't think so. So, the only question for you, Dexter Morgan, is which one of your children do you want to see die first?"

I could feel the wings of the Passenger flailing against my chest, as I struggled for breath, knowing that I should be moving, moving, moving, but knowing that movement meant death. And in that moment, my death seemed so insignificant, when compared to those of my children.

My children.

Just as I started to contemplate some kind of plan, I heard a soft, silken sound, like someone tearing silk sheets. Patterson turned to me, pointing the gun at me. Better. So much better. As I moved forward, I realized that he was not pulling the trigger. But his expression was strange, a look of puzzlement, distance, as though he was looking at something only he could see. I poised to leap.

And then he fell sideways onto the back of the couch.

In less than the time it takes to breathe both of my children were in my arms, the babysitter behind them, stroking them, speaking in rapid fire Spanish. I took Harrison from her, and squeezed him tightly. I could only comprehend some of it. Man. Enter house. Break in back door. Gun. Protect children. My brain was in primary lizard brain mode. And it took me a few moments to realize that something had happened. And to hazard a guess as to what it might be.

Or who it might be.

I turned slowly toward the backdoor, as I finally noticed the hilt that protruded from between the shoulder blades of the man who had been about to kill one of my children. A perfect hit, right to the left of the spine. Kneeling on one leg, like a man proposing to his betrothed, Alyra was poised in the frame of the door, her right hand out and extended. Her head was lowered, as though it had followed the path of the blade that had saved the lives of my children.

I cried out as I ran toward her, as she fell over onto her side. "No, no, no, no , no!" The children were still in my arms as I knelt to her, listening to insure that she was breathing. Her breath was coming hard and fast, too fast. I reached down, placing the children on their feet, turning her onto her side, trying to help her breathing. She was covered in sweat, and I pushed her flaming hair out of her face. "The children?" she whispered, between ragged breaths.

"Fine. Just fine." I thanked any gods who might be listening as the babysitter helped get the children together. I couldn't help reaching up, touching Astor's hair, Cody's face, Harrison's fingers, to reassure myself that my family was alright. But not all of my family. I watched her eyes move to Astor, then Cody, and felt an ache in my chest as her eyes rolled closed.

Alyra's pulse was rampant, and it felt like her tiny heart would simply explode. Astor and Cody were trying so hard to see, I finally sent them off on tasks. They were both beginning to panic, and we didn't need panic. I stroked Alyra's face – it was cold, and I noticed then that her fingers were pale, pale, white. I watched as my friend's lips began to turn a horrible all too familiar blue.

Astor came running back into the room with the first aid kit, and Cody right after her with a blanket, just as Alyra started to seriously shiver. After taking a moment to admire the resilience of my children, I lifted Alyra quickly in my arms, wrapping her hurriedly in the blanket, and made the way to the master bedroom. I laid her on the bed, stripping her clothes down to her underwear. I bundled her into the blanket. "Warm towels. We need warm towels."

The children were off, water running, and soon we had Alyra bundled in a series of warm towels. Astor took her face, rubbing a small hand towel over her forehead. She told me she had seen them do that on TV when people got sick, so she would do that.

My huge brain refused to function, but slowly, slowly, thoughts were forming – shock. What to do for shock? I began to start rubbing her chest, the center of her body. She needed warmth, blood. What to do for shock? Insure that the body is warm, keep the blood flowing, try to keep the patient alert.

Well, the alert part had flown the coop. But the rest we could work with.

I felt my first breath expel as her eyes flashed open, only for a moment, but I could see the deep green peering out. "Rub her hands, rub her feet," I told the children, and Cody and Astor set about their respective tasks.

"What's wrong with her, Dexter?" Astor asked.

"She's in shock. She must have run around the house really fast, really hard. Harder than her body could take. So now her body doesn't want to work right."

"We have to do something!" Astor screamed, a sentiment echoed by the babysitter standing behind us.

"We are. We are. You warm the body, you keep the blood flowing. Keep rubbing her skin, just like you are. Call the blood back. It'll come. See."

Slowly, painfully slowly, color began to return to Alyra's face. A slight pink tinge came to her lips, as the olive of her skin slowly began to emerge. I took her hand from Astor, and I could see pinkness in her fingers, then in her toes, which Cody was assiduously rubbing. I stopped to listen – her breathing had slowed, and, checking her pulse, her heart rate was coming down. "I think we can stop," I said softly, as I heard the sirens coming from the yard.

The cavalry had arrived. What timing.

I ripped the blanket from the bed, tore away the now lukewarm towels, and wrapped her up tightly. Her eyes opened. "The children?"

I forced a smile. "Everyone's fine. Everyone's fine." Astor and Cody were both talking, trying to reassure her that they were alright. Astor had her hand in hers, and Cody had taken up the cool towel, wiping her face. I turned, taking Harrison from the babysitter's arms, pulled him tight against me, only now registering the screams that he had been projecting. "It's alright, boy. Everything's alright. Everyone's okay." I stroked his back, respecting his frustration at being ignored in the emergency.

Well, everything was alright until the police showed up to find a recently released killer, very, very dead with a knife in the middle of his back. Deborah came racing in, parking her car over half of my yard, pulling me and Harrison tightly into her arms, quickly forgetting the presence of young ears. "Dex, Holy Shit. Did we beat him here?"

I nodded in the direction of the couch, as officers in blue came pouring into my house, guns drawn. Batista walked up to Patterson, confirming the obvious. "He's dead."

Deborah took Harrison out of my arms, squeezing him so hard that he yelped. "Dexter, what the hell happened here?"

I turned to her. "A miracle. A fucking miracle."

After she had aroused sufficiently, Alyra was adamantly opposed to any trips to the hospital, although she readily submitted to Cody and Astor's ministrations as they continued to keep her warm, and kept pushing drinks into her hand. I had told them that the next thing to do was make sure she had fluids, to keep her blood going where we wanted it to go. Their first education about shock, and they were learning very, very quickly.

I pleaded confusion, as did the babysitter, when we were questioned. Neither of us would answer the obvious question – was the knife stuck in the man, or was it thrown? Because if it was thrown, then we had a whole list of other problems we would have to deal with. As for Alyra, she remained mute, claiming that all she remembered was that the children were in trouble. That I had gone for the front door, so she had gone for the back door.

Dad takes the front door, the serial killer takes the back door.

"Funny thing," Batista said to me, as we were walking toward the door.

"What's that?"

"That's a one in a million shot, you know. Anybody can throw a blade, but killing someone with a thrown blade? Now THAT's hard. And a shot from the back. Only one spot, a tiny spot. And she hit it. Go figure."

I turned to face him. "Like I told my sister. It's a miracle. And I'm not asking any more questions."

Angel nodded. "I can respect that, brother. I can respect that." He put an arm on my shoulder, gave it a pat, and walked back to the scene.

The best news was that we had Alyra's house to crash at, while investigations and repairs were done on the rental house. The kids were mysteriously quiet, almost disturbingly so, as we grabbed our things and prepared to leave the house for the evening. "Dexter," Astor said quietly.

"Yes, Astor?" I said.

"She saved our lives, didn't she?"

"Yes," I said flatly.

"But then we saved hers, right?" This was Cody.

"Yes," I said. "So it's fair."

Cody looked at me, and nodded. It was fair.

Chapter 38

After those few hours of lucidity, Alyra dropped into a very deep sleep. Deep enough that it had me worried. I finally called Dr. Andrews, who agreed to stop by.

After a thorough exam, he reassured me that she would be alright. "She will recover most of her function."

"Most?" I said, clearly confused. This was not something I had expected.

"After an expenditure of energy like that, this late in the illness, she's going to have some losses. How bad, difficult to tell. But hopefully not too bad."

I felt the blood drain from my face. Some of my thoughts must have shown up on my face because hastily, Andrews added, "Son, don't make any mistakes here. She knew exactly what she was doing when she tore around that house. Don't have any illusions about that. She knew it would cost her, and she did it anyway. That's just who she is. I have never known her to think about herself, especially when there are children involved. There is nothing you could have said or done to stop her from doing exactly what she did. So whatever guilt you are mulling around in that head of yours you need to stop right about now.

"But you need to be prepared for the next couple of days. She is going to have a hard time of things, and when Alyra has a hard time, the people who take care of her have a harder time of things. You might want to consider taking her back to the hospice."

"Out of the question," I said flatly.

Andrews nodded, as though that was the answer he was expecting. "Her muscles are going to be very weak. Almost flaccid. But there will also be some spasticity, muscle tightness, rigidity, and with that, pain. She won't be able to move around much by herself, and she is not going to like it. The one thing in this world that she doesn't like is to be helpless, and God help you that is almost precisely what she is going to be. I can give you medications to help, but this is going to be hard, on both of you."

"Helpless?"

"Unable to get up, unable to move around by herself, probably unable to feed herself, clothe herself, bathe herself. And she is going to hate it. Which is why you might want to give her other people to actively hate, rather than you."

"No, she saved my life. She saved my children's lives. I won't send her back to that place. I just won't do it. They would take care of her, but we will take CARE of her."

Andrews nodded. "There are some supplies you are going to need. Unpleasant supplies. Diapers. Probably a cane. A walker. Some tools from outpatient therapy to help her get around a little better. I can get those for you."

"I appreciate that."

"Mr. Morgan, she won't be grateful. This is her worst nightmare. This is what she has always been afraid of. That the end stages of her disease would leave her unable to care for herself. She won't know how to be grateful. But she will need help. Lots of help."

I smiled. "I've got lots to be grateful for. I think I can make that spread out a bit."

He returned my smile. "And let's face it. The crazy little bitty is worth it. And we both know it."

Chapter 39

The first night, I put Alyra in the master bedroom, and I slept across the hall. Every couple of hours, I would get up to check on her, but there was very little change, and very little movement. She stayed basically flat on her back, the position we had placed her in earlier that night. Nothing really changed, until around 4:00 am, when I realized I wasn't the only nighttime scout that Alyra had on the lookout that evening. I found Cody, fast asleep, sitting in a chair next to the bed, with his head resting on a pillow he had propped on the bed. I woke him gently.

"Cody, what are you doing?"

Cody looked up at me with unrepentant eyes, clearly embarrassed that he had fallen asleep on his assigned task of keeping watch. "She was shaking. Wanted to make sure she was okay."

I sighed. I looked at Alyra, and indeed, there was a slight tremor running through the muscles, particularly of her lower body. Her knees were tight up against her chest, as the big muscles quaked. "It's alright," I said softly. "I can take care of this. But you need to get back in the bed."

"But I want to make sure that she is alright," he repeated. "I can't do that from downstairs."

I sighed. "How about this? What if I sleep in here tonight? Would that make you feel better? I can be right here, just in case anything happens. And I promise, if something happens, I will come and get you, first thing? Okay?"

Reluctantly, Cody agreed. Just to be on the safe side, I escorted him back downstairs and tucked him in, reassuring him that everything would be alright. That there was medicine for those kinds of shakes, and that she would be alright.

I made my way back up to the master bedroom, proceeding to the bathroom where I quickly prepared two syringes, one with a painkiller, another with a muscle relaxant. The painkiller was dosed by bodyweight, the muscle relaxant by symptoms. I went back into the bedroom and administered them, and I sat down carefully on the mattress to observe the results. Within a few minutes, the muscle spasms that had locked her legs tight up into her chest had eased, and the tremors had lessened a bit, although she was still shaking. I placed a hand on her thigh – I could feel the muscles under my hand quivering. I had had a similar experience after a very hard workout, when my muscles had simply had enough and were not planning to get involved with anything my brain had to tell them for a little while. I stroked her leg gently, massaging the muscle carefully. That quieted down the spasming some. She moaned quietly, shifting her weight slightly. I withdrew my hand.

Well, I couldn't stay awake all night. I had made arrangements to take off work for a few days, but there would be a lot of work to do. After the talk with Dr. Andrews, it seemed wise to be sure that I could be available for Alyra for at least a couple of days, and the weekend was coming up, so it wouldn't require missing that much work – and the full moon was several days away. But I still needed to get some sleep. The next few days would be hectic, and likely, knowing Alyra, very intense. I stood up, walked to the other side of the bed, and lay down. It was a hot Miami night, and normally I would be sleeping in next to nothing. But I had pulled on a T-shirt in respect of present company.

I stretched out, closing my eyes. Images of the events of the past few days had a nasty habit of flashing in front of them, which was an entirely unpleasant sensation, and one to which I was entirely unaccustomed. I didn't dream, and I certainly didn't have bad dreams, but the image of that man with the gun pointed at my children was one which I simply could not dismiss. It had been such a near thing. And had Alyra not been there…

I could feel the tremors through my hips and legs. I turned to face her. What else could I do? I had given her the appropriate medications – it would be hours before I could give her another dose. I could tell from her rough breathing that she was uncomfortable, even in sleep. It was almost disturbing how very much I wanted to make her more comfortable, to relieve her distress. But I did.

And then the thought went fleeting through my mind. Why not? When a woman was trembling, what does a man do? It was obvious. And it wasn't like she was awake, to get angry with me about it.

I reached my arms carefully around her, placing my hands on her abdomen. I pulled her quivering body back against my body, bringing her back up against my chest, curling my hips and legs up underneath her own lower body. For just a moment, the shivering became much more intense, and I almost let her go, and then I felt the muscles begin to relax slowly, gently. To my surprise, I felt her back arch, as she leaned into my chest, almost burrowing into my body. I curled myself even more tightly around her.

Warmth. She was curling into the warmth of my body. I quickly sat up, tore off the shirt I was wearing and lay back down. I nestled her back into the curve of my chest, lowering my head so that my chin rested in the crown of her golden red hair. I could hear a soft sigh escape her, as she pushed backwards again, as though trying to find me.

It took me quite some time to realize that the tremors had completely stopped. And while I was a bit more hot than I would have cared to be, I found myself drifting off to the sounds of her even breathing, a truly delightful sound.

When I awoke in the morning, I was lying flat on my back, and Alyra's head was resting on my chest. My arm was around her still, and her body was molded against the side of mine, nestled tightly into the curve of my abdomen and hip. I could feel the evenness of her breathing on my chest. I smiled softly. Dexter, full body heating pad. Well, at least it had worked.

I didn't even have time to panic when I heard the knock on the door. My children, you see, have not yet mastered the actual waiting for an answer after knocking before entering – they use the knock as rather an announcement that their entrance is forthcoming. So when the door opened to both Astor and Cody, I was lying there with Alyra in my arms. And I didn't dare just sit up.

Astor's eyebrow shot up, but otherwise, I could see no other sign of reaction. Before I could think of a single word to say at what must be a strange tableau, Astor said promptly, "We don't want to go to school today."

"We want to help," Cody added fervently.

I opened my mouth to protest, and then actually thought about it. It wasn't such a bad idea. First, it could really do a lot to keep Alyra's mind off her disability (or at least, reduce the likelihood that she would completely show her ass with respect to it), and they probably could be quite helpful with some of the day to day things. And a good lesson in gratefulness wouldn't hurt them either.

"Sounds fine by me," I said. "What do you want to start with?"

Astor tilted her head. "We were thinking about breakfast."

"I don't know if Alyra is going to wake up enough…."

"Pancakes," came the muffled reply from the area of my chest. I looked down. "Chocolate chip pancakes."

Astor was beaming. To my surprise, although Rita had been a great cook, she had done very little to pass this down to Astor, but Alyra had been working hard at schooling Astor in the kitchen, and pancakes were right up her alley.

Alyra yawned. "With eggs. Definitely eggs. With cheese. Lots and lots of cheese."

Now we were moving into Cody's repertoire. He wasn't as advanced as Astor in the kitchen, but he knew how to make an egg, well, as long as it was scrambled. His grin was infectious.

"Well," I said. "What are you waiting for?" And then both of them were off, running down the stairs.

I could actually feel the flicker of Alyra's eyelashes as her eyes opened, as the door closed behind the children. "I am in bed with you."

I saw no need to restate the obvious. I could smell the trouble brewing. No need to start it before it was necessary.

"You are holding me in your arms. Is there a particular reason for this?"

A logical enough question. "You were trembling last night. I put my arms around you, pulled you close, and you stopped."

I could feel the brief nod. Apparently, that was a logical enough explanation.

"And back to the first question. I am in bed with you because?"

"I came in to check on you and found Cody here, fast asleep, next to the bed. He had found you trembling and was worried. I told him if he would go back to bed I would stay with you."

Again the nod. Reasonable.

Unusual. Alyra was not normally at home with reasonable.

I was finding it very uncomfortable having a conversation with someone whose head was on my chest, so I sat up, carefully lowering Alyra's head to a nearby pillow. The look on her face was one of consternation. I could see her flexing her fingers, and the muscles were starting to jump across the expanse of her thigh again.

"How are you feeling?"

She looked at me oddly. "Fine. Tired, but fine."

I had been waiting for this. At least I was prepared. I sighed. "Look. We have to make an agreement here. You need to be honest with me."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "I am always honest with you."

"In most things, I completely agree with you, but when I ask you how you feel or how you are doing you have never, ever told me the truth."

She opened her mouth to protest, and I raised a hand. "No. You lie every time. I ask you how you are doing, you are in so much pain you can barely stand, and you tell me that you are fine. And I understand that. It is a part of who you are. It is a part of what you are. You are tough. You don't admit weakness. You just don't."

She simply stared at me.

"But this is different. You need help. And I can help you. But I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

"I don't need anyone's help!" she cried defiantly.

I stood. "Then get up."

It was cruel. Absolutely cruel. It was beyond cruel. I watched as she floundered across the bed, unable to even lift herself up onto her arms. Her muscles trembled with effort as she tried to bring her legs around and under her, but they simply would not obey her commands. She was finally grabbing at her legs with her hands, trying to pull them back beneath her, to support her.

I stood there, watching, keeping my face impassive.

Finally, she lay still, sprawled across the bed, her eyes brightly lit from the pain of her exertions. Her breath was coming hard, and she glared at me from dark green pits. "Are you happy?"

I almost laughed. Almost being the key word. "No, I am not happy. A simple, 'Dexter, I am having some trouble with my muscles and I am feeling a little weak' would have made me much happier. And of course, 'right now, my arms and legs hurt like hell.'"

That got me another glare.

I reached down, pulling her back onto her back. To my surprise, she made no effort to fight me as I took a few moments to try to place her in some semblance of a comfortable position. But she did not meet my gaze. That was worrisome.

I sat carefully on the edge of the bed, considering my next move. Too gentle and I could shatter the fragile connection that we had. The one thing Alyra loathed was pity, and if she thought I was feeling sorry for her she would completely shut down. Too aggressive and everything would be a battle – not necessarily a bad thing, better a war than a pity-party, but there had to be a better way.

Finally, I just sighed. "I need your help. You saved my life. You saved the lives of my children. I want to help you. I want you to let me help you. But you have to tell me how to do that."

She still avoided my gaze. "You should take me back to the hospice. They deal with this kind of stuff all the time."

"When hell freezes over." The words were out before I even had time to think. That brought her eyes to mine. "This is my responsibility. You did this for me, for my family. Hell, you are my family."

"I didn't know…"

"Like hell you didn't know. I thought we were supposed to be honest with each other, remember? Isn't that what we agreed to? Isn't that what you promised? You knew the minute that you hit the ground running what it would cost you, what it could cost you. You knew it could cost you everything, and you still did it. Look at me, really look at me, and tell me that you didn't know that."

Her dark green eyes met mine, cool, distant. But she said nothing.

"You could have died. You almost died. But you did it anyway. And you think I don't owe you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Dexter, friendships don't work like that. I didn't do this so that you would have to take care of an invalid. Take me back to the hospice. They can take care of this. It will be easier."

"Screw easy. You still don't get it, do you? My family is alive. My sons are alive. My daughter is alive. Because of you. I can't ever repay that. And you expect me to send you to some place where if you are lucky they will change a diaper twice a day and check on you once every 4-5 hours. And let's not even talk about our little orderly friend with the sticky fingers, shall we?"

"Dexter, I don't expect you to repay me. You don't have to try to repay me. This doesn't work like that." She tried another tactic. "I didn't do this for you. I did it for them."

"No. You did it for US. You did it for all of us. Because, whether you like it or not, you have become a part of this family. I don't know how it happened. I don't know why it happened. But it just happened. And family takes care of each other."

Her brows furroughed. "Family?"

"Yes, family. Astor and Cody are down there, likely burning down part of your house, to make you breakfast. They didn't want to go to school so that they could stay here and help take care of you."

Alyra groaned. "More of an audience."

"No. Family. And when you have a family, there are just some things that you just plain have to suck up."

She turned a narrowed gaze at me. "Like what?"

"Like trying to be honest."

"Now, that's a load of crap. I lied my ass off when I was a kid."

"Work with me here."

Alyra had begun to tremble again. Her eyes were locked with mine, and I could see the glaze of tears that absolutely could not come at any cost. Despite her resolute stoicism, I could see the pain in her face that her exertions had cost her.

"Are you in pain?" I asked quietly.

"I'm fine," she snapped quickly, almost biting out the words. Then, to my surprise, she paused. She looked at me, her expression intense. "Family, huh?"

"Family."

She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath, and when her eyes met mine, her gaze was level. "Yes. I am in pain."

"Is there anything that I can do?" I said, equally quietly. I could almost touch the fragility of this moment. We both knew I could give her a shot, but to have her say it…

"You won't like it," she said softly.

I wanted to scream, "To hell with what I like!", but I forced myself calm. "Well, why don't you tell me, and we can go from there?"

Still looking at the floor, resolutely refusing to meet my gaze, she mumbled, "Sometimes when my muscles are twitching, it helps to massage them out, to pull them loose a little bit. I don't really have the strength in my hands right now to do it…"

I didn't hesitate. I reached for the large muscle on her right thigh, squeezing gently at first, then harder. I watched as her head leaned back, tears now flowing freely down her face, but the sounds she was making were not sounds of pain. I kneaded deeply, turning her completely onto her back so that I could reach both of her legs. It was remarkable – I could actually feel the tremors lessening under my fingertips.

"Don't try to be gentle. It actually hurts worse. Just grab them, pull." I nodded. I continued my ministrations, more forcefully this time, until the tremors were less than tiny vibrations under my fingertips.

I looked up to see Alyra's face, streaked with tears, but far more relaxed. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly open – her breathing was deep, much slower than before.

I stood up quickly, making my way to the bathroom. I filled two quick syringes, bringing them back with me. She showed no reaction as I administered the muscle relaxant and the pain killer.

"I'm going to move you now," I said softly.

She opened her eyes to look at me. Her gaze was soft, tired. I had never seen her look so relaxed before. "I want to get the back of your legs, your back," I explained.

I rolled her onto her stomach, making sure that she could still breathe, and began ministering to the large muscles of the back of her legs. Despite the ravages of her disease, she had kept a lot of her muscle weight from her weight lifting days, and it was solid work to try to ease out that tension, but slowly, ever so slowly, the giant muscles began to pull apart. As I moved up to her back, I could actually see her shoulder blades spreading apart as her shoulders slid forward.

By the time I was finished, I could hear the deep resonance of her breathing and I could feel the pounding of her pulse, nice and slow. I had to smile. It was very unlike me to take so much pleasure in comforting another human being, but I really and truly did. I was quite proud of myself, really. She was sprawled almost like a cat in a window sill, just absorbing the sun's rays.

And my timing could not have been better, as the door opened with the preemptory knock. "Breakfast is ready," Astor announced, and then marched back down the stairs.

I turned to Alyra. "Do you think you can sit up?"

"I can't even roll over, so I seriously doubt it."

I smiled. "Well, then, breakfast in bed it is."

Alyra protested. "But the kids went to so much trouble."

"I have an idea," I announced. "You still have those TV trays we used for that Dirty Jobs marathon, right?"

She nodded.

"Then we just have a picnic."

It took several runs up the stairs with chairs and food and silverware, but finally, we had set up a small table of sorts in bed for Alyra, while Cody and Astor were placed on two TV trays on one side of the bed, while I took the other. Despite the kid's grumbling, I could tell that they were much happier with this solution than just having her eat in bed by herself. And she certainly seemed to appreciate it more.

Per request, we had chocolate chip pancakes and eggs with cheese, and Cody had even thrown in a few sausages (protein was good for sick people, he explained). We had real Vermont maple syrup (Alyra wouldn't tolerate anything else, although she did keep some of the cheaper stuff because she knew that the kids liked it). As we finally got all of the food parceled out, it quickly became clear that Alyra was having a bit of trouble. Her hands were still a bit tremulous, and trying to slice up her pancakes (of which she had taken three, which impressed me) was turning into a bit of a challenge. To my surprise, without a word, Cody stood up, took the plate, and simply starting cutting up her food. She just stared at him. He handed the plate back when he was finished, without a word.

"Did I ask you to do that?" Alyra said acerbically.
"Nope," Cody said, a half smile on his face.

She gave him a half glare as she took a fork full of pancake up towards her mouth. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

As we were cleaning up, I pulled Cody aside. "How did you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Get her to let you cut up her food. She would have torn me up down and sideways if I had done that."

Cody shrugged. "You don't ask her if she needs help. You just do it."

"How did you figure that one out?"

Cody smiled. "Lots of times when she would stay with us her back would hurt, and we would always ask if there was something wrong, and she would always say no. So one night I just got up and made up two ice packs and put them on her back."

"How could you tell her back was hurting?" Now I was intrigued.

"She would be sitting kind of funny, sort of to the side, you know? And then her head would jerk – just a little bit, when it got really bad. But the ice packs helped, so I just started doing them whenever I saw her head jerk like that."

"She never asked you for them."

"Nope."

"But she didn't get mad when you did it."

"Nope."

"One night her legs were hurting so bad we had to put her legs in the bathtub in really, really hot water." Astor had snuck up behind us. "We stole a pair of your shorts," she added.

I marveled at this. My own children had been taking better care of Alyra than I had. Of course, for a while there, they had been spending more time with her than me. Once we got everything cleaned up, we all took a survey of the house. If cleanliness was next to godliness, then Alyra was certainly hell bound. Without a single complaint, the children started pulling out cleaning supplies, and after checking on Harrison, I went back up to check on our guest of honor.

She was resting, to all appearances, very comfortably. I was accustomed to the tight ball, as though she could just burrow in on herself, but she was actually lying on her side, stretched out, with her hands underneath her face. Dr. Andrews had said that she would likely sleep a lot for the first few days, just getting her energy back. For some reason, I really didn't want to leave her alone, but I think the reasons were more selfish than not. I left the door open, and proceeded downstairs to help the children with a little bit of spring cleaning.

Alyra didn't rouse until early evening, and if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it. How long she had been in spasm, I didn't know, but when I entered the room, her eyes were wide open, her back arched, and both legs were yanked tight and hard up against her chest. Her jaw was locked against what appeared to be absolutely tremendous pain. Her arms were flexed tight, brought into her chest, her hands balled tightly into fists. I had heard of this – a flexor posture, when all of the flexor muscles just went crazy.

And she was absolutely, and completely silent.

I cursed, headed straight for the bathroom and loaded the syringes quickly. Cody and Astor were at the door before I got out. I administered the shots. I tried to pull the muscles out, but the force of the contractions were just tremendous – I couldn't move them. And I was afraid to pull harder, for fear of hurting her more.

"Dexter, what is happening?" Astor demanded.

"Her muscles are so tired, that they are locking up, spasming."

"Like a charley horse?" said Cody.

"Just like a charley horse."

"How can you have a charley horse in your whole body?" Astor asked.

"She ran really hard around that house to get to you guys. She used all of her muscles to do that," I explained.

Then Cody was just gone. I heard the water start running in the bathroom. "Cody, what are you doing?"

"Heat," Astor said. "Heat is good for a charley horse. Put her in a hot bathtub."

I had to admit, it was as good an idea as I could come up with. I lifted up the tight ball and carried her into the bathroom, Astor on my heels. By the time I got there, the tub was half full. I reached out and touched the water – it was scalding hot. "Cody, this water is too hot. We can't put her in that."

"When we helped with her legs, she said it had to be almost hot enough to burn."

I rapidly turned on the cooler tap, waited for a few minutes, but the spasms were increasing. Carefully, I lowered her into the hot water. My fingers were on fire, but I held on as the water came up and over her tortured legs. Cody was taking water into his hands, and pouring it over her legs and arms. His hands were bright red from the heat.

Slowly, the spasms began to ease off. The heat began to penetrate, and first her arms and then her legs moved into less spastic positions. As I began to lift her out of the water, Cody put his hand on my arm. "No, she needs to stay in until the water gets cold. Make sure that it is all gone." Astor nodded.

Alyra looked up at me. "Sorry," she murmured.

"Why the hell didn't you call one of us?"

"I didn't think you could do anything, and I didn't want to disturb you."

"Disturb us? Scare the hell out of us is more like it!"

"No," Cody said firmly. "Everything is okay now."

Alyra gave Cody a firm look. It was funny, considering that she was soaking wet. "And how are you doing?"

"Fine," Cody said with a diabolical smile. Alyra smiled back at him. Then the smile vanished. Apparently, this whole honesty thing was not just an agreement she had made with me. "Truth," she said quietly.

Cody sombered. "Sometimes I have dreams. I can still see him there, with the gun. He was pointing it at Astor. I remember."

Astor shuddered. "Why did he want to kill us?"

"To hurt me," I said simply. "I had found the evidence that they used to put him in prison. He wanted to hurt me, so he wanted to take away my family."

"Are you upset that I killed him?" Alyra asked. That question surprised me. I wouldn't have thought of that.

Both Cody and Astor looked at each other. "No," Astor said flatly. "But a lot of people seem to think that we should be."

Damn counselors.

"If anyone did anything wrong, it was me. Do you understand? You didn't do anything, no matter what anyone says." Alyra was adamant.

Cody looked confused. "But you didn't do anything wrong. He was going to kill us. So you killed him. That's fair."

"No one did anything wrong," I said, in my most definitive and paternal voice. "And you two shouldn't feel the least bit guilty or bad about what happened to that man."

"They're going to make us see a counselor."

"Then I will have a talk with the counselor," I said firmly.

Cody splashed his hand in the water. "Water is cooled down enough. You can come out now."

I lifted Alyra carefully out of the bathtub, sitting her on the soaking bathmat. She was almost able to sit up. "Well, I needed a bath anyway," she said conversationally. We all laughed. She looked like something that the cat had drug in, after a long, deep rain. After some discussion (Astor wanted to help Alyra get out of her wet clothes and into some clean clothes, since she was also a girl, but there was the whole weight issue to deal with, so I finally won that job), we finally delegated responsibilities. The children were sent downstairs to start on some sandwiches for dinner while I helped Alyra get cleaned up.

"You never cease to amaze me," I said, as I finished toweling her long hair dry.

"What do you mean?"

"You just finish having a violent, contortional spasm that had to be one of the most painful looking things I have ever seen, and you are worried about the psychological condition of my children."

She flushed. "Well, that's important. I don't want them to feel guilty about any of this, and there are enough idiots out there who can make them feel really bad about what happened. I just wanted to head it off at the pass."

"Nicely headed, thank you. And I appreciate the heads up."

"Psychology degree," she said with a smile.

"I can see that that comes in handy." She smirked, not missing my sarcasm. While she could do psychology with other people, she did not appear to have much skills in assessing her own psychological issues.

We repeated our little picnic arrangement for dinner, although it was clear that Alyra was almost strong enough to sit up on her own now. She only scowled at me when I cut up her sandwich into four pieces.

As we discussed sleeping arrangements, it was agreed that I should stay in the room with

Alyra, "just in case." She took this news with minimal reaction. The children didn't seem to be bothered by it in any way, which should have struck me as odd, but really didn't. Part of me knew that they saw her as much a part of the family as I did, and I didn't want to have to keep an eye on Cody keeping an eye on Alyra all night.

"Dexter, I have to get up," Alyra said softly, just as I was positioning myself in bed. I felt a slight twinge of annoyance, which quickly evaporated when she said, "I have to go to the bathroom." She must have been bursting. She hadn't been all day. I sat up, marched around to her side of the bed. At first, I tried to just lift her to a standing position, but that was for naught, so I just picked her up in my arms. I took her to the toilet, helped her assume the appropriate position, and closed the door.

After a very, very long time, I knocked patiently on the door. "Are you alright?"

"I can't get up." The words were soft, filled with what sounded like tears. I opened the door. She sat there, weeping. First things first. I lifted her carefully, leaning her weight against my shoulder, and pulled up her underwear. Then I shifted my weight back to my heels, sitting her back down after bringing down the toilet lid.

"I can't do this," she said softly. "I can't live like this. I promised myself, long before it came down to this, I would end it."

A sense of relief flooded me. So this is what all of the suicidality behavior was about. This was also what Dr. Andrews had been talking about. Things were much clearer now. Now I knew what the problem was. "This is temporary," I said with much more confidence than I felt. But she was getting stronger. And it was early yet. "And we will get through it."

"I can't. I don't do helpless. I don't do it, Dexter. I can't wash my face. I can't cut up my own food. I can't stand up. I can't even get up to go to the damn toilet! I can't even get off the toilet! I can't do anything!"

I pulled her into my arms. I expected the struggle, as she batted at my arms vigorously, but without even the strength of a child. "I can't live like this," she murmured into my chest, as I stroked her hair over and over.

I took a deep breath. I could think of only one response. "If it comes down to that, I will make sure you don't have to."

She pulled away from me. "You mean…"

"Yes, that it is exactly what I mean. If you don't get better, if these symptoms don't improve, I'll end it."

I could see the faint tinge of hope in her eyes. "You promise."

"Cross my heart.

"But you have to fight for me. You have to try. You have to give it everything. Do you promise?"

She nodded tersely. Then I got a hesitant smile. "But I can bitch?"

"Oh, you can bitch all you want. Doesn't mean I have to listen. Now, can we go back to bed?"

Nodding, she leaned into me as I put my arms around her to lift her. I grabbed several Kleenex from the back of the commode, and after lying her down, I proceeded to wipe the tears from her face. As I lay down on my back, I pulled her into my arms. I looked down to see a questioning look. "Just in case those tremors start again. Head them off at the pass, that sort of thing."

Alyra said nothing. She simply lowered her head, and closed her eyes. I could still feel the wetness of the tears against my chest. She mumbled something as she drifted off to sleep.

In reply, I said simply, "You're welcome."

The next day was much better. Alyra was able to actually lift her legs off the bed on her own, and while she couldn't stand on her own, she was at least stable with some assistance. Okay, a lot of assistance, but it was a significant improvement.

Her frustration became apparent as her need to rest became less urgent, which basically just left her lying in bed with nothing to do. When I brought her several books, she flushed. "I can't get my eyes to focus properly. I can't even read a damn book."

I smiled. "But we can." I called out to Cody, who came running up the stairs. When apprised of the situation, he picked up one of the many books strewn around the bedroom (Alyra was an ardent bibliophile), pulled up a chair, and started reading. In the end, Astor and Cody traded off on the task. The books were really funny, and by the time early evening had set in, we were all in the bedroom listening to P.G. Wodehouse's stories of Bertie Wooster and Jeeves. They were hysterical. Some of the British humor was beyond Astor, Cody, and myself (and Harrison, of course), but with Alyra to translate, it was actually a fun evening.

The next day, we all decided that it was time for Alyra to be out and about, but it was still a heartening thing to see her descending the steps on Cody's arm. It took a lot out of me to stay still as she hobbled over to the breakfast table, basically using Cody as a crutch. I could see the strain on the boy's face, but I also knew the pride that he was taking in helping her, so I stayed still. When she finally sat down, she looked at all of us. "I am definitely hungry now."

We all laughed. But indeed, her appetite was hearty, as was all of ours. The children knew that they would have school tomorrow, just like I would have work. Alyra was doing too much better to allow for the all day baby-sitting. But we intended to enjoy the day.

As we were all getting ready for bed, Alyra hobbled past the guest room, across from the master bedroom. I was checking the sheets, to make sure they didn't need to be changed. "Are you sleeping across the hall tonight?"

I stopped fiddling with the sheets. "I didn't want you to be uncomfortable."

"Oh," was her only response.

I paused. What did I want to do? Well, that was easy. You never know until you ask.

As I made my way to the master bedroom, Alyra was settling herself in, still struggling a bit with arranging her limbs. "You know," I said conversationally, "I would feel a little better if you wouldn't mind my staying in here tonight."

"Why is that?"

"You know, just to be close. And anyway, I am feeling a little bit lonely," I added with a sarcastic smirk.

That got a laugh. "Your company is always welcome, Boy Scout. Anyway, you are warm. I like warm."

"Glad to be of service," I said as I climbed into the bed. There would be no need to hold her tonight, but just to be close. That would be nice. I wasn't sure exactly why, but it would be.

She turned to smile at me. "Good night, Dexter."

"Good night, Alyra."

Chapter 40

The next morning at work was a little more tense than usual. Everyone had heard about what had happened, and Alyra's conspicuous absence was noted by more than one passerby. She had been more than willing to come to work, but I told her firmly that to keep the rumor mill down just claiming that the shock had been too much for her would be a good story. She bristled at the lie, but admitted that my judgment and my experience amongst the masses of humanity won out on this one. And she was still worn out. She was moving about much better, but fatigued quickly.

I had work to do, and I set about doing it. We had one crime scene – a truly horrific event, that I was actually very glad Alyra missed. A father had gone off the rails, taken a shotgun, killed his entire family and then himself.

As I took blood spatter from the beds of two beautiful but very dead children, all I could think was but there by the grace of God went I.

The scene, mixed with my own somber recent days, made for a very placid day indeed. Laguerta even told me that I could go home if I wanted to. In the end, I stuck it out.

Chapter 41

Alyra's recovery continued to progress, so much so that when I woke up to the smell of something absolutely wonderful, mixed with some kind of exotic coffee, I dragged myself out of bed, realizing quickly that I was alone. I scrambled down the stairs, only to find Alyra in the kitchen, busying herself with preparing a lush breakfast. I could see crepes (strawberry, with real cream and powdered sugar – both Cody and Astor loved them ever since she had first made them for them), eggs, what appeared to be cheese grits, and the makings for omelettes.

I yawned. Definitely a woman of many, many talents. I could hear the squeals of delight as the children rounded the corner, still in their pajamas. As I made my way toward the coffee maker, to the smells of a lovely Irish Cream dark roast, Astor was already setting the table, and Cody was getting out the orange juice and glasses. Or should I say orange juice, strawberry-banana orange juice, and the grapefruit juice that were a part of Alyra's mornings.

As we sat down for breakfast, I reflected on how much of this whole thing had been a healing process for Cody and Astor as well as for Alyra. They had enjoyed taking care of her, and it took their minds off the trauma of what had happened, and brought them back to the reality of what had happened, that being that they had been rescued. Unlike the adult mind, which keeps pondering the what-if's (which my mind had not quite let go of yet). But there were no what-if's. She had made it around the house in time. She had been there. The man who wanted to kill my children was dead. My only regret, of course, was that I hadn't had the opportunity to strap him to my table. Which, all in all, I think is a reasonable regret. I could feel the Passenger twitch even at the thought.

There are worse regrets.

Chapter 42

You would think I would have learned from the first time. And I did. I really did. But something in me just wouldn't let this go. Wouldn't let her go. And this time, it really, really wasn't my fault.

That weekend, when Alyra asked me to go to church with her, I made no effort to suppress my laugh. Only to find that she was quite serious. Apparently, she was a weekly visitor to Wesley United Methodist Church, under Pastor Effie Abraham. When I asked her why (she was every bit the atheist/agnostic I was, and I knew it), she gave an embarrassed smile, and said that the church members would visit, and the pastor was one to make a least a monthly, if not weekly, stop at the Hospice. In short, it was the only family she had. And she was asking me to meet them.

Heady stuff.

The church was a small church, and to my amazement, we were the only white persons on the premises. But we were openly welcomed, and hands were all for Alyra, everyone telling her how good she looked, promising to visit soon. And I think those promises were genuine.

And the Pastor was a massive man, significantly taller than me and certainly broader, and not all of that was too many medianoches. He greeted us warmly as we entered the church, surprised to see me but apparently not displeased. I imagine that most of Alyra's visits here were alone, so having a guest with her might be something promising for the pastor. Perhaps he could make fewer visits.

Why did I always think so little of people? Oh, that's right. Because they almost never fail to disappoint.

In the middle of the service, where I was doing my best not to act like one of my children and pick up an envelope and start in with the crayons, there was a Prayer. Apparently, those who were needy came up to surround the altar, and had a group prayer.

To my disappointment, Alyra stood with several other members of the congregation to go to the front of the church. She looked at me and smiled. "You don't have to go. You aren't dying." I shook my head, "Where you go, I go," and I stood up bravely to follow my friend into a place where I knew that neither I nor my darker self would ever belong, until I was in a six foot box.

Actually, a little over six feet. But who was counting.

As we approached the altar, a group of parishioners began to form a half-circle in front of the church. Alyra smiled at me, taking my hand. The person just to my left, a tiny little elderly black woman, also extended her hand. I took it carefully. Her hand felt like parchment. She was the stereotype of the little black lady at church, complete with the pink suit and the box hat with flowers on the top. Her smile to me was warm, and I tried to return the same.

Then I realized something. I was holding Alyra's hand. I was actually touching her, and not out of necessity. As I looked down at the union of our appendages, I heard the first words of the Pastor. "We come here today to share our fellowship, our joys and our sufferings. Together, we will pray."

Suddenly, the entire altar was aburst with voices, as people began to say out loud prayers that were, apparently, deep to their hearts. I could hear names, places, even politicians, spreading out and about as these people "lifted up" their prayers to if nothing else, the ceiling.

It was all I could do not to laugh outright at the indomitable faith of these people. It was a remarkable thing in its own right, but I could scarcely be expected to hold in all of my mirth, so I turned to Alyra.

To my shock, tears were streaming down her face. My hand reflexively tightened, as I could feel the Passenger rising from the depths, searching for the threat. She turned to me , and gripped my hand hard. A small smile filtered through the rain of tears.

I still don't remember anything that the Pastor said as he took up the Prayer, but as we dispersed with an amen I put my arm around Alyra's shoulders. To my additional surprise, her body leaned into mine as the tears still came. I had expected tension in response to my touch, but no, she seemed to welcome the weight of my presence, so close to her.

This was definitely new. I knew she would let me touch her, hold her, out of necessity, but this? This was quite different. To offer comfort? No, she would not allow that.

As we finally found our way back to our pew I kept my arm around her, simply stunned that she would willingly allow me to touch her. This was so far from the rest of my experience with her – she had let me put an arm around her before, but she had remained tense, ever vigilant that I might attempt something less politely formal. Odd. I had held her entire body, but I had never actually been able to really hold her. I functioned more as Dexter the heating pad, than Dexter comforting presence.

Then came the further realization which had brought the Passenger to the fore even in a house of God. She trusted me. She trusted me to protect her. It seemed too absolutely absurd. She knew that I would not hurt her, and that I would do everything in my power to protect her.

That was just plain crazy. ME? A dark demonic monster, delving into the night with dastardly deeds on the brain, even in a house of the Lord. ME? I mean, I was seriously waiting for the lightning, any minute now.

But there it was.

But back to the moment. "Why are you crying?" I whispered, urgently, desperately wanting to hurt whatever had done this to my friend. The Passenger was alert, and he meant business.

"I cry for what I am," she whispered into my arm. "I cry for what I could have been. I cry for a world that would tolerate something like me in it."

I felt my facial features tighten, as my arm reflexively pulled her closer still. It was a revelation, on so many levels. The sheer horror of the intensity of her self-loathing, of the explicit knowledge that the world would be a better place without her in it. To which the Passenger gave sibilant challenge. This, combined with the sheer delight of her body on mine, the warmth of her weight as she pressed herself into me, as her muscles seemed to almost want to meld with my own. I had held a woman, but I had never HELD a woman. Not like this.

This contrasted with the recognition of the words that so often reflected my own personal sentiments of self-reflection. Of course, I could not cry, not for this, or for anything for that matter, really. But if I ever needed proof that there was no God, all I had to do was look in a mirror. No god would tolerate something like me. But to imagine what that might FEEL like, putting emotions to it, was almost inconceivable. That amount of sheer self-loathing, utter hatred, and of course, tremendous pain. Such pain as was pressing into my side at this very moment. Pain enough to drop all of her defenses, to let me take the wheel, to protect her, if even for the moment.

Slowly, I began to feel her muscles tighten underneath mine. I should have let her go, but I have always been selfish, and I have no real capacity for empathy, so we were having none of that. I gave her a quick squeeze, turning to smile at her – a genuine smile (she would know it if it wasn't), and very carefully, she relaxed against me again.

I can't tell you anything else about the service. I didn't care. I was touching Alyra. Genuinely touching her. And it was quite nice. To hold her. That in and of itself might make me consider the possibility of a higher power.

Not really.

When we got up to leave, it was with tremendous reluctance that I let her go, and I found my hand reaching down for hers. She gave me a strange look, but let me twine my fingers through hers, as though humoring a small child. As we walked out of the church, my ears were still ringing from all of the amens and hallelujahs.

"Are you hungry?" Alyra asked.

I laughed. "Don't do rhetorical questions. They don't become you. Nor subtle hints. Those are beneath you."

She smiled, delicately detaching her hand from mine. I could feel what felt like a reluctance in the gesture, which I found strangely satisfying. We walked to a corner bistro, with outside seating, of course. This had become our tradition – she only had so much time, so she would spend as much as she could out in the sun (or under the moon, as it were). We were seated at a tiny little table with a sun umbrella.

I promptly picked up the other chair, Alyra's chair, and deposited it next to mine. She gave me a look of confusion, but accepting the inevitable, sat down next to me. We were close enough that our sides were touching. There were no more soft muscles to slide into, but she tolerated my presence, which was more than I had a right to expect.

We discussed a great many things, but finally, we came back to the werewolf. I finally just had to ask her. "Why are you helping us so much?"

"What do you mean?"

"The werewolf. You can't want us to catch him. You admire him. I see it in the way that you talk about him, in the way that you describe him."

She tilted her head. "No, I don't want him caught. But he needs to be stopped. He is killing innocent people. There has to be a way to break the cycle, and the more I know about the cycle, the more I can make an effort to break it."

"You'd better be careful. You know you are too good at this. Sooner or later, if you keep helping, we are going to get him."

Alyra only laughed. "You underestimate him, Boy Scout. In his own way, he is as cool and calculating as you or I. He knows we are on his trail, and he knows that someone who knows what he is is on his trail. He will be careful."

"So stopped, but not caught?"

"Pretty much. But I hope in the end, whatever he needs to settle, he settles. Whatever it took to make this kind of transformation is bad, and he needs to process it. And if that means killing some fucker, then I am all for it."

Just as I imagined she would be.

Chapter 43

And then, Alyra pulled another disappearing act. I wish I could tell you what I did to initiate this one. I had no idea. Likely related to what happened in the church. But after several days, I had had enough. There is giving people space, and there is being an ass. In my mind, she was crossing that line.

The day at work dragged on and on. Stupid little cases – nothing exciting. The werewolf killer, as he had been christened by the local media after a leak from the department, had yet to strike, but the full moon was only days away, so a little time to rest on that one, at least for me. The blood spatter in the woods and swamps was arduous work, and I was glad to have had Alyra's help to catalog as much as I could. She had a good eye for blood.

Which begged another question. Would she be back?

Otherwise, a couple of altercations, all bloody (women tend to use knives to kill a cheating spouse, men tend to use guns – either way, messy mess for Dirty Dexter). And I had called the hospice, and they had told me that she hadn't returned, but Bubbles had been kind enough to tell me that she was still likely at home. It had been several days since I had seen or heard from her, and I was starting to get worried.

I had called the sitter, and she was going to pick up the toddling boy wonder from day care, and Cody and Astor from school.

This was important. Really important. I did not want to lose this woman. I know that she didn't have that much time left, and that maybe it might even be for the best not to see her anymore, but I simply did not want to lose her. And I would do my best not to lose her. I had thought things were going well. Stupid, stupid Dexter. Stupid, incredibly selfish Dexter.

But really, was this news?

I went up to the front door and rang the doorbell – it gave a beautiful chime. No response. I rang it again. No response. But her car was there, so I knocked. Nothing. I peeked into the window. There was at least one light on. Well, I wasn't leaving. So I sauntered around to the back of the house. The only thing that I am better at than serial killing is breaking into houses, so I promptly broke into the back door of the house (again), after deftly disabling her very impressive security system (which I was polite enough to reset, thank you very much, once I got inside).

I stalked quietly inside, not wanting to startle her, when in the end, she startled me, as I found her, sprawled on the floor, face first on the lovely Oriental rug on the floor, with what appeared to be a blood swirled pool of vomit. I checked her breathing and her heart beat – both normal. She felt cool, so I took one of the blankets from the back of the couch and spread it across her. Out of some instinct I suppose one gets from having children, I started cleaning up the mess. It didn't take very long, although her Oriental would never be the same – the emesis came up fine, but the blood - not so much. Blood is tenacious stuff. I should know. From business and from pleasure.

As soon as I returned from the luxurious kitchen, she was beginning to rouse. I knelt beside the couch. "You gave me quite a scare there. Don't do that again," I admonished her.

Her voice came out as a croak. "Sorry. Dying. Eventually, face first in the pavement is the way it is going to be."

I could not suppress the smile. Even at her worst physically, she always had her sense of humor. I think it was the only energy she had at this point. She had reminded me that I like smiling. That was something I hadn't remembered for a long time. Really smiling.

She tried to sit up. I tried to keep her from sitting up. Guess who won? Dexter bigger. Dexter stronger.

Alyra wirier. Alyra does not fight fair. She reached down and took my hand, but made no further efforts to rise. "Dexter, I am sorry. I didn't mean to just take off. I just didn't know what to do…"

I had to force myself to look in her face, knowing that my face was flushing. I had never had problems with women, because I had never really had an interest in women. "No, I am the one who should apologize. I know that you have had problems with men in the past – I knew that."

She laughed. "No, Dexter. You don't understand. You really don't. You need to listen." She squeezed my hand hard. "When I said that I didn't know what to do, I meant that I didn't have any sexual experience."

"That doesn't bother me…" I started.

"Stop. You aren't hearing me. I haven't done anything. Zip. Nada. Zero. Zilch."

That stopped me. "Nothing?"

She gave me an ironic smile. "I half made out with a biker once, but his idea of a kiss was just kind of sticking his tongue out and leaving it there."

That made me flinch. No skill. No finesse.

Bleck.

"I got scared because I like you. I really do like you. And I have no idea what to do. Not even the beginnings of a clue." She waved a hand in the air. "I mean, I know the basic mechanics. I have read Bertrice Small and few other romance novelists." I flashed back to those horrid books Harry made me read to learn more about how sex and romance actually worked – they were dreadful. I cringed. "You can see why it doesn't have that much appeal."

"It doesn't have to be like that," I ventured.

Her brow furroughed. "What can it be like then?"

"Well," I said, "Pretty much anything you want. But you need to understand. We don't need that. I don't need that. I just need you."

I could see the one eyebrow arch. "Men aren't like that."

"I am not most men."

That gave her pause.

"I don't like sex, in general. I find it very undignified. Just messy. Embarrassing, even."

That lifted the eyebrow even higher. "You are serious."

"I am serious. I don't need those things. I don't even especially want those things. I just want you."

She shook her head. "None of this is making any sense."

I smiled. "This is us. Why the hell do we have to make sense?"

She returned my smile. "But there is one thing," I said softly.

"What?"

I lifted her hand, turning her wrist to face me. Now I understood why she always wore those wrist cuffs. It wasn't a fashion statement. It was a disguise. The wound was open and angry, gaping at me. "You will explain this to me.

Chapter 44

So she had shown me the cutting. It had taken some doing. There were many times when we weren't together, and I noticed the leather bands on her wrists – I asked if they were some sort of a fashion statement, and she wouldn't answer. I realized early that she had no problems lying to other people, but for some reason, she was reluctant if outright unwilling to lie to me. I found that intriguing. I mean, it was what we had agreed to do, but agreeing and doing can often be very different things. So, when I pushed her on it, she explained that sometimes when her emotions became too intense, she would cut her skin. I was genuinely perplexed, and asked her why. She told me that it would take the emotional pain and translate it into physical pain, which she was much better at dealing with. I asked her didn't she have enough physical pain without adding to it? She laughed, saying anything was better than emotional pain. That left me confused. As always, genuine emotions left me a bit flummoxed. So I asked to see this. At first, she flat out refused, saying it was personal, private, that I had no right to ask her. But I persisted. And finally she relented.

When the emotions became too much, when she would take a blade and draw it through her own skin, to take the emotions in her mind, the pain in her thoughts and put it into pain in her flesh, which she could control. It was an amazing thing to watch. You could see the transformation. Watch the agony in her golden green eyes shift as the red poured forth from her flesh into the bowl she always had in front of her, turn into something else, fleshier, then watch her just push it out, push it away, throw back her neck, and her face would return, calm, soothed, herself.

She took me into a small room in the house, a tiny room, which held her artistic tools. Despite all the rest of the things in the house being covered in dust, you could tell that this room had been used recently. She pulled out a canvas, and placed it on the easel. Reaching in a basket, she grasped a tube of paint, and squirted a large portion onto a palette. It was a glittering metallic gold. Then, she pulled out a small box, which included alcohol, some very small blades (scalpels, razor blades?), lots of gauze and bandages. Finally, she took out a large roll, similar to the bag that contained my knives, but as she unrolled this I could see that this one held a series of paint brushes ranging from almost a single hair to a brush for painting houses.

She basically ignored me, as she went to the stereo in the room and turned on the music. Tori Amos, early works. Beautiful stuff, but sad. Painful to hear. I didn't like it. I told her so. Her response was curt. "You said you wanted to be here. You don't have to be. You can leave."

I shut up.

She came back to the easel, setting out her tools in front of her. She set the blades in front of the small bowl, and with lightning speed, drew the alcohol across her wrist, followed with the slice of a blade. There was no cry, no sigh, no sound of any kind. Her face fell backward, eyes closed, and I could almost feel the emotion, almost touch it, as it fled. The physical pain twitched across her features, but I could see her clamp down on it, as her fist tightened, and the red began to flow. Her lips began to slacken, her mouth to open, as she leaned back down with the blade again to make another slice. At first, the blood came slowly, but I could see her target. There was a large vein just under the wrist, and she was aiming for it. With each slice, fine, targeted, she came closer, closer – no giant sweeping arcs here. My Dark Passenger watched in fascination at this thing that was death but was not death, at this thing was not killing but was killing, that was the art of dying, drop by drop. With each slice, her facial features lost some of their tightness – it took me several minutes to realize that she was crying.

And then, in an instant, in a flash of movement, the red became a torrent. A wave of blood crashed from the open wound, and welled into the bowl beneath her wrist. It was warm. I don't know how, but I had come directly behind her, pressing my chest into her back, reaching around to steady her arm. She stiffened at first at my touch, but finally leaned back into me. I could feel the wetness of her tears as I leaned forward, placed my chin on the top of her head, rocking her gently. Even though I could not feel her emotion, I could feel its intensity. I wrapped my fingers just below the wound, steadying her hand to guide the flow into the vesicle below.

We kneeled there, transfixed, until finally, she handed me the blade, without moving her head from my chest. I took it, careful, avoiding the glee of my Dark Passenger, and his wash of wicked thoughts, reaching down with a tiny movement, wiping the wound first with gauze to see the vessel I wanted, and opening it just a hair further – again, the sea of red waved forth. I put down the blade, letting my left hand remain on her left arm, keeping her wrist over the bowl, which had begun to rapidly fill with blood. Still only venous blood. But enough. How did I know that? I looked down at her face. The tears were beginning to slow. There were no sobs, no gobby tears. Only silent trails of water, and they were beginning to slow, and the traces of emotion were fading.

Alyra leaned forward, with my hand still securely on her wrist, and took one of the larger paint brushes, and dipped it into the bowl of blood, and then smeared it into the golden paint. She took this, spread it across on the palette sitting at the foot of the easel. And then reached for the canvas. I almost fell backward.

Blood as art indeed. It took all of my strength to stay in place, holding her as she moved with tremendous speed to mix the rapidly congealing blood with the sparkling gold paint. I saw the gleaming eyes first, mostly gold, with only a hint of red, then the framing ears. She shifted from brush to brush, again lifting blood from the bowl to the palette to give her the color she wanted. The forms materialized on the canvas, two wolves, entwined, one laying on the grass below, the other leaning down to place its head atop the first.

When it was done, she collapsed, and I caught her as she slumped forward. I could see the remains of previously spilled blood on the floor below – no doubt she had done this many, many times. I sat there, stunned, looking at the brace of wolves, sinking deep into the emotion that pervaded the canvas. The colors were amazing, a rose gold, no, a blood gold, with all tints and hues captured within it. Truly a work of art, but a work of pain, a work of emotion pent up and released.

I won't lie and tell you that I understood it. I did not. But I could appreciate it, as an alien in the world of complex emotion. I felt like an astronaut, gazing at the world below. It was a world I knew, but couldn't touch.

I could see in that moment that emotions were something beautiful, and yet something tremendously painful. And just like Alyra said, I wasn't all that sure that I wanted them.

I grabbed a handful of gauze and wrapped her arm – the wound was tiny, but obviously very effective. I understood why one of her own blades would not have been effective for this. I felt a sense of honor, strangely enough, that she trusted me to wound her. I easily could have killed her. She had to have known that. I had even been tempted. But of course, that wouldn't bother her, as she was openly trying to figure out how to do that herself. But that she had let me see this, this darkest part of her, this most intimate thing. That was something special. I knew I would treasure the memory, even if I knew that I could never really understand it.

I cleaned her wound, dressed it, and tucked her into bed. My guess was that she normally just collapsed in the room – I could see the sleeping bag in the corner, with the other canvases. I walked over to them, and was amazed. Almost all of them were metallic – gold, silver, bronze. Tigers, wolves, sharks, predators to a one, with that rosy cast. How many of them were there? Easily hundreds. All beautiful. Some less artful – probably the earlier works. But the most recent were masterful. All expressive of some kind of emotion, anger, pain, longing. I looked at the wolves, trying to tease out the emotion she was trying to dispense with, and for the life of me I could not find it. What in this picture would make her cry, make her bring a blade across her flesh, bleed, try to take it and its pain and put it on canvas and leave it there?

And then I saw it. I almost couldn't breathe. I couldn't believe that I had not recognized it, since it was something I knew for a fact that I had never felt, but there it was, as clear as day, staring at me. Aching. Longing. At me.

I fell to my knees. I could feel the tears stinging at my own eyes, wishing for the millionth time that sometimes, just sometimes, that I could feel something. Sometimes. Just for a moment. That I could understand. That I could empathize. But I could not. But I could be there. That much I could do. And I would continue to do.

I stood up, and walked into the bedroom. Laying there, I could see a giant stuffed tiger – she had lain down next to it, likely thinking to curl up with it. She lay there, her legs brought up to her chest, in one of my T-shirts (her own shirt had been covered in blood), with her wounded arm curled up under her chin. She seemed to be resting peacefully. I pulled off my shoes, then my pants, finally taking off my shirt. I lifted up the covers and slid into the bed.

Exhausted, she was not likely to rouse any time soon. I gave into temptation, and took her gently into my arms, careful not to disturb her wounded arm. Foolish of me, but... She nuzzled gently into my chest, her fingers curling into the muscles underneath her hands. I couldn't resist. Even in her sleep, she responded to my touch.

As I felt her sliding her arm under me, nestling her other hand on my chest, I realized that she was curling up around me, just like she would with her stuffed tiger. I could not help but smile. I had no problem taking the alias, if that is what it would take to help her sleep soundly.

I shouldn't be doing this. This was wrong. Not after what I had seen. Not after what I knew. But all of my inner battles were quickly ended. Time later for inner battles, for right and wrong, and moral indignities. Now, I just wanted to feel her, to be with her, for what little time we had. I wanted her. As horrible a monster as that made me.

But I had better damn well wake up before she did, if I wanted to make sure she wouldn't run again.

Chapter 45

We had set up a playdate. The werewolf killer was still a few days in coming, so we marched down Alyra's list. Antonio Martinez. This one was a real charmer, a big fat oaf who simply adored children. An ice cream truck man, and no, I am not kidding. What better way to find your targets than to go through their neighborhoods, scope out the many children (what a selection – an absolute smorgasbord) – and then use your vehicle as both trap and travel.

But when we got to his house, as I reached for the door handle, I felt Alyra's hand on mine. "Hold." And sure enough, the big man came out of the house with a series of bags. He loaded them into his truck. As he made to get inside, I didn't need to be told that we would follow him.

When we pulled off onto a dirt road, Alyra instructed me to dim the lights. Her car had another level of light, almost ambient light – difficult for others to see, but enough to keep me from hitting a tree. We almost lost him in those back woods, but I cut the engine and we could hear him off to the left, so we took that path. It was becoming more of a trail than a drive – I was glad for the 4 wheel drive.

"Cut the engine. Now." Alyra commanded. I did as she bid me, and I could just hear the engine of Martinez become silent. I cut off our lights, because this place was well lit enough. There were actually a series of hanging lights around a small building. As I made to get out of the car, Alyra put her hand on my arm. "Hold."

Martinez went to the trunk of his car, and pulled something out of it. He approached the building, which was circular and made of concrete – it looked almost like a bunker, with what appeared to be one floor above ground and likely several below. As he put his package on the ground, he searched for a key to the lock. It felt like forever, but he finally went inside, taking his package with him.

I reached for my door handle, but turned to Alyra, who was as frozen as a stone.

"Alyra."

"Fuck. I should have known. Goddamit, I should have known. Not on my A game, not watching closely enough."

"Alyra!"

She turned to face me. "Dexter, you may not want to do this. I can handle it by myself. I really can." I could see her hands stroking Esmerelda. I hadn't even heard her pull the weapon from its sheath.

"No, we do this together. Like we planned it."

"Dexter, I don't know what you are going to see down there, and I don't want you to…. Get hurt."

I smiled. That was just plain silly. "No emotions, remember. I will be fine." The look on her face belied her own emotion.

I could still sense her trepidation, but she finally opened her car door, and took a massive gulp of the clean outside air. I made my way to the doorway – solid steel, but with a lock that a child could pick. I had my tools out quickly, and began to work at it. I felt something across my shoulder, and turned to see Alyra handing me a mask. "You may need this." It was a silk mask, black in color. I eyed her suspiciously. "We don't know what we are going to find."

I looked at her. "I think you know exactly what we are going to find."

"Humor me, please." I placed the mask over my nose and mouth. It was actually tolerably comfortable considering. Finally, the lock gave way and I opened the door. Alyra slid under me, her weapon still bare and unsheathed. "I go in first."

"We discussed this."

"This is not up for discussion. I go in first." Her voice was adamant. "Dexter, you have never really seen this. I don't know how you are going to react."

I laughed. "I have seen many, many pedophiles before."

"You have seen pedophiles, but you have not seen pedophiles doing what pedophiles do."

I felt my eyes widen, and a sibilant hiss from the Passenger.

"I go first," she repeated, and made her way inside. There was a staircase, concrete, that spiraled down from the top floor into what appeared to be several basements. As Alyra reached the base of the first set of stairs, she used her hands to hold me back. "Wait," she carefully rounded the corner, then flipped back next to me. Her own breath was coming hard, and I could feel her anger, her rage, her Beast. It was a tangible presence. The Passenger responded in kind, wings spreading. "Dexter, I don't think you want to see this."

I gave her a confused expression, but broke her grip easily and rounded the corner.

When the brain sees horrible things, it often displays them in a unique way. You notice the small details first, because the big picture is just too much to bear. The smell assaulted me first, a smell of putrefaction, shit, and urine. I looked around the room. There were seven small mats in the circular room, and a naked child lay on each one. Each had a ratty blanket – some were curled up in them, others were just sitting on them. Some were crying, others were just still. Two of them were too still. The fear was chokingly thick, and I almost ripped off the mask, but then I saw IT. The thing that Alyra had not wanted me to see.

There was a small boy, maybe seven years old, kneeling prone on one of the filthy mats, and there was a fat man behind him. The boy was crying softly – no screams of terror, just crying. And I could hear the man grunting his way to orgasm.

There was no room for rational thought. Emotion, real emotion, hit me like a tsunami. I heard a deep guttural cry, and only later did I realize that it was my own. The man turned as I approached, but his pants were around his ankles, as much a restraint as had I bound him.

I grabbed him hard around the throat, lifting him off the ground. I turned him to face me and looked down, to see his now flaccid member just hanging there.

I was tempted to rip it off.

The Passenger poured into me, a ready vessel, and we slammed the man to the ground, hard. I could hear the crunch of bone as his head landed on the concrete. He rose up, blood smearing the floor as I closed on him. "Hey, this isn't what you think. It really isn't." His voice was high pitched, perfect for screaming. I dropped my first punch across his flabby jaw, my second into his bulbous stomach. I held him tight as he struggled – he was no match for the Passenger. And we could taste death on the air.

"Dexter, no!" I whirled to see Alyra standing next to me. "Stop."

"Don't want to stop," I said softly, in the voice of the Passenger. "Never want to stop."

She grabbed my face, forcing me to look at her. "He doesn't deserve it. He doesn't. I know you can make this a clean kill, you can do it right here, but think. Think, dammit! You don't want him here – you want him on the table. Right?"

I paused, feeling the Passenger's wings flutter. She was right. I was just going to kill him, right here, right now. But he deserved far more of my attention, and specifically that of the Passenger, than to kill him outright.

She put her arm on my shoulder, as I realized that now five pairs of eyes were riveted on me. "Children come first. Always." Her voice was barely even a whisper. I felt the Passenger shift his wings, willing me to wait. There would be more time. There would be more to do. Much, much more to do.

I looked down at the now unconscious man, and watched as Alyra made quick work of binding his arms and legs with piano wire.

It took a few moments for my eyes to focus, and my gaze fell to the little boy, and his tear streaked face. He was lying on his side, blood streaming down his legs.

I backed up, continued until there was a wall behind me. I slid ungracefully to the floor. My heart was pounding, my breath coming in gasps. I could feel his throat under my fingers, I could taste his death, a burnt metallic taste, but I wanted more, so much more. I knew that I was in danger of passing out, as the room became filled with a dense fog. I kept trying to calm myself, but it was to no avail. Only his death would truly calm me.

"Breathe, Dexter, breathe."

I could feel the wash of emotion tearing through me, filled with sound, fury – a torrent of pure and absolute malevolence. The Passenger's wings were spread wide – I could feel him in my fingers as my hands twitched convulsively.

"I can't," I managed to get out between deep, roaring breaths. Breaths that refused to give me air. She sounded so far away, so distant. I was here, now, and I knew what I wanted. I wanted that man dead.

She put her arms around me. At first, I was simply shocked. Alyra did not like to be touched, nor did she touch other people in a casual way. Until she touched me, I hadn't realized that I was trembling.

I could feel her hands stroking my hair, running down my back and she held me tight. "This, my friend, is an emotion. And it is called rage. And you are more than entitled to feel it."

My breath came out in a hiss, through clenched teeth. I was breathing so fast that I was seeing stars. I would pass out soon. I couldn't form words – there was too much, well, everything. Every time I tried to push whatever was consuming me back, it would roar back again, like a tide, rising and falling.

Alyra whispered softly, "Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Come on. You can do it."

I forced myself to do as she instructed. My heart was still pounding, but at least I could breathe. But my giant brain had only one focus, and that was the Passenger's, to kill, now, here, without hesitation.

Alyra voice was soft, gentle, as though she could read my mind. "No, not here, not in his place. In our place, how we choose. We are the predators now. He is the prey. And he does not deserve our mercy. No mercy."

I turned my eyes to look at hers, and I could see the emotion I knew I was feeling reflected back at me. "No mercy," I said coldly.

Alyra held me close for quite some time, until my breath had settled and my pulse was back to a reasonable facsimile of its normal state. It took me some time to realize what unusual behavior this was for her, what she was really trying to do for me.

"Don't let it go, Dexter. Don't let it go. Give it to your inner friend, let him hold it for you, for when you need it. He's yours. I promise, he's all yours."

I could feel the dulling of the Passenger's clarion call, as we were assured that we would have him. He would be ours, in our way, in our choosing. The Passenger furled his wings, but I could feel his impatience. He did not like to be denied, but then we would have to make sure that the wait was well worth it.

I buried my head into her chest. She continued to stroke my hair, and I could hear soothing words, violent words, but soothing to the creature inside me. No mercy. None.

I turned to see the man. He was still not moving, but the rise and fall of his chest confirmed that he was alive. The bloody streak on the floor came from smashing his skull into the concrete, but it wasn't a mortal wound.

The Passenger threw his wings around me, and I could feel the power there. The rage. The anger. He would hold it, but only for a while. This had to be answered.

But he was mine. He was ours. She had said so. And she had never lied to us before.

She pulled back, keeping her hands on my arms. I leaned my head against the stone wall. "The children, Dexter. The children need to come first, right?"

Now I understood the need for the mask, as my gaze met five pairs of eyes, boring into me. Some were staring in a glassy way, as though they were seeing into another world, but some, yes some, were staring at me with a face full of emotion. An emotion I rarely saw in this context. Hope.

"I've got some blankets in the car. Beach towels."

"Water?" Alyra asked softly.

"Bottled water for the beach."

"Can you get those things?" Alyra said softly. She made a clear gesture, indicating that she wanted to stay with the children. "And bring a gag, while you're at it."

As I made my way to the stairs, the young boy who had been so brutally violated cried out. Alyra went to him, and said in a soothing voice, "Don't worry. He's coming back. He just has to get some things for me." The boy quieted, but his eyes stayed locked on me.

As I reached the top of the stairs, the crisp night air filling my lungs, I rode the wave of anger, now more of a rippling pool than a giant wave. But I kept my mind to task. Luck again – I had put several old shirts in the car, for my nights out, and there were three blankets and four beach towels wedged under the seat in the back. The water was lukewarm, but it was better than nothing. As I reached the door again, overburdened with my supplies, I took in another breath of the clean air, the good air.

I dumped the supplies in the middle of the room, trying to think of what was most important. Getting them covered. I took out the old shirts, tossing a few to Alyra. Very gently, I watched her coax one of the little girls to pull the shirt over her head. The girl was still staring at the man on the floor, as though he would just get up, hurt her again.

No. Never again. I cinched the gag tightly around the man's face, to make sure the children would not hear his excuses, the imprecations. They deserved better than to hear the pleading of their assaulter.

God, how long had they been here. The mats were filthy, with a bucket next to each, filled with all sorts of bodily fluids.

First, I went to the two little boys who were far too still. A pulse check was enough, although you could honestly tell just from looking. Their abdomens were bloating with gas, and their skin was peeling away in sheets. I put a blanket over each of them, covering their faces.

This made several of the children start to scream. I turned to Alyra, who came to me, and pulled the blankets down, so the children could see the pale, drawn, decomposing faces. "Reality has no meaning here. We act on what they believe. They don't believe these boys are dead, so they aren't dead."

Alyra gestured at the man, still bound and gagged in the room. "Why don't you take out the trash." I nodded, lifted the man despite his prodigious size (the Passenger was still on the driver's side, if not in the driver's seat, so lifting him wasn't all that difficult). I removed the syringe from my pocket, and injected the sedative. That would buy me some time, at least. I hauled him up the stairs, into the night air. I pulled out some plastic sheeting, and cocooned him in it, then lifted him into the car. I locked the door tight. I pulled over the cover that I had purchased to protect my more valuable purchases, as I had nearly lost a victim through the back windshield once. I made sure that he was nice and comfy.

But not for long. Oh no.

Alyra quickly attacked my stack of supplies, taking one of the slop buckets with her upstairs. She returned with a clean bucket full of water, took the towels and wet five of them. Then she began to gently scrub some of the dirt and grime off of the children.

I followed her lead. The first boy, my boy, I went to with a wet towel. He cringed from my touch, so I placed the towel right in front of him, just inside his reach. His eyes were locked with mine as he grabbed it. I demonstrated with my hands what I wanted him to do with it. As he began to wash himself, I turned to look at the other children.

Three girls, four boys, two dead. I could feel the rage rippling through me, but I used all of my skills at disguise to keep the disgust and anger from my face. Then, I realized that my face was covered.
Several of the children were staring at me, with looks from awe to absolute terror. I had a mask on. Did that make me a good guy or a bad guy?

"Are you going to hurt me?" my little boy asked. I turned my full attention back to him. He had done a good job with the washcloth, but there was no helping the clumps of hair that clung together on his head, or the smell of death that was simply a part of this place.

"No," I said firmly but gently. "I want to help you."

"Then why are you wearing a mask?"

"Because he is a superhero," Alyra's voice came up directly behind me. "Superheroes have to protect their identities. You know that."

"You aren't wearing a mask," was his answer.

"I am a sidekick. We don't get masks. General rule."

The boy tried to sit up, but it was clearly painful for him. "He hurt the man who hurt me."

Alyra voice was soft, soothing, "Yes, he did. And he's going to even more. I promise."

I turned to look at Alyra. Her face was suffused with emotion – I could see it dance across her features. But when she had to, she had an impressive mask of her own.

"What's he going to do?"

"I'm going to stop him," I said.

"What does that mean?" The look he gave me was very intelligent, clear.

I took in a deep breath. "I will make sure that he never, ever hurts you again, or any other child."

"Are you going to kill him?"

As I opened my mouth to respond, Alyra spoke first, "You should know better than that. He is going to stop him, not kill him. You know how superheroes do things. Now you let my boss get you cleaned up, so we can get you home."

"I'm going home?" The boy's voice was incredulous. I smiled, then realized he couldn't see it.

Well, to hell with it. If this is how my career ends, this is how my career ends. I took off the mask with just a hint of flourish.

The little boy sat up, smiling. "I knew that was how you would look." He sounded very satisfied with himself.

"And how do I look?" I queried him softly.

"Like Batman." In that moment, the Dark Avenger gave him a most powerful smile. I had little trouble forcing myself into the role, which I had known forever. Push the dark emotions aside. Remember that how this ends is just as important as how it began. Don't let them remain damaged – give them hope. So they would not become one of us.

We finally got all of the children as clean as we could with our limited supplies, and some kind of covering, mostly giant shirts and beach towels. Not a fashionable ensemble but enough to help us get them out of this place. Each of them was working on a bottle of water.

I looked across the sea of faces. A panorama of emotions showed in their little faces, from the one girl who just exuded rage and almost indignation, to the silent stares into a world I knew I couldn't see. Some were just numb, but most were also confused. But you could feel it – that tiny glimmer of hope. Home. They all wanted to go home.

It appeared that he had kept his "pets" for quite some time. A search of the closets in the building showed what he had been carrying in his bag that night – a bag of dog food, with a couple of large cans as well. I could feel the ripples again, but the Passenger steadied me now. We would have him. He would be ours.

Alyra came up to me, a tight smile on her face. "Now, I have to call in the cavalry."

"The cavalry?"

"Rafe and his boys. The biker gang I used to live with. Well, hopefully with some of his girls. They help me a lot when I run into situations like this."

I stood agape. "You have seen this before?"

She held her ground. "More times than I can count. Sometimes you get lucky – and they have a victim you can save." She turned to the two boys in the corner, focused on their utter stillness. "Sometimes, you don't get lucky."

She shook her head to dispel old demons. "You take Mr. Martinez and let him have a nice conversation with your Passenger. I am sure you will hit it off from the start."

I held her gaze. "You said you wanted this one."

She eyed me. "Do you still not know me? This was your kill from the moment you stepped in the room. You have earned it. But do leave a few table scraps for me – just a little. I would appreciate that."

"I will do my best," knowing full well that the Passenger would take his time with this one.

"Now, you have to go. Rafe will come, bring some of the gang with him, and we will get the children to the hospital."

"We could do that," I countered.

"Yes, but then those folks at the hospital would be nosy, and wonder who you were. Not to mention the video cameras. Go. Now. I will take good care of them. I always take good care of my children."

As I turned to leave, I could hear the little boy, my little boy, cry out to me. "Where are you going?"

Alyra said quietly, "He has other things he has to do. Superheroes are always busy."

"But I don't even know your name."

I knelt down, extending my hand in a rich bow. "I am the Dark Avenger," I said with just a touch of flamboyance.

The boy smiled. "I like that name."

"I have to go," I said quietly, as his groping hands made contact with my leg, as if he could hold me back.

"You are going to stop him, aren't you? You're the one."

I only smiled. "You are safe now. I promise you that."

"Will I ever see you again?"

God, I hoped not. I tried to remember the superhero script. "You never know," was my vague answer.

"Okay, goodbye then." His face had locked into a firm statement of his approval. I was a superhero – things to do, people to kill.

I could hear Alyra on the phone with Rafe. I give the man credit – the conversation was not long, and he was apparently on his way.

"You need to go. Rafe knows that you are my friend, but when he sees this, he is going to know more than you will want him to know."

"I don't want to leave them."

"I'll be here."

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, but remember what it is that you are about to do. A beautiful death, Dexter. A beautiful kill. This man doesn't deserve anything less that your most intricate and intimate attentions." She smiled, that lovely wicked smile.

"Be safe," she called to me as I made my way to the exit. It took a lot to actually leave. Although the Passenger was clearly wanting to get this party started, I felt a sense of obligation to those children. But I finally reckoned that they would be alright. Just to be sure, I drove down the dirt road and parked, hidden underneath one of the trees by the road. And sure enough – within 20 minutes I could hear the bikes rumbling. They had bag after bag of supplies, and there were maybe ten of them. They would take care of the children.

Now it was time for me to take care of Gregor Martinez.

Chapter 46

While it was no picnic getting the fat lummox onto the table, as I arrayed my tools I could feel the tide of rage starting to spill over. I whispered patience, this must be done right, in its own time.

Much, much time.

And we did take our time. I did not gag him – I enjoyed the clarion calls of his screams. He begged, over and over. But then, most of them do. But somehow, his was just that little more enjoyable than most. I took a note from my brother's handbook, and started removing his limbs, one at a time.

Starting with the appendage he had used to hurt the little boy.

I didn't stop, until I basically had the human equivalent of a doorstop. But I had been careful. Each incision, each slice had been tourniqueted, so my new playmate could appreciate the precision of my work. The tide of the emotion was waning, replaced by a fiery intensity of purpose that I embraced.

I never heard Alyra come in, but when I took my place at the head of the table, for the final stroke, she was there. She smiled at me. An odd smile, but I smiled back. And drove the blade in with all of my strength. There was a gasp, a rattling breath, then nothing.

The soft whispers of my contented Passenger lulled me, and I found myself sliding towards the ground. Suddenly, Alyra was under my shoulder, helping me to stand. I could still feel the strange smile on my face. I had never done anything like this before – had never contemplated it. Oh, a foot here, and a hand there, sometimes an entire leg. But everything? No. It had been thrilling. But as the thrill faded, so did the anger, and I was left with an empty, hollow place.

Alyra sat me in the corner, and taking up my saw, began to clean up. I tried to get up to help her, but in all honesty, Mr. Limbs were not having solid conversations with Mr. Brain. What I had done was truly horrific, something out of a B horror movie. But it was necessary. It had to be done.

The beautiful kill.

I did not realize I had dozed off, until Alyra shook me awake. I looked around – the room was pristine. "I buried our little friend."

But that was wrong. That was not how you were supposed to do it. I struggled to my feet, falling down again. "Dexter, it's alright. There is no evidence – the site is pristine, I promise you. And so are my hands, I personally did the scrubbing. But I did it the way you like it – in pieces, each wrapped. I was careful. I promise."

I looked at her, feeling my eyelids sagging again. "We need to go home now, right?" she said quietly.

"Home," I said. My voice sounded different, as though I was hearing myself from several yards away.

I could never have made it to the car without Alyra's assistance, and I made no arguments as she took the keys to the SUV, mumbling about tall drivers and cars built for them and only them. Once again, I dozed.

When we got home, it took me a few minutes to realize that we had not gone to my home. Alyra admonished me not to open the door to the car before she could get over there.

"Now, what did I just ask you to do?"

"Not to open the car door."

"Good, Boy Scout."

As soon as her door closed, I opened my door, and ever so gracefully I landed in a heap on her driveway. I could hear the titter of laughter, as she realized I was alright. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Let me go to sleep?"

"That sounds like a lovely suggestion."

How she actually got me in the house and up three flights of stairs, I will never know. Everything was a blur. There was even a shower in there somewhere. She got me out of my bloody clothes, clean, and put me into an old T-shirt and promptly put me to bed. The T-shirt was obviously hers, a black shirt with a yellow picture of Rogue, from the X-men. I felt special. She brought out a towel, washed my face and hands. I closed my eyes – the sensation of cold was nice, penetrating. I liked cold on nights like these.

Then I tried to sit up as a cold flash came to my slowly turning mind. "I have to go home. The children…" I couldn't believe it took me so long to think of them.

"Taken care of. Deborah went over there. I told her I was having a rough night, and that I needed your help."

"No, I really need to go. They depend on me." Try as I might, I could not get my muscles to cooperate with my brain.

A very soft hand stroked my face. "No, Dexter, you need to be here. You need to be with me."

"With you?" I said hazily.

"Yes, with me."

"Why?"

She put a delicate kiss on my forehead. "Just trust me."

"Of course," I said, and with that, I submerged into unconsciousness.

I awoke with a start, feeling a chill wind caressing down my back. The images flashing through my mind were almost too horrible to bear. My thoughts returning over and over to the sight, the small, defenseless child, raped, in front of me. Likely raped over and over and over.

Why had we waited so long to take care of Martinez? Why hadn't he been first on the list! Alyra should have known. I had been following him – I should have suspected.

I was covered in sweat, and my entire body was trembling. I felt something warm pressing against me. My first urge was to push it away, but somehow I could not. I lifted my head, to realize that someone had their arm around me. My head was lying on someone's chest.

Alyra looked down at me. "Hello," she said softly.

"You knew," I said in a soft voice.

"Oh, yes. After any emotion of that magnitude, you have a crash. A hard crash. And the last thing in the world you want is to be alone."

"But you were alone. When this happened to you."

"Yes. Which is why I wasn't going to let that happen to you."

My legs were entwined with hers, my arm around her waist. I looked at my hand, like it was a foreign object. "You are holding me?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Most of the night. Don't worry. You have been a perfect gentleman."

"I need to get up," but even as I struggled, my body would not allow itself to move away from the warmth that was surrounding it.

"Maybe in a little while. Not yet, though."

"You hate it when people touch you. You can't stand it."

"Yes, well, you don't always get what you want. But sometimes, you get what you need."

"You haven't slept at all, have you." It wasn't a question.

She sighed. "No."

"Then I need to move." She needed her rest, every bit as much as I did.

"No." The command was firm, and her arm held me with surprising strength. "How do you feel?"

"Empty. Hollow inside."

I could feel her nod. "When that gets better, then you can get up."

"It will get better?" I could hear the hopeful tone to my voice, almost pleading. I didn't do pleading.

"Yes, I promise." I could feel her hands stroking my hair, gently, rhythmically. "But now, you just need to rest."

"I close my eyes and I see…"

"No. You can't let yourself do that. Remember, Dexter. You saved that boy. More than that, you gave him a hero! He will not become one of us, Dexter. Because of you. He has a future! Because of you. You did that. You saved him."

In my gut, it all reeked of bullshit, but I strained to listen to her words. Dark Avenger indeed. As I felt the tears start, Alyra tightened her grip on me, pulling me close.

When the sobs came, they were wrenching, painful, horrible things. But Alyra held on, until finally my body had taken as much as it could.

"It's alright, Dexter. I'm here. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Bet you a dollar?"

That got a full throated laugh. "That's your own fault. I keep running, you keep chasing. Finally, a girl just figures that she's been caught." She lay my head back against her chest (she had a really nice chest – I wondered if I had noticed that before), winding her legs through mine, pulling me to her with the hand she had wrapped around my waist. "Sleep, Dark Avenger. Sleep."

Within minutes, I was fast asleep.

Several days later, when the boy entered Miami Homicide, it took all I had not to dive under the desk. He was flanked by his two parents, who proceeded directly to Captain Matthews' office. I had no idea why they were here – possibly to discuss the whereabouts of one Gregor Martinez. I wasn't terribly worried that they might find him, as I knew without a shadow of a doubt that he made a very nice rural flower garden his final resting place.

As I got back to work, I didn't even hear the door open, and the little boy was standing directly in front of me. I froze.

He cocked his head. "Do I know you?" He bore little resemblance to the boy I had rescued. His hair was clean and cut, his clothes were those of the classic WASP preppy family, and his eyes were absolutely clear. But the intelligence was the same.

I returned his stare. "I don't think so."

"What's your name?"

"Dexter," I said promptly.

"I had a friend. He saved my life. And I forgot to thank him. And he looks a lot like you."

I smiled. "There are a lot of people in Miami who look like me."

That gave him pause. "Do you think you might see him sometime?"

I toyed with this idea for a moment. I may not have been a father long, but I knew the implications of moments like these. You had to do things right. "I might see him. Around."

The boy smiled, a tooth filled grin. "Then you can tell him thank you for me, right?"

"I can do that."

He moved back to the door, as I saw his parents running around, frantically spying for their child. He turned back to me, giving me a jaunty wave, and went out to meet his worrying parents.

Sometimes, it really is quite satisfying to be me.

Chapter47

Once again, the werewolf killer made his monthly rounds. Three strikes this month, each one more gruesome than the previous. Still junkies and street whores, still with a wound to the leg before the chase, but his progression up the ecological chain was quite clear this time. The first of these men was thinner than most women I have encountered, almost fragile in appearance, and showed very little signs of either running or struggling. There were no ripping marks from briars and undergrowth, no signs of searching for a weapon. This was a man who knew he was dead, and simply allowed it to happen. We had hopes that this would mean that the location of the "home-base" would be easy to find, but apparently, in this instance, the werewolf killer had simply lifted his victim and carried him the distance that he should have run. The site was clearly not the site where the lethal strike was made, and there was only minimal blood spatter, more like run-off. That didn't make the dissection any less thorough or gruesome. Again, eviscerated, all of the internal organs removed, and despite the scant amount of fleshy abode, he was still marked extensively with post-mortem wounds. The killer had still gotten in his practice.

The second victim was a bit wirier, and he appeared to have actually run. The base of his jeans were ripped, clearly from the undergrowth as he ran. He had made an effort to find a weapon, but the tree limb was simply split in two – only the presence of wolf hairs on it identified it as something that may have struck the killer. But there was no blood. The body was still destroyed, limbs amputated, one arm appearing to have literally been torn from the body, rather than severed. Several muscles had been dissected out, in addition to his internal organs – this was new. None of us really liked to think of what they really represented, as they were basically indicative of excellent cuts of meat for the more creative kind of chef. This was the kill of an animal, cleaving off bits of meat for later consumption or storage. And this showed that his work with his blades was becoming fine indeed, allowing for the meticulous nature of the dissections.

The third and final victim of the month was slowly approaching the stature of a normal male, but he still had a wasted appearance, of one who took very little care of himself, whether because of lack of access to food or simply spending his money in other ways of course I could not distinguish. He also had put up signs of a fight – his upper body was covered with lacerations that all appeared to be premortem, as though he was using his arms and chest to try to keep the killer away from his throat. But in the end, just as with all of the others, the throat had been removed. His long and straggly hair was saturated with blood, and in addition to the amputations we were getting so familiar with, he had apparently lost several fingers in the fight. This was clearly a man who knew that he was fighting for his life, and meant to do all that he could to avoid the business end of this killer. But in the end, there were just too many blades, coming too fast. The blood spray indicated a very fast and furious assault, spread over several yards, rather than the simple catch and kill most of the victims demonstrated. I wondered if a normal person would feel more sympathy for this man, as he had fought the hardest of any of the victims we had seen so far. Of course, in my case this was moot, but I certainly did respect it. He had taken a lot of damage before being taken out.

We were unable to locate any of the home-bases for these assaults, despite an exhaustive perimeter search. We found several buildings, old houses, but no evidence that the killer had used them. There was clearly a method to his selection of sites, not only where to end but where to begin these chases, that remained elusive to us.

Worse, I could feel Alyra's exhaustion with each kill. She was working hard to try to elucidate the patterns behind the killing, the ultimate motivation behind each step, to try to give us a better chance of catching him. As she was the only one with any real insights into the killer, it was a tremendous amount of pressure, and none of it was subtle. Laguerta didn't do subtle. I don't think any of the team were really thinking about what this might do to someone who was very, very ill already. But of course they wouldn't – because none of them knew. Damn her pride. I didn't like watching this sap the little energy that she had – and although she made it to work on each of the days following the full moon, she rarely accepted my invitations to come back to the house for dinner or company. It was becoming frankly alarming. When she disappeared for a few days, I knew that while I had to give her some space, I wouldn't give her much. I was surprised at this paternal side to my concern for her – I would not sit idly by and watch the team sap what little life she had left in her. This needed careful consideration.

But in the end, events beat me to it.

Chapter 48

I could feel my rage building as I opened the car door, and headed for the entrance of the Hotel de Death. This time, I had had enough. Nurse Stephanie, aka Bubbles, had called at the office to tell me that something was terribly wrong with Alyra, and that I needed to get there right away. I had broken at least 3 traffic laws, and possibly more, to get across town to get there. Laguerta had been most obliging in letting me go – she had developed an affinity for my friend. Ironically, this had also made Alyra and Deb fast friends. No one had ever stood up to a Deborah onslaught before, and you just had to respect that.

I did not stop to check in at the front, and for once, the Nurse Nazi Bernice had enough brains not to follow me. The Passenger was very much at the fore. I could not explain his affinity for this tiny woman, but there was no question he was fond of her. And he did not like to see her mistreated.

Especially after all that she had done for me.

Nurse Stephanie was at the door waiting for me.

"Tell me." My voice was hoarse, overflowing with anger.

"She started having pain last night, serious pain. So we called the doctor, to ask for some more pain medication. He said that she was on adequate pain medication. We told him that her pulse rate and blood pressure were elevated, and that she was showing signs of pain behavior."

"Pain behavior?" I queried.

Tilting her head as though trying to explain something that is very hard to explain, she replied, "You know, grimacing, fidgeting, crying out, tears, lack of sleep."

I could feel my eyes widen. "You can't be serious. Not Alyra."

"I know!" she cried. "No matter how bad she hurts, she never shows it, Mr. Morgan. I have known her to hurt so bad she can't move, and she never cries out, she never cries, she never makes faces. She just doesn't. She just smiles and tells herself to suck it up. I have even heard her say it! We all knew it was bad, that the doctor needed to come in."

"And he didn't," I said flatly.

"No, he absolutely refused. He said she was getting addicted to what she was on already, so he even took that away."

"He took away that pain patch she had." I made it a statement more than a question.

Bubbles lowered her head. "He made us take it off. He said he would see her in the morning, but he hasn't been in yet. He was supposed to be here for rounds at 9:00…" She looked helplessly at the clock, which was showing the time to be almost noon.

"And you didn't call me before why?"

"I had hoped the doctor would come in, see how serious this was."

I sighed. I had several opinions of this "doctor," and none of them were good. "Tell me how she is doing."

"Oh, Mr. Morgan, it's awful. She can't stay still. She just shakes and shakes. And that noise she makes, you know, when she hurts. She just keeps making that sound – it doesn't stop. You can see her, trying to push it back, push it away. You see her working at it, and then it seems to all come back in a huge wave, and she just collapses. She tries so hard to be brave. She's taken to hiding, so we don't see her. She hides in the bathroom, under the bed. Even Bernice almost stole one of those damn patches to put back on her. They aren't great, but they help. Every little bit helps. But we can't do anything! We've tried ice, we've tried heat. They help for a little while, but she hurts everywhere. Her back, her arms, her legs, her gut. She can't eat, she can't drink – she hasn't eaten anything in 2 days, no water in a full day. I just don't know…"

"Why am I learning about this right now? Why didn't someone call me sooner?" I could taste acid in my mouth, as my rage simmered. I could get used to this emotion.

"You know Alyra. She doesn't want to burden anyone. She hates to bother people. I asked her to call you, and she flatly wouldn't do it. I don't think she wants you to see…"

I raised my hand to stop her. I had heard enough. "If that doctor comes in, you send him to me. Do you understand?"

It was time for her eyes to widen. She could see it in my eyes, the anger flaming hard. I didn't care. She nodded, tersely.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Morgan. Thank you so very much."

I nodded, grabbed the door handle, and opened the door.

I closed the door behind me and locked it. As I turned back to the room, I was subsumed by a feeling of emptiness. I called her name. Nothing. The bed had clearly been slept in, by a rough sleeper at that – the sheets were tossed this way and that. I turned to the right, opening the door to the bathroom. It was empty. I even checked the shower stall. No one was there.

I made my way to the bed, leaning over to see underneath. No one. I looked under the one chair in the room, behind the dresser. I even checked the sliding glass door, but it was secure. And you couldn't really lock it from the outside. So she had to be in the room.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. The Passenger was very much with me in that moment, and I could feel his hiss of disapproval. We were not thinking rationally. We should not be looking. We should be listening.

I closed my eyes, slowed my breathing. And I heard it. That tinny, whistling noise that meant that pain had her in its dominion. I could feel the Passenger spread his wings. I kept my eyes closed, stood, and followed my ears. I bumped into a small bag, and I looked down. I was standing just outside the closet. The tiny little closet. I could hear a massive roaring in my ears, as the rage threatened to overflow as the tiny whispers of her breathing reached me. My fists tightened.

No. Control was what I needed for now. Care. A gentle touch. Save the rage for when it was needed.

I was learning.

The door to the closet was cracked open. I reached for the door, and opened it very, very slowly. I could see her feet, poking out from underneath a series of laundry cleaning sacks for clothes. My God, even her feet were trembling. I sat down carefully, slowly, so she could see every movement. I could not see her, but I knew damn well she could see me.

"Alyra?" I said softly.

"Dexter." Her voice was hoarse, as though she had been screaming for hours. I could feel the talons of the Passenger scraping inside me. The plastic wrap from her dry cleaning was crinkling. Her whole body was shaking, making her clothes tremble with her.

"I am going to move some of these clothes so I can see you, okay?"

A long, quiet moment passed. "No."

I sighed. The expected response. "Alyra, I want to help you, okay? I need to help you. But I need to see you."

She said nothing, and I noted that her feet almost had a bluish tint to them.

Alright, no more Mr. Nice Dexter.

I stood up, grabbed two handfuls of dry cleaned clothes, and pulled them out of the closet. I laid them carefully on the bed. When I turned back around, I swear, I almost hissed. Even in the darkness of the closet, her pale face shone like a beacon. Even her lips, normally pink even if the rest of her was white as a sheet, were a horrible blue cast. She drew her arms up over her eyes at the sudden brightness, then slowly lowered them.

She was almost naked, wearing only a bra and panties. Her knees were pulled tight up against her, her arms wrapped around her knees, as though she was trying with all of her might to stop the shaking. I could see muscles writhing up under her skin like snakes. Her head rested on her knees, the muscles of her neck bulging, as though she had to force her head to keep this position.

Her eyes were ablaze, the golden color beneath the green visible even against the darkness of the closet. The pain was riding her like some horrible beast, but she was fighting. Her greatest weakness – she never, ever ran from a fight. I could see the battle. Her own Beast, so like my Passenger, was fighting. And my Passenger was responding in kind.

"Talk to me," I said gently, feeling the lilting chill that was the Passenger riding in my voice.

"Nothing," she said quietly, keeping her head down.

"No bullshit. We promised. Remember? No lies. Don't lie to me, Alyra. Talk to me." I felt like we were starting all over again, from the first hello, trying to reach out to her, but taking care not to get swatted.

She continued silent – I noticed the thin sheen of perspiration all over her. Her breaths were ragged and shallow, and the soft whistling sound that announced that she was in pain grated on my ears. "You know I won't hurt you," I said softly, making sure to give her distance. "You know I won't."

"I hurt," she whispered.

"Where?"

The word came out as a gasp, "Everywhere."

"What can I do? I have medicine."

She closed her eyes. "Might help."

I caught the hesitation, just barely there, but the Passenger heard it clear as a church bell. "But it won't be enough."

"No. Nothing will be enough."

Her eyes lit with intent, she looked up at me. "You need to go. You shouldn't be here."

"But I am here," I riposted, "So let me help."

"I didn't want you to see this! Not ever! Never!" As she raised her voice, her gravelly tones made me ache. For the longest time, she had hid her pain so well that I had had no idea when she was hurting. It took a lecture from my son to convince me that she was genuinely hurting. I could not be so easily fooled now.

"Why?" I asked her, working hard to keep my own anger at bay.

"Because you will leave. They all leave. Everyone leaves. And I will be alone again. And I don't want to be alone again." This came out almost as one word, so quickly were the words said. Words she didn't want to say, but we both knew to be true. A dark, dark fear. Dying alone.

I was frankly shocked. That she would admit that kind of bond was very, very unlike her. And a very worrying sign of exactly how much she was hurting.

I couldn't even imagine how much pain it would take to get her to admit something like that.

I lowered my head, leaning towards her. "But I am here. And I see you. And I am not running. YOU, on the other hand…" That actually almost won a smile.

I pulled out the needles, three in all. I had come prepared. As I grasped her arm, she flinched. "It hurts to even be touched?" That explained her lack of garments at least.

She gave me a quick nod, but did not shy away from me as I leaned forward. I had known for quite some time that Alyra was tough. Ground in the turf tough. To see her frightened was an experience I had never thought to see, ever. Not while she was sober. Delirious, well, that had been different.

I found that I really didn't like it.

I finished the injections, and she maintained her position. The trembling had slowed some, but she was still horribly pale, and the pain still flashed out of her eyes. I closed my eyes. "Tell me what I can do. Anything."

She averted her gaze. "I can't."

I felt my neck twitch, and I felt the Passenger's wings spread. So there was more that I could do. And the little minx just wouldn't tell me. "Why? I want to help you. You promised, remember. No lies. Nothing hidden between us. Just between us.

"I know," she whispered. "But I can't. I won't."

"At least explain to me why you won't tell me," I managed.

"Because you would do it."

"What do you mean?"

She sighed. Even her sigh came out as a tremble. "You would hate it. You would loathe me for it. But you would do it, if you thought it would help me. And I can't do that to you."

"How do you know I would hate it?" I said, trying to fathom what I could possibly do that I would hate so much that she would be loathe to ask for it.

Her laugh was bitter. "You have told me so many times that you cannot stand it, that you utterly loathe it, that it would be cruelty itself to ask it of you. I will not do it. I can handle this. And you won't be mad at me."

My mouth hung wide open. "Sex?" I ventured. That was the only thing I could figure she would ask me that I might balk at, but given our current situation, my thoughts on that could change rapidly.

That got a genuine laugh. "Worse."

What in the world could be worse than sex? More absolutely degrading than the act that while giving me a lovely child for which I am eternally grateful, I found very undignified.

"Tell me," I demanded.

"I can't," she whispered. "I don't want to lose you. Not now. Not yet. Please."

I was stumped. "What in the world could you ask of me that would make you think I would ever leave you? And yes, if you asked me, I would have sex with you, without a single regret, if it would make you feel better. Of course I would do that. I would do anything in my power to help you right now. You know that I would. Who cares if I like it? You are in pain. You can't move. You can barely breathe. To hell with what I like. Now tell me."

I leaned into the closet, until my eyes were inches from hers. "You will tell me."

"Gonna threaten me?" Her eyes showed a twinkle, just a spraying of light. There she was. I knew she was in there.

"Worse. I am going to sit here, right here, until you tell me."

She tilted her head. "That's not much of a threat."

"Yeah, well, you work with what you have."

She closed her eyes. I could see the light playing on her cheeks, where they had been stained by tears. I could not comprehend the kind of pain that would reduce her to this. I had seen her with pain that would lead grown men to cry, and she kept working, kept smiling, kept acting as if there was nothing wrong. I had seen her with her muscles so tortured and tightened that she couldn't even move, and she had not let out a single cry. But this? This was something I knew I could not comprehend.

I moved onto my knees, leaning forward. I took her hands into mine, knowing that I was hurting her. She didn't flinch, as I knew she wouldn't. I used my thumbs to stroke her palms, gently. "Please, let me help you. If there is anything I can do, let me do it. I am a man. You have no idea how cruel it is to tell a man there is something he can do and not let him do it. It is something in the Y chromosome. We just can't deal with it. We have to fix things. Or at least try. Please. Tell me."

She remained silent, but I could hear the rate of her breathing change with the rhythm of my touch on her hands.

At almost the exact same moment, I realized what she needed as Cody's words came back to me in a rush. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she whispered, "Grab onto me, and don't let me go." I was moving far faster than my brain could ever have any involvement with, as the Passenger bade me grip her hands hard, and I pulled her into my arms with all the strength that I had. I pulled her arms around my back as I gripped her tightly, one hand weaving itself into her hair, driving her head into my chest, the other pulling her legs around my waist, then clutching at her back.

I could feel the damn burst, as wave after wave of pain flowed around me. It was like something alive, attacking in all directions. She gripped me so hard that it hurt, but that was no matter. My own breathing was coming hard, my heart pounding in response to hers. I put my head down on top of hers, and just curled my body around her.

After a while, I heard a soft murmuring, and it actually took me quite a while to realize that the voice I heard was my own. This was not the game, I wasn't pretending to be human. This was real, but the only reality that I knew with this kind of emotion was intricately involved with the game. The fact that I was softly murmuring was part of the game, but the things I was murmuring about were all me. I was telling her that I had found another target, we would have so much fun with this one, and I needed her for this, so we had to do what we had to do to get her feeling better. I told her that my Passenger really liked her, that we would do whatever we needed to do to help her to feel better. I asked her if she could feel him. I could feel her nod against my chest. And of course, the werewolf killer would return, soon enough. We would need her for that.

"We don't mind holding you. We like it. Both of us. We like to be close to you." Not lies. Truth. Strange truth, but truth.

It could have been 15 minutes, it could have been hours, that we lay there in this strange tableau. Ever so slowly, the tremors had slowed to a fine tremble. The tremendous grip had eased off to a companionable embrace. My hand had snuck down from her hair and was now stroking her back, gently. She lifted her head, and I looked down at her. And she blushed.

"You ever tell anyone about this…" she started, her old fire starting to return.

"Yes. I know. You will kill me. No problem." That got a laugh.

Of all of the things in this universe that I would make very large wagers that I would never, ever see before I died, seeing Alyra Montgomery blush was near the top of the list. "I'm sorry," she said, as she delicately tried to disengage herself. Not so fast.

My grip tightened. "I didn't say you could leave, young lady," I said firmly. "I'm just starting to get the hang of this thing."

"I know you hate "cuddling," that you loathe all that mushy touchy feely crap." If anything, the blush deepened.

"No, my dear, I think we have to revise that statement," running my fingers through her hair. "I do not like "cuddling" with women I have no taste for, who irritate me, or I find some other reason to dislike. To be quite honest, when I rather fancy the girl, or say, she happens to be one of my best friends, or at that, my only real friend, I don't think I really mind it all that much. One might even say that I am quite fond."

She lifted her head to see my face. "No lies. You promised."

One aberrant strand had fallen over her eyes. I moved it aside. "Indeed. And I am not lying. You feel quite nice. The naked part is a nice touch, although I must confess my mind usually doesn't skirt that kind of territory. You have nice skin."

As anticipated, that last part got me smacked on the arm, but not that brutally hard, and did its job in lightening the mood.

I smiled down at her, and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. "In all seriousness, you have no idea how nice it feels to know that with my bare hands, I can help alleviate some of your pain. Very empowering, in that Oprah sense of the term. It means that at least in some ways, I am capable of good. And I need that. And we both know it."

I could see by the look on her face that she bit back a sharp retort. She recognized bullshit, even well done bullshit. "Dexter, you always make me feel better. Didn't you know that?"

I sobered a bit. "You mean that? Like how?"

Alyra laughed, putting a hand on my chest. "Boy Scout, every day I spend with you is a day lived, not one just survived. If I have pain, you make it better. If I feel sick, you make me get up anyway, which makes me feel better. If I don't want to eat, you pretty much make me. And you always challenge my mind in ways no one ever has. How many people can discuss tigers and great white sharks and not be bored out of their minds? And of course, there is the hobby…"

"Yes, there is that…"

She took my hand, brought it to her lips, which actually had some color now other than blue. "You let me be me, and you don't even get mad. I have a temper tantrum and you just watch. I think you even find them amusing."

"You have a talented repertoire of ripostes with respect to the English language, I must admit. I wish I could back talk people like that."

Guffawing, she smiled, "No you don't. You do normal. You do normal better than normal people. I just never could master that."

I shook my head. "That's not true. I have seen you do it. You can fake normal better than I can. You just don't like it."

Turning her head, she said, "No, I can do it for short periods, then I get frustrated. You can maintain it. I can't."

I backed up a bit, holding her out at arm's length. "You look better."

"I feel better. Thank you. Even if that really was all bullshit."

"Not the least in the world. I don't bullshit about things like cuddling. If I told you I liked it and I didn't, I would be screwed every time you crashed at my place, and we are not having that."

"Such a gentleman," she sarcastically retorted.

I gave her a bow. "I try. But I am guessing that this episode has yet to have ended, yes?"

That sobered her up. "No, they normally last a few days, at least. If I can keep on top of it, get the medications BEFORE the pain ramps up, I can function reasonably well. I can even work. I am a little slower, kind of stiff, but I can get things done. But now? It's in everything, it's everywhere. It hurts even to breathe. But the medications are key. I hate it, but they are. I need them."

I gave her a sober look indeed. "Which they are not going to give you here."

"Point."

I stood up, offering her my hand. "Which means you need to start packing."

She was a bit wobbly on her feet still, but she managed to stay upright. I made sure that no matter where she moved, we were still touching. "I guess I could go home for a bit…"

"Nothing doing. My place or bust. That way I can keep an eye on you. Dr. Andrews says that you are very tricky during episodes like this, especially doing things he explicitly tells you not to do."

"Rat bastard!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, he takes a tremendous amount of joy in ratting you out," I agreed. "But I am grateful for it. "

We both turned as there was a knock at the door. "Doctor's rounds," came a squeaky voice. "Open the door."

"Not even a please," I muttered as Alyra scrambled for some clothes to drag on. I stayed next to her, allowing her to brace her weight on me as she got dressed. The Passenger was very pleased when we were in contact, and displeased when we were not. I took my time to get to the door, allowing Alyra to back out of view.

I was going to enjoy this. I really was.

I was quite satisfied by the little irate little man in the long white coat, waiting with a cadre of what I assumed were either residents or students (shorter white coats, with bunches of papers). He was clearly a baldy who had simply decided not to own up, and had made five tremendously long hairs do the work of about five hundred. His face was flushed red with anger. "I am not used to having to wait to see my patients, young man."

I took a step forward, clearly into the man's personal space. Everyone else took a step back, but baldie held his ground. Good for him. "Well, sir, to be frank I am not used to having to fish my friends out of the back of tiny closets because they have been in so much pain overnight that they can't even stand the touch of their own clothes on their skin, much less bed sheets."

"And you are?"

"Not interested in telling you who I am, quite frankly." The student group stepped back further. Apparently, baldie had a reputation, likely for temper. I was going to enjoy this, as the Passenger emitted a dark chuckle.

"Well, I am a physician, and Miss Montgomery is my patient, and I need to see her."

I appeared to consider this, then shook my head. "Ah, no. I don't think she needs to see you. I mean you can SEE her. Here she is. But you are not going to see her."

"What? What?"

"Actually, I am quite positive she doesn't need to see you." I leaned back into the room, where Alyra leaned on the door jam. "Do you need to see the doctor, love?"

"No, dear, I think I'll pass today."

"I was told that this patient was in tremendous pain last night. I was told that this was an emergency!" Baldie was almost vermillion by this point. He turned on Nurse Bernice and Nurse Stephanie.

"And yet, you refused to come see her, and are actually about four hours late for your rounds. Now, that's compassion and empathy. Is this what they teach in medical schools today?" I spat.

"She was, sir! Unable to move, crying, hiding in the closet, in the bathroom. Especially after removing that pain patch, as you ordered," Nazi Bernice adamantly defended.

"It was terrible," Stephanie aka Bubbles whispered.

"Oh, yes," I said conversationally. "That was how I found her. Isn't that right, honey?"

Alyra piped in, "Of course, dear. Absolutely dreadful." I could feel her Beast, roaming down to the tips of her fingers as they interwove with mine. I found myself smiling.

Like I said – sometimes it is very, very fun to be me.

Baldie brought himself up to his great height, possibly five six on a good day and with shoes on. Thick shoes. "I told you all that she was over-reacting. As you can see, she is quite fine now. Now, if you will just step out of my way."

I lowered my voice to a growl, as the Passenger and I said, "No, I don't think I will, sir." This time, when I stepped forward, Baldie backed up. Maybe he did have a sense of self-preservation. "You see, when I found her this morning, she was exactly as these lovely ladies described her. Unable to walk, in so much pain that she could not let anything touch the surface of her skin. It took morphine, fentanyl, and toradol to even get her up to her feet." I grabbed him easily by his lapel, and lifted him off the ground, moving forward until his back was against the wall. He had begun screaming about calling the police – then he got a good look at my face, and apparently felt that staying quiet might speed things up a bit.

"Now, you see, what I really want to do, I mean, REALLY want to do, is give you some idea of how much pain my friend was in. And I can do that. I know how to do that. You didn't give her ANYTHING last night. You even took away the only pain medication that she had. And don't tell me that she had Tylenol and Ibuprofen. That's for twisted ankles and sprained knees – not metastatic cancer pain. And you refused to come in to see her, because you needed to get your beauty sleep. Well, there's no doubt that you really need to get more of that, because beauty you ain't got. Speaking of which, Stephanie, do you have a pair of scissors? Can you get me a pair?" She nodded, and dashed off.

"So, you arrogant bastard, you left my friend to suffer for hours and hours, and you did absolutely nothing. All the nurses had were heating pads and cold packs, and they did what they could. But you didn't care, did you? It didn't matter to you. Because it wasn't you. So I think you should have some idea of what pain is really like."

I let go, and the little man dropped to the floor, and I hit him with a right cross that sent him flying. He landed several feet away. Nurse Stephanie had just arrived with the scissors, standing open mouthed. I smiled at her warmly, taking the scissors from her numb hand. I released Alyra's hand, and I walked over to the unconscious form and grabbed at the small group of hairs that were wound so carefully around his bald spot. It had probably taken him years to grow them out. I lifted them up. The students stood entranced, as I kept pulling and pulling and pulling. I had several feet of hair in my hands when I was done, and I snipped them off neatly at the root.

"Nurse Bernice?" I queried.

I could see the hungry look in her eyes. "Can you make sure this is returned to him when he wakes up?" She nodded her head, taking the tuft of hair in her hands, holding it at a distance as though it was a dead mouse. "And if he thinks of pressing charges against me, please let him know that I do work for the Miami Dade Police Force, and I am seriously considering filing charges on him for medical malpractice in this matter, and I would not hesitate to contact the licensing board for his lack of willingness to come and check on a patient when he is on call when all of you informed him that you felt it was an emergent matter. Do I make myself clear?"

Bubbles murmured, "Crystal."

Bernice was a little slower on the uptake, but just as enthusiastic. "Yes, sir." She beckoned me to lean down, and as I did so she whispered, "Thank you, sir. We have all been wanting to do that for quite some time…"

"Cut the hair?"

"Well, that too…" she muttered.

I smiled my widest smile at the students, who were all frozen in place. "And the lesson for you all as students is that if your patient is in pain, pay attention. Or they might have friends. Just like me." I bowed low. "Best of luck with the rest of your education."

The students moved to cluster around their stricken leader, and I strolled back into the room., taking Alyra's hand again. "Gave him five of the big ones?" she said, looking up at me.

"Right up the side of the face," I replied.

"He deserved worse."

I smiled. "I have a nasty suspicion that he has pushed his nursing staff too far with this one. I think he is going to get reported to the licensing board this time. If not, if my lady wishes, I can still beat him senseless."

Her grin was infectious. "You would do that for little old me?"

"My dear, I will even carry your person in addition to your luggage to get you out of this place." As it was, this was not necessary, but it was a near thing. She had to lean most of her weight against my body, just to get out of the room. But neither I nor my dark friend were complaining.

I helped her to pack a large tote bag, and we made our way home. As far as I was concerned, as of this moment, my home was as much her home as she needed. And it was clear that the children felt the same way.

"No more going back?" asked Cody that evening.

"No more going back," I intoned.

"Good."

Chapter 49

My new tenant slept very well that first night of the last day she would ever spend in a hospice. I didn't know how, but I promised myself she would not find a reason to go back there. No matter what I had to do, play doctor, hire a nurse, it didn't matter – no more house of death for my friend. I would take care of her, for as long as it took. And I could tell that the children were in full agreement of this strategy.

So, we arrived at the Miami-Dade Police Department, two very large wolves amongst a whole lot of sheep, who coincidentally thought they were wolves. Deborah was there, and greeted us with only mild hostility, apparently the war between the two of them was in some stage of truce. Her tips on the werewolf case had given us the only breaks we had, and those weren't many. So only minimal profanity (which was actually a tolerable amount, since Alyra found the eloquent use of the English language a lovely means of communication.)

"So, how the fuck you doing?"

Alyra shook her head, looking mockingly miserable. "Still dying, I am afraid."

Deborah only smiled, used to this game. "Ain't life a bitch?"

"And then you die. But Dexter fed me tacos." With this came a large grin.

Debs laughed. "Just as good on the way back up?"

"You know it."

I laughed. I had to. You had to know them both. No one else on the planet could get away with a conversation like that, and they did it all the time. The best times were in public, and the shocked faces were worth every penny of an expensive meal in some chateau something or another. "Any business?" I asked Debs.

"Nah," she said, grabbing the box of donuts that had been setting on the table, proferring it to Alyra. "Still waiting for that full moon again." Our FBI profiler still maintained that the killer was a madman. The problem was that he genuinely did appear to be a madman, perhaps two madmen, but in his normal guise he could pass for anyone. Which made even a madman very, very hard to catch. The wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Hey," I said. "Where is that brotherly love?" I eyed the doughnuts, just out of my reach.

"Hey," Deborah mocked, "I just like her better. And she gives me good info." If only she knew.

"I give you good info, sometimes," I protested. And I did. It wasn't my fault that the Passenger couldn't tune his more delicate and sophisticated rhythms into a real, honest to goodness monster.

Alyra pondered her choice from the selection of doughnuts. There was one Bavarian cream left. Exactly how evil was this woman? My stomach just had to know.

She selected the raspberry filled, which meant I could grab the Bavarian cream.

Debs gave Alyra the eye. "Any other thoughts?" She meant about the werewolf killer.

"Many," Alyra said quietly. "But nothing really insightful. Just wonderings. What did your witnesses say?"

Debs took a big bite of her donut. "Both of them agreed that it was a big, hairy monster, and could in no way be a human being. Some of the sketches are nightmarish."

"He can't transform, so he forces a transformation. He makes one, with the tools he can use. Blades, fur. His animal side is taking advice from his human side. I still think that his human side may be completely unaware of the wolf.

"But I still think the animal behavior specialist could be key here."

Chapter 15

I was working on some blood spatter from a recent case, another domestic dispute gone bad. Just double checking myself. The fact that the significant other was found holding a kitchen knife dripping with blood obviously made my work somewhat redundant, but I like to be thorough.

I felt a strange sensation from my inner friend, a moment of uneasiness, that forced me to look up. Outside the office, near Angel's desk, everyone was talking to someone.

The new person was quite tall, easily over six feet, with long hair held back tightly into a pony tail. His complexion was dark, but his eyes were a bright blue that I could even see at a distance – sapphire blue. As far as those things go, he appeared to be quite attractive, not that I pay much attention to that sort of thing, but it was also clear that he was attracting the attention of the entire team, as Masouka had joined Angel and Deborah. Even Alyra was standing with them. And she was supposed to be helping me with my paperwork.

Debs caught my eye, and gestured with her head that I should come join them. So I stood up, closing the folder I was working on (I try to stay neat, particularly in my work area), and joined the group.

Debs called out, "Dexter, come meet the new guy," as I approached. "This is our consulting animal behavior specialist, as requested by our secret friend." Alyra got a wink from my sister. I don't know that I have ever seen my sister wink. "This is my brother, Dexter, Dexter Morgan."

The man turned to me, his face falling into an easy smile. "Weiss. Michael Weiss. From the University of Miami."

Batista added, "We have been telling him about the case, and he has been giving us some valuable information."

"Really," I said, wondering how valuable that kind of information really was.

And I was pleasantly surprised. Dr. Weiss actually had brought with him several papers on animal behavior, including a couple of articles of cultures where it was quite normal to believe that you could transform into an animal form. He also had several case reports on lycanthropes – and to my amazement, just as Alyra had indicated, some of them were actually from the past century.

As he spoke to us, the room filled with an easy calm. He was certainly charismatic, and it was evident that he loved the animals that he studied. He did say that most animals find a routine, a pattern in their hunting, and they are very unlikely to vary it, if it continues to be successful. So we had that going for us.

"Most people who believe that they can turn into animals claim this for nefarious reasons, because they want an excuse to be more violent, more destructive. You can certainly see some of that here. But he is clearly following a code of rules, although the rule book may not make sense to any of you. One kill per hunt, one victim per hunt, ending life as soon as possible, and using the victim's remains to sharpen his skills with his weapons. In his animal form, this could constitute almost a moral code, which means that in some ways, he has blurred his human half and his wolf half."

"What would he look like on the street, everyday?" Debs asked.

"If he is following the true werewolf archetype, the myth, he would probably look about the same as you or me. Between the full moons, he most likely would be completely human – and there is a chance that he really doesn't know what he is doing in his animal form. In his human form, he may buy supplies, knife blades, glues, furs – and he just doesn't realize why he needs them, he just does. But when the full moon rises, I don't think you are dealing much with a man's sense of morality. In the animal world, what he is doing is quite normal. Learning how to hunt."

"How can we catch him?" This was from Laguerta.

"I think you are on the right trail. Obviously, he has money, to make the suit construction that he has. Also, it is unlikely that anything to do with the wolf is in his house – he would do everything in his power to keep those aspects of himself separated, so that he can function in the normal world for 28 days out of the month. But as far as I can tell from the images you have shown me, this man is very smart, and he has planned this out meticulously. You are going to have a hard time catching him as a man on the street, and when he plays wolf, you could try dogs, trackers – but you would have to have an idea of where he is going to start the hunt."

"So, we need to know what kind of victims he is going to be choosing, so we can figure out where he is planning to take them," Batista said.

"That's how I see it. The only way to really catch him, I am afraid, is likely through the wolf. The wolf might make mistakes that the man would not, because he doesn't really understand the nature of his victims. And you might get really lucky, and he selects a victim that he cannot bring down."

"How is that lucky?" I asked

"It could mean the game is over. He can't advance to the next level. Of course, he may try another target, but that is just speculation. At this point, he is following a strict set of rules. I think if those rules are broken, he might stop this himself. "

Laguerta looked at all of this. "Can you help us?"

Weiss smiled – he was a handsome devil. Charming, to boot. "I would be delighted to help you in any way that I can."

"We will be having a briefing tomorrow, around 10:00. Can you make it?"

"Well, I teach at that time, but I don't think the students would complain much to miss a day of class."

Laguerta sighed. "We would appreciate it. We are getting such disparate information that we need to try to hammer this down, to get an idea of what we are really looking for."

Weiss nodded. "I will give you all the assistance that I can."

Chapter 49

We all assembled in the smaller conference room for our briefing. Duntry was conspicuous in his absence. He had made it clear to Matthews that he felt this whole "animal/wolf" thing was simply a garden path, and he would prefer to stick with facts instead of fiction. I was surprised that Laguerta had still insisted that the team meet.

Of course, Matthews wasn't there. That was only to be expected.

There was a slide projector in the middle of the table, and the lights were dimmed appropriately as Weiss took the floor. I had expected him to show us our pictures, like Duntry (in other words, I was prepared to be very bored), but that was not the tactic he chose.

Weiss was introducing us to the werewolf. The REAL werewolf.

"Animal forms have been a consistent part of human belief, since the onset of human religions. Many argue as we are also animals, that these archetypes are simply a fundamental part of our thought processes."

The projector flashed on, and a picture of a carved bear flew onto the screen, followed by several other relics, obviously very old, that portrayed a variety of animal figures. "The idea that a human can transform into an animal is also part of almost all known civilizations. However, here, the line between good and evil becomes blurred." He flashed up several slides of what appeared to be man-beasts, including a wolf-man, and bird-man, and a lion-man.

"What do you mean?" Deborah asked. "How could this be good?"

Weiss smiled. "Many of these "shapechangers" were considered heroes of their cultures - almost religious icons - obviously, these were likely mythological creations rather than ancestors, but as I said, all cultures have them as part of their mythic systems. Romulus and Remus, the brother wolves who created the Roman Empire (he flipped to a slide to show two wolves, standing side by side, in front of Roman gates). Animals fit into the mythos of all cultures, and many of those include shapechanger myths. Similar to the vampire myths.

"One of the theories behind the animal forms is that some early civilizations also had serial murderers, and that no one could believe that a human would be capable of that kind of destruction. Just like the vampire myths explained a lot of the plague, the werewolf was likely often used as an explanation for a killer with a particularly violent edge."

"But I mean really, how can real people believe that they turn into animals?" This came from Angel.

"Is that really harder to believe than some of the killings you have seen, perpetuated by good old fashioned sane human beings?" He had me there. We had seen worse – much worse. Killing because you think you are an animal had to be a step up from killing just for shits and giggles. There was at least a reason.

An insane reason, but a reason.

The rest of the conference went quite smoothly. Weiss went through several of the case reports on lycanthropy with us, and the similarities were striking. The use of wolf-furs, wolf-teeth, often an animal skull as a helmet of some kind, forcing a "transformation." While not all lycanthropes were killers, many were quite violent, even those of the past century, using their wolf form to act in a mythological way like a wild beast. Not how a real animal would act, but like a man's myth of a wild animal would act, like the Big, Bad Wolf.

Unlike Duntry, Weiss had actively taken up Alyra's theory, and fully supported it with substantive evidence. People thinking that they turned into animals had often done gruesome and violent things as part of their alter egos. Some of them had indeed suffered significant trauma, loss of someone that they loved, loss of family, or even sexual abuse. These things could act like a trigger, splitting the personality into two different if not necessarily neat halves, one focused on the human being, the other on the violent animal form. It seemed like the animal form provided almost a key to a violent world that the human form just couldn't reach.

I peered at the other members of the team. Vince was nodding, more and more as the meeting progressed. Even Angel seemed riveted by the stories of the people who had indeed fought with an inner beast. Laguerta remained silent, but appeared quietly thoughtful.

Weiss firmly agreed with the prospect that the man was in some type of occupation that brought him in close contact with animals, potentially a veterinarian or zoologist. The pattern was entirely too close to an animal's pattern of hunting – this was not a hunter who just decided to hunt humans. This was a man who knew about animals, how they hunted, and wanted to, in some ways, become one. He helped to create a list of his compatriots in arms, folks with degrees in biology that might have strayed to a darker path. It was more than we had, and at least gave us a list of people we should be talking to, if for no other reason than to get their opinions on the case. He felt it was unlikely that the killer would give himself away in his "human" form, but there might be evidence of a recent trauma, something that might lead a man of letters to want to learn how to kill.

Most importantly, Weiss reiterated the importance of understanding the pattern that the killings had begun to take, in attempting to anticipate where the next 'hunt' might take place. We had to catch this creature as the 'wolf,' in his territory, doing what he does. The man would likely be too intelligent to corner. That, and both Weiss and Alyra believed that the man likely had no idea about his nefarious guest. Like having the clarion call of a Passenger, but as a completely separate identity. The thought made me shiver.

Deborah spread out the list of files, of the kills that had already been examined. We now had the story – we needed to fill in the details, to figure out which way to go. We all set about getting down to work, with our new associate right by our side.

Chapter 50

"Can you babysit tomorrow night? I have another date." I tried to keep the whine out of my voice. It took substantial effort.

"Actually no," Alyra responded, taking me a bit off guard. She loved the kids, and loved to stay with them.

"No?" Alyra had never said no to a babysitting night. She seemed to really enjoy the children, and had always been ready to give them some companionship when I had alternate plans.

"No. Sorry."

"Why not?" I said, feeling curiosity tickling along the darker side of myself.

"I think I have a date."

"You think?" I could feel the hesitation in my voice, and tried to swallow down the irritation that I felt at this intrusion into my life.

"Well, Dr. Weiss has asked me to go to a show with him this weekend. He has two tickets, and his companion for the performance is out of town for family reasons. So he asked if I wanted to tag."

"What performance?"

Her face glowed, as she produced a radiant smile. "Wicked."

"You are kidding me, right?"

"No. Man has carrot, woman jump at carrot. Awaiting stick – plan to duck."

Now the prickle of irritation mushroomed into annoyance. "You have been wanting to see that for quite some time."

"Well, the traveling performance sold out within days, and I just didn't get tickets in time. So yes, I am excited."

"A date?"

She gave me a quizzical look. "I am not sure. I think he is just being nice, because I am an avid listener to his theories about animal behavior, and he actually knows about great white sharks, which is pretty cool. I don't think we will starve for conversation."

"Damn," I muttered. "Now I have to try to get a babysitter on short notice."

"Sorry, boss," she said, still smiling.

"No problem," I said, although inside I was steaming. "You have done right by me these past few weeks, both for hobbies and Deb's Dating hotline. I can't expect you to be free for me all the time." Although, I was forced to admit, that was exactly what I had expected. I was quite frankly irritated at my own irritation. This woman was dying. She was entitled to have a life beyond the sphere of myself and my family. But I honestly hadn't contemplated it.

But I knew one thing. I didn't like it.

Chapter 51

I kept trying to explain. It was like talking to a brick wall.

"You can't honestly tell me that you are considering taking out the head of a drug cartel."

"What he does with his recreational time with respect to drugs has no meaning to me. What he does with his recreational time with respect to young girls concerns me very much."

"You said it yourself – he is guarded at all times. His house is like a fortress. Whenever he goes out, he takes bodyguards – several. How in the world to you expect to pick him up with all of those protections in place?"

Alyra smiled. "Who said anything about picking him up?"

It took my brain a few minutes to slide into Alyra gear. "You are going to assassinate him."

"If you like. That term is as good as any."

"But I thought you liked to make them suffer, hurt them, in the same ways they hurt the children they abuse."

"I do. Most certainly. But one doesn't always get what one wants. That does little to negate the fact that he needs to be stopped."

I realized that I had now come into her element, the aspect of her killing that I had never, ever really imagined. I knew that she did this – had been doing it for years. But I hadn't understood that often it was a decision of necessity, rather than one of desire.

"How?"

"One step at a time, Boy Scout. One step at a time. First, comes surveillance, to determine the best time, the best means. There are so very many options. I wouldn't want to disappoint."

I turned to face her. "I want in."

She gave me an exasperated look. "Look, I promised you I would tell you what I was up to. I am telling you. But you can't be serious. Dexter, this is not exactly the time or the place to be considering this. Putting one person out on this kind of mission is dangerous – adding another only adds to the likelihood of capture, injury, death."

"I don't care. I want in."

"Dexter, you have so many more things to live for than do I. You would be taking a tremendous risk, and for what? This isn't even your kind of playmate."

I could feel the rustling of the Passenger, the stirring of the Need. My type of playmate or not, I wanted to be a part of this. "You can teach me what I need to know."

"Which is a waste of my time, time I could be using to get the plan together, to determine the right way to approach this."

"You know that I can help you."

I could feel her hesitate. Even in a situation like this, with scouting and surveillance, a second pair of eyes can be invaluable. I had learned that from working with her.

"Why, Dexter? You can't feel all that much for the children."

"I am a father, thank you very much."

"Who has a very limited array of emotional response. Why?"

"What difference does it make? I can help you!"

"It could ultimately determine my decision, that's why."

It was my time to hesitate. I could think of a million reasons, excuses I could give her, why I would want to see this man destroyed. But the truth was so much simpler. Better with this woman to stick with the truth.

"I want to see what you do, how you do it."

"No tremendous sympathy, no desire to get rid of another monster?"

I shook my head. "One more dead monster always sounds good to me, especially if I have a role in killing him, but this time, I want to see what you are. What you really are."

She laughed. "You have seen me kill. Several times now, in fact. You have read several of the cases of my kills. Don't think I don't know you have been looking them up. If you don't know me now…"

"This is not my world. It has never been my world. I want to see that world."

She seemed to consider. "Alright. But no one said that this would be easy, or fun."

"I accept that."

"And once you decide to help, you can't just back out. I will create the plan around you, and I will need you there."

"Understood."

And that was that.

For several days, we just watched the house. Mr. Antoine Hernandez did not often leave his fortress of a house – all of his supplies were brought to him, and those who wanted to meet with him came to his house. We considered an early morning strike, but the house didn't rouse until quite late, usually 10:00 or 11:00, which not only did not work with our work schedules, but made it unlikely we would have a good chance for a clean getaway.

One night, we saw a small girl being led from the house. Her hair was in disarray, her dress, a pretty little blue flowered dress, all rumpled. The child had a very startled look on her face, as she was led outside, presumably to her mother. Her mother swept the girl up in her arms, gave a heated look at the guards who surrounded her, and ran as fast as she could.

I could absolutely feel Alyra's anger, as her Beast simply roared. This thing would be done, and it would be done soon. So we continued to scout the house, almost nightly.

But the one thing we had in our favor was that every night, and I mean every night, Mr. Hernandez entertained. His house was surrounded by beautiful gardens and grounds, and he would take to them every evening, escorting his guests around his home, as well as engaging in working meetings as he strode through the yard. Although surrounded by his guards, he still made a tolerable target, with the right weapon.

On the fourth day of our evening surveillance, the rules were dramatically changed. Alyra told me that she needed to get close to the house, and that I needed to keep watch for her. I didn't like this arrangement, but I also understood its necessity. Clearly, she had the beginnings of a plan.

As I went to pick her up, I could see the dramatic change of her attire. She was wearing a loose fitting green top, with a hood, as well as dark green pants. I could see the toes of her boots protruding from the pants, but I knew the knife wouldn't be there. I was right. As she turned to arrange some of her equipment, I could see the flash of a sheath on her left hip, designed for an easy right hand draw. She had a guitar case with her.

"You're not going to sing him to death, are you?"

That got me a glare, then a laugh. "You have obviously heard me singing in the shower. No, I need to see if I can get what I need into position tonight. I will need you to scout for me, to tell me when and where the guards are watching."

"How will we keep in contact?"

She smiled, handing me a handset, as she placed the ear piece over her right ear. "Remember to keep your voice quiet – especially if someone is near me. If they are near enough, you are going to have to let me fend for myself."

The guards were working in shifts, and we both felt that making the attempt just prior to a shift change was the most intelligent strategy. New guards, just put in position, tend to be more attentive, than a guard who has been at his post for several hours, no matter how well paid they are.

As she began to slip out of the car, I whispered, "Be careful."

"Right back at you, Boy Scout. Any funny business, and you get out of here." And then she was just gone.

The party was in full swing, and I tried to follow her movements as she crossed the lawn. When she was moving, I could track her, but when she became still, she seemed almost to merge with her surroundings. She had several close calls with the patrolling guards, but I could see her target – the neighboring house. Given the size of Hernandez's house, you would have thought his neighbors would be miles away, but there was a small house located just west of the house, approximately one hundred yards from the patio that was the focus of the nightly parties.

But to get to the house, she would have to go almost through the throngs of people who were streaming from the garden to the house. There were other houses all around, with brightly lit lawns – no back way to get to her target. So she had to stroll through the mob to get to her position.

I was frankly stunned, when she simply stood up, took down the hood, pulled out a very flashy scarf, tied it around her neck, and began to proceed, with no evidence of haste, to the neighboring house. I almost bit my tongue as she simply slid into the people, emerging from the house, making their way to the garden.

Then she actually stopped one of the guards, appearing to ask him a question. He raised an arm and pointed, to an area quite close to the back of the neighbor's house.

Of course. The bands would be different every night. The guards wouldn't know if they were simply new or just a bit lost. Sometimes the best way to hide is to be right in the middle of things. She appeared to thank him, picked up her guitar case again, and made her way down to the base of the garden, likely where the bands were supposed to set up.

And then, she vanished again. A whip up of the hood, a slight crouch, and the finding of an appropriate shadow was enough for her simply to be gone.

After what seemed an eternity, I simply could not resist. If she wasn't responsive, it would simply mean that she was in a place where I might be heard. "Where are you?" I queried into the handset, feeling some genuine alarm beginning to set in.

"Can't see me?" came the reply, rippling with laughter.

"No." My tone was not so amused.

"Check out of the roof of the neighboring house."

And there, sure enough, I could make out the faint outline of a figure, crouched near the chimney. "He has guards watching up here, but they are looking for certain things. Like a man all dressed in black, or someone framed against the light from the back of the house. But on this side of the chimney, there is only shadow, and with the right coloration, you can't be seen. That is what I was hoping for."

"Can you get off a good shot?"

"Most certainly, and I should have ample time for it too. Of course, that depends on how well our host maneuvers his way through the gardens."

"I think you should come back now," I whispered, as I spotted several of the guards moving to the opposite side of the house. "Several of the guards have moved to the opposite side of the house – should give you a good run for it."

"Copy that."

I did not see her sliding down from the roof, but if I focused, I could see her form as she slipped her way back into the party. Once again, the slight adjustment of her garb, and she was simply another party guest. Had she been dressed all in black, that would likely have been another story. As she slipped through the second garden, back up came the hood as she stood behind one of the tall pieces of shrubbery surrounding the garden, and she fell down into her crouching position.

"All clear," I told her. Most of the guards were investigating something at the other side of the house.

As she made her way back to the car, once again removing the hood as she reached the end of the yard. I still lost track of her as she progressed across the street – we had decided to park about a block away, to reduce the likelihood of being spotted. I forced myself to stay still as the passenger car opened, and she slid inside.

"Drive," she said quietly. I turned the ignition, and pulled the car out of the neighborhood.

I turned to her. "So what do you know?"

She smiled at me. "What do YOU know?"

I paused. "The guards are very focused and attentive, responding quickly to odd sounds, but they obviously don't screen the visitors at the party, otherwise they would have recognized you. The neighboring house not only gives you perfect cover, but will enable a tolerably good shot from a gun from that distance."

"No guns," she said firmly. "Too easy to triangulate. We need a weapon that is quiet, and even with a silencer, guns are much too easy to locate, even on a dark night. You can almost always tell where a shot is coming from. More than that, they just aren't as much fun."

"Well, you can't throw a knife that far," I said flatly.

"No, I cannot."

I began to think. What kind of weapon would fit in a guitar case, that would not only be accurate across 100 plus yards but silent. And then it hit me. "A bow. You are going to use a bow."

"Well worked out, Boy Scout. Best way to insure that I hit the target, that the hit is fatal, and that they will not be able to triangulate the location of the shot."

For several nights, Alyra took me to a local shooting range, allowing me to meet another one of her babies. This one was Fitzwilliam. It was a beautiful bow, with a body of camouflage, and at least a one hundred pound draw. When she handed him to me, she explained that I would have a hard time with him, as he was set to her "draw length," in other words, the length of her arm to her shoulder. As I was much taller, I would not feel as comfortable with the draw. Nevertheless, it was a remarkable weapon, and I progressed rapidly from barely being able to hit the target to making most of my shots in at least the primary target zone, if not the specific target zone inside it.

This seemed to give Alyra pause for thought. She spoke quickly with the manager of the range, who referred her to someone. The next night we came for practice, I was surprised to find two weapons, one much, much larger. "Lift it up," she commanded. This bow was quite different, painted in a nonreflective black paint. Sleek and stealthy. As I made the draw, I could feel how right this weapon was for me, how well it fit my arm. "Don't dry fire it," she reprimanded, as I released the string carefully. "Take one of the arrows – do your thing."

I lifted one of the arrows, notched it, and pointing the weapon straight up, made the draw. As I brought the sights down toward the target, the weapon felt like a simple extension of my arm. I took my time – and within three tries, I was hitting the real target, the red center, which was barely three centimeters in diameter.

"Well, well," Alyra murmured. "I am impressed. A natural bowman. Perhaps a bit of Robin of Locksley in the bloodline somewhere."

"You're telling me he never shot a bow before?" The manager of the range sounded frankly astounded.

"No," I said flatly. "But I have used several other types of weapons, including long rifles.

The man shook his head. "Completely different feel. You have a talent for it." He turned to Alyra. "You have to buy it for him now."

Alyra laughed. "I know my bowmen. I already bought it," she said with a smile.

I turned to her. "This kind of weapon has to cost at least three hundred, four hundred dollars. I can't let you…"

"You know, if those credit card companies are still stupid enough to give me credit, I might as well use it before I die."

And that was the end of that.

We spent several nights practicing, but on the night we had planned for the kill, I was astounded to see a second guitar case in the car as she climbed in. "What are you going to do with that?" I whispered, far too anxious to be hopeful.

"It isn't a question of what I am going to do with it. It is a question of what you are going to do with it."

As we parked the car, this time further away, I was relieved – I had been concerned that she would want me to resume my watch while she made her way onto the grounds. It would have been the best use of my services, but it certainly wasn't what I wanted to do. As we exited the car, she gave me a firm look, and with very pointed gestures, told me to keep my eyes and ears open. I nodded. She pushed the larger guitar case in my direction with a smile.

As we proceeded onto the grounds, I could see that her strategy was different this time, as we skirted the boundary between the two properties. Becoming a part of the party was a great strategy for one but not the best for two. Two might be noticed.

It was remarkable. I was quite good with respect to stealth, but this was an entirely different level. We were literally walking almost in front of hundreds of people, and many of them just looked right through us. Alyra had explained that most people expect dark black to be the color of the night, but the actual night was more of a dark green or gray. This is how a bright orange tiger hides among the yellow grass, fitting the pattern that the eye expects, rather than simply a concern for color. Similarly, stealth was not just about slow movement, but fluidity of movement. Jerky movements caught the eye, but slow fluid movements often bypassed the synapses. This meant, of course, being VERY careful where you put your feet, to make sure that you did not stumble or take any other tumble that might set you apart from the background.

Alyra said that it was easy enough to fade into the background. The trick was to fade into the foreground. As we moved past the two gardens, I could see our host, making expansive movements to show his guests his magnificent grounds. In the back yard, I could see the stage for the band, as well as a series of water fountains, which were perfect camouflage for the sound of hard boots on cement cobbles.

There were no real close calls with the guards, despite their prodigious numbers. We had one walk right past us, look directly at us, as though looking through us, but he quickly moved on. As we skirted the fountains, we soon found ourselves at the back of the neighboring house. It was as though we had moved into a different world, from the cacophony of hundreds of people to a silence that was almost penetrative. Alyra turned to me, pointed at my feet. I understood. It was very important to stay as quiet as possible here, without background noise to hide our presence.

Very quickly, she had a rope strung around the chimney and had begun to climb. I waited for her to make it to the roof, but her look quickly told me that was a bad idea. I grabbed the rope, tested it for strength, and began to follow her as quickly as I could.

The vulnerable spot was on this side of the chimney, where it was lit and the guards were at least sometimes watching.

Quickly we slid to the other side of the chimney, where the lights from the party cast deep, deep shadows. Luckily, the roof was flat here so we laid out our guitar cases, opening them to reveal the weapons inside. I simply stared at my compound bow, not quite sure what to do. I heard the hiss in my ear. "Did you bring it to look at it, or do you intend to use it?"

I froze. Did she mean what I thought she meant?

"Look. Your aim is good. Very good. If you want a shot, I will give you a shot. I know he is not your typical party guest, but you know that he has either killed or had killed hundreds, likely thousands of people."

I stared at the darkness of the weapon.

In the night, I could see her teeth as she smiled at me. "Did you come to watch, or did you come to play?"

I lifted the bow out of its box, feeling the sleek lines almost melt under my skin. I could feel the wings of the Passenger begin to flutter, as I explored this new way of killing. This very dangerous way of killing. It took only the span of a breath for him to slide over into the driver's seat, pulling out the arrow, notching it.

Alyra also had her bow out. It was a beautiful thing, seeing this woman with this lethal construction.

"Best way to insure that we don't miss is for both of us to find a target. You take his chest, and I will go for the head. That way, one of us will make a kill shot. Better than making a miss, and having to reload. Takes too much time – they can get him under cover."

Quickly, she showed me the appropriate stance, legs spread wide for balance, one leg in front of the other. "Watch for my count," she said quietly.

It seemed like an eternity, as our host rambled throughout his gardens, talking avidly to his guests. We needed him in the second garden, the garden parallel to the roof to get the best shots. So we waited.

When he went into the patio for a while, likely to refresh his drink, I could feel my teeth gnashing. The Passenger was not used to waiting, not like this, with blood so close, so tangible. But finally, after another eternity, he emerged from the patio, a lovely woman on his arm, and two massive guards at his side. And he was heading to the second garden.

As he made his way down the path, I watched as Alyra turned her weapon skyward, drawing the bowstring tight up against her shoulder. I mirrored her movement, and we were both in position as Mr. Hernandez rounded the first corner.

There was no word of command. There was no need for a word of command. I knew, without being told, when he was in the appropriate location. I drew the bowstring against my cheek, and taking careful aim, let go.

My arrow struck first, burying itself deep into his chest. There was a brilliant explosion of red as the arrow met flesh, spattering his beautiful white shirt with his life's blood. Within the span of a breath, the second arrow struck, this one neatly piercing his eye, striking him before he even had a chance to fall. It took the guards several seconds to realize what had happened, but once they did, all hell began to commence breaking loose.

Without being told, I quickly repacked the bow in its case, bringing myself fully to my feet. Alyra finished before me, and was on the rope almost before I was done. The deed was done - the time for hand-holding had passed. Now, it was a matter of simple escape.

As we reached the base of the rope, Alyra threw something at me. I recognized it as a shirt, and a loud and obnoxious one. I gave her a questioning glance, but found her also stripping herself of her dark clothes – suddenly she was in a tie-dye T-shirt and green jeans, with a florid scarf in her hair. I quickly found myself being stripped of my own shirt, and I quickly put on the shirt she gave me – Pink Floyd.

She yanked the rope from the roof, and placed both mine and her dark clothes in a small satchel. All of them were packed away in an instant, shoved somewhere in the guitar case.

"Do not run. Walk. Slowly. Act confused, bump into people." Finally she handed me a bottle. It was whiskey. "Splash it on yourself. Hurry." I took a handful of the foul stuff and placed it square on my face, as Alyra took the bottle from me, took a huge swig, then splashed her own face with it.

She then turned to me with a smile, looped her arm in mine, leaning hard up against me. I followed her lead, as though we were both barely holding each other up. As we walked unsteadily to the back yard, the guards were in full defensive mode. Lights were being cut on all around the house, and lights were being flashed into nearby trees. They had not thought of the neighboring house yet. But they would soon.

Guards were stopping everyone, to see what anyone had seen. The guests knew that something had happened, but were not as yet informed as to what, as Mr. Hernandez had been quickly taken into the house for closer management. It would be no use. Both of the hits were killers – mine might have taken longer, but he still wouldn't have survived it.

As two guards approached us, we kept our merry smiles. "Yes, sir, officer sir. What can we do for you?" Alyra's accent was thick, as though speech did not come quite so easily for her.

"Who are you?"

"Musicians," she said, a blank look on her face, as though she thought him stupid for asking. She proferred the guitar.

The other guard said quickly, "Open the case."

I felt my heart freeze, but years of pretending to be someone I am not kept it off my face.

"Why?"

"Just open the damn thing," he yelled, pushing the gun towards her face.

Alyra gave me a look, and I could see the one flash of intensity, as she looked down at her case. There was a silver button, directly next to the case flip lock. She pressed it, and then, opened the case.

I had to work to control the expression on my face. There, sitting nestled in a bed of velvet, was a very handsome guitar.

The guard looked at me, gesturing with his rifle. I pushed the silver slide on my case as well, and sure enough, the case popped open to reveal a very similar, well made guitar.

"Pull them out," he said angrily, but his associate was at his side. "This is stupid, Paul. They are not only unarmed, but they are both so drunk they can barely stand up. Leave them alone."

The second guard turned to us. "Did you see anyone come this way? Running?"

"Running?" I said, as though confused.

"You know," Alyra said, making hand gestures indicative of running. "Running, running."

"There were people running?" I furroughed my brow. "You mean like the guy back there?"

"What guy back there?"

I hiccupped. "The one in the backyard. He was all in black. He had a guitar case too, but it was funny looking."

"Yeah," Alyra muttered. "Maybe some kind of electric? Thin."

The first guard leaped on this. "Which way did he go?"

"Back," I said firmly.

"Back where?"

Alyra looked at him again as though he was an idiot. "Back that way," she pointed into the backyard, past the fountains and into the woods beyond. "Funny way to go, really."

And then they were off, running into the backyard, to chase an imaginary assassin, as the two assassins simply strolled out of the yard.

We were not approached by any other guards, as we sang our way, in very bad harmony, out of the yard. The guards were trying to corral as many people as they could for witnesses, but they seemed not to really notice us, the drunken pair hobbling, arm in arm. We were clearly no threat, and likely anything we saw would not be believed, as we were supporting each other so we could walk.

Ever so carefully, as we reached the street, Alyra and I separated, began to walk more normally. We walked the three blocks to the car, steadily, slowly. My heart was pounding in my chest, and it was all I could do to keep myself from trembling. It had been so exciting! The kill had been perfect, but the escape had my heart throbbing, and everything in my body working to keep my breathing under control.

Alyra motioned for me to give her the keys, and I gratefully took the passenger's seat. She took the guitar case out of my hand, and carefully stashed it with her own in the back seat. "Hold on, just a little while longer," she whispered softly, as she started the car, put it into gear, and began to make a swift exit from the neighborhood. Soon, the guards would realize that they needed to stop traffic, to make sure that they interviewed anyone who might be a suspect or who might have seen something. But we had moved quickly, if cautiously.

I had never simply walked away from the scene of a kill. I had run away from a few, but never simply strolled out the door, surrounded by people searching for yours truly. My body was reeling, and the Passenger was threatening to knock the walls down if he didn't get his release.

And then I realized – although the Need was satisfied, the Passenger was not. He reacted to my kills, and I had yet to be able to HAVE a reaction to this one.

Once we were miles away, Alyra pulled the car over. I turned to her quizzically, still somewhat dazed and confused.

"What?" I said.

"You can have your release now."

"I am not sure what you mean. Or I think I might be, but I don't know how to do that."

Alyra smiled. "Let it go. Let go of the control. Just be. Let it happen."

As I sat there, I could feel the tremors starting in my legs, waltzing up my hips and into my arms. My heart was pounding, and I could hear the roaring of my breath, in and out. Then there was an arm on my shoulder.

"Close your eyes, Dexter. See it again. And again. And let yourself feel it."

I closed my eyes, and was shocked at how quickly the Passenger slid over into the driver's seat. And I could see it, over and over, the lethal strike, my strike, the flower of blood, the chrysanthemum of red flowering across his shirt. I could feel the slickness of the bowstring in my fingers, the critical moments of taking aim, assuming the appropriate position, knowing, beyond all knowing, the moment to strike. She had not had to tell me. I had known.

I could feel my face breaking out into a smile. The Passenger took his pleasure, his final moment of release, and slid back into the depths.

And then, I damn near collapsed. With the exit of the Passenger, all of the strength that had been holding me upright seemed to simply disappear – I slumped forward, to find a gentle hand pulling me back. I rested my head on the arm rest, and felt a hand reaching over me – the seat reclined backwards, and I slid down with it.

It wasn't simply exhaustion, it was a sense of overwhelming peace, quiet, solitude. I am still surprised that I didn't just drift off to sleep, but there was a small part of me that was aware of where I was, who was here with me, what still needed to be done. But the majority of my body was just drifting, pleasantly.

"I warned you this would be different," Alyra said quietly.

"That was … amazing. How can you be under such control?"

"Years and years of practice. The very first one I did, I wound up in an alley several blocks away having complete hysterics. Now, it's just very – pleasurable. And it was far more fun than I would have suspected to share it with someone."

"You let me take a shot."

"Yes, I did."

"You let me take the first shot."

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

"Well, partly because I wanted to see how you would react. Simple curiosity. And I wanted to see if you can do it. It is one thing to kill a man, over a long period of time, "playing," as you put it and quite another to strike a man down in cold blood, in one vicious strike. I didn't know if you had it in you."

I had the dignity to be offended. "I was some kind of experiment for you?"

"Somewhat," she acknowledged. "But the truth of the matter is that if you wanted to come along for the ride, I wanted to see how far I could take you.

"And let's be fair – you certainly did enjoy yourself."

Well, I couldn't deny that.

"But to be completely blunt, I was absolutely delighted that you wanted to join me, and I felt that not giving you a shot would be depriving you of a once in a lifetime experience, for both of us."

"You didn't seem delighted."

She sobered. "The more who are involved, the greater the risk. We had a perfect night. I wouldn't bet on that again."

"So you didn't want me hurt?"

"Of course not."

"Why?"

The smile was sardonic, wicked. "Because you entertain me."

"So nice to be useful."

"Are you saying that you wish you hadn't done it?"

"No," I said quickly. "No. Far from it. It just wasn't at all what I expected."

She gave me a quiet, intense look. "It is a fireflash, intense moment. There was no way I could explain it to you. You wouldn't have believed me. Taking all that experience that you have with your table and bubbling that down into 2 maybe 3 seconds of intense motion. It isn't like just cutting a throat or just driving your knife in. You plan it. You work up to it. And after all that work, it comes and goes like the flash in a pan. But it is still beautiful. You know that. Your Passenger knows that. The hardest part is that you can't react while you are in the moment – you have to hold it until you are safe. And that is hard. I wasn't sure you would be able to do it."

"I almost didn't."

"But the fact that you have to hold onto it makes the rush all the more of a rush."

"I agree with that."

She peered at me. "You will never do this again."

I reflected. "Without you here to help me, I am not sure I could handle it."

She nodded. "Fair enough. Now, I don't know about you, but I need something with meat in it. Now. Nothing like a clean kill to make me feel like a predator."

"That's fine by me, but you are buying."

"Why? I just gave you a clean kill."

"Because you were playing games with me, and we promised, no games."

She sighed deeply, but made no further argument. And when we drove up to an all-you-can-eat Cuban steak buffet, she said quietly, "They may make a losing deal out of this tonight."

And you know – I think she was close to right.

Chapter 52

The next kill was again, almost a carbon copy of the others, with simply more destruction to the victim, all completed after death. However, this man was obviously quite physically fit, but had had no more luck than the others in outrunning this monster.

The body was as gruesome as all of the others, with the added twist that the evisceration was done with more care, more control. Guts weren't just strewn everywhere. They had been dissected out, as had several large muscles in the legs. His technique was improving.

Weiss had joined us on the scene, and he was indeed, very helpful. He knelt beside the wreckage that used to be a body, and to his credit, showed no signs of nausea or even mild stomach upset. I commented on this fact.

The laughter was rolling, lilting. "I used to live among wolves. Although they are nicer than this fellow, they not only kill, they consume. So I have seen it, done it, got the T-shirt."

I opened my eyes wide – "You lived with a wolf pack?"

"Eastern Montana for my dissertation. Only real way to study wolf behavior in the wild."

I had to admit that I was impressed.

Deborah joined us, kneeling down. "So what do you think?"

Weiss cocked an eyebrow. "I think you all have the story right. Clearly, this man believes, or is pretending to believe, that he turns into an animal, nah even a monster. But he has a purpose, a method to his madness. As he gets stronger, so do his victims. Just like with any animal behavior, there must be some goal. The dissection appears to be with some purpose, as though he is indeed an animal butchering a kill. The only thing that doesn't fit is that he is leaving those pieces of meat only a few feet from the body. Again, there has to be some sort of purpose, some goal here, besides pulling down his dinner. Something that he is trying to learn, that is elusive."

"Do you have any idea of what that might be?" I queried.

"Not the least in the world, except that we know that he wants to learn how to kill, I would even say needs to learn how to kill. I agree with you, Dexter. The slash marks are for show, for practice. Like a dog worrying at a bone. He catches them, kills them quickly, then uses the body to determine what his jaws and claws can really do."

The spatter work was tedious and slow, but with Alyra's help, things went much faster.

And then, she had an idea. "Luminal shows up better at night, right?"

I concurred.

"What if we try to follow his return blood trail tonight?"

Weiss nodded. "That is an excellent idea. You know he has shelters, where he starts his runs. There might be real evidence there, if he is confident enough that you can't find it.

"But you should bring in the professionals."

I turned to stare at him for a moment. Who were we, if not professionals? "Who do you mean?"

"You need to bring in the best possible candidate for tracking a scent in a forest environment." He smiled. "You need a wolf."

Sure enough, within a few hours, Weiss's SUV was coming back into the woods, and a muzzle could be seen peaking out of the passenger side window. As he exited the car and released his companion, it was easy to see how wolves got their reputation. The animal was large, significantly larger than the common household dog, with a mane of deep grey surrounding its head.

Animals hate me. I am not in any way exaggerating. Sometimes, I have no doubt, it is because of the nefarious things that I tend to do to their masters, but my one attempt at finding a canine as a pet ended in several days of torrential barking, all directed at yours truly. I am sure that dog would have made a great guard dog, if only it hadn't felt that my home needed guarding from, well, me.

But I should have known better. The pet of an animal behavior specialist was not likely one that would go charging at strangers without word from the master. And despite its impressive size, the wolf greeted us with a wagging tail, and lolling tongue. I got a significant look, but no other evidence of ill behavior could be seen from this very well trained creature.

Weiss made the formal introductions to his guest. And it wound up being a she, with Silver as her given name. Despite her casual behavior, it was easy to see who was in charge in this relationship, as she stayed at Weiss's heel with nary a spoken command. Laguerta was uneasy as he took the animal down to the body to get the scent to begin the trail, but the animal didn't seem at all worried about the dead body, and certainly didn't appear to consider it worth a taste. Professionally almost, she lowered her head, searching the area for the cleanest area from which to begin her chase.

When he released the lead, the animal was bounding effortlessly into the forest, and it meant that the team was almost at a run in the attempt to follow her. But every so often, she would stop, clearly waiting for us.

The trip was a long one. We had guessed that the runs for the victims might be quite long, miles even, but the wolf took us deep, deep into the darkest part of the wood, where even in daylight the branches of the trees kept out much of the light. Once again, we found ourselves outside a small shed, long neglected but providing shelter from prying eyes, however, not from excellent noses.

The room had been cleaned, meticulously so, but upon closer inspection, we found traces of evidence that confirmed that our killer had indeed started there. Remnants of incense, as well as the O-ring in the center of the floor confirmed the pattern. There was even a small area of blood spatter, likely from the hobbling injuries that the killer had returned to, after graduating from female victims to male victims.

As we were expecting another full moon, and another kill, Weiss advised that we maintain a covert surveillance on the shed, in case the killer tried to use it again. Make sure we remove all evidence that we had been there. It was our first substantial lead in the case. Now we had the pattern. There were only so many areas of heavily forested growth surrounding Miami. Only so many places he could start those kinds of hunts, now that his victims might really be able to run. Now it was up to us to find the one that he might employ, in an attempt to catch him at his own game.

Chapter 53

We did not have luck with scouting out the shelter, but once again, with the help of Weiss's pet (although he preferred to call her his 'friend'), we were able to find the base from which the hunt began. Once again, the victim was male, and the dissection was cleaner, neater. Still devastating, but the knife work was done with some precision. And of course, the throat was removed. And once again, limbs had been torn away from the body, as well as removed with a blade.

It was still perplexing to me, why the killer would simply chase down the victim, kill them promptly, and then move to dissect the body carefully with his instruments. What could be the goal in that? Unless he was trying to learn how to tear a body limb from limb, using real bodies to learn this. It was the only theory I could come up with.

Weiss was unclear on this either. "If it was an animal, I would say that it was literally butchering its food, which is quite normal. You gut the prey animal, then move to the large muscles, pulling them apart into pieces that you can move, store. But this is more precise, more targeted behavior. There is a goal here, and we just aren't seeing it."

Alyra cocked her head to the side. "It is almost like he is trying to learn to be vicious, more of a monster, but he doesn't want to do that with living, innocent victims. So he uses the bodies to perfect his skills."

We all set about getting back to work, still a bit perplexed, but thanks to the work of both Alyra and Weiss, we were getting a lot more insights into the killer. And the "home bases" were easy enough to find, with the assistance of Weiss's friend, Silver. Most of our substantial evidence had come from the places where the creature had started the runs, so this became a fundamental part of each investigation. This time, we even found additional pieces from the suit, as well as several teeth and other remnants from what we presumed was the altar that he had set up prior to releasing his victim. But it was clear that he would release the victim, chase them down, kill them, and then return for a basic clean up. Again, not the signs of a mindless killer.

We were getting a better picture of our killer, even if it still felt like we were far away from catching him.

Chapter 54

There was one day, I will never forget, when Alyra and I were working on a set of chili cheeseburgers and fries, again reiterating her passion for food that will kill you even if your terminal illness doesn't do it for you. But then, what are you supposed to do when you are going to die? We were just chatting, and I remember that I had never really been ever to just chat with someone. Oh, I could make conversation – I was a master at that. I could do meaningless meandering with the best of them. But with Alyra, even chit chat was somehow different – it always had some kind of meaning, somewhere behind it.

But invariably, we returned to business, as we always did. I noticed her eyes today. They were brighter than usual – a very odd golden color, more gold than usual. A fake looking kind of gold. As I commented on this, she just laughed. "I wear contacts when I go out in public. Old habits and all that. Makes it easier to conceal the thought processes . As you are well aware, there are many times I do not want others to quite have a glimpse of what I am thinking." She smirked. "You know, I think they might be rather shocked."

"No, really?"

"I think so." The smirk got wider, as she shoveled in more chili cheese French fry. It was always heartening to see her eat, even when I knew she would puke up at least half of it. She never let me stay for that party, though. I always got the no vacancy/do not disturb sign/shove out the door before she got really sick. Proud, and she well knew it. But she had let me see her pain once, and I knew it cost her. But she had let me see it. That had meant something. When in tremendous pain, she had reached out for my touch.

I didn't deserve it, and well I knew it. But I had been able to help, and that had felt quite good. I still puzzled a bit over why, but after a while, I was learning not to argue with these feelings. While Alyra was a poster child for why emotions were bad, the small thrill that I got from being able to do a service for her was pleasant enough, and I was not in any position to complain. This time, the whole aspect of friendship had taken on a new meaning. It was a sense of mutual respect, helping one another, being there for one another, and of course, helping each other find new and interesting people to kill. I was particularly fond of the last part.

Chapter 55

Regrettably, despite our attempts to locate where the next hunts might start, we were not able to prevent the next two murders. Once again, they were located in places where they could be easily found AFTER the deed had been done, but the killer still showed savvy and intelligence in selecting his victims, as well as selecting where his victims would die.

The pattern remained the same, although with the very last victim for the month, he had not made any type of hobbling injury. While the man was not built like a true athlete, he was healthy enough. It was rapidly becoming apparent that whatever this killer was trying to become, he was certainly moving in the right direction. But his goals remained elusive to us. Some sort of trauma, and the preparation for some type of revenge, learning to kill to make that revenge possible. But how would we know when he had completed his journey?

Ironically, at this rate, we would know his final goal when we found it in the woods, and then no more slashing and slicing scenes would be found in the depths of the Florida woodlands. Weiss in his role as animal behavior specialist assured us that whenever this creature had finally finished his journey, these hunts were quite likely to just end. For all of us on the team, this was not the most satisfactory of solutions to the problem. But it remained the most likely, unless we could get some kind of break soon.

Chapter 56

Alyra's life before she had met me had been a complex one. Apparently, she had attended college, some kind of graduate school, medical school – but at some point in there, she had spent eight years living with a biker gang. I had a hard time picturing it, but it did explain some of her abrasiveness, and her penchant for black leather, even in the Miami heat. In my life, she seemed always to be just a little out of her element, just a little bit lost – able to maneuver well enough, but just a little bit confused with her basic interactions with others. But she made a solid effort.

But the first time I got to see her really in her own realm was a little strange. At least in the beginning. We were sitting in a taco joint – like I said, the worse the food, the better she kept it down. She was in a long billowy skirt (better to hide the skinny legs, she told me), and a long flowing gauze top (perfect for the heat, while concealing the boney but still pretty muscular frame underneath it). Her face had that shellac of paint she always wore outside, which was running now in the heat. She mopped it off with one of the napkins. She never really seemed to care when she was with me, whether it stayed or went, and she certainly never really dressed up when I just came by to see her.

I am not sure why I liked that, but I did.

"Ah, shit," she muttered under her breath, lowering her head slightly.

"What?" I said, amidst a bite of very oily taco.

"Dexter, you may need to make yourself scarce for a bit." I turned around to see a young Mexican boy, making a bee line for our table. Correct that. Making a bee line for Alyra. Too late to get up now – the kid had already seen me. But why should I be worried?

I soon found out why I should be very worried.

The little boy was a runt of a kid, skin and bones, with filthy clothes and a smell to match. When the maitre de came over to take the boy out, Alyra waved him off, just staring at this little fellow. Personally, I would have liked to see a lot less of him, and smell even less (I still had some lunch to finish) but clearly he was here with a purpose.

"Are you the bruja?" his words were crisp, bitten. It was very clear that this kid was scared, and equally clear that he was determined not to be. His English was broken but clear – ah, the wonder of American schools.

Alyra leaned over to me, quietly explaining that she did not have the resources that I have, to find people. She had had to use people to do her "work." So some people just knew. That was the price you pay for information. So, sometimes she would be "approached." She considered it part of the price to "listen."

No one had betrayed her in twenty years, and she had never killed anyone to keep her secret. Tells you a lot about the "work" that she did.

Tilting her head, Alyra handed him her water, which he gulped down. "Depends on what you want, amigo. What is it you want?"

"My sister. He beat her. He do other things. No one help us. Cops don't care. We are nothing, they say. No proof, they say. Elena, she too scared to go out, to do anything."

"He?" I found myself asking, contrary to the making myself scarce. I ducked my head down, finding my taco suddenly intensely interesting.

But the boy looked directly at me, and I could see the hunger in his eyes. I had seen that hunger before, many, many times in the Miami-Dade police station. Even though I had never felt it, I had come to understand it. This was not someone who wanted justice. This is someone who wanted revenge.

"Ramon. Ramon Guettierez."

Alyra daintily wiped her mouth with her napkin. She had made her way through half of her lunch, which was miraculous by her standards. I was very pleased. "I see her first."

The boy backed up quickly. "No. No one to see her. She no see anyone. She too afraid. I will not do that to her."

Alyra sat back calmly, clearly unmoved by the boy's distress. I was amazed that the two of them were so clearly talking business, and that business was so clearly murder. "No see her, no deal."

The boy seemed to consider. His hands were shaking. He looked like a deer, just poised to run, but you could see that little spark of dangerousness in his eyes. He wanted this. He knew what Alyra was – he clearly knew it. He wasn't afraid. And he wasn't backing down. This fellow was a young man to watch, an up and comer. "You know people. They hurt other people, get rid of them, yes?"

The direct question threw me for a loop. I turned to Alyra, who simply replied, "Yes, I know people who do those things."

"I have money," he whispered. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, counted out $100. It must have been a world of money to such a boy.

Alyra nodded, took the money, and stood up. I followed suit.

"Follow me," he whispered.

I tagged the check, as Alyra took the boy's hand. I barely caught up with them as they rounded the corner. Alyra hissed at me, "You should not be coming with us."

"What, and leave you to have a lovely convulsion and collapse on some fire escape somewhere then fall fifty feet to your death? You promised. Your solo career was over."

She shrugged. "Everyone has to die someway." Figures.

We made our way through the back streets of Miami, until we reached a barrio lined with clothes lines, that stank of raw sewage and vomit. And death. Not a pleasant after dinner mint, I had to say, but I had decided to jump on this ride, so there I was, the Dashing Dexter, stepping in God knows what in my Bruno Magli's (hey, even though OJ wore them, they are still damn good shoes).

Sure enough, we got to the apartment via the fire escape. It was a condemned tenement – they were clearly squatters. We climbed through the window – I barely fit. The boy pointed to the next room (the only other room – looked more like a closet, although the whole apartment could probably fit in my closet. And I don't have a big closet). Alyra turned pointedly to me, and said firmly, "You stay here." I stayed there.

After about thirty minutes, they came back around the corner. Alyra's posture had clearly changed. Her back was stiff, her face darkened with what appeared to be anger. Her eyes were flat, lifeless, as the boy followed her. Dead men's eyes. He handed her a piece of paper, with a hasty scribble on it. She looked at him again, and he took the paper back, and with the pencil, scribbled something else.

She looked at me, as she went to the window to make our exit. "I need you to drive me to pick up my car, please. And there are some additional supplies that would be helpful, but if you can't get them for me, I certainly understand. I can handle that if I need to."

I pulled my open jaw back to my mouth. "You can't be serious. You are taking a contract from a kid? You are going to do a hit?"

She shrugged her shoulders, and I could read the tension there. "You can barely walk. You have little strength, you can't even keep down most of your meals, and you expect to make a hit?" My voice was incredulous.

The look I got was pure ice. And I saw, for the first time, deep inside her. I mean, really deep inside her. That Beast she always talked about – that creature that lived inside of her. Like my Dark Passenger. I had felt it, but I had never seen it. But this thing was much bigger, and appeared to be a hell of a lot meaner than my Passenger. Not cool, calculating – but a thing of pure anger, pure rage.

Her voice was as sweet as pure Southern honey. She looked at me with those cold, dead eyes. "Would you be kind enough to step into the next room? Should only take you a minute. Please be kind enough not to speak to her, and certainly not to touch her. Those things would be considered rude."

I know I gave her a puzzled look – her face was still flat, her eyes cold. As I made my way to the door way, the boy almost jumped me, but she held his shoulders, whispering something in quiet Spanish. The boy stayed still.

The stench was overwhelming, and assaulted my nostrils like a freight train. It took my eyes a few minutes to adjust from the bright light from the window, which was open with a lovely view of the exterior wall. It took me a few moments to find her, but I did.

She was tiny – much smaller than her brother, and huddled in a tight fetal position. She had seen me, and I heard a tinny sound, and I realized that it was wailing. Quite frankly, I found it annoying, so I kneeled down to try to appear less frightening. I guess it worked, because she stopped, and just stared at me.

I moved around her, taking in the scene, figuring that was what I was supposed to do. Not having emotions, I wasn't really sure what I was supposed to appreciate. I like kids. I genuinely do. But I don't do empathy. I mean, this was unfortunate and all, but what did it have to do with me, other than interrupting a very nice lunch? She still wore a dirty dress, which was torn – there was blood near the waist, near the crotch, all over the base – she was basically lying in her own blood. There were clearly slices across her body – poorly done, a complete botch job. The slices were everywhere, actually – all over her body. Even her face. But not cleanly done. Not a sharp blade at all.

In my defense, I am not entirely heartless. Well, I probably am, but I could never, ever do children. But I didn't really feel that much for this one, either. I mean, I like children – but what was I supposed to do? And then I really, really looked at her eyes.

They looked just like Alyra's. I wondered if I had eyes like that, when the Dark Passenger came to the fore. And in that instant, I knew that I did.

Now that was worth killing a man for.

I crawled backward a few feet, her eyes like laser beams, fastened to my every move, and then I stood up and walked out, feeling those eyes on the back of my spine. I looked at Alyra. "I'll drive."

Alyra turned to the boy. "Hospital," she said firmly. As the boy made to protest, she put the bills back in his hands. "This one is gratis. Use the money to get her some medical treatment. You must do this. It is part of the deal."

She extended her hand, and to my surprise, the little body reached out a grimy hand to take it. "I will talk to my friend. We will handle this."

Our first stop was at her house, where we picked up some darker clothes for her. She had damn well planned on just hauling off and hitting the bastard in the middle of the day. There is something to be said for this, quite frankly, as if you walk into a crowded bar with a knife and just stab someone, all hell tends to be perpetrated, and most people have no idea who the hell you are and what you look like. But I dissuaded her by telling her that this man deserved far better and selective attention from us.

She balked at the us. "This is my kill, my hunt. You don't know this world, this place. This is my world, my darkness. I want him. I want him."

My reply was matter of fact. "So, how exactly are you going to find him?"

"Fuck." What would take her hours would take me less than five minutes.

She picked up her darker clothes, and climbed back in the car. "Where to now, Boy Scout?"

I smiled. "Looks like you are coming to work with me." She smiled back at me. I liked it when she smiled, especially the little wicked one.

Chapter 56

It was with pleasure that I drove her back to the Miami Dade police headquarters. While I could not stop the fact that she was "dating" someone else, I could make sure that our "dates" were filled with more substantial entertainment.

We snuck back to office, and within minutes were in the Miami-Dade County Law Enforcement database, and within seconds got a hit – Senor Ramon Guitierrez had been a very busy man indeed. Just the kind of playmate I so enjoyed. I jotted down the address quickly, and then pretended to do work as Alyra and I basically shot the shit for four more hours.

I still can't think of another human I could actually do that with. And I have never met another one since.

When the shop closed, we made our way to the car, and Alyra insisted that we pick up her car. I was hurt, insisting that I wanted in on this play date – she snorted, saying that her play dates were bloodier than mine, and did I really want to mess up my lovely little car? I could feel her agitation, despite her cool words. She wanted this as much as the Passenger did, as much as I did. My passion for killing child killers had blossomed since I had had the opportunity to see one in action, up close and personal. We wanted this too.

So we pulled into a Storage Depot just off I-9, which was open 24 hours, with humidified sheds. She made me park on the street in a neighborhood, about half a mile down, and we walked up. It was still daylight. We went to Shed 9, which she gave me the keys to, as she pulled out the keys to the car from her Heath Ledger as The Joker bag. And no, I am not making that up. This girl had a serious Joker thing.

"Killer, ain't it," she whispered as she came up behind me so quietly that I honestly jumped. Yes, I had to admit, the Lexus 4 wheel drive in dark forest green was a wonderful car. I had certainly enjoyed it a few times now. "You just wait. We have all kind of surprises for you. I am guessing that your toys are not here, yes?"

"No, we need to spin by my house to pick them up."

"No, we really don't."

"Yes, we really do."

The laugh was lovely, full of mirth. "No, we really don't."

I popped the trunk, admiring the large cargo space. Sure enough, the back seats had been removed, and yes indeed, I could see, just barely, a few lovely spots that could only be one awful substance. But not as much as I suspected.

She smiled. "Deer hunting. Wonderful sport. You should try it sometime."

I smiled back at her.

"You gonna drive, Boy Scout?" she queried, just as she tossed the keys to me. I got in. The engine purred. I pulled out, closed the shed door, then climbed back in, making my way to the exit. "Not so fast, Boy Scout. Head to Unit 22. We got a couple more things to pick up."

Not quite sure what this was about, I turned the SUV around, heading to the much smaller shed. I reached out my hands for the keys, and she tsked. "You no open this one, Big Boy. This is mine. This is my second home, this is." I know I looked puzzled. It was a small second home, if it was, but she was small, so you never know. She hit the lights and I had to stoop down to step inside…

As the door opened, I found myself speechless. I came very close to slamming my head on the low hung doorframe. I knew then that I was in the presence of a goddess. Every type of blade that I had ever read about, seen, imagined, or dreamed about, even purely fantasized about was on the wall of that tiny little shed. She smiled, running her hands over the hilt of a full set of Gerber throwing knives, a full brace of them. "My babies."

All of them were immaculately cleaned, probably oiled. I stood in the presence of true greatness, as she rolled out a black carrying case, no doubt specially designed for these lovely creations, and began making selections. She looked at me as though I were stupid, which I actually was, as my Dark Passenger simply jumped up and down with glee. "What are you just standing there like a stupid ox for?"

I shook my head. "What?"

She spoke very slowly, as though to an idiot. "We are going to pick up a target, what do you call them , 'playmates?' Don't you want something to play with, since your toys are at home?" Her smile was lovely, as she indicated the expanse of cutlery before me.

I honestly thought I was going to squeal like a little girl, and I know that I made some kind of embarrassing noise because I heard her dark and lilting laugh as she returned to her own selections, taking another bag and tossing it to me. I spread the bag out on one of the tables with love and care, and looked up at the altar to devilment and destruction. At first, I tried to think. The Buck knife was a good blade, about 12 inches – good for stabbing, punching through tissue, so I selected that one. Then there was a Gerber black blade, maybe five inches, more for skinning, shearing tissue. But then I realized I couldn't think. I just started selecting by feel, grabbing what felt right, and sliding them into the bag with the appropriate respect and admiration one should have for such instruments.

The hand saw wouldn't fit in the bag, but that had to come to. It wasn't my electric saw, but the principle was the same. Alyra turned and laughed. "You need to get more creative, Dexter. I have to work on you."

I watched as she took off her shirt, and donned a back sheath. As I began to wonder what for, I saw the beauty that was Esmerelda as she slipped the giant blade home. She pulled her shirt back on, turned to me with a smile. "Have to have my baby."

We made a stop at the Home Depot to pick up the more basic supplies, including ropes, tarps, duct tape (you could never have enough duct tape), and other things a good old fashioned serial killer can't do without. I remember watching Alyra lift up a large dowel rod, about one and a half inches in diameter. "What do we need that for?" I asked. A smug smile was all I got in return.

When we made it to the target's house, we parked about a half mile down the street. This was a fast one for me, and although the Dark Passenger was more than satisfied with the situation, I had a bit of unease. The house was pretty isolated – the closest neighbor was about a mile away (all the better for his evil deeds, and for evil deeds to be done to him). But usually I prepared significantly more for these types of situations. But Alyra was very different. Although she clearly had her own passenger, her Beast, she operated from a place of deep seated emotion, her own kind of dead place, rather than my emotionless state. She wanted this, and not tomorrow or the next day. She wanted it now. She needed it now. She had been patient for me – several days patient. But that was enough. Not this time.

At least this time, however, she had taken the time to find the evidence that I needed. While she didn't have a Harry Code, for the most part she had no problem accommodating my own needs with respect to evidence. And we had found the tiny graves, to which Mr. Guittierrez would go for a quiet reminder of his own dastardly deeds. While I couldn't blame him, as my own rosewood box of slides serves the same purpose for me, his timing had been unfortunate for him, as well as his inability to spot us following him. Alas, sometimes you win, sometimes you don't.

We crept up to the house. After a quick scout, we found that the target was the only one at home, and that he was snuggled nice and comfortably in front of his television. Alyra's smile was truly terrifying in the dim light of the window. I absolutely loved it.

"Time for the extraction," she said, heading to the back of the house. My usual technique for removal of a playmate (I never used terms like "extraction") – I either caught them outside, coming out of a bar or some other facility, or I met them inside their houses. Either I had my sedative shot ready or a noose. Alyra did things a little differently.

Okay, a lot differently.

I followed, then halted as she gestured for me to wait. "Now, we start the game of child molester racquet ball. Have you selected your toy?" She meant did I have my weapon. I pulled out the Buck knife – she nodded her approval. She had her monster of a blade, almost more of a broadsword than a knife. Esmerelda, as she was called. It was a beautiful weapon. I had yet to be allowed to touch her.

Then she tilted her head. "Do we make the kill here, or second location?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "Pretty remote. Unless he makes a lot of noise, here seems as good a place as any, if I understand your technique."

She patted my face gently. "You understand so little, Boy Scout. But you are about to learn. Yes you are." She threw me something – at first I thought it was a garrote, but it was a folded handkerchief. Clearly a gag. "I get him down, you gag him, then we play. Sound fair?"

Now, you have to understand. I am a man. It is just a man thing. This did not seem the way to go about things. The man inside was a pretty big man, probably 50 or so pounds heavier than me, and not from height. He probably worked out (well, with that gut, who knows), but he was a big fellow. And Alyra was sick – really sick. I kind of thought I would take him down, and then she would play. I was about to mention this when all hell proceeded to commence.

There was a giant crash in the backyard, only a few yards from where I was crouching. It sounded like a tree had fallen. But I had been informed to stay put, and I had learned my lessons with this woman, so I stayed put. The back door swung open, and a big burly man came out of the door. Alyra was simply standing there, with the large knife in her hands.

Well, damn. This was not quite how I thought things should go.

"Who the hell are you?" the man barked, his voice filled with that Hispanic machismo.

She took the giant knife, ran her fingers along the blade. "You know," she said casually, "I don't think I like you."

"Fuck you, bitch," the man said as he stepped forward.

"Ah, ah, one should not use bad language in front of a woman. Bad manners. I hear that you like little girls, maybe a little too much, eh?"

"What you gonna do about it? You gonna stick me with that big knife of yours?"

She smiled. I knew that smile. Dead men's eyes. "Could be. Could be." Her tone was still casual. "Why don't you come over here and find out?"

Fat he may be, but slow he was not. Ramon Guittierez came charging at my friend like a Brahma bull, with his head low and his legs pulsing. I almost closed my eyes, as I grasped my knife and plunged forward from my hiding place in the scrub.

To see her neatly sidestep his lunge, turn slightly, and pull the knife right across the back of his leg.

Ramon Guitierrez screamed as he fell to one knee, bellowing in pain. His leg, the one Alyra had cut, no longer would hold him, and buckled over and over as he tried valiantly to get to his feet.

Alyra turned to me with a smile. "Well, Dex, don't you want to get in on the fun? He still has another leg? Watch those arms though – there are still some flailing issues."

Smoothly, she took the Buck knife from my hand and handed me her small sword, Esmerelda, hilt (or pommel) first. I felt the warmth of the handle, as the blade simply slithered into my hand. And I slid across the raging man, and sure enough, the blade took me just out of his groping reach. I drew the blade around his other hamstring, and he fell promptly to the ground, his legs sprawling out uselessly under him.

"Hamstringing?"

"Ah, yes. Oh, I have not been polite. Let me introduce you to my lady," she held up the beautiful black blade, which shone in the darkness. At least 15 inches if an inch. "This is my beauty. She is my Esmerelda. She has been the end of many men who are fond of little children. Yes, quite fond. She likes men, you see. She likes men's blood. I am quite fond of her." She kissed the blade, with the man's blood on it. It was quite frankly disgusting, but I could see the absolute terror in the man's eyes.

Somehow, at the same time, it was damn sexy. And I don't find things sexy, I really don't. What that says about me, I can't tell you. But it was fun. Disgusting and delicious, at the same time.

Her tone was lusciously casual. "Back to your question. Hamstringing. Wonderful technique. Mastered by Hannibal, although really perfected by the Romans. Gives an easy takedown, and they really are functionally immobile. Oh, they can do some crawling, but not much. And we will remedy that next."

She moved to the front of the struggling Ramon Guitierrez, who apparently had finally figured out that his legs simply were not going to do what he told them to do, and lunged for her. "Tsk, tsk," she chided him as he promptly landed flat on his face. "That just won't do, will it?

"Do you remember the girl, Ramon? Elena? Do you remember her? The little Hispanic girl? How many others, Ramon? You can tell us."

Ramon coughed up mud and dirt. "Fuck you, bitch."

Alyra turned to me, shaking her head. "Just doesn't not know how to treat a lady," as Guitierrez pushed himself to his knees again. We were circling him now, like sharks. The Dark Passenger was alive with glee, this moment so very different than our other moments. Struggling. Fighting. Fighting death. Inevitable death. But still fighting.

Delicious.

She looked to me. "Knee in the back – push him down, gag in place." I immediately did as she asked, feeling the satisfaction as I tied the knot. Guitierrez tried to reach me, but my knee was firmly placed and his arms too fat to get good reach. "Now, yank him up."

I grabbed the gag, and pulled him up to his knees.

As Alyra reached her hand out to me to take the longer blade, Guiterrez made a lunge for her. I tried to grab his arm, but Alyra had his hand. And her very big blade. I heard the snap before I heard his scream. She chided him again, although I could see the strain on her face. "Ramon, Ramon, you NEVER touch a lady without her permission. And you never, ever touch little girls." She rubbed her hand on her jeans, as though she had touched something quite filthy.

She turned to me. "Do you have the other toys?"

I nodded quickly, not trusting my voice at the moment. "We start with the longest knife," as she caressed Esmerelda in the darkness – the blade flashed in the darkness as a drop of moonlight hit along her length. "Although you might not need to. The goal is to stay just out of reach. He will come for you – each time, you strike like a snake strikes. Again and again. Yes?"

Oh, yes.

We started to circle him again. He continued to lunge at us, but with each lunge, he received a slice for his trouble. He kept snapping his arms back, but now he knew he was fighting for his life. With each strike, Alyra would chide him about the girl, some detail, some bit of information that clearly she had given her. Some taunt. She avoided the major arteries – how she did this, I had no idea. But she sliced him, again and again.

Then Alyra stepped into his reach and sliced hard, going through most of his left bicep. His arm hung limp at his side. I mirrored her, taking down his right arm.

"You want the forearms? Be careful – good arteries there. We want the muscles – not the arteries. So those pesky fingers won't stop our entertainment." I loved the way she said the word "entertainment." I took his arm carefully in my own, thrilled by the fact that he could no longer control its movement – his hands twitched convulsively, as he tried to grab at me, but as his upper arm could no longer direct his lower arm, he could do nothing but flail. I could feel him trying to struggle, as his triceps convulsed, but he could do nothing as I sliced across the anterior part of his right arm. I repeated this on his left, careful not to go for the deeper muscles. His fingers twitched, but could no longer grab us.

The smile radiated pure wickedness, and made me so wish that I had emotions. I could see her satisfaction, as she leaned into him. "You think I don't know what you are. You think I don't know that this wasn't your first? The knife strokes, poor though they were, thank you very much, the blood – you have practiced, yes you have, and much practice, yes you have. How many other girls, Ramon? How many other boys?" He was still screaming underneath the gag – she made no effort to remove it.

I reflected on this. I had not considered this as a possibility for her anger. I had seen the eyes, the dead man's eyes, but that might not have made her angry – I mean, just one more of us, and we are not really so bad, not once you get to know us (honest). Although that is certainly a matter of perspective, and I doubt Ramon Guitierrez's perspective would concur with this. But if he did this all the time, oh yes, she would hate him, hate him with every fiber in her body. As she always said, the true kill, the pure kill, the necessary kill. The beautiful kill.

"Now kick the little shit onto his face." I obliged her. "Now," she smiled. "Draw some pretty pictures, get out your saw, amuse yourself however you like." This was said in a lovely drawl, as though we were talking about an art class, not a first class killing.

The experience was strange – but the injuries we had inflicted had made him every bit as helpless as if we had him strapped to a table. I began my work, carefully, slowly, using the hand saw rather than my usual power saw. Although each movement took longer than I was used to, the feel of the hand saw on living human bone was in its own way quite thrilling, as with each movement of the blade I could feel the catch on the bone underneath, and each stroke brought me closer and closer to severing my way through.

It always pays to seek variety in life.

She pulled out the dowel, and took her large knife and began to sharpen it to a very sharp point. I won't tell you what she did with it, but I imagine that you have already figured that out. She was kind enough to let me step away before doing her dark deed, calling me back when she was finished. I did my own work, quite pleased with myself, and the Dark Passenger was satisfied, but wanted more, just a little more. Ramon Guitierrez was not moving, and he certainly wasn't screaming anymore.

"Now roll the little shit over."

Only then did I see the heaving of the chest, the slight twitching of the muscles, and the eyes that were still wide, shifting from one of us to the other. She smiled, standing over him. She handed me the blade, her blade, her Esmerelda, again hilt first. "And now, Dexter Morgan, I say my thanks for a most lovely evening."

I stammered. "I can't take your kill."

Her smile was wondrous. "You can, and you will. You have been generous enough to share yours with me. Consider this payback, with interest." She leaned into me. "You know you want it." She stood on tip toe, her hair grazing my ear. I wanted to kiss her so bad I could taste it.
But I remained firm. This was not the time, not the place. "It's okay to want it. It really is."

I wrapped my hands around the beautiful blade, watching the moonlight gleam on its dark, bloody surface. And so with one strike, the life and times of Ramon Guitierrez met its true and final end.

Chapter 57

I was not proud of myself as I sat in the car, waiting outside the restaurant. I could see them sitting at the table. Alyra's posture was relaxed, something which you just didn't see all that often, and clearly the good doctor was making her laugh. They seemed to be completely engrossed in their conversation.

I had been waiting there for two hours, just watching. I knew that Alyra couldn't see me – I had selected a vantage point behind a series of trees that blocked the view of my car, but gave me a reasonable view of the events inside the restaurant. Who has dinner for two hours, I mean really? The restaurant was a good one – as expensive as it was tasty. I had never taken a date there, although I am sure they would have enjoyed the experience. But my wallet would not be happy.

Cuban is the style of cuisine that I most favor, but as far as an eatery, Angelo's was certainly the best Italian in Miami. The doctor had selected well. Although I wouldn't be surprised if Alyra asked him to go Dutch – she didn't like to feel as though she was imposing on people, and many times when I left the Hospice after our lunches she would hand me a few dollars to cover the cost of her meal.

As they finally stood up to take their leave, I could see Alyra's dress well in the lobby of the restaurant, as she was cast against a series of back lights. It was very small – and she looked quite good, if a little on the thin side. I had never seen Alyra in a genuinely sexy dress – so the effect was almost shocking. Certainly not scandalous, I still found that I did not like my friend bearing so much flesh for the good doctor.

She looked damn good in red though, I have to say.

Alyra stepped outside into the night air, with Dr. Weiss at her side. She brushed her arms reflexively against a chill in the night air, and Weiss actually took his coat off and handed it to her. I hadn't seen that one since the middle ages. It was a flashy coat, a white duster, and it literally trailed the ground as she put it over her shoulders. He seemed to take no notice of this. And then he extended his arm for her to take it. It was an exaggerated gesture, clearly flirting. She hesitated, for quite some time actually, until he almost put his arm down, but ultimately she smiled at him and put her arm in his. I could see his laughter, as they walked arm in arm down the street, towards his blue BMW.

Although I am not one for much emotion, I was certainly feeling something now. And that something was anger. I was getting really good at anger.

To be honest, I had no real idea where the anger was coming from. That did not make the emotion any less problematic. I understood the idea of jealousy, but its practice? Not even close. When I had found Rita in another man's arms, I had solved that situation with a nice right cross. There was unlikely to be such a satisfying conclusion with this one.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, I got another surprise as they headed for her home. I had wondered if she would return to my house, the place where she spent most of her times these days. But on reflection, of course she would not do this – she would not want to wake the children, or possibly even me for that matter. I held my breath as he escorted her to the door, still arm in arm. As she opened the door, I could see her features cloud. She looked in my direction, seemed to be trying to extend her vision. I was pretty sure she couldn't see me, but I didn't have the trees to hide behind this time. But her neighborhood was exquisitely lit, which gave me an excellent shadow in which to park. She returned her gaze to her "date." She smiled up at him.

In another flamboyant move, Dr. Weiss took her hand and brought it up to his lips, planting what appeared to be a very gentle kiss. I could see Alyra's flush from the distance. I could feel my fists itch. But she opened the door and went in, alone, leaving the good doctor to his own devices. I looked at my watch – almost midnight. I was tempted to go knock on the door, for reasons I still cannot elucidate. Finally, I put my car in drive and headed for home, wondering to myself what I would have done if he had actually gone in the house with her.

The thoughts were not pleasant.

Chapter 58

I told Alyra that she needed to dress up for the evening. She gave me a quizzical look – almost all of our nighttime excursions definitely required under rather than over dressing, but when I showed up at her doorstep, she had not let me down. She was wearing a long, flowing dress, red of course, that bared her arms and most of her back. Her hair was done up in a spiral of sorts, and with her makeup on, you could barely see the signs of illness anywhere about her. And of course, the heels the size of the Eiffel Tower.

I opened her car door for her, much to her surprise, but she took the courtesy with good grace (normally, if you open a door for Alyra, you get a comment along the lines of the fact that she is a female does not mean that she is an invalid). We didn't talk much on the way to dinner. I had planned on a lush Italian place that I loved, but Dr. Weiss's earlier plans pretty much nixed that idea, so I took her to one of the up-town Cuban eateries.

She was clearly enjoying herself, starting off with a gazpacho type soup, moving on to a steak, and finally to one of the decadent Cuban desserts. I enjoyed her appetite. The dinner was superb, as I had hoped, when she finally got down to brass tacks.

"You know, I haven't asked you where we are going."

"I was just admiring you for your tact," I replied. I was enjoying this little game, and I was loathe to end it.

"I don't suppose I could coax you into giving me a hint of some kind," she queried.

"No possibility whatsoever."

"Ah, well, a girl has to try."

I laughed. "Of course."

I took her hand to help her up into the SUV as we went to the parking lot. Again, she gave me a bit of a startled look, but took the formality with good grace yet again. It was all I could do not to tell her where we were headed, but she would find out soon enough.

I headed downtown, knowing the surprise was about to be announced, whether I liked it or not. I preferred to just let her figure it out, in the end, as we drove around the block of the Miami Center for the Performing Arts. As she took in the sign on the marquee, I could hear her gasp.

"Sweeney Todd! You got tickets to Sweeney Todd!"

I smiled, delighted by her enthusiasm. "Well, since you already saw Wicked…"

"Screw Wicked. I have been dying to see Sweeney Todd! How did you know? I haven't even mentioned it to you."

I gave her a twisted grin. "It just seemed…appropriate."

That got a whoop of laughter.

In the end, I was very glad that I had invested in the box seats, because Alyra and I were falling all over each other with each bloody slashing after another. Most people don't approach Sweeney Todd as good humor, but what else could we do? I, the blood spatter geek, as well as serial killer, she the killer who loved the sheer spurting mess of blood. Watching the bursts and gushes was riotously funny, although in the end, we sobered at the story's finale.

Nevertheless, Alyra was almost skipping as we made our way to the parking space we had found three blocks away (I hate parking garages, especially after a good show – definitely brings out the darker side in me). As we got to the car, I made to open the door for her, and she swung around, placing her arms around my neck. I was startled as she dragged me down, at the kiss she placed on my cheek. "Thank you, Dexter! Thank you so very much!"

I smiled. "You are most welcome. I am glad you enjoyed it."

"Enjoyed it? Please. I haven't had that much fun in years. And most of that was in the company."

I felt a titter of warmth inside, just a hint of emotion. "Glad to be of service."

And then she was off, talking about the scenery, the actors, the story, and of course, the blood. We laughed our way all the way home.

I made no effort to take her to her house, driving purposefully to my rental in the suburbs. And she made no argument, as we climbed out of the car. As it was a Friday night, Harrison was well in bed, but Cody and Astor were still up. "Hope you don't mind if I crash?" Alyra asked them, as she always did when she stayed over. The two of them shrugged.

"You look nice," Cody said.

"Why thank you," Alyra said effusively. "I take that as quite a compliment, from a connoisseur like yourself."

"What does that mean?"

I leaned down. "That you know what you are talking about."

"Okay."

Astor looked up at Alyra defiantly. "I want the guest room," she said flatly. Although the house was small, the guest room gave Astor the opportunity to have a room to herself, and she didn't like to share.

Alyra turned to me. "Guess you are stuck with me."

I grinned. "I think I can live with that. Unlike Cody, you don't kick."

Chapter 59

It was three nights later. He had taken her out three times in less than a week. And for some reason, I really, really did not like this.

The night seemed like it would never end. I suppose, in truth, Stephanie was a nice enough girl, certainly pretty, and my sister had tried to do well by me this time. This one seemed to have, on some reflection, a brain, while many of the other creatures that my sister had burdened me with seemed to have absolutely no gray matter to speak of. And she did a bit bigger talk than many women I had had the displeasure of dating, rather than just the snippets of small talk that always threaten to make me start eying the cutlery. Being a lawyer clearly had its own challenges, ranking right up there with the forensics lab of the police department. But my mind wasn't there. All I could think of was another table, somewhere else, with other people.

After I took her home, getting to the door was almost a palpable relief, but the hollowness of the house threatened my calm. Astor and Cody were staying with friends that night, and Harrison was with Deborah, who offered to keep him for the night (obviously, hoping that I would have further plans for Stephanie - ick). I cared deeply for my son, but I took the solace when I could get it.

Tonight, I could find no solace.

It took some time for the real event to evolve, but my mind started racing as soon as I hit the couch. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Alyra's number. The evening was still young (luckily, unbeknownst to my sister, Stephanie had business in the morning, so had to call it at early evening) at only 10:00. I got Alyra's voicemail. I cursed, and hung up.

I am well aware as any other person that answering a phone call while on a date was a definite inappropriate tactic in the schools of proper etiquette, but I was hoping.

What were they doing? Where was he taking her? What were they talking about? She had said that the plan had been for an early movie and then dinner. The film was some foreign movie – Alyra had as little optimism as did I as far as its positive market value, but that's what you get when you date a professor in animal social behavior and animal archetypes.

But they would have a lot to talk about. She was a psychologist, fascinated by the idea of the animal archetype, purveying human civilizations as religious representations. We had talked about them a lot. And he could talk them better than me. She wore teeth, for heaven's sake. Every day. A tiger, a great white shark, and a wolf. I am sure they had a great deal on which to converse.

I hated this. This was maddening. I felt like a school girl waiting for the phone to ring, but my impulse was to dial the phone again and again and again. The minutes ticked by as though they were hours, and my thoughts got more and more random as the night wore on.

I cut the television on, but it could only hold a small portion of my attention. The channel was on Comedy Central, again the work of Alyra. She said if you only have a certain amount of time to live, you sure as hell better spend a good portion of that time laughing. The comedian was good. Not good enough.

I called again – still no answer. 11:00 now. Must be having fun. I felt my fists tighten into knots, unexpectedly as a spasm jolted through the muscles of my upper body. I tried to sit. I could not sit. So I paced.

At midnight, I called, left a message to please call me back. I kept my voice level – I was proud of that. No emergency. Just want to talk.

By 2:00 am, I felt like a rabid animal. I was breathing hard, my pulse was pounding, and my world seemed to focus on a phone that refused to ring. I kept checking it, to make sure it was working. I was surprised there weren't holes in the carpet from my pacing. I had pulled out my slides, surfed the internet for new and interesting playmates, even picked up a book. Nothing worked. I wanted to know where she was. Specifically, I wanted to know that she was not with Mr. Animal Mind.

I called again, and this time, the phone was answered. The voice was slightly blurred, as though almost merging with sleep. I cursed myself. This was not good for her. I had no business doing this.

What was I doing exactly?

"Dexter?" I could hear her sitting up in her bed, as she came quickly awake. We didn't for the most part call for light chatter, especially at 2:00 in the morning.

Now that I had her on the phone, my vocal cords seemed to lock, paralyzed by what I wanted to say. My mouth opened, but nothing came out but my heavy breathing.

"Dexter?" she repeated. "Is everything alright?"

I took a deep breath. "Can you come over here, please?"

This is another reason why I like Alyra. She didn't ask the stupid questions. "What do you mean, now? Is it important? Are you sure?" The answer was quick and curt. "Give me a few minutes, and I will be right there."

My body calmed a little bit. He wasn't with her. I was surprised at how relieved that made me. I hadn't expected this, any of this. But I was still pacing, trying to frame an argument that was no argument and completely and utterly unfair of me when I finally heard her tapping on the door.

I opened the door. She was standing there, in one of her Joker shirts (clearly, she had been preparing for bed, as there was no evidence of a bra as part of her costume), torn jeans, and a pair of sandals. Obviously, she had felt that moving quickly was imperative. She looked at me quizzically, as I moved aside to let her inside the house.

She noted the quiet house. "Everyone out tonight? Just you?"

I nodded.

She was wearing one of my jackets. I could smell my aftershave. She had told me many times that she liked garments that smelled like me. Usually, these things seemed to calm me, but my pulse was still beating hard, and I could not seem to slow my breath.

I put my face in my hands as I just stood there, with the door closed behind me. She was here. She was here. She was here.

She was not there. This was important. She was not with him.

Hesitantly, she reached out to touch me, placing her hands on my lower forearm. This was significant. Alyra didn't touch people, and certainly, allowed only a few to touch her. Not her thing. But she squeezed gently. "Dexter?" Her voice was soft, almost silken. Not insistent. I had just likely gotten her out of one of her first restful sleeps in weeks for no reason and she wasn't even angry.

There was something just plain wrong about that.

I lowered my hands, looking down into her face. The thoughts were still raging, racing one another in my giant brain. What had they done? Where had they been? Why was she getting home so late? Why hadn't she called me? So silly. So childish. But oh so real.

Looking up at me with the same quizzical but now concerned expression, she took a deep breath. "Dexter, are you alright? Is something wrong?"

Given my monumental vocabulary, I was amazed at how completely stumped I was at such a simple question. She was here. She was touching me. And for Alyra, that was huge. She was looking at me. She was asking me a question. How was I? I was nuts, that's how I was.

I could not find my voice, but I could find my breath. "No." Then I realized that she had asked me two questions. "Something is wrong."

She nodded her head once curtly, took my arm and gently led me to the couch. I sat down and she sat down beside me. We were not much for physical contact, for the most part, but we did what we did when it was necessary. Both of us, born in our own blood, had our own reasons for maintaining distance, but her hand rested on my arm. I don't even know if she knew it was there. I was glad of the contact. I needed it. I didn't know why, but I needed it.

None of this was making any sense in my mind. Emotions were such silly, awkward things, and panic was something that I had experienced once or twice in the raw moment of a play date gone bad. But this reeked of emotion, something welling inside, something overwhelming. And I didn't like it.

Again, I was amazed. There were no series of questions. Growing up in a police family, that is what I had expected. I know that Deborah would be whizzing away with delving questions, seeking the source of my upset. But Alyra simply sat there, looking up at me patiently, quietly, her hand resting on my right forearm. The tips of her fingers perched there. There was no stroking, no hand holding. Not an Alyra kind of thing. But it was meaningful. Very meaningful.

It was a statement. I am here. I am here.

Yes, she was.

"Is there anything I can do?" she queried softly, as I struggled to make eye contact. Trust Alyra. Don't even make me explain – just offer to help. I had never had this trouble before, as my eyes darted around the room. I hung my head, taking in deep breaths still. I could see the tremble in my arm, the arm that she was touching. The tremble she was feeling. The tremble she was watching.

I looked at her. Her piercing green eyes were wide awake, alert, and focused on my face. She kept looking at my body, my hands, my legs – perhaps for some clue. But always, they returned to my face. Her face, as always, was pale. No time for makeup for Dexter tonight.

But she had worn makeup earlier that night. I know that she had.

I forced my breath to slow, as her hand spread out across my arm. I stared at it. Her fingers were large for a woman – she had been a cellist for years, grateful for the extra span of a few centimeters. She squeezed my arm gently, kneading the bulk of the muscles of my forearm. I closed my eyes. My heart began to slow to the rhythm of her fingers, my breath still coming hard, but more spread out. A rhythm. She was giving me a rhythm. Trying to slow down my heart, my breathing. I looked down into her pale face.

I knew that I didn't have to tell her anything. I didn't. She had come, to listen, or not to listen. Just to be here. Just because I had asked. I could feel that with my entire being. If I didn't want to talk, I didn't have to talk. If I just wanted someone there, she was here.

She would even hold me if I asked her. She had done it before.

I had never really understood what that aspect of friendship was really about. I was used to the demanding parts. Deborah would always help. But you got a litany of questions first, and the thank you's were not only expected but demanded. But not Alyra - It didn't matter to her why I had called her. I had called her, and she had come.

How many people are really like that?

She smiled at me gently, tilting her head as I felt myself calm. My hands were crossed in my lap now, my back folded downward as some of the tension radiated outward. My shoulders dropped, and I swallowed. Her eyes were still on me, waiting. Not expectant. Not demanding. Just waiting.

It all came out in a rush. "I don't want you to go out with him anymore." The words poured out of my mouth, on one long breath. My head dropped. I couldn't look at her. I just couldn't. My breath began to come heavy again, my pulse rocketing upward. The tremor was quite visible now, and I could feel it in my feet.

A slight twitch of her hand on my arm was the only betrayal of surprise at my words, but she silenced that quickly enough. Then the rhythm began again.

I don't know what I expected. Well, that isn't true. I knew exactly what I expected. I expected to be told that this was none of my business, that this was her life, and she could do as she damn well pleased. She had found joy in something and she wasn't about to let go of that because I didn't like it. She seemed fond of this guy, and they smiled a lot when they talked. Did she smile a lot when she talked to me? Now I couldn't remember. But I was expecting a fight to the finish.

None of this happened. I waited some more. Still nothing. I lifted my head, to peer into her eyes. They were slightly different now, not as puzzled looking, but just as bright. Just as intent. She stared at me, her gaze open, hiding nothing. I had clearly surprised her, that much was evident. Her mouth was slightly open, and the muscles in her face were lax. But she was waiting. Waiting for me to calm down. To breathe.

"Okay." One simple word. Her reply. One word.

I reeled, my muscles in my legs almost pushing me to my feet. My hands jerked backwards, and her hand slipped away – my hand stood poised in midair, just hanging there, as I felt my jaw open, my eyes widen. "What do you mean?"

She patted my shoulder carefully, then stood up. I sat there, frozen, as I heard her fumbling around the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, putting ice in a glass, then filling it with water. She came back, sat down carefully, as though I was a frightened animal and she didn't want to spook me. She handed me the water, although she was careful to make sure that my numb hands could hold it before she let it go.

I took a deep swallow, grasping at some hint of normalcy in the midst of my madness. This was not right. This was not how this was supposed to go.

She put her hands on her lap, gave a terse nod at some thought that she had, and looked back up at me. "Okay. If you don't want me to see him, I won't."

I gulped more water, noting the distance between us now. There was roughly a foot of distance between us on the couch. It felt like a Maginot Line. "I don't understand."

She shrugged, furrowing her eyebrows. "If you don't want me to go out with Michael, I won't. Period. Simple enough." She called him Michael now. Not Dr. Weiss.

Oh, I hated this.

"But you like him," I insisted.

"So? I like doughnuts, but I don't have to eat the whole damn box."

This was definitely not how this conversation had resolved itself in my mind.

"Don't you want to go out with him?"

"Not enough to upset you."

I hung my head again. "It isn't fair. I know it isn't fair. I can't ask you to do this. I shouldn't ask you to do this. You have a right to a life, to be with who you want. More of a right than most of us. But I just can't. I can't…" The words wouldn't come.

"You can't stand it?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Fine. Not a problem."

I held the cool glass, grateful for the slick iciness, finally pressing it to my pounding forehead.

"Aren't you angry at me?"

"Nope," she said with a slight smile.

"Why not?"

"Bluntly, he is a nice guy, but not all that impressive. He is fun to talk to, but not nearly enough to get you this worked up. Not as smart as he thinks he is, which is fun to debate but difficult over the long term. And he has sticky fingers."

"Sticky fingers?"

"You know – those guys who keep trying to touch, even after you tell them not to. The two minutes and try again fellows. They tend to irritate me."

"Oh. Two minutes and try again?"

Her smile was wan. "They try to touch you, and when you say no, they give you two minutes and try again."

I felt a trickle of the Passenger as I filed this in the back of my mind for later.

I just sat there, holding my water, as she sat, about a foot away, just looking at me, as though waiting to see if I had more to say. "I can't believe you aren't angry."

That got a laugh. "Did you honestly think some turkey who talks like an English lord who knows absolutely everything (and I mean everything) would be enough to make me want to see you hurt? You are my best friend, Dexter. Sheesh."

I hadn't thought about it like that. "I didn't mean to ask you to choose."

"No," she said brightly. "You did not. Which is why I was more than happy to do so."

I lifted an eyebrow. "And if I had just asked you to choose?"

The smirk was a palpable thing across those pale pink lips. Her eyes were glowing. "I still would have done it, but I would have made you hurt for it. You know – work for it."

She sat back, still staring intently into my eyes, which kept trying to make a run for the border.

"Drink your water – you are still shaking, and I don't like it."

I think I was still in some manner of shock. "You would just completely stop seeing this man, I mean altogether, just because I asked you to?"

"Yep. I can't believe you even have to ask those kinds of questions. Don't you know me at all? Don't you know what matters to me? Some superficial "Wow, I can finally date someone" compared to the best friend I have ever had. Are you nuts?"

"But he can give you what I can't. He could love you," this came out as a soft whisper. I hated it. I completely hated it. But it was true. I couldn't give her what she needed. What she really wanted.

She sighed, crossing her arms, twisting her jaw, as though trying to figure out how to answer this. "Dexter, do I seem in any way, well, unsatisfied with you?"

I puzzled over that one. "No, I don't think so."

"Does it seem like I just want something from you, and I keep trying to get it, and keep trying to get it, and you just can't do it, and that makes me angry?"

"No."

She looked down, and a faint laugh brushed the hairs on my arm. "Dexter, I never asked you to love me. I don't need you to love me. I need exactly what you are giving me."

"And what's that?" I queried.

"You. Just you being you."

I just stared. "How can that be enough?" I mean really. ME? How could that possibly take the place of that most powerful of things, love? How could I be enough to let that possibility go?

"Why doesn't the Tower of Pisa fall over? I don't know. But it's enough. I've never asked you for anything else. I wouldn't. It wouldn't be fair."

"But how can you not be angry?" I said, feeling the shock and anger in my own voice.

"You make me happy, Dexter. You just do. You don't ask questions about things like that. Because of you, I am not alone. And THAT is what I needed. Not some guy in a ridiculously expensive suit who talks good religion and literature but who knows NOTHING about a good fillet knife."

That made me smile. She patted my hand, much like a school teacher would pat a child who did good work. "You got an amazing brain. Shame you don't use it more, Boy Scout."

And so we sat there, not touching, me drinking my water, as she asked me about my date with Stephanie. I grimaced. "Not a good way to change the subject?" she queried.

"No, she is nice, pretty, even interesting. I just don't want to have to deal with these women that Deborah keeps feeling she owes it to me to set me up with. I just want time to think. To process."

"Nothing wrong with that. Have you told Deborah this?"

I gave her a Look. Of course I had told Deborah this, but Debs was not the type to take advice, particularly about other people's love lives. She said I needed company, I was going to get company.

But I had company. I truly did. The thought burst in my mind like a tiny water balloon. I wasn't alone at all.

Then there was a burst of laughter, and as I looked, she was laughing so hard that she threw her head back. "Deborah kept Harrison with the hopes that you would bring Stephanie home, didn't she?"

I sighed.

"Was there a temptation? Just a smidgeon of a little temptation? No bad boy Dexter, eh?"

I said nothing. No. Not the least in the world. Stephanie's sexual world had no interest for me. But there were reasons for that. So many reasons.

There was more. There was too much more. And I couldn't think.

Well, damn. Sometimes you just have to be a man. I put down the glass of water, as I felt my body begin to tense again, and I grasped Alyra hard behind the back of the neck, pulling her lips to mine. I could feel the strength as she tried to pull away, but I held her hard. Her lips were soft, and in her shock her mouth opened wide for mine. I kissed her deeply. I almost didn't register when she stopped pulling away from me, sitting still, stone still, as I embraced her. There was no molding into my embrace, but she sat there, unmoving. She did not pull away.

But she wasn't running. Not yet.

Slowly, carefully, I released her. Her eyes were wide, blinking furiously, as she swallowed over and over. The distance between us seemed like miles. As I could feel my own breathing slow, my pulse drop to a steady rhythm, the same could not be said for her. Her face was pale, and I could see the pounding of her pulse in the curve of her throat.

I think it is safe to say that she was very, very surprised.

Now her breath was coming hard, and I could see the pulse in her neck throbbing. She was looking at nothing, into an abyss, as she appeared to be trying to figure out what the hell just happened. I reached down, picked up the water, and sat it down in front of her.

She stared at me as she threw the water back, draining the glass. "That was…unexpected."

I could only stare at her. So many things I wanted to say, but they were all a jumble. I had never, ever wanted to do that before. It made me ache to think that someone else might be wanting that from her to. And I couldn't have that. I couldn't.

I would not.

I felt things that were wild, uncontrollable, and yet there was a wonder, a fascination, like I was examining some new kind of animal, some new organism. Dexter, stealer of midnight kisses.

Dexter – wanting to touch someone. And not in a businesslike fashion.

I couldn't explain it. I didn't try.

I made a decision, stood up, and went to the kitchen, pulled out two beers (good ones – German). I popped the caps, and came back to the couch. I made sure to leave her enough room to scoot away from me if she wanted to. She didn't move. The foot that was a mile remained.

She dropped her head to her knees, putting her hands on the back of her head. Now she was trembling. I longed to touch her, but I didn't dare. I had learned my lessons, early and hard. I wasn't going to cross that line again. This was her decision. Always hers to make.

She looked up at me again, her hands tightly wound in her hair. "Why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to." Simple answer. Simple truth.

"Oh." Apparently not the answer she was expecting.

"I want to touch you," I said flatly. "I don't know why. I just do. Just to touch you."

I could see the gears whirring. "Have you ever felt like this about a woman before? Really?"

"No. I have felt lust, that comes with the gender I think. But not this. Nothing like this."

She pulled her knees onto the couch, curling her legs underneath her. She gave me a deliberate look, a hard look. This one I recognized. Now was the time to be careful.

She sat there for quite a while, clearly thinking. Then she untugged the edge of her Joker shirt from her jeans. I watched the cloth slide down her hips – the shirt was big. She had let me wear it. And it was touching her. Like I wanted to touch her.

Very, very slowly, she reached over into my lap. I watched her every movement as she took my hand, lifted it, and brought it to her side. I remained perfectly still, frozen, letting her guide my fingers. She lifted the edge of the shirt, and placed my hand on bare skin.

I closed my eyes. The sensations were overwhelming. Her skin was soft, but I could feel the hardness of the muscle just underneath. I kept my hand perfectly still as I let the sensations of warmth and life and movement spill over me. I could feel each breath under my fingers. She put her hand on top of my hand, and I closed my hand, embracing her flesh.

Her voice was cold, crisp, clean. "This is what you want?"

I pulled my hand reluctantly from underneath her shirt, and I reached over to her face. Her eyes closed as I cupped her face in my hand. "I don't want your flesh, your body. Not that way. It's beautiful, it feels wonderful. But I want you. I want to touch you. You." I know what I said made no sense, but it just was what it was. I wanted her. Not in the classic use of the term, but I wanted her very, very much. Just to be with her. Just to touch.

I felt her lean her weight into my hand, as her cheek molded into my fingers. The movement shifted her balance, and she fell forward. I caught her, my hand still holding her face, my thumb carefully stroking her cheek. She was leaning into me now, her body pressed tightly against mine as I tried to find words. Groping. Grasping.

"So not sex, then," she whispered.

I shook my head hard. "No," I said flatly. "I just want you. And I don't want anyone else to have you."

Her eyes snapped open. "Ah," she said with the beginnings of a smile. "The evening becomes clearer."

"It's selfish. It's horrible. You could do so many things, be with so many people, learn so many things. Batista would love to take you drinking. My sister likes you – she would hang out with you. And that animal guy thinks you are wonderful. You should hear him talk about you. You only have so much time. I understand that. But I want you. I want you so much. With me."

She made no effort to move, just sort of slid up against my side. She took the beer, tossed it back with a big swig. I pulled my own beer up to my lips. I took a long drag.

"I am broken. You know this." This was a statement, a declamation.

"So am I."

"But it's different."

"No it isn't. Not in any way that matters."

"I don't know anything about this stuff. Anything. Zip. Zero. Nada. Zilch."

"I don't care."

"It won't be easy."

"When has anything to do with you ever been easy?"

She choked on her beer. I patted her back, as she got her breath back. I moved forward, leaning in close. "But when has anything to do with you not been worth it?" I added.

She turned fully to face me. "Boy, you are completely nuts. Completely nuts. I have seen the chicks your sister sets you up with. Beautiful. Luscious. All that stuff. You could have that. Have it! And you want a part of me. Knowing that you may only get a part?"

I faced forward, lifting my arm to wrap it around her. "Yep," I said, taking another drag on my beer. "I don't want that stuff. I never really have. But I want you. I don't know what I really even mean by the word – not what most people mean. But I think you know. I think you understand."

She shook her head, over and over. "Crazy," she mumbled over and over.

I tucked her head under my shoulder, leaning over to put my head on hers. "I think that by some sort of technical definitions, several in fact, we both fit those criteria."

"God knows you are the only human being I can really have a conversation with," she muttered.

"You aren't kidding about that one."

"How do you listen to a guy talk about an ancient bear archetype when all you can think about is if you put your knives up properly? I mean, really."

"The whole night, I was scouting the restaurant for anyone that looked like some kind of evildoer. I wanted to put that cutlery to some real use, what it was made for."

"You wanted to play?"

"I always want to play."

She smiled warmly.

"I have noticed something that merits mentioning."

"Of course," she responded.

"You are not running."

Her head tilted just a fraction, as she brought the beer to her lips. "I stopped being afraid of you, Dexter Morgan, quite a long time ago."

I pulled her tight to me. Of course, I realized the unwiseness of her decision making process in this respect, but I was not about to point it out. Trust? Me? Absurd. That said enough about her mental stability, right there.

We sat there, just drinking, for quite a while. Two people who aren't all that fond of touching finding people they are fond of touching is in many ways, a monumentous event, especially when said touching is of such a simple nature. And it was perfect – just to have an arm around her, just to hold her. I could feel my body beginning to genuinely calm.

I then turned her to face me. She looked at me, in that direct way of hers. Alyra always maintained eye contact – she never looked away. It was disconcerting at first, but then you began to realize that you had all of her attention. All of it.

She slid away from me, and I almost whined, but then I realized what she was doing as she lifted the Joker shirt over her head. She sat in front of me, as I reached out a tentative hand. She took my hand in hers, and placed it firmly on her abdomen. And then, pulled my hand upward.

I closed my eyes. I could feel the warmth of her skin, the silkiness of her curves. I felt my hand begin to wander, slowly, gently. She took my other hand, brought it to her side. I almost gasped as this time, she placed my hand directly on her hip.

"Be careful," she whispered. Not a threat, merely a warning. I gave her a terse nod, but my eyes were all for the bare flesh in front of me. This was a very odd sensation for me. While sex can be nice, albeit undignified, I rarely found myself so actively engaged in touching another person. It was an exquisite sensation. I had been with women, of course, and not all of it had been truly horrible, but this was something quite different. It was as though by touching her I could prove to myself, over and over, that she was real, that she was really there, with me. Choosing to be with me. Crazy, but nice.

I let my hands roam, but kept my touch soft, gentle. When I reached below her waist, I could feel her muscles tighten. "No," she said in a cut-off voice, as though that wasn't what she really wanted to say, but what she had to say. Rules. Of course there were rules. I moved my hands to her back, pulling her closer to me, and felt her relax again.

It was a remarkable experience, just to be able to lay hands on her. Feeling the wiry muscles that curved around her arms, her thighs, her back, her chest. To know that she trusted me enough, to be this vulnerable. It was almost shocking.

"What time is it?" Alyra finally asked.

I peered at the clock, realizing that I had almost fallen asleep. "Four, I think."

She stood up. "We have to get some sleep, or tomorrow is going to be a nightmare."

I rose, reaching down for her hand. "You will stay here?" I asked her, feeling the hesitancy in my voice.

She guffawed. "By the time I get home, my alarm will go off. Go find yourself something to sleep in because I am NOT sleeping with you naked. We ain't THAT far along this little path yet."

I didn't bother to remind her that she had slept half naked with me before. I would take what I could get. I bounded off to the bedroom, finding my pair of pajamas, a little hot for a Miami night but the truth was that they were from some luxury store, so they always felt nice when I thought to put them on. Too often my only thought was of the bed, not what was between me and it.

Alyra followed, tugged off her jeans, and sat down on the bed. I tossed her a pair of my workout shorts, which she slid on.

We both just kind of sat there, until Alyra laughed. "It's your bed, Dexter. You need to lay down where you usually lay down, and then I take it from there."

I threw myself onto the bed. I acted as though I could not care the least in the world where she meant to set up shop for the night. Again, years and years of being me (or more precisely, not being me) coming to the fore to help in a tight situation.

As we were both assuming tolerably comfortable positions, me on the left side of the bed, she on the right. We were both on our sides, me facing her, and she facing the other wall. I knew what I wanted, but she had already given so much. How could I ask for that? Touching her all night. Better to take my time. She was here. That was what mattered.

As we both finally seemed to settle into our final positions, I felt a small hand reach over, groping gently. I reached for it. She was still facing away from me. She took my hand, and put it carefully on her waist, wrapping my arm around her body. I sighed. "Thank you." I pulled her gently toward me, and although I could feel the tightness in her muscles, she made the effort to nestle into the curve of my body.

"If you kick, you die."

I slept like a rock. Alyra told me that she did too. Sometimes, you just gotta make yourself ask. You never know. You might get exactly what you asked for. Sometimes you don't get what you want, but sometimes, just sometimes, you get what you need. And lucky me, I got both.

Chapter 59

I had been after a little weasel named Antonio Martinez for quite some time, but he basically locked himself in a little mini-fortress, and surrounded himself by goons except when he was at home and during the very late evenings, during which he employed a security system even I couldn't crack. Now he was not Alyra's usual fair, as he had a flair for young women rather than children (but was no less a killer for that), but I was hoping she would make an exception for me. She had some very creative ways for getting targets out of houses. I had never contemplated a daytime 'extraction' (her term, not mine), but she said she had done it hundreds of times (I am certain this was an exaggeration – alright, almost certain). So I was hoping she would not let me down this time.

She did not.

This time, she pretended to be from the local gas authority. The catch behind this one was that we had to do it in the middle of the day, which made my Passenger a little uneasy, but I had been watching, and once Martinez was in the house, the goon squad usually made their departure. Then he didn't leave until after 5:00, goon squad in tow. And after a few days of watching and waiting, we had our opportunity.

As Alyra approached the house, bold as brass, I had to admit that I had a tremendous respect for her as I lay hidden in my assumed position behind one of the bushes behind the house. The trick was to get Martinez to come and take a look at his gas meter, where I would take him down. His neighborhood was a nice one, but one where neighbors didn't tend to see what other neighbors did. Ever. And this time, we wouldn't completely knock him out, just enough to get him into the truck, then take him out.

I did not hear the conversation, but I could hear the raised voices – or should I say, raised voice. As usual, Alyra was calm and cool, explaining the situation (there was the a possibility of a gas leak in his house, which was a tremendously dangerous situation, and she needed him to show her where his gas meter was located, so she could determine if they were indeed losing fuel). He came stomping around the house, rumbling about the incompetence of the city authorities. He didn't even notice when she glided easily back behind him and I stepped forward, and the needle slid in easily. I had him before he even hit his knees, and Alyra grabbed his other shoulder. But as fate would have it, one of his neighbors was out and about, and in a questioning mood. Of course, she was in a moo-moo (too fat for real clothes would be my guess, living in a posh neighborhood like this one – she certainly ate well, and if she was walking for exercise, she had a long way to go yet), and all she was lacking was the curlers in her hair to make the moment absolutely picture perfect. I felt myself freeze, my tongue absolutely tied. I lowered my head quickly, pulling the baseball cap Alyra had given me downward, expressly for that purpose.

She approached us cautiously, as we held the stumbling Martinez between us. "Where you think you taking Martin?" Her accent was thick, and it took me a minute to register what she was asking us.

Alyra spoke with an equally thick accent, "You know how it is, Bonita, he been at the stuff again." The accent on "the stuff" was clear enough. I could see the woman preen at the compliment. "We think he got himself in some trouble this time, so we take him to the doctor just to get him checked out. No trouble."

"How come I never see you here before?"

Alyra snorted. "How many of Martin's people you seen before? We come, we go, we go quiet. You no want to see, you know it. That is how things work. You know what this place is, you know?" This was said in a clear, loud voice. And it appeared that the woman indeed did know, as she took two steps backward.

"You just take him to doctor? Nothing to worry?"

"Nothing to worry. Most likely, he just take a little too much. They fix him right up."

The woman leaned in conspiratorially. "I thought he sell it. I don't think he do it."

Alyra laughed. "All those that sell it, they all do it. You know that, mamasita. But you do us favor, yes? You no see us, we no see you. Yes?"

The woman backed away hastily. "I no see nothing."

"Reputation everything in this business. We need Martin reputation. Important for business, yes?"

"I see nothing," and the woman scurried off.

I turned to Alyra, looking at her under Martinez's arm as he mumbled something incoherent. "Now that was impressive."

"Gotta think fast on your feet for a daytime heist, Boy Scout. Never know when you are gonna get seen. But people see what they want to see, and they don't see what they don't want to see. Always remember that."

And I have.

We settled "Martin" in the back of the SUV, gave him his second and more tranquil dose of barbiturates, and set off to package him up for the day. Our hobbies were meant for the nighttime, not for the light of day.

The night came readily. I had been waiting for this moment for some time. Martinez was a serial rapist, who enjoyed videotaping his exploits, each ending with the death of the woman involved. The tapes were good, leaving just enough question as to whether they were real or not. I had found out that they were indeed, quite real. Finding a body gives you a real clue about these sorts of things.

I leaned down, whispering into his ear, "So, how does it feel to be helpless? How does it feel to be the victim? Did the women cry? Did they beg? Did they plead? " The questions were rhetorical, of course, as I had him nicely gagged (I am quite fond of rhetorical questions in situations like these), so I certainly didn't wait for an answer as I drove the knife down hard into his chest.

Chapter 60

Alyra had taken to staying with us in the new house, usually in the room with me (the children made no protests about this, which was a bit surprising), while on other nights, we (as in the whole family) would crash at her place.

I am not sure what actually clued me in to something being wrong. Her shower was a little long, but it had been a hard day, so I didn't think much of that. But something was just off. The way she had stripped off her clothes without giving me a second glance, closed the door.

Very carefully, I found myself opening the door. The room was filled with a fine mist, so it was hard to see, but as my eyes focused, I could see her, sitting there, her legs curled up tightly to her chest.

I was on the floor before I knew what had happened. I could see her face, an expression of pure agony, as the tears mingled with the water that poured from above. She batted at me, told me to go away, leave her alone, but there was simply no way I could leave her. Not like this. Not even the coldest heart, which I probably have, could just let this be.

I stood up, stepped into the pouring water, and pulled her into my arms. I basically sat down, as she had done, cradling her up against me. I pulled her head into my chest, feeling the tension of her muscles. So this was how she did it. This is how she maintained that strong face, that powerful visage to the world. She cried in dark places, where no one could see her.

I could hear her murmuring against my chest. "I don't want to do this. I don't know how to do this."

I could feel my own tears start, and let me tell you, it takes a lot to get Dexter's water works going. "We'll figure it out. We'll take it as it comes."

She looked up at me. "Why are you here? It doesn't make any sense. You shouldn't be here."

I smiled, let out a little laugh. "When have either of us made any sense, I mean really. But I am here. And I am not going anywhere."

She looked down. "You are ruining your shoes."

"I can get new shoes," I said matter of factly.

"You should at least take off the shirt."

I sat very still, as she reached up and started to unbutton my shirt with slow, hesitant fingers. I slid forward as she slid it down my back. Her movements had no sensual intent. There was no sex there. She wanted to feel me, to prove that I was real. She tucked her head into my chest. I stroked her hair. There was nothing left to do.

I held her until the hot water heater had long given up its efforts, and we were soaked by ice cold water. I lifted her up in my arms, cut off the water briskly, grabbed one of the larger towels, sat her purposefully on the counter and began to dry her off. Her hair was a challenge, all the waist length of it, until she mercifully took the towel and took responsibility for the tresses.

I leaned down close to her, so our eyes were level. "Are you sure you want to go into work today?"

"Do you normally ask questions to which you already know answers?"

"I try not to make it a rule."

"Fine." She hopped off the counter, making her way to her suitcase of clothing, and began dragging out her selection for the day. I moved to the bedroom, after removing my wet pants (let me tell you that was harder than one might expect), and the done for shoes. I really liked those shoes too. But I kept an eye on her, just a corner of my vision. She seemed her usual self. It was frightening really. I had no emotions, so I could manifest them readily enough. But she had them, and had to spend her life suppressing them, so she could give the world the visage that it wanted. It seemed an almost unwinnable war.

I think in the end I got the better deal.

Then I caught her just staring at me. I looked over, a question in my eyes. "I will never understand you, Dexter Morgan."

"That makes two of us. Hey! You didn't call me Boy Scout."

She smiled. "No, I suppose I didn't." As she went back into the bathroom to untangle the brambles of her flaming hair, she retorted, "Don't get used to it. Boy Scout."

Chapter 61

Apparently, Alyra's outburst of emotion had a very physical genesis. Alyra got sick for several days, and I watched her rapidly weaken. I should have been warned, by her earlier demonstration of powerful emotion. For her to feel it was one thing – to show it was quite another. Her clothes were hanging off of her, and she appeared haggard and disheveled, a state I had never seen her in before. When she up and vanished one day, I had a very bad feeling about this, and I took to the streets to look for her. I had looked just about everywhere, until I finally thought of one last place. I hit Highway 1 at speed, driving outside of Miami. I was actually surprised that I found the stable so easily, but I pulled in to indeed find her car there.

After a quick search of the pasture for Lucifer, I finally started combing the set of stables on this side of the farm, and sure enough, in the loose box, there she was. Or there they were.

Lucifer was actually lying down, a very unusual thing for a horse to do. And then I saw why. Curled up against his neck lay Alyra, her head on the soft fur of his neck, her body curled up and around his massive chest. He even had extended a foreleg, almost putting it around her.

The horse, unlike Alyra, was very much awake, and not at all amused at my intrusion. As I made my way closer, he stomped a foot in warning. As I said, animals and I didn't get along very well. "It's alright, boy, I'm not going to hurt her."

I slid into the stall alongside her, being very careful that the horse could see where my hands were. I reached out gently, and got another foot stomp for my trouble. This one was much closer. But they appeared to be just warnings, so I reached out to her arm – strong pulse. Her breathing appeared to be normal, although a little ragged. Her wrists were clean of markings, so at least that worry was silenced. Alyra didn't strike me as the type to take pills or use any other method than a blade to end her life. It would seem …. tacky.

I looked up into the eyes of the horse. His dislike of me was evident, but I had to trust that there was some intelligence there, that had to know that I meant her no harm. "I need to move her, boy, to make sure she is alright."

As I reached in to take her into my arms, I could hear the snapping of teeth as the horse literally lunged at me. I backed up. It would have been easy enough to take a chunk out of me – he didn't. Again, it was a warning. But the warnings were getting increasingly serious.

Slowly, ever slowly, I reached inside his protective circle, running my hand down her face, into her hair. "Come on, beautiful, wake up for me."

"Beautiful?" came the mumbled answer. I felt like I could breathe again.

"You have no idea how beautiful you look to me right now. I have been looking for you everywhere."

"I wanted to be alone."

"I can understand that," I said hurriedly, "but some of us just want to have an idea of where you are going."

"You don't own me," came the response.

"True enough, true enough, but I worry about you. That should mean something."

Her eyes opened. They were filled with a dense fatigue, the likes of which I had never seen. I wondered how long it had been since she had eaten or drank anything.

I stood up carefully, moving very slowly. The horse didn't once take his eyes off me. I left the stall, made my way to the tackroom, and found the cooler filled with sports drinks. I pulled out one that I recognized, something with a soft, sweet taste but not overpowering, and brought it back to the stall. Her eyes had closed again. I cleared my throat carefully, trying very hard not to push the tolerance of the big horse. I had never heard of anything like this. He was treating her as a guard dog would treat his master. A very good guard dog.

Her eyes fluttered open, and I extended my hand carefully, slowly. She took the drink from me, but to her frustration, found that she couldn't open it. Without a word, I took the bottle from her, cracked the top, and I handed it back to her. I got a scowl for my trouble. But I understood that. She hated weakness, and to be so weak that she couldn't open a fitness water bottle was weak indeed.

She leaned back against the horse, who nickered gently into her ear. She smiled softly.

"I need you to come with me."

"Why?"

"Because I want to make sure that you are okay."

"I am dying, Dexter. I am by definition not okay."

"You know what I mean."

She sighed. "I suppose I do. But I am comfortable here. I am safe here."

I had no argument for that one. It was clear enough that anyone with bad intentions with respect to this woman would face a very large and very angry horse. I was surprised he was tolerating me as much as he was.

"I can make you safe. I have done it before."

"Dexter, I am fine. You don't need to move me. Lucifer will take care of me."

"Will he feed you? Will he make sure you don't get sick? Will he help you get up when you need to get up?"

"Dexter, I have got to die sometime. I am comfortable. I feel safe. Just leave it alone."

I pulled out the nasty card. "You would do that to him? You know he is smart. You know he will understand what is going on. He will want to help you, but the only thing he knows how to do is keep you safe. He can't even make sure that you have water to drink. Would you really die on him? Could you do that to him?"

"Better just to disappear into the darkness? Never to be seen again. At least this way, he will know."

"How could you be so selfish? Yes, he is smart – brilliant for a horse. But what does he know about death and dying. Do you want him to sit here for hours, crooning over a dead body, because he just doesn't understand?"

"He will understand."

"You are personifying again. Animals don't do death the way we do. They don't understand it the way we do. Of all people, you know this. It will only hurt him. Do you want to hurt him?" The words were cold, brutal, but I had to make her understand. This was not the way. To just come out here and give up. "You know all of this. You are the one who taught me this."

"I may never be able to ride him again," she whispered.

"Do you really think he would be angry about that? Anyway, if there is any horse alive that could be ridden by someone deathly ill, he would be the one, right? He would never let you fall."

She seemed to consider this.

"What do you want?"

"I want to take you home, make sure that you are eating, drinking. Making sure that you are getting around alright."

"You want to take care of me."

I motioned at the horse. "What do you think he wants to do?"

"I am dying."

"Not today. Not tomorrow. Not if you don't want to."

"And what if I want to."

I took a deep breath. "I just want to make sure you are alright. If you are, then you can do whatever you want to do."

"You promise?"

I had never had my fingers crossed so hard behind my back in my life. I could lie like a champion. Or a politician. "Of course."

She sighed again, leaning into Lucifer's chest. He whinneyed softly, still eying me carefully. "I can't get up. I have already pissed myself. Not that Lu minds," she said, adding a soft stroke to the horse's jaw. He snuffled into her hair.

"You are weak, you are tired. You just need something to eat, something to drink. And then some rest. Then you will be fine."

"Dexter, I will never be fine. Never again."

"Dammit, you know what I mean."

I leaned closer, all the time aware of the powerful jaws and hooves that were very, very close to my person. "Don't give up on me now. We have so much left to do, you and I. So much left to do. I know you are tired. We can get through this."

"We?"

"Yes, we," I said angrily. "I told you I wasn't going to leave you, and I am not going to leave you.

"Please," I said softly. "At least drink the drink."

She popped the cap, and brought the bottle to her lips. I could see the tremor in her fingers, but I made no effort to help her. She had to do all of those things that she could do on her own on her own. That was important. Give her her pride.

I was learning a great deal more about victims, in my experiences with Alyra. And while I would never say it to her face, in many ways she was just another victim, although the assailant was something all the more horrible, to be attacked by your own body, betrayed by your own body, ultimately killed by your own body.

But her strength. Her courage. Her concern for others, despite her own tremendous suffering. She was truly a remarkable creature.

And that gave me my window in. "Do it for me," I whispered.

"What?"

"If you won't do it for yourself, do it for me. I need you. I need you so much. You make me feel almost human. I don't know how I can live without that."

"You are not playing fair," Alyra rebuked.

"To hell with fair. I need you. My family needs you. Hell, even Lucifer needs you. Don't give up now. There is too much fight left in you. Far too much. I know it. I can feel it. The Passenger can feel it."

I took in a deep breath. It was worth a try. I didn't have any cards left to play. It was an absolutely terrible thing to do, but I couldn't think of anything else. "When I was three years old, I watched my mother being cut to pieces. Apparently, there was some sort of drug deal, and my mother and her friends thought they could make some money on the side. They were wrong. I was in a train car, in several inches of blood, for days. I don't remember very much. I suppose that's a blessing. I just remember trying to talk to my mother – I couldn't understand why she wouldn't talk to me, what I had done to make her angry with me. I thought it was so strange, how she could stand up under the train car like that, with just her head showing through. I thought it was a cool trick. But I didn't understand why she wouldn't look at me, wouldn't talk to me, at all. I didn't understand.

"I think that is what made me…like me. My brother was also there, and he also became a serial killer. But not like us. He killed innocents. I had to stop him. He had to be stopped."

She simply stared at me, her facial expression unreadable. Slowly, carefully, she reached out with one hand, and touched my face. I closed my eyes. She didn't say anything trite or stupid, like "I'm so sorry" or "That's terrible." I could hear her breathing, as she had shifted from a slow, lethargic breathing pattern to a very tense, attentive pattern. I opened my eyes.

She closed her eyes again. "No doctors."

"You have my word. No doctors."

"Alright," she whispered quietly.

I finally felt like I could breathe. As I reached inside to grab her, I could hear the warning nicker of the horse who was holding her.

"It's alright, big boy. I'm fine. He's not going to hurt me." She stroked the big horse's neck, his mane. As I finally got my arms around her, I could hear the thump of a hoof coming down, very close to my leg.

I looked up. She had buried her face into his nose. He whickered softly. "I'll be back. I promise."

As I gently began to stand with her in my arms, the horse came to its feet with a speed that was remarkable to behold. I could actually feel the wind as the jaws came to a snapping close, only inches from my ear.

"Stop being a silly boy," Alyra admonished. She reached out again, this time to stroke the gray face. The horse laid his head across her shoulder, placing his face directly into her chest. She wrapped her arms around him. "Dexter's not a bad guy. You know that. You just don't like all of this."

I stood very, very still, quite aware of the number of armaments that a horse of that size actually carries. "You can go now. He won't bother you." And as I stepped away, I could feel the distance as the horse stepped back, but he followed us all the way to the fence. I opened it. As we went through, he made no effort to follow, but he did nicker in our direction. Alyra raised her head, smiling. "That's my boy," she said. "That's my boy."

As I made to put her into the car, she admonished me. "Soiled pants, remember? The tack room has some old garbage bags. They should protect your interior."

"I don't care about my interior," although this was a bit of a lie. How well did urine come out of leather?

"I'm not moving until you get them, and believe me, Lucifer can jump that fence if he feels like it." I turned back to the horse, who was still watching us intently. So I made my way into the tack room, and after a cursory search, found a bag of Hefty bags, grabbed three of them, and made my way back to the car. I laid them out across the back seat, covering every available surface. Finally, Alyra allowed me to lift her, laying her across the seat.

As I drove away, I could still see the horse, watching from the gate as we left. Had I ever inspired that kind of devotion in anything, animal or human? I wondered.

I admonished Alyra to keep working on the sports drink. She did so, but very slowly. Quietly.

"That was very dirty, Dexter. That was below the belt."

"I know," I said softly. "But I can't lose you yet. I just can't."

I could hear the deep sigh behind me, but there was no response. Not that I expected one. She had said what she meant to say. "I am sorry," I whispered.

"You do what you have to do,"she said, almost matter-of-factly. "You figured that would work. You were right. Dropping a bomb like that. Very effective."

I looked in the rear view mirror. She didn't appear to be the least bit angry – just tired. But I was glad that the gamble had worked. Somehow, I had known that by sharing one of the most intimate parts of myself, she would not be able to leave me. Not yet anyway.

I asked what she could eat, and she said she was likely limited to soups. What kind did she want? Egg drop soup and hot and sour soup. Neither of which would appeal to the children. I called into my favorite Chinese place, and the soups were waiting, steaming in their bag, when I got there. I called for the pizzas on the last stretch of the way home. They would be delivered to the house.

As soon as I opened the door, the children were on us. I took Alyra immediately back to the master bedroom. Astor had pretty much claimed the guest bedroom as her own, even though it slept like a plank. However, Alyra refused to lay down on my bed until she had a chance to change her clothes. Despite the frustration, you still had to respect that she didn't want to soak my sheets with urine. Finally, we found her a pair of old sweatpants and an old T-shirt to sleep in. But first, she stepped quickly into the shower, to make sure that she was at least clean enough to get into new clothes.

As I settled her into the bed, I made the preparations for the family dinner, with our normal family pizza, the pepperoni side for Astor and the ultimate side for Cody and myself. The children peppered me with questions, about where I had found her, what kind of condition she had been in. When I told them about the guardian horse they were both very impressed. I told them I had been scared out of my mind.

"Do you really think he would have hurt you?" Cody asked.

"I am absolutely confident he would have hurt me if he thought I meant her any harm."

"Better than a guard dog," Astor commented.

"Bigger, too," added Cody.

The children fought over who would take her her soup, except for Harrison of course, who was still enjoying his piece of pizza with the kind of sheer joy that takes the breath away, and leaves tomato sauce all over the walls. Finally, I told them each to take in a small bowl of each soup, to see what she could tolerate.

Despite my words to the contrary, I called Dr. Andrews. I could hear his frustration. "She needs some IV fluids – do you have some of those?"

"Yes, I have a couple left."

"Good. Use the D5W – it has sugar in it, will help her get her energy up. Still have some of the anti-nausea medications?"

That I had to check, but I told him that I had at least enough for another series of injections. "You will probably need to come by to pick up some more. I wish you could bring her in, so we could get an idea of how bad this is."

"She made me promise – no doctors."

"And if things get worse?"

"Then I lied," I said flatly.

"Good man," Andrews said. I could hear the relief in his voice. "The important thing right now is calories – nutrition is secondary. We have to get her enough energy so that she can keep down some real food. Anything she wants – Ben & Jerry's, potato chips, popcorn. Anything that she thinks she can keep down, you try. Is she holding down fluids?"

"As far as I can tell."

"Then get some type of supplement, Ensure, Boost. See if she can keep one of those down. They are very calorie dense, and in addition they have some nutrition. One last thing – does she ever throw up around you?"

I pondered that. During all of our lunches, dinner with the kids, except for the one time when she got sick and we brought her home, she had never actually thrown up around me. No mad dashes to the bathroom. "No, not that I am aware of."

"Excellent. If there is one thing in this world that woman is, it is proud. If you feed her and don't leave for a few hours, I am guessing she won't throw up. It will probably hurt like hell, but she will fight it hard. And that's what we need her to do right now."

It took several days, but gradually, her strength, and her weight, began to increase, given the pestering of almost all of the members of the family to get her to eat. We got her favorite things, as calorie dense as we could manage them. She didn't really do ice creams and cakes, but she had a penchant for red velvet cake, and so I bought a whole one at the local bakery. If she wouldn't eat anything else, she would eat that. And of course, I got several servings of her favorite thing in the world.

"Tiramisu?" she queried, with just a hint of a smile.

"Yep," I said. "Figured if you could keep anything down, that would be it."

"And it won't be horrible on the way back up."

I ignored that. For a few moments, she just stared at it. From what Andrews had told me, not eating for so long had actually led her stomach to shrink, so eating was actually painful. But that did not remove the necessity that she eat. I took the fork from her hands, drew out a small piece of the dessert, and lifted it to her lips. The look she gave me was unreadable, but she opened her mouth. At least she clearly enjoyed the taste. We made it half-way through the slice, before we both agreed that we would be pushing our luck. I kept her head propped up on several pillows. I could tell that she desperately wanted me to leave, but we weren't having any of that. No, we weren't.

And I talked to her, about all of the things we still needed to do. We were making good progress on her list, but we still had work to do. I still had to figure out what I really felt for her (she wished me good luck,with a great deal of sarcasm, on that one). The kids still needed her. And they made absolutely no effort to hide that fact, coming in to ask her questions about their homework, questions about relationships (especially Cody), and were always the first to check on her to see how she was doing.

When she was able to walk unassisted, I kept my word – I took her back out to the stables, and although I could see that Lucifer was treating her with unusual care, I showed her that she could still ride. It might not be the same - it might not ever be the same. But she could still do it. He even ran with her, although he avoided most of the jumps in the pasture. It was clear that he loved her, loved her as much as any man could ever love her, and he would not give her up until he absolutely had to. And even then, he would still be there for her. A remarkable thing in an animal.

Slowly, ever slowly, she got better. She had made me a promise, to give it her best. And she was doing that. For me. She wouldn't do it for herself. But she would do it for me. For Cody. For Astor. Even for Harrison.

I knew – each time she went through an episode like this, her recovery would be less complete. She would have losses. I did my best to make little of those losses. As though they were things she could afford to lose. I knew that they weren't, but as I said, I wasn't prepared to lose her yet. Part of her wanted to die, wanted this over – and I had to fight that with everything in my being. This was the second time. I would make sure there wasn't a third. And I knew one way to absolutely keep her interest in this world. And that was a card I was more than willing to play.

Sharing my darkness, the most deep and intimate parts of my darkness, would show her how much I needed her. And it was very clear that she needed to be needed. Which also meant getting her back to work.

Chapter 62

Alyra sat at the desk, deeply immersed in the report she was writing, but I could sense that all was not well with her world. I came up behind her, leaning down. "Are you doing alright?"

She sighed, turning to face me. "Sorry. Sometimes the whole dying thing just puts you in a bit of the doldrums." She had recovered well from her recent bout of her illness, and was doing very well at work. But it was understandable that things were weighing heavily on her mind.

I put my hands on her shoulders. At first, she bristled at the touch, but then relaxed as my hands kneaded gently into the large muscles on her arms. I smiled. "I was saving this for later, but now seems as appropriate a time as any." I reached around her to the filing cabinet, and pulled out a file. She gave me a quizzical look as she took the file, opening it.

"I know he isn't your usual fair, but I thought, maybe this once, you could make an exception…."

The smile was luminous. "Oh, Dexter, you do know how to make a girl smile."

I gave her a serious look. "I am not entirely sure yet. But I am pretty convinced that he is a killer, in addition to being a serial rapist."

"Just your kind of party-guest?"

"Right up my alley. Actually, I have an idea – why don't you take the rest of the day off, and go watch him for me? See if he does anything suspicious."

I didn't think the smile could widen. I was wrong. In a quick gesture, jumping to her feet she wrapped her arms around my neck. Frankly, I was stunned – Alyra was not one given to casual touching, and a hug was something rare indeed. But I returned the quick embrace. As she stood back, opening the file quickly to get the appropriate address, I remembered to admonish her. "Whatever you find, you wait for me," I said carefully.

She gave me a salute that would have made a drill sergeant proud. "Aye aye, master chief." As she made her way toward the door, just a little jaunt in her step, she turned back to me. "Thanks, Boy Scout."

I smiled back at her. "You are very welcome."

When the phone ring, I knew that something had happened. It wasn't like Alyra to just call for something as casual as an observation.

"He's picked up a victim."

I froze. "Are you sure?"

"How many relationships have you been in where you put your girl in the trunk?"

I thought that one over. Frankly, I had thought about it, but I had never done it. "Where are you?"

"Heading out of town, down US 1."

"Does he know you are following him?"

"Dexter, will you give me a little credit?" I could hear the guffaw.

My mind was racing. I was used to having time to prepare for these sorts of things. "Can you be more specific as to where you are?"

"No worries. I have a GPS on my phone." She quickly rattled off the latitude and longitudinal coordinates. I looked at the clock – almost 5:00.

"Keep me posted on where you are," I said.

"Roger that."

"And don't do anything!"

"Dexter, I can't let him kill her. I can't let him rape her. You know that."

"It won't come to that. I won't let it come to that."

Her voice was hesitant, but she agreed. I broke the connection, grabbed my keys and made my way to Deborah's office. "Greetings, brother mine. Finally going to go out for that beer?"

"That sounds great, Deb, but something has come up – can you go pick up the kids for me? Their afterschool programs end at 6:00, and I usually pick up Harrison around 5:45 or so."

"Anything I should worry about?" Debs asked.

"No. Nothing major. Just a couple of errands, but I need to get them done. Could be a couple of hours. Is that alright?"

Deborah made an exaggerated sigh, but smiled. "Well, you may be breaking up a hot date, but other than that, no trouble." I winced. A hot date with Quinn was something I would love to break up, but I said nothing. I knew that Deb was really happy with him, so I was trying to keep my opinions to myself.

"I appreciate it," I said as I turned for the door. As she opened her mouth to protest, I hurriedly added, "Really gotta go."

I hit the parking lot at full speed, making my way out into the nightmare of Miami traffic, but as a native, I knew how to maneuver the murderous passageways. Quickly, I was out US 1, going faster than I had in quite some time, saying the silent prayer that all of the true speeders say about not getting pulled over by the cops. But as usual, with most of my nights out, Luck was with me.

The phone rang. I picked it up. "He has stopped. An old house outside of the city - not too run down, but appears vacant." She ticked off the coordinates.

"I am less than 5 minutes from you."

I could hear the deep sigh. "I will wait, but I will not like."

I nodded, which was silly of course, as she couldn't see me. "But if you aren't here in ten minutes, then to hell with you," she added.

"Understood."

I hung up the phone and drove.

The directions took me to a small dirt road, just outside of the major part of town. A little more rural than suburb, but just barely, but plenty of distance between houses. Which would be necessary, of course. I could see Alyra's Corvette just inside the driveway, in a small cul de sac, and I pulled alongside it. She jumped out, and hopped into the passenger side of my car. I reached for the glove box, and pulled out a syringe. "I have some duct tape, a couple of other supplies in the back of my car," grabbing the bag. She nodded, grasping a small very familiar looking black bag in her own hand. "We may need to get other supplies," I said as we made our way up the driveway. She looked at me. "But we have to stop him first," I said firmly. She nodded.

We approached the door. Alyra turned to me, handing me the black silk mask. I donned it. I checked to see if the door was locked, which of course it was. Alyra knelt down, and faster than I ever could, the lock was picked. I carefully and quietly opened the door. As we entered the house, we did not have to go far to find our man. Rather than using a bedroom, he had a simple mattress thrown on the floor of the main room. There were four what appeared to be steel bars plunged into the floor of the room, at the four corners of the bed. And there was a woman tied to the bed, naked and struggling.

In case you were wondering what our perpetrator was doing during this time, he was actually setting up video equipment. When the woman finally saw us, she screamed, "Oh, God, please help me! Please!"

Finally, the man turned to face us. Alyra had a blade in her hand in a flash. The man made a quick decision, and turned to run, and might have made it, if he hadn't tripped on some of his video cable. I came up behind him and injected the sedative, just as neat as you please. I felt his body go slack. I laid him face down on the floor, as Alyra quickly went to the woman's aid.

In only moments, the blade Alyra held had made fast work of the restraints, and the woman was free. She clearly wanted to run, but being absolutely naked always makes one think twice about a mad dash into the great blue yonder.

"Where are your clothes? Where did he put them?"

"He cut them off. He tied me up and then he cut them off. Oh, God."

Quickly I took my shirt off, handing it to her. She looked at me strangely. Alyra took the shirt from me, then handed it to the woman. I had to remind myself that I was wearing a mask, so I probably wasn't the most comforting image in the world. But I stayed low to the ground. Less threatening.

The woman tried to put the shirt on, but her fingers were bloody from her struggles, and she was trembling badly. Alyra very slowly reached over, and began buttoning buttons, to help get her covered.

"I think I have some clothes in my car," Alyra said to me quietly. "Should be in a gym bag in the back. Do you think you can go check for me?" I could see that she wanted to be alone with the victim, to make sure she was alright, and having another large man in the room made assessment of such things rather difficult.

I stood up, but hunched. Again, trying to appear less threatening, and I grabbed the keys as Alyra tossed them to me. I walked slowly down the driveway, and indeed, there was a gym bag in the back of Alyra's car. Nothing impressive, but at least some underwear, shorts, and associated clothing for her ritual workouts. Even a bottle of water and a towel. I grabbed everything, as well as digging in the back of my own car for another shirt.

When I got back to the house, the woman was in Alyra's arms, crying. I stood there for a moment, but Alyra gestured that it was okay for me to enter. I carefully put the gym bag down, and Alyra sorted through the items quickly. The shirts would be too small, but the shorts were stretch so they should work. The first thing she handed the woman was a pair of underwear, and I turned my back as she made to slip them on. I was slowly learning about how to deal with victims, as they had never played a role in my own hobbies. Give them as much dignity as you can. Don't coddle them – treat them like human beings, who are just in a bit of trouble. Give them respect.

By the time I heard the call that I could turn back, the woman was in a pair of long shorts, socks, and sneakers, in addition to my shirt. Honestly, it was a hysterical outfit, but at least she was covered. She was still shaking. I had had a few close experiences with death myself, so I certainly was not one to judge.

"Oh my God, I didn't thank you. I didn't even thank you. I am so sorry."

I smiled, even though she couldn't really see it through the mask. "No worries," picking up the Alyra phrase. "Just take care of yourself. That's what matters now."

"What about him?"

Alyra spoke quickly. "You leave him to us."

"What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry yourself about that. Like the man said, take care of yourself."

Alyra turned to me. "I can get her to the hospital," leaving the rest of the sentence unsaid. Leaving Mr. Kaeling for me. I nodded, tersely.

"I don't need to go to a hospital," the woman protested, ironically I thought as I eyed the blood dripping from her hands still. Alyra had done her best to wrap the wounds, but they were still serious.

Alyra said softly, "We at least need to get them to look at your hands. And then you will want to talk to the police."

"Oh, the police, of course."

"Yes. Joker, do you have any objections to this location?" I couldn't help but smile at the reference. Well, she had to call me something.

I looked around. The killer had done himself well, and almost all of the supplies we would need were here. "I need some tools."

"Why don't you go get those, while I take our new friend to the hospital?"

"Why do you call him Joker?" the woman asked as she was being led from the room carefully. "Because he smiles a lot," Alyra said, by means of explanation. I pondered that. I had been smiling a good bit lately. And from Alyra, that nickname was quite an honor.

"I can't believe that you rescued me, and I haven't even asked for your names!" the woman cried as the door began to close.

"Well, I am Storm, and you met Joker. That is all you really need to know. What is your name?" Then the door closed, and the two of them were gone.

I set about making our guest comfortable, securing him to the poles he had so kindly fastened in the floor around the sides of the mattress. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. I tested them for security, at first concerned that they were designed only to hold a weak, thin woman, but they were sturdy enough – maybe even bolted into the foundation. But I certainly needed tools, so after a second dose of sedative, I set off to get my equipment. It wasn't as perfect as a clean room, but it would suffice for what we needed to do.

By the time I had gotten back, and was finishing with the plastic casing for the mattress, Mr. Kaeling was rousing. "Greetings," I said from the door, as I brought in my other tools. The power saw was unwieldy, but the bag of knives I had under my arm, and the extra supplies of duct tape and rope were in a bucket.

"Who the fuck are you?" the man demanded, struggling in vain against the restraints.

"Ah, now, such language. That really isn't necessary, is it?"

I could feel his eyes on me as I began setting up the tools. This was a necessary part of the ritual, so that the choices could be free flowing, part of the artistic aspect of what I did. Luckily, I even had a nice table to set them up on. Of course, I had to remove some other interesting equipment before I could set up my tools – these seemed to be of a sexual nature. "Look, man, you've got this all wrong."

I turned politely. "What precisely do I have wrong?"

"She wanted it, man. She liked rough sex, you know? And we always tape it."

"You have other tapes of her, do you?" I said, conversationally.

"No," he said, stymied for the moment. "But I could get them, if you let me go."

"Tsk, tsk. I don't think so. You see, that woman didn't seem at all pleased to be here, and was most grateful when my associate took her to the hospital."

"The red-headed woman? The one with the knife?"

"One and the same."

Again, for a few moments, there was simply quiet. "I wasn't really going to hurt her. I was going to let her go."

"Then why don't you have a mask on?" came the reply from the door. Alyra stood in the door, her own bag of playthings hanging at her side, with Esmerelda this time strapped at her waist. "Let's be honest. You were going to rape her, then kill her."

"No, you don't understand, it was nothing like that!"

"Then why are there several dead bodies in your backyard?"

There was absolute silence. Alyra had had no time to go digging, unless there was a fresh grave out back, and I certainly hadn't seen one.

"How did you find them?"

"I didn't – until now."

The man started to scream. "Ah, the symphony begins," Alyra said, as she approached my table to lay down her own tools of the trade. "So how do we want to play this one?" she asked.

"I rather thought we could wing it." Although this was absolutely anathema to my way of doing things, it seemed a bit more up Alyra's alley. And you always need to try new things. The Passenger was hungry for something different, and this lovely little creature could give it to us.

Alyra gasped. "Dexter! Without a plan! Just moment to moment! I didn't know you could do that."

"Well, let's find out, shall we?"

"Indeed, we shall."

Due to the nature of the situation, we elected to take turns. It was an interesting method of killing. I would take off a foot, she would take off a sheaf of skin. I would open up the peritoneum and she would lay a beautiful slice down the entire length of his leg (well, except for the foot that I had previously removed, of course). Sometimes, we would gag him, other times Alyra liked to listen to him scream. Our techniques were quite different, but in their own way, complementary. And she let me step outside before she made use of the small piece of dowel rod that she had brought with her.

When she was finished, she opened the door. "All yours," she said with a smile, as she tossed the blood soaked dowel rod into one of the big Hefty bags. I found Mr. Kaeling struggling valiantly against his bonds – there was blood between his legs, flowing down the rubber sheets on the mattress. I didn't ask. I didn't need to know.

I picked up the saw, and set to work. It didn't take very long, and it was quite satisfying. When I at last drew the blade across his neck, into the carotid, I felt that I had done a good day's work. With Alyra to help me, we made quick work of the clean up. I placed my slide into my pocket.

"You really don't take any kind of trophy?" I asked.

"Too dangerous," she responded. "I am a bit more…prolific than you. Trophies could prove unwieldy, and could get me into trouble."

I nodded. I had considered that before, but the blood slides had no names on them, and were kept safely hidden, so I had few worries about their discovery. Anyway, I was a blood spatter analyst – it was quite natural for me to have a collection of blood drops, to study different patterns and significant blood markings. I did so enjoy my moments with them under the microscope.

"You going to follow me?" I asked, as we loaded the last of the bags into the car. The rest of the room we left as we had found it, undisturbed, so that one day, someone would discovered how disturbed the man who was using it was.

"Where to, Boy Scout? Home?"

"I thought I might stop off at the docks first. One of the docks just west of here."

"Your boat is out this way?"

"No, but it will be."

Alyra nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Wanna just take my car to the dock near your house?"

"What a lovely suggestion. I can't believe I didn't think of it myself."

She was smiling widely now. "Then let's hit the road, Boy Scout. You gots childrens to take care of."

"That I do."

I almost missed the keys as she tossed them to me. "You are going to let me drive?"

"Might as well. I let your crazy sister drive him."

And so, I got my chance to drive my first vintage Corvette, purple no less, and I got to share a part of the experience with Alyra that we had not before shared. And it was such a lovely evening for a night on the water. Truly lovely. And we still made it home in time to spend some quality time with the children.

Chapter 63

The door opened. It would seem that I should have used a bit more drama with that one, but it was what it was. Alyra and I had stopped at one of the Fresh Market's in town to pick up some extras for dinner – Alyra reasoned that since the kids really liked pizza, that we should try to make some of our own. As this was an experiment that I myself had always wanted to try (lacking the necessary culinary skills), we wound up with everything down to our own pizza stone (apparently, it helps to cook the pizza more evenly than just your good old fashioned cookie sheet). We were rapidly dissembling our contents, when the doorbell rang. Alyra sang out that she would start the yeast to rising – this being our primary reason for taking off work early that day. The werewolf killer had had little to offer us the past few weeks, and we intended to use the hiatus to our advantage (literally) to find playmates of our own.

The bag of semolina flour had burst while I was trying to put it away, so I opened the door with a fresh although somewhat floured face to be greeted by the bright face of Lumen.

My smile rapidly vanished.

As it was my house, I can only thank the stars that Alyra did not bother to ask me who was at the door, nor did she crane her neck out to see. She often had very little interest in such things. I had good relationships with my neighbors (although far better relationships with their children – they all knew me from our weekly challenges of kick-the-can).

Before I could think to say anything, Lumen began. "Dexter. It's so good to see you. Can I come in?"

I have no idea what betrayed my caller's identity, but most likely, it was my own very, very stiff posture. Alyra had come to stand behind me, a careful stance, an almost predatory stance. I didn't like it, but I understood it. Had I been in her home, and she had answered the door the same way I did, I wouldn't have contented myself to remain an isolated bystander for long.

Lumen could see past me, of course. "I am sorry – I didn't mean to interrupt?" The question was in her voice, and it was a very, very loud question.

Alyra's voice was almost like clarified butter. It was frightening. I had never, ever heard her be so congenial before. "No, no interruptions. I just wanted to see what was keeping him."

In case you were wondering what I was doing during all of this, my massive brain was basically running eloquent circles in the equivalent of a hamster wheel. As I watched Alyra, I did not miss the tense stance of her posture. The predator's posture. She was not happy.

For that matter, I wasn't exactly happy either.

I had rehearsed many times what I would do if Lumen returned. But in all of those eloquent and well thought out rehearsals, Alyra had not quite been in that picture. And I knew, yes I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt that Alyra knew exactly who had come knocking at my door.

Finally, I shook my head. "Lumen, this is Alyra. Alyra, this is Lumen. Alyra is a friend of mine." I could have smacked myself. The saying, meant only as a means of introductions, was so often used in the nature of relationships as a put-down that I had had no idea what the implications might be on one of Alyra's mercurial temperament.

I was very much correct. Alyra's smile spread, to one of her most malevolent, although I know full well that the effect was lost on Lumen. Alyra can appear to be most congenial, when she is motivated. Particularly when she is malicious. Although her reasons for such motivations in this instance were a bit beyond me. When Lumen extended a hand, Alyra stared at it for just a moment, and then extended her own. The contact was brief, but I could see Lumen flinch. One doesn't often see the Mexican standoff handshake between women, and I could tell that it took Lumen off guard.

It took me several minutes to realize that this entire exchange had taken place on my doorstep, so I attempted to do the civilized thing and invite Lumen inside. In many of my rehearsals of this exchange, believe me, she didn't get that far, but this was a sticky situation, to say the least.

Alyra said nothing, moving back to the kitchen. I took it from her motions, that the yeast dough was in a bit of a critical moment, and she began to stir the mixture gently, but the motions themselves were actually quite aggressive. I have never figured out how she is able to do that. But I could tell that she was making every effort to keep her eyes off of me as I went to sit down with Lumen in the den, taking a wet towel to try to get as much flour as I could off of my face.

Lumen's eyes were fertive. I could tell that she did not necessarily expect any type of hospitality – even though I knew that was why she didn't call, I had to ask the question. "Why didn't you call me before you came?"

She shrugged, but it was not a shrug of indifference. Rather one of insecurity. "I wasn't sure that you would see me. I had to see you, Dexter."

I closed my eyes, taking in a deep breath. Of all the things I wanted to say, needed to say, my audience in the kitchen preempted every one of them. "You should have called. The children could have been here."

"I want to meet your children," she protested.

"I understand that, but don't you think that it would be better if I told them about you first?"

This gave her some pause. "You haven't told them about me?" She seemed surprised. I only stared. She turned a tiny smile to me. "I guess I wasn't thinking, huh?"

It took a great deal not to roll my eyes. She had been thinking fine. She may even have been watching the house, to insure that the children weren't there. She didn't want to be refused, and she had set up the situation so that it would be impossible for me to do so. All the way down to having someone in the house.

Only she had not counted on who that someone would be, now had she?

Not to say that I would have automatically turned her from my door. In other circumstances, I think it is safe to say I have no idea what I would do.

"I need to talk to you, Dexter."

I sighed again. How to explain. "This is a school night, Lumen. I have to take care of the children."

"What about your friend?"

That thought came and went about as fast as the Road Runner crossing by one of Wile E Coyote's traps. I couldn't think of a greater insult. "I am not sure that would be a fair thing to ask her to do, Lumen."

"Why not?"

A fair question. "She was planning an evening with all of us."

Lumen laughed. "I won't take you away for the whole night, Dexter. Promise."

I eyed her carefully. No conversation with Lumen would take only a few minutes. It would take hours. I knew that, and likely she did too. But the truth of the matter was that I wanted to talk to her. I had to talk to her. And this might be my only chance.

I stood up. Only in that moment, did I realize the distance that I had placed between Lumen and myself. Normally, she and I would have sat very close together. This time, I had left several feet between us, despite the fact that prying eyes and ears were close indeed. Or perhaps because of that fact.

This fact was not lost on Lumen, as she peered down at the same space as I rose. "I will be back in a minute, okay?"

As I made my way to the kitchen, I could see Alyra working furiously with the ingredients for the pizza. The bread was in a bowl just over the warm stove, with a towel over it, no doubt rising as bread will do in those circumstances. She was slicing all types of vegetables (including pineapple, God help us), and some actually quite nice cuts of pepperoni, sausage, and Canadian Bacon. She was doing so with about as little aggression as I could expect, which honestly, was a significant amount. But as with most things, she hid it well. She had planned to make the night special for the children. She would do that.

I asked her quietly to join me in the bedroom. She eyed me carefully, but after washing her hands quickly, she joined me.

As soon as I closed the door, I turned. "I need to…"

"I know what you need to do," she said, her voice at its most flat.

"Alyra…" I started.

"There is no need for 'Alyra,'" she said quietly. "You do what you need to do. And I will take care of the children."

My mouth fell open. I had not expected that courtesy, and I am pretty damn sure I didn't deserve it. "You know…"

"Yes, Dexter, I know who she is, what she was, blah, blah, blah. And if you come to your senses, I am more than happy to kill her for you. But for now, you want to talk, so go talk. The kids will be disappointed if they miss the pizza, and it won't be as fresh tomorrow night. I will go pick them up. I am assuming Susie BrightSmile brought her own wheels, yes?"

I honestly didn't know, but a quick look into the yard showed a small silver car. I nodded.

"Then give me the keys to your car so I can go pick up the kids."

I wanted to say something. I wanted to say anything. But nothing would come.

She sighed, deeply. I could tell that this took a lot out of her. I simply waited. "Dexter, you have to do what you have to do. Do you understand that? No matter what. I am… not asking you to choose. I would never ask you to choose. I am not like that."

"I asked you to choose."

"I am not you."

No, she certainly wasn't.

"But Dexter, if you choose her, I just, well, I don't want to know, okay? I don't want to hear about it. After what she did to you, I don't want to think… I just don't want to think. Do you understand? I don't want to lose you, but you need to do what you have to do. What is right for you."

I stood there for a moment, still frozen. My hand was still basically hanging over the door knob I had just closed. I had not expected this. I had expected a fight, at the very least, and a call to the baby sitter certainly, even at the best. And now she was not only giving me permission to see another woman, she was actively asking me to lie about it. This from the woman to whom honesty was something almost sacred. "I don't know what to say."

Alyra snorted. She reverted more to her baseline hostility. This I could deal with. "Say nothing. It makes this more tolerable. Now, can I have the keys? The sooner you get that creature away from me, the more likely she will stay breathing." I scrambled in my pocket to produce the requested keys. "Now, do me a great, great honor and get out."

We have discussed before the many things that a friend will do for you. I had never considered, despite Lumen's flippance, that Alyra would not only consent to allow me to meet with Lumen, but would agree to watch the children while I did it. But there was always something fatalistic about Alyra. She knew I was going to do it, so why should she stand in the way? What would happen would happen? And what did she expect?

To lose me, of course.

I should have offered her assurances, but I couldn't get my giant brain to think of any that didn't sound stupid enough to get me smacked, so I simply nodded and took my leave. By the time Alyra came out of the bedroom, Lumen and I had left in Lumen's car.

Lumen took me to a local restaurant. Despite her assurances, I should have guessed she planned to talk for some time. But I knew Alyra – she would not fail the children. She hadn't yet – she wouldn't start now. As we waited for a table, our conversation was stilted. Of course, my work wasn't exactly torrid stuff, and while she had decided to go back to school, she hadn't decided in what, or precisely where. Which, I suppose, is what brought her here.

When we were finally seated at the table, placing our orders, with the menus gone, Lumen finally looked at me. "I have missed you, Dexter."

I opted for truth. "I have missed you, too."

The next poured from her, like water from a jug. "I am so sorry about how I left. That was so wrong and I know it. I just didn't know how to deal with it, Dexter. Everything had been so perfect, so wonderful, and then, in that last instant, everything changed."

I kept my expression motionless. "Very few things in relationships stay the same."

She stared. "You know what I mean. I lost my darkness. And I didn't know if I would be able to deal with yours."

I took a sip of my drink. Damn, I should have ordered a beer. I was actually very surprised at how calm I was for all of this. Hanging around Alyra had served me well. I could be mad as a hornet and show virtually nothing. I was learning a lot about emotion – particularly anger. "And now, you think that you can?"

She took a deep breath. "I want to try."

I took a deep breath, almost to mirror her own. "Things are complicated, Lumen."

"You mean the girl at your house."

I almost rolled my eyes. She had been gone for so long, and was surprised to find a woman at my house. Damn. Maybe I need a newspaper column. Dear Desperate Dexter. "Yes, the girl at my house is part of it."

"Are you dating her?"

I took another sip of my drink. It would be so easy to deal with this, so easy to just let the words come out, and be done with it. Lies, lies, and more lies. But Alyra's influence on me had also taught me to value honesty. "I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

I shrugged. I knew it was infuriating, but what else was there to do. "I don't know.

"She was dating someone else, and I asked her to stop, and she did."

"That means you are dating, Dexter."

"Well, if that is what that means, then that is what that means," I said at my most vague.

Lumen swallowed hard. Despite the fact that both of our meals had been delivered in this interval, neither of us had touched them. "Do you love her?"

"I don't know."

Lumen colored. "Dexter, you know that doesn't make sense. You know if you love someone or if you don't."

"You know better me than that. Emotions have never been simple for me," I said reprimandingly. "I don't know," I said flatly. "And more importantly, she doesn't care."

Lumen froze, her glass halfway to her lips. "She told you that. That she doesn't care?"

"Yes."

"She lied," Lumen spat.

"I don't think so."

Lumen sat there, simply staring at me. "I love you, Dexter. I never really thanked you for all that you did for me. You know that. You helped me to pick up the pieces of my life, you helped me to get my life back. And all I did to repay you was to leave."

I said nothing. While I appreciated her thanks, her description of her exit had been while brief so very exact that it seemed to somewhat nullify the needs for a common "you're welcome."

Clearly, something was expected of me though. It took me a few moments, until finally the natural charm just broke it. "It was a pleasure to be able to help you. You know that. And we both know that I cared for you. I still care for you."

I could see her face flush. It had been a pleasure. A wonderful way to deal with the pain of losing Rita, taking a revenge I could never truly take. But if I had known that Lumen would slide away on the last trail of blood, I am still not certain what I would have done, if I would have taken up the knife to help her.

I sighed. We needed to have this conversation. Of course we did. But not here. Not now.

"She is dying," I said quietly.

Lumen leaned forward. "What?"

"The woman at my house. She is dying."

"When?"

I did not like the enthusiasm in that question, but I let it go. "Not sure. Couple of weeks. Few months at the outset." I realized that honestly, I hadn't asked. I suppose part of me didn't want to know.

"So, of course you can't leave her." Lumen's explanation was so right and yet so characteristically false that I didn't have the heart to even try to explain. Let's face it – I don't have a heart anyway. So I just let that stand.

"I am not saying that I don't want to talk to you. I do. But not now. Not at this time. I can't do this to her. It isn't fair."

"You said that she is your friend," Lumen countered.

"Yes, well, that doesn't mean I need to be flaunting a girlfriend in her face, now does it?"

"The woman is dying."

"Thanks for bringing that back to my attention."

Lumen tilted her head, bringing her beer to her lips. It was a night for alcohol. "When we left, she said something to you. What did she say?"

Why lie? "She told me to make the choice that was best for me. But that if I chose you, she asked me to lie about it."

Lumen visibly brightened. "So what is the problem?"

I laughed. Only in so twisted a world, could something so horrifying complex be boiled down into something so simple. "Do you have any idea, any idea, how long it took me to get this woman to trust me?"

That brought her pause. "But she doesn't have to know."

"But I do."

I hadn't realized that Lumen might take that to mean that this would be the natural place for her to step into, were she to return to Miami, and once again, I was just too tired to try to explain. I said nothing as I watched a series of complicated and unexpected emotions dance across her face.

"But we can talk." It was not a question.

"Yes," I said flatly.

"Just not now."

"Just not now."

Finally, we both picked up our utensils, and started on the meal that was entirely too cold for consumption, but we made our way through it. There wasn't really much to say, not really, after that.

When I returned to the house, I was alone. In the end, I took a cab. To no shock and surprise, I found Alyra asleep on the couch. Despite her normal roosting place in the master bedroom, she would assume that I would bring Lumen home with me. Stupid. Sometimes, I wondered how much gray matter she really had. She had absolutely no sense of self-worth, she had no idea what she had given me, what she meant to me. And then, I really knew, and I kept my opinions to myself. Only in matters of self-esteem did she surprise me. Lumen was beautiful – Alyra was not. She would not see any competition. Silly, silly girl. As though the only thing important about a woman was her profile.

The kitchen was immaculate (unlike the cavalcade it would have been had we been at her house for home-made pizza night. I imagine the children even helped her clean up). I made for the refrigerator, pulled out a glass and filled it with ice. Although the water was merely from the tap, it was luscious and good. I needed the refreshment.

Now, for the next battle of the brains.

It would have been easy to just let Alyra spend her night on the flimsy little couch, but it was tiny, even for her, and I knew that she would not sleep well. While she certainly was far from infirm, every lost night's sleep she paid for, and I didn't want her paying for this one on my account. She had already lost a lot of strength on account of me. For me. For my family.

I touched her gently, carefully, on the shoulder. She had adopted her normal, curled up position – the position that made kittens look like they should give up the postcard circuit and look for day jobs. She roused easily, and I placed the glass in her hands. She took a quick look around.

"Where…"

"She's gone."

"But I don't…"

"She's not coming back."

Alyra gave me a Look. She was good at Looks. "I told you that you didn't have to choose, you idiot."

I gave her a faint smile. "I know. That is why I did. Now get up. You can't sleep on the couch."

"What do you mean, I can't sleep on the couch?" Pure, belligerent Alyra. It made me smile. She took a drink from the water I had proferred.

I sighed. "Please, Alyra. No fights. This has been a long night. I want something warm and in my decade in bed beside me. I really, really do. And I want that something to be you. Just for one night, can't that be enough?"

Her eyes narrowed, as she took another drink from the ice water glass. "Well, since you ask in such a gentleman-like manner." The Pride and Prejudice voice was a nice touch. She extended her hand, and I took it. On the couch, she had basically come to roost in all of her clothes (no doubt, in case the children got up). As we made our way to the bedroom, I could almost hear the wash of questions that she carefully did not ask.

There are so many reasons I like this woman. That is probably one of the most significant. I don't think she knows the meaning of a stupid question. And she absolutely knows when questions are just not appropriate.

As I began to take off my clothes, she was rummaging in my laundry hamper for a shirt. I could not suppress a laugh. "Why do you dig out of the dirty clothes for something to sleep in? I have plenty of clean shirts."

The smile was almost shy. "I like the way you smell."

"Don't you get enough of the way I smell when I am in the bed with you?"

"Not always. Not if you are on the other side of the bed."

"Point."

As we began to get ready for bed, I could not help but reflect on what I had let walk out the door that evening. But then, I could not also help but reflect on what was also preparing to hop in the bed with me. I had to say I felt that I was on the winning side of this one. While it might have been somewhat tacky to tell Lumen that when this was over I would talk to her, I had made a choice, and both myself, and of course, The Passenger, were both convinced it was the right one.

Completely exhausted, I lay down on my side and within minutes I was almost asleep. I was somewhat surprised to find myself being bumped softly but insistently from behind. I turned.

"Dexter, sorry to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep," I lied. It is very important to learn about the things that are easiest to delegate to the piles of untruths.

Alyra guffawed. Like I said, this woman was very, very hard to lie to. "Thank you. But just so you know – if you want, I can still kill her."

I felt my mouth settle into a smile. Even I could smell the shirt that she had chosen – an old T-shirt that I had been roaming with the kids in the neighborhood with, on one of the adventures in which my nightstalker friend had actually deigned to join us. She was terrible at kick-the-can. I was still trying to puzzle that one out. But the kids all loved her, and she had great pointers for them all, which despite her losing streak, they listened to with great fervor.

Finally, I just rolled over. I extended my arm. With Alyra, the most important thing to do is never to assume. If she wants to be touched, she will let you touch her. If she doesn't, don't take it personally. To my surprise, she lay directly into my arm, resting her head on my shoulder. "I wouldn't give your arm good odds on being awake in the morning," she said teasingly.

I laughed. "It has had plenty of time now to get used to its freedom. Let it suffer." As always, but with a laugh, she shifted her head from my arm to my chest, cognizant of my arm's tendency to fall asleep at night if I had a female caller ever so rudely propped on it. Then, she actually pulled her legs over to mine, which shocked me even more.

But this was a night for big surprises.

I let her drape her body across mine, as sleep circled warily just outside my sensorium. It was not an altogether unpleasant position to be in. For some time now, I had enjoyed having the opportunity to touch her body, relishing in the fact that she seemed to be enjoying the same. Sometime being with an inhuman monster made me less of an inhuman monster in other ways. I was quite grateful for that, as I felt her breathing ease, and I felt the tense muscles of her neck and jaw gently ease into my own flesh. I counted her breaths. About 6 per minute. Likely asleep, but knowing her, simply feigning sleep so I would nod off. Regardless, I was content. And despite a day of agitation and stress, I simply fell asleep.

The next morning was one of many, many surprises. First, I was dreaming. In general, I don't dream. I felt a very soft, slick something drip across my lips. It was a feather of a touch, almost like not being kissed at all. Not at all unpleasant, so I responded in kind. At first, the touch was tentative, but with my encouragement, the touch became bolder, and I could feel the stroke of a tongue crossing my mouth.

I hadn't had a sexual dream in – well, never. It made me consider a few things, as the gesture was repeated, and my lips were gently parted, to feel a questioning entrance of a tongue into my mouth, rapidly followed by its exit. I lifted my hand, placed my hand around my assailant's neck, trying to pull her back down to me.

I could hear the soft rumble of laughter as I forced the kiss deeper, pushing my own tongue upward into unresisting lips. I lifted my head from the bed to follow as my assailant drew back from me. I snapped my eyes open, to see a pair of flashing and very amused green eyes peering at me.

I would tell you that I broke the kiss, but I most certainly didn't do that, so why should I tell you that? It was quite a surprise, and not an altogether unpleasant one. As gently, carefully, I let her go, I stared into the most marvelous expression of sheer curiosity.

"So that's how that goes," Alyra said softly. "I was wondering if I could manage that."

I had to smile. "You do quite well for the novice."

She leaned forward again. I held out my hand. "We don't have to do this. You know that we don't have to do this."

Her smile was effortless. "Yes, I know," she said as she leaned forward to kiss me again.

And you know, as odd as it may sound, I was witness to some very, very unusual, and dare I say, bordering on undignified events that morning. But like I said – I wasn't complaining. I still don't know if I had Lumen's showing up on the doorstep to thank, or if perhaps she was just looking for a reason. But it was a very nice way to wake up, all in all.

But because I am who I am, and more than that, I am not an idiot, I reached a gentle hand to touch Alyra's face, as she nestled herself into a comfortable position for a few hours more of sleep. Now for the serious question, the one that needed to be asked. "Are you going to run?"

Her smile was wondrous. "Silly, silly, Boy Scout. Haven't you learned that I am not afraid of you, Dexter Morgan?"

I felt the breath that I had been holding gently ease out of my lungs. No, I had not learned this, I wasn't even sure that I entirely believed it, but the sentiment? I was very, very glad to be apprised of this new state of affairs.

Chapter 64

"Look, we still have our basic profile from Duntry to work with," Matthews argued.

"Trash," this was Alyra again. "Absolute nonsense."

Duntry drew himself up to what I assume was his dignity (I didn't see all that much), and looked at her. "How dare you…"

"The man has money – the weapons he is using are expensive, even by normal blade standards. He put this stuff together himself, so he isn't an idiot. He knows enough about animals to know how they learn to hunt, and he has been learning while you have been watching and doing nothing. He is not a loner – he does not stand out in a crowd. If he did, you would have him by now. A man who could do this at night and not change during the day would be elementary to catch. Any fool could see him, even if he was hidden in the woods. You have to have brains to hide this. During the day, I would bet he could walk in this room and you wouldn't have any idea who he was. The Beast comes out on the full moon, and he leaves it for the rest of the month. That is why you can't catch him. You are looking for a criminal, a dirtbag, a sleaze, and he isn't one. He is very, very, very smart. He picks his sites so well you can't second guess him, and then covers his trail so well you can't even figure out where he started. He is learning. You are not. And that is dangerous. He is Becoming, and we don't even have any idea what he is trying to become because we have been looking in back alleys and side streets and old motels instead of universities and colleges."

Weiss was also standing. "She is right. Everything she says fits what I know about animals, and shapeshifters."

"Shapeshifters? What is this, the Sci Fi Channel?" Duntry hissed.

Captain Matthews stood, enraged. "Who the hell are you to talk to a member of the FBI profiling team like that?"

Alyra smiled, and I knew that smile. That was a dangerous smile. "My name is Alyra Elizabeth Montgomery, and I have a PhD in psychology from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill with a minor in clinical psychology. My medical degree is from the University of Florida. I also have a minor in anthropology, and I did a one month study of the histories of shape change mythology, including lycanthropy."

My jaw fell open. I had no idea. Laguerta looked at me, and I could only shrug helplessly. I genuinely thought she just wanted to come play in my lab.

But then – maybe that was all she really wanted.

Captain Matthews face went from red to an uncomfortable shade of white. "Why are you here?"

Again, the polite smile, as she nodded in my direction. "I have always had an interest in blood spatter, and as I have an illness that is terminal, your blood spatter specialist gave me the opportunity to work in his lab with him as an intern, under the supervision of your Lieutenant."

Matthews turned to Laguerta, but Laguerta was no novice on the hot seat. Alyra had given him a shovel to hit him over the head with. She was as qualified as Duntry, if not more so, to work on a case like this. Making it seem like Laguerta knew this would only build her position.

Laguerta was quiet, but her voice carried. "Every real lead she gave us. Every real piece of evidence she has helped us find. She and Dexter both have been very dedicated to this case. The whole team, Batista, Morgan – all of them. They have been working very hard, with what appears to be some misinformation. I think we can correct that now."

She stood and politely turned to Mr. Duntry, and said, "We are grateful for your services and that of your team, but at the present time, I would like to discuss some of the options that Dr. Montgomery has proposed. I think that is only fair, since I hired her."

She turned to the Captain. "I think we can agree that this little farce has gone on far enough. We need to sit down and really think about this, what this man is, what he wants. Two people are alive because someone listened to this woman. Others died because we didn't. I am not making that mistake again. With respect, I would like to meet with my team and then reassemble, to discuss other theories."

She didn't wait for his response. She strode directly to Alyra, who stood promptly. "I will see you, and your "boss" in my office, right now."

I could only stare. A PhD in psychology, with a minor in clinical psychology. With an MD. No wonder she sometimes made me feel like I was chasing my damn tail. I had been outclassed.

In general, I don't like being outclassed. I find it irritating.

So it was two very angry superiors who confronted Dr. Montgomery in Laguerta's office. The whole room was staring into the small office – Laguerta aggravatedly pulled the blinds closed, then marched around her desk and sat down, hard. I stood, towering over Alyra, struggling to think of even one question to ask.

Laguerta found one. "What the hell has been going on in my department?"

Alyra took a deep breath. She looked at me, but didn't appear to expect (nor did she receive) support from me. "What you know is true. What Dexter told you is true. I have a terminal illness. I was studying at Miami for a post-doctorate in forensics – specialty of forensic profiling when I got sick. I never lied to him, and I never lied to you."

Laguerta's voice was hot. "But you certainly left out a lot, didn't you?"

A deeper sigh. "Honestly, I didn't want Dexter to feel like he had to baby sit me. He knew I was sick, and he started coming to see me at the Hospice. When he realized I was really alone, he asked me to come here. I had no desire to do anything but hang out with my friend. That is the truth."

Laguerta crossed her arms. I said quietly, "But you saw things in the cases. You recognized things."

"Yes. It felt wrong to say nothing. And Dexter would always listen – you have to know that, Lieutenant. He always does. It was fun at first, just playing. And then, it wasn't fun anymore, when your Captain brought you a moron to help you find a serial killer."

"But you could have told us who you were! We would have listened to you more."

Alyra laughed. She actually laughed. "No you wouldn't have. It wouldn't have mattered. A werewolf? What kind of crazy theory is that? You would have laughed me out of your office. And the theories, they were theories – only theories. I happened to be right. You should have listened. And to your credit, you did listen. Maybe not enough, but a title wouldn't have changed that, and we both know it. You want to think that it would have, but it wouldn't have. Because of how much everyone else was listening to that other moron, with his titles and his Quantico background."

This made Laguerta pause. "We knew he couldn't be a loner – not like he described. And we knew the weapons were expensive."

"See? A good title and two bucks gets you a shitty cup of coffee."

"People died because you didn't tell us who you were! We would have asked your opinion sooner, gotten more information from you!"

I had finally found my voice. "Two people lived because we did listen to her. When she needed to be heard, she made us hear. She just couldn't make the Captain hear. And he was steering the investigation. And we both know he still doesn't care who she is – he isn't going to listen. "

"He never will," she said quietly.

"Well, he isn't here," Laguerta snapped.

"Well, I am here now. Although I wish I was still just Dexter's intern." She turned to me. "I didn't mean to make you look bad, Dexter. I told you EVERYTHING, you know that I did. I even told your sister, but I did that because I wanted to be loyal to you. Everything I found, I told you about. All of it. Every bit."

Laguerta looked at me. "She's right. Everything she found, she told me about. All of her theories, even the really crazy ones. The information got out – we just didn't use it."

"But knowing your credentials…"

"Nothing would have changed. Now that you KNOW that I am right, and I have the appropriate training, you can hear. Very little would have changed if you knew, with respect to the victims. He wanted them. He got them. He would have gotten them anyway."

Laguerta sighed, putting her hands on the desk, flat. "But we wouldn't be here, would we? You know that's true."

Alyra made no effort to deny this. "Had I been a more … active team member, likely you would have been able to potentially corral his attacks, get a better estimate of who he might be targeting. You would not be here. But you wouldn't be where you want to be either. And you aren't going to like that place."

The tension in the room was palpable. I could almost smell Laguerta's anger.

"I want everything. Everything you know. Everything you think you know." Laguerta gestured for me to sit down. Alyra was not given the option.

"He's smart. Really smart. Likely university educated smart. I am guessing possibly a degree in biology, maybe even studying wolf behavior. But some other research work or an undergraduate degree in animal archetypes, animal and human relationships, cultural connections, even religious views about animals."

"Shit," Laguerta snapped. "Dexter, get Batista in here with a pen, thank you."

"I've told you all this."

"You will tell me again."

As I approached Batista's desk, you could cut the tension with a knife. They all wanted in that room. Debs looked at me. I shook my head. "Laguerta wants you and a pen."

"We gonna get the whole story?"

"I think so."

"The real one."

"Certainly closer to one." I looked at Deborah, Vince, Weiss. "We should probably all be here for this." Batista nodded.

Batista pulled up a chair, pen poised. The team ranged around the room, mostly leaning up against the wall. I sat down next to Alyra. Laguerta gestured for Alyra to continue. "Start again."

"Smart. University educated. Likely biology, maybe even a PhD. May even specialize in animal behavior, possibly even wolves." Weiss nodded. "But some type of psychological training, religious training – understands animal archetypes, the human as an animal, the animal as a part of a human. Very well read. And in all honesty, probably a very nice guy.

"Something happened. Something bad. Something shook his world, really hard. I mean, the very framework of his existence was suddenly gone. Someone died. Something he believed in failed. Someone he trusted betrayed him grievously. But it was bad. Really bad. Everything he believed in was gone. But he had his animals. He could go back to them.

"And he did. I promise you that. He spent months in the woods. He already had skills there, impressive skills – not as a hunter. He is a novice hunter. But as a tracker, a surveyor of territory, a good place for a pack to run. He knows his way around the woods, and he fled there."

"That can't be the end of it," Laguerta interjected.

"Oh, no. Something else happened. Something egregious. Horrifying. Something that made him not believe in humanity anymore. Something that broke him from his moral framework. Everything that he believed in was dead. Gone. Dust.

"But there was something to be done. Something horrible. I don't know what. He had to learn how to kill. He wasn't that kind of man. He was probably kind, loved animals, children. But he had to learn. And there was one way to learn. Not be human."

Battista gaped. "He set out to do this."

"Very deliberately I think. You look at the pattern. Small animals first. Then larger animals. Even Weiss told you about that, as an animal behavior specialist. He would practice with other animals first. "

Laguerta snapped, "What is this about animals?"

"The local rangers had been finding strange kills for months. Very similar to what you were finding."

"You didn't tell us this!"

"No, I didn't. I shouldn't have had to."

Silence. There was almost a tremor in the room, trailing from person to person. No, she shouldn't have had to tell us this.

Laguerta leaned back. "Continue."

"He needed to learn how to kill, so he started with small animals, then moved up to larger animals. And then to the people. But the first people, he injured before he let them run. When mother animals train their pups to hunt, they bring them injured prey, something that can't escape, so they can learn how to do it. How to kill."

"He's been practicing," I whispered.

"Learning. Each victim was a little stronger, a little larger – then no pre chase wounds at all. He could hunt them. He knew how to hunt them. And he knew how to kill them."

"How did you know about the man in the Everglades?" Laguerta said curtly.

"Honestly, an educated guess. A male target, thin though he may be, is harder than a female. Can run further, faster. The splashing of the water would be a great benefit to tracking him, at least for the first run. And the man would be terrified, with the alligators and other fears of the swamp. Easy prey."

"I don't understand this. He makes it easy on himself, then makes it harder. Where is this going?" Batista asked.

"He is becoming," I said quietly. "He wants to learn how to hunt undamaged, healthy human beings and kill them. A man. And he is learning how to do that."

"But why? What is the ultimate goal?" Laguerta was clearly frustrated. So many answers, finally, but a far bigger question.

"There is an end to this," Alyra said. "I don't know what it is, or when it is. But there is an end. This is too structured. He has worked hard at this. Maybe even years. There is something he is after, something that a man killing werewolf beast can solve that a good man cannot."

"Yeah," Batista hissed, "How to kill people."

Weiss turned to him. "No. He wants to learn how to be a monster. He wants to learn how to do something that a normal human being could never do. He wants to learn how to tear another living, breathing human being apart. And believe me, he has a reason for that."

"No. The killing isn't the end goal. That is the piece that we see, that we understand. There is more here. There is a reason for this. There is a reason he has to be able to kill a full grown, adult human being. Viciously. And what it is, I couldn't tell you. But that is where it will end. And only then." Alyra sounded almost sad.

"So what do we do now?"

Weiss looked at Alyra. "We try to anticipate. Look at his victims. Determine what other types of victims he might choose. How he is acquiring them. How he gets them to where he wants them. How he ends the hunts, always ends the hunts, somewhere that they will be found. You have to pick apart his methods, try to find the opening, the gap where you can insert yourself, try to catch him in the middle of the game."

"And he has needs, Just like any other beast. He has to have a place where he can be safe, where he can do what he needs to do without fear or risk." Alyra took a deep breath.

"A lair?" Deborah sneered.

"If you will."

Weiss said, "There are only so many places where you could put a place like that. Natural caves. A place where you could actually dig some kind of tunnel. Maybe even old houses, sheds back in the woods. And don't forget that each of the hunts he has started at an old shed or an old house – there are only so many of those out there."

"Too many for us to scout out all of them!"

"But not too many for you to scout out some of them. You asked what you could do. We are telling you what you can do."

"No one said we had to like it," Batista said with a wry smile.

Chapter 65

And so the search continued. We had several potential candidates, all university educated, animal lovers or animal researchers. Most of them had solid alibis, for at least one of the kill nights, but we continued our investigation – most of those alibis were provided by loving spouses and children, after all.

We began to search the woods for potential starting sites for his hunts – I never realized there were so many abandoned homes and shacks deep in the Florida woods and swamps. We actually even located one of the home bases that we had missed previously, likely a very early one, where he hadn't been quite as meticulous in cleaning up afterward, or somehow had been rushed. We found more wolf paraphernalia, teeth and even what appeared to be a wolf skin. Blood spatter indicated that a wound had been made to the victim at the site, likely his "hobbling" injury. But the site showed no signs of prints or other significant evidence, except animal hair, and we knew what kind of animal we were dealing with at this point.

The one thing that we did find that mattered, however, was what wound up being a broken piece from a taser. That was the one question we hadn't answered – how he was actually getting his victims. We knew the locations where they were last seen, where their vehicles were found (sometimes, he appeared to pick up people off the street (especially the hookers and junkies), while others they would apparently stop on the side of the road, as if to help someone in distress). He had no preferred means of acquisition, and it wasn't even clear that he was all that selective in his targets. Weiss said that he might actually act on impulse – seeing a person of the body type and build he was looking for, and then target in on them until he found a place to pick them up. It fit with the wolf stereotype, at least. A cruising hunter, spying a likely victim.

The one thing that was clear is that this was a very educated mind, and that in his normal guise, Alyra had to be right – he just wasn't all that scary. His victims would approach him, obviously. So likely at least on some level charming on the outside. But as I well knew, that wasn't a hard thing to do as a serial killer. But it might be very hard for someone who was trying to teach himself to be one.

"For all we know, this may be a very nice guy. Very approachable, very friendly, until the wolf takes over. And we still don't know how that transition takes place. But I am still betting that he doesn't know anything about the wolf in his everyday role as a human being. He may do some things he doesn't understand, like watching people or scouting in the woods, but I don't think he genuinely realizes what he is." Weiss's input was valuable here – although we all had a hard time accepting it. How could you be a vicious, almost sadistic monster and have no idea?

Alyra jumped in. "Just like a multiple personality disorder. A lot of times, the different personalities are completely unaware of each other, and the primary personality may have no idea that he or she has a disorder. Friends and family likely just think the person is strange, switching characteristics all the time. But they literally become different people. The change can be so striking that one personality may need glasses, while the other does not."

"That's just nuts," Deborah said.

"Pretty much," agreed Weiss, "but the shapechangers are very similar. In a lot of the recorded cases, the victims were completely ignorant of what they did in their alternate form, which including all kinds of mayhem and killing. One man killed his entire family, and had absolutely no conscious recall of doing it."

"What are the traditional weapons against werewolves?"

Weiss laughed. "Silver bullets, of course. And fire. But I think it is safe to say that a good old fashioned round will take this one down. You've already shot him once in the swamps, so he knows to be careful of you."

"Twice," said Deborah, with a hint of pride.

"I imagine your aim is impressive, Detective, as he wasn't likely standing still for you."

"Hardly. But the bullets didn't stop him."

Weiss pondered that. "The suit may offer some modicum of protection, depending on what it is made of. Remember – he is evolving, and likely his tools are evolving too. Let's just hope he doesn't know anything about Kevlar."

"Or that he hasn't seen too many Batman movies," Alyra retorted. "That Batsuit Christian Bale sports would be a devil to take down."

Batista whistled. "You really think he is that smart."

Weiss shook his head. "We KNOW he is that smart."

I pondered this. If this man really was intelligent, and had the means to get enough Kevlar, he could make himself virtually unstoppable. Not something fun to consider.

Vince jumped in. "So, where do you think he is going to hit next?"

Weiss cocked his head. "He has been moving through the male victims, in almost an identical way to the female victims. He is still working with weak and gangly, so it wouldn't have to be an in-depth forest, no long paths for running. I don't think he needs the swamps anymore, and he knows we are looking for him there. I am guessing this one may even take place on private property someplace, a small sanctuary of some kind."

"One thing I think we can be certain of is that although he may be impulsive in his targets, he is not impulsive in his choice of hunt sites," Alyra added.

Weiss nodded. "That is very clear. He not only has to be able to chase, but he has to make sure that the victims can be found. That takes a lot of thought. I am guessing he has a lot of maps of the Miami area, and surrounding forests. But sooner or later, he is going to have to double back – use some of the same places he has used before. There is only a limited amount of territory, unless he wants to go far afield, and I don't think that is part of his plan."

Laguerta jumped on this. "So continue surveillance at the older hunt sites."

Weiss agreed. "Most definitely. He will make a return appearance, sooner or later. He knows those territories, and especially as his victims get more difficult, that kind of knowledge will be important to insure a conclusion to the chase."

Alyra turned to look at Weiss. It was an odd look. I didn't think much of it at the time, but she seemed to be pondering something.

Upon sincere reflection, I should have asked.

Chapter 66

We continued our investigation, as the full moon rapidly approached. I re-examined the blood spatter, to see if there were things we might be missing in his killing techniques, something that might give us an edge. I found nothing.

Alyra became, well, distant. She was still a functional part of the investigation, but something had changed, and I could not put my finger on it. She allowed Weiss to give most of the psychological input, likely given his extensive background, but she just seemed almost less interested somehow. As though the puzzle wasn't as intriguing anymore.

As the next kill came and went, Weiss had been correct – the killer had returned to one of his older hunting sites. He even used the same starting location for the chase. Again, the victims were becoming stronger, more athletic, slowly building up to a normal, human male. The pre-chase wounding injuries were still present, though – he was still hesitant, not quite confident of himself yet.

The blood spatter was brutal, as men have much more of the red stuff than women do. But Alyra's willing hands made the task much easier. Once again, the killer was increasing the viciousness of his post-mortem destruction, just as he had with his female victims – this one had been eviscerated, although limbs had been left intact, although sliced to pieces.

Now, we had to wait. There would be more of these. At least two more. And all we could do was wait.

Chapter 67

The second attack appeared to be more premeditated, almost rehearsed. The killer was getting very good at this now. The blood spatter showed the traditional pre-chase injuries, but the body showed that this one was much less extensive than the previous wounds had been. This man had really been allowed to run. And there were very few wounds on the legs – the take-down had to have been much smoother, with the blow to the throat coming almost immediately at the end of the chase. There was still the traditional dismemberment of random body parts, and the evisceration, but in comparison to the other kills, this one seemed almost cool, calm, collected, despite the fact that this man was clearly larger and stronger than his predecessors.

It would appear that the need for extended "practice" was waning – the killer knew how to use his weapons now, and he knew it. Which, while making my work much easier, was also disconcerting. Once again, his patterns were changing, which is just not what serial killers do.

Despite the use of the wolf, we were unable to find the starting site for this hunt. Weiss was frankly surprised, although as we were trailing it, I could often smell distinct scents – once peppermint, then an almost sulfur smell.

"Scent bombs," Weiss said flatly. "He knows we are using an animal to track him, so in his path, he leaves something with a very strong scent, that will get carried in all directions by the denizens of the forest. Makes it almost impossible for a canine to follow a trail."

"So he really is smart," Batista commented, as we looked at what for all appearances was undisturbed, virgin forest.

"He is also doing a better job of concealing his trail, other than just scent. A man of his size should leave a trail a five year old should be able to follow, but now, he is getting stealthy. More aware of eliminating traces of his presence." Weiss said this with frank admiration.

"Which may explain how he got this man down so fast," Deborah commented.

"Yeah," said Quinn. "Not a mad chase in the night, but a stealthy, quiet hunter."

"This is bad. Very bad," Alyra muttered.

"Why?" I asked, although I quite frankly couldn't see how it could be good.

"The wolf is getting smarter, acting more like a man. Doing human things to throw us off the trail."

Vince asked, "You still think the man doesn't know anything about the wolf?"

Weiss jumped in. "I still think that is likely." Alyra nodded. He continued. "But somehow, he is doing some very human things. He knows what a human tracker is looking for, and he is dealing with that. He is making the hunts more stealthy, instead of just mad chases through the woods."

"His needs are changing," I said quietly.

"It would appear so."

"This late in the game?" I asked. "That is not typical."

"Far from it," Alyra agreed. "But obviously some of what he thinks he needed to know, he thinks he now knows."

Chapter 68

With the third kill of the month, the change in behavior appeared to be holding. Once again, the massive cuts all over the body simply were not present. The "practice" with the blades appeared to be over, although the body was still devastated, having been ripped limb from limb, guts strewn out before it. But all of the wounds were purposeful, had some intent. Whether it was removing a limb or an internal organ, each of the injuries, particularly the injury to the throat, the wounds appeared to be almost neat in their appearance, far less like a monster, far more like a man.

And this man was big, easily close to six feet. While no Lance Armstrong, he was clearly physically fit, as the muscles displayed through the open wounds clearly demonstrated.

I could feel my irritation rising. He was getting good, and now, he knew that he was getting good. There was virtually no sign of a trail this time from the killer, although the victim had certainly cut a wide swath through the wood. This time, we were able to find the site of the start of the hunt, but by following the trail of the victim, rather than the killer.

Even here, things were different. There were virtually no traces, although the scent of incense and the presence of a few hairs betrayed that we had the right site. He was making an active effort, a much more active effort, to cover his trail.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, as I peered through the little shed. There was that small hint of spatter, where he had made the initial wound to the lower leg, but nothing else of significance. Some signs of struggle were obvious on the dirt floor, but it appeared that even those had been somewhat masked, as though with a broom or a tree limb.

We knew this man was smart. We had plenty of evidence of that. But now, everything was changing.

"It's almost as if he knows exactly what we are looking for," commented Vince.

"Well, that isn't all that surprising – anyone who has watched Law and Order has an idea of what types of things police look for in a murder, even out in the woods," Alyra commented. "But the change of methods with the bodies. That speaks of something else. A significant change."

I said nothing. I had nothing to offer. I tried to talk to my interior friend, but all I got was the neighborly chuckle I had been used to experiencing with respect to this killer. A hint of admiration, nothing more. It was distressing, and I am not used to being distressed. Most of the time, I quite frankly don't care if a killer is caught or not – I just don't have that ability for empathy that most people have. Anyway, if the police were too successful, I would have no one to play with. But this case had become something more. Intriguing.

Laguerta looked at all of us. "Meeting tomorrow, 10:00 am. We need to discuss what we are seeing here, what it means."

Everyone nodded.

Chapter 69

The meeting was as painful as I had predicted it would be. People were looking to me for some kinds of answers, and I had little give. The blood spatter indicated a much more smooth use of his blades, more calm, more controlled. He was now becoming confident with his tools.

"He practiced with them enough times. Now he knows how to use them. And he knows that he knows how to use them," I added.

"There is a hint of … consciousness, that is almost disturbing," Alyra commented. "Before, we had a lot of random components, first the victim is bound, although not in a way that would leave marks, almost politely, then released for a mad chase, brought down, killed, and then sliced and diced, almost completely. Now, we have a smooth, seamless chase with a very quick take-down, and no evidence of "practice," as Dexter so eloquently put it. He is Becoming. He is getting close to being what it is he wants to be."

"And what is that?" Deborah spat.

"A monster," said Weiss. "The blending of the vicious brutality of an animal, and the intelligence and cunning of a man. Or perhaps, I should say it the other way – the vicious brutality of a man, and the intelligence and cunning of an animal. Either way, he is doing this much smarter, leaving you all a lot less evidence, and a lot less material to work with with respect to finding him."

"Did they find the victim's car?"

"Yes," Laguerta said. "At the man's apartment. He appears to have been taken almost right out of his home."

"That makes no sense," Vince countered. "The killer could have been seen."

"Not if he looks completely normal. You don't have to knock a man out with a taser – you can just leave him confused. Two men stumbling out in the night is not that altogether a rare experience in Miami," Alyra said with a snort.

"But if that's true, then he really hunted this one. He found who he was looking for, followed them to their home, and waited for them. True stalking behavior." I could feel the ache starting in the back of my head.

"It would appear so," Weiss indicated.

"With all the rest, it really looked like he picked them out of parking lots or off the side of the road, as though he was pretending to be someone in distress."

"But we haven't gotten any reports of strange people on the side of the road," Batista countered.

Alyra sighed. "Like I said – he wouldn't look strange before the Change. He would just look like the average guy. You don't call the cops because a man has a flat tire." She sounded very tired. That was also irking me. Of all of us, she didn't need to be dealing with something like this right now.

When the meeting finally broke, I headed straight for my office. Deborah grabbed my arm. I had to stifle my initial reaction. "What?"

"Are you okay? You don't seem like yourself today?"

I forced a dramatic sigh. "Just tired." I knew, deep inside, that I wasn't tired at all. That there were other issues brewing, but there was just no time to deal with the Need right now. There was too much going on, and now, I had to review all of the spatter for the last three killings, to see if I "might have missed anything." That was what we were all told to do. I know what I am doing – I didn't need to do it over. But orders are orders.

And then, when Alyra took off early, again, I almost couldn't suppress my frustration. The one time I really needed help, and she was bailing on me. But I couldn't deny her. She only had so much time left – she got to choose how she spent it. If she didn't want to spend it with me, there was nothing I could do about it. But I didn't have to like it.

Chapter 70

"Why aren't we going home? I said petulantly. I appreciated very much Alyra's offer to drive me into work, but as it was time to go home, I was irritated. It had been a long week, and the long hours on the werewolf killer case had left me no time to move further along my list of playmates. Not even enough time to scout out a single one of them. In reality, the Passenger is in very many ways like a pet dog – after while, he really must go out, or the house will suffer for it. And today had been a particularly long day, with the change of the patterns in the werewolf killer, the need to recheck everything, compare the findings with the other victims.

I was suffering.

"I have a surprise for you."

I groaned. "I am not in the mood for any surprises at this point."

"You might be in the mood for this one."

I crossed my arms and sulked. We continued out of town, until it felt like we were in the middle of nowhere. Ultimately, we found what looked like an old, deserted driveway. Suddenly, I could feel the Passenger alive against my chest. She couldn't. She wouldn't.

As Alyra pulled the sportscar up and along an abandoned lane, we stopped in front of an ancient barn. The thing looked one good breeze shy of falling over.

But there was a light on inside. A bright light.

I turned to Alyra. "What have you done?"

She simply smiled at me. "Go and see."

I stepped out of the car hesitantly, feeling every crunch of gravel under my feet as I made my way to the surprisingly solid looking door. I turned back to Alyra. She said nothing, only smiled. I opened the door.

The interior of the barn was pristine, with a new coat of paint, a bright, brilliant white. A table sat, empty, in the middle of the room. There were rolls of plastic, stacks of duct tape. Another table, set up with tools. I could feel the Passenger extend his lizard tongue. The kind of tools I had been longing for.

And then I heard them, the muffled cries that I had been deaf to, given my surprise upon entering the building. I turned. In the corner of the room, tied with his hands above his head, was a man. He was stripped to the waist, a myriad of tattoos covering his body. He was struggling valiantly, but he was chained to the support. There would be no escape.

Wait a minute. I knew this man.

"He's number three. Frederick Antiles. Must have some Greek in his ancestry, given those tattoos."

I stared at the tattoos of Greek gods, the Pantheon, all manner of mythology. And then I turned to Alyra. "We had agreed that you weren't going to do this. That it was too risky. Far too dangerous for you. Especially the ones on the list."

"Emergency situations call for emergency measures."

"Alyra…"

"You needed it. You need it. You NEED it."

She turned to one of the tables. "There's a file on this table, all of the evidence you need. Pictures of the victims, those sorts of things. Other surprises. Everything you need to prove his guilt."

"I knew that already. I saw him making one of the graves."

"Yes, but I know that you like to confront them with their crimes. As for me, I just kill them, but you have to play it like you like it."

I stood before the man, entranced. I could feel the wings of the Passenger spread wide, felt the Need, oh God, the Need, washing over me, again and again, like a tide.

"I didn't know where you kept your tools, but I brought some of mine. I hope that they'll do."

I turned to the table. It was an altar to the art of killing. Blades of all shapes and sizes, from skinning knives to a sword. And in the center… Esmerelda.

I gaped at Alyra. She smiled. "She's a good girl, but she likes to get out a little bit more than I've been taking her out. I 'm sure you don't mind."

I could feel my fingers itch. She was a magnificent blade, almost the size of a sword. The well honed blade of the machete, but brought down to a lethal, lethal point, with a saw for her back edge. I walked over to the table, stroked the blade with my hands. Beautiful. Oh so beautiful. Alyra had barely let me touch her before.

"How did you know?" I finally managed.

"You were getting irritable, cranky. You are not irritable, and you are not cranky. I could feel it building. I know that feeling. You had to do it. You have to do it. You need it."

Part of me was angry. This wasn't how it was done. I tracked them, hunted them, brought them down, then brought them to this sacred place. I didn't want to be handed a victim like a prize, like a lollipop for a good boy.

But then there was the Need again, crashing, crashing, over and over. No. I had tracked him. I had found him guilty. It had only been a matter of time for him to be here, in this place. It didn't matter how he got here. He was here. And he was mine.

He was ours.

I knew I would do it. I had to do it. I could feel the Passenger extend his lizard tongue, as he prepared to move over to the driver's seat.

I walked back to the man, bound and helpless. The Passenger could taste his anger, his delicious anger, scenting the air.

That would change.

I grasped his face, pulled out the gag. "You gotta help me, man. This chick is whacked out crazy. She thinks I did all this stuff. I ain't got no idea about this crap. I'm innocent, I swear!"

"What kind of stuff?" we whispered, keeping our voice soft. No need to frighten him yet.

There would be plenty of time for that later.

"She says I took kids, did all kinds of stuff to them, killed them. But that's nuts man. I HAVE kids. I would never do that."

I tilted my head, staring at him. I walked over to the table with the folder. I lifted out a few images. "She is very rarely wrong about these things."

"She's nuts man. I haven't done anything, I swear."

I selected one of the pictures. They were excellent, for what they were. Had it been me, I probably would have brought the bodies, but this would do nicely. I brought it to him, lifted it so he could see. "Did you know this girl?" The body was young, in many ways, and had been well preserved. Someone had taken time to clean her face. Her features were clear, as were the cuts and bruises on the tiny face.

"No, man. I haven't ever seen that kid in my life, I swear to God."

"Maybe she goes to school with your daughter?"

"No man, I've never seen her." I noted how he did not comment at all on the fact that the child was dead.

"Then why did I watch you bury her?"

The room became silent, silent as a tomb.

"I didn't bury her. That's nuts."

"I saw you. You took her out to a field, and you buried her."

I could almost hear the gears of his mind as he backpedaled. "Look man, it was an accident, okay? Just a freak accident. I didn't mean to hurt her, and I was scared to go to the police. It was wrong, but I didn't do anything to her. I didn't."

I lifted another picture. "And this one? How about this one?" Again, the image was done with immaculate care, although the features were more distorted. Decay can do that to a face. So can a smashed in nose. "And you kept going back there, why? I can't count the number of times I followed you out there, and you would just sit there. What were you sitting there for, if not for them?"

I could almost see his mind struggling to function, trying to find some way out of this. "Look, man, I've got money. Lots of money. Tell me how much you want and I'll make it happen."

"Buy me a little girl," Alyra whispered. I could feel myself smile.

He looked at her, and then at me, desperately. He knew that we knew what he was. But he didn't yet know what we were.

He would find out, very soon. Quite soon, in fact.

I stepped forward. I felt a tap on my shoulder, and we turned, almost in a crouch. Alyra simply smiled. "I think I should go now."

"Go? You can't go. You brought him here, you got everything ready," I protested.

"Dexter, you need this. If I ask if you if you want me to leave, you will say no, because you think I deserve to be here. Which is very kind of you. But you need this. You and your passenger. You need it. How many times have you done this for me? Let me do this for you."

I opened my mouth to protest, but she was right. I didn't want her here. I hated it, but I wanted him to myself. To myself and the Passenger. I needed him. The Passenger needed him. The Need had engulfed me, like a raging flood.

I forced myself to nod. She smiled in response. "How long?"

"What?" I said, confused.

"When should I come back to pick you up?"

I remembered that we had come here in her car. "Don't worry – I'll bring the SUV," she assured me.

"The kids…" I was embarrassed that it had taken me so long to even think of them.

"Taken care of. Got the babysitter days ago. You are completely fine. He's all yours. How much time do you need?"

I looked at the struggling figure. "Two hours. Three hours at the most."

Alyra smiled. "I'll give you four. If you need me sooner, just call. Your cell phone is on the table, with the tools. Your – change of clothing – is in the bag in the corner." She made her way to the doorway. As she put her hand on the door, she turned back to me. "Have fun."

"I will," we assured her. "Oh, I will."

With that and another smile, she was gone.

I turned to the table. She even had the barbiturate, loaded and ready to go. It was perfect. Too perfect.

It was one of the nicest things anyone had ever done for me. I wouldn't let it go to waste.

I turned back to Mr. Antiles, the syringe in my hand. He was still pleading. "Anything, man. Anything you want. I can get it for you. I swear."

"Good. That's good," we said softly, smiling. He gave me a hesitant smile back, hope burning in his dark eyes. "We want everything." And with that, I plunged the needle into his neck.

It was a very rewarding evening, and as it turned out, I needed all of the four hours Alyra had promised me. The Passenger would not be rushed, it would seem. I was packing up as I heard the knock on the door.

How polite. "Come in," I said.

Alyra peaked her head into the door. "All done?"

"All done."

"Feeling a little better?"

"Much, thank you." I stuffed a leg into one of the garbage bags. "But don't ever do anything like this again."

Alyra raised her hands. "Emergency situation. Emergency measures. You have my word – no more nightstalking for me, at least not on my own."

"Good," I said firmly, feeling almost parental. "Now, do you mind grabbing a few bags?"

She smiled again. "Not at all."

As we packed up the car, I said conversationally, "I have been wondering where you were going, all those days you weren't at work."

She shrugged. "You've been doing this job for years without me. I figured you would survive."

"I could have used you in the forest, though."

"Sometimes, we just have to make priorities."

I smiled, my first real smile in days. The Passenger had receded to the place where he spends his days, and the Need had receded from a constant clamor to a sibilant whisper.

As we got into the vehicle, Alyra turned to me. "Shall I take you to your car?"

"Are you up for a late night boat ride?"

Her smile deepened. "Am I ever. Look at that night sky. Clamoring to be seen away from the bright lights."

"Almost romantic," I teased.

"Don't push your luck, Boy Scout."

As she drove, we sat in a comfortable silence for quite some time, I reliving the past few blissful moments, she thinking who knows what. Finally, I just had to say it. "I can't believe that you let me use Esmerelda."

"Well, you didn't have your power saw. That was kind of my fault. What else was I supposed to do? Did you two have fun?"

I smiled broadly. The thick handle had fit in my hand as though she were a simple extension of my fingers – the pommel was surrounded by some kind of gel, so that she literally melded to your grip. Almost impossible to have her knocked away in a fight. And the blade was easily the sharpest I had ever encountered. She made fast work of skin and muscle. And the saw…

"Thank you again," I said softly, as we pulled into the docks.

"No worries, Boy Scout. I told you – I owed you one. Actually, I owe you several. But," she said at the remonstrating look I gave her, "I won't do it again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Meet you down at the Old Mill dock, just down the highway?"

"See you there."

I jumped onto the boat, a smile on my face, a jaunt in my step. It really was a beautiful evening.

After disencumbering ourselves of the remains of one Frederick Antiles, or Fred once you got to know him (and believe me, I really got to know him), we sat quietly on the boat. I felt better than I had in weeks, and Alyra seemed to be in a healthy mood as well. So when it came, her question threw me a little bit.

"Tell me about it," she said softly.

"What?"

"Your need."

I hesitated, almost afraid that talking about it would summon it back. Then I said, "Most of the time, it's just there, lurking in the back of my mind. I'm always aware of it, but most of the time, I can push it back. But it's like a tide, coming in and going out. And each time, the tide builds. Until…"

"Have you tried to resist it?"

"Oh, yes. Several months even. But it's like I'm empty, like I'm not complete somehow. Something is missing. I can't do things. It's hard to stay normal. Well, you saw that much. Everything takes more effort, and concentration becomes almost impossible. And it's always there. In every breath, every movement. All consuming.

"How about you?"

Alyra sighed, lying back on her arms. "You would think since I made myself into a monster, created myself from books and stories of other serial killers, that I wouldn't HAVE a need. Oh, but I do. Sometimes I wonder if it's worse, because I chose.

"Most of the time, I don't even realize it's there. Someone will piss me off, do something to make me angry, and I get a flash – an image of something violent, fun. But that's it.

"But when I get stressed, anxious, I feel it building. One rock at a time, until I'm just staring at this huge wall, threatening to collapse all over me. I can't breathe. I can't move. Everyone I see is a target.

"If I take care of it, everything calms back down. But if I don't…"

"The Beast takes over," I finished for her.

"Oh, yes. And she can mimic real life so much better than I can. And we have to hunt. Usually back alleys, back streets. There is no looking on line or checking the newspaper. There's no time. And the clock is always ticking."

"Have you killed an innocent?"

"To my knowledge, no. But sometimes, it has been so close. The victim starts to look good, just as good as the assailant. Weak and fragile – pretty. But that isn't what the Beast wants, it isn't what she likes. The Beast likes the fight, the risk, the danger. She's a hunter – but she doesn't want the weak, the fragile, the broken. No, she wants the other hunters. Those are her prey."

"I've killed an innocent," I said. "And innocents have died because of me."

"How does that make you feel?" Alyra whispered, so softly I knew that she would say nothing if I didn't answer.

"Hard to say. Like I said, I don't feel much. But I don't like it. I think I feel guilty, at least as much as I understand guilt. But there's no connection – no empathy. So there's only so much guilt I can feel."

"You felt a tremendous amount of guilt for your wife," the voice was still a whisper.

I sighed. "That was different. I think I really cared about her, loved her, as much as I can love. She didn't know me – she couldn't know me. But she was kind, and real, and true. That's a big loss. And I miss it."

Alyra turned to me. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought that up."

"No," I said softly. "It's alright. I'm learning to deal with it. At any rate, it means that I am not the totally inhuman monster I always thought I was. And that's good."

Alyra lifted her head, propping her arm on her elbow. "Dexter, there is a lot more to you than just the monster. I wouldn't be here if there wasn't."

I laughed. "That's not true. You love my monster. And he adores you."

"But there is more to you. You worry about me, Dexter. You comfort me, when I hurt. You scold me, when I do something stupid."

"You mean, like tonight? Seems like I have been doing a lot of that lately."

"Yeah, well, nobody's perfect. You force me to get up, when I don't want to get up. You force me to eat, when I don't want to eat. You take me work, you make me work, you don't just let me sit there, feeling sorry for myself. You are forcing me to live, instead of just surviving. A monster couldn't do that. Wouldn't do that."

"I only do it to keep you around, because you make me feel better about myself. Like now."

Alyra smiled, the faint light of the moon flickering off of her eyes. "You keep telling yourself that, Boy Scout. You just keep telling yourself that."

She laid back her head. "You saved my life. What kind of self-respecting monster would do something like that."

"Still selfish bastard, I'm afraid."

She laughed. "We're all selfish bastards. That's what love is all about. We love others because of how they make us feel. And we want to protect that. We fight for it. We fight like animals for it."

I turned to her. "Are you saying that I love you?"

That got a guffaw. "No, but I am saying that you love your kids. You loved your wife. You aren't this emotionless thing you seem to think you are sometimes. You are a monster. I'm not saying that you're not. And you are absolutely right. I love your monster. Madly, truly, and deeply. But there is more to you. I promise you that. And that's worth fighting for."

She leaned back, staring up at the starlit sky. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I had to admit it. Being with her made me feel much better about what I am. She always knew what to say, how to say it. Tonight, she even knew what to do. Around her, I felt almost human. It was a wonderful feeling. But did that make me any less of a monster? I didn't know. I still don't. But it felt good. And like she said, that was something worth fighting for.

Chapter 71

"How can you make it sound like this is reasonable? Like this makes some kind of sense? This guy is a nutball, plain and simple. He is killing people! That is all I need to know!" Deborah cried.

Weiss leaned forward. "It isn't that simple. You can't think about him in those kind of terms. It is more complex."

"There is nothing complex about ripping people apart for shits and giggles!"

"There is more here than you understand. What he went through. The experiences. The pain of it. It has to be resolved. He can't go on if it isn't resolved. This is necessary. Horrible, but necessary. There is no other way, no therapy, no medications, no other way out. This is the resolution. He has to follow it through to the end." Alyra's voice was breathy, soft.

Deborah stood in the doorway, her mouth agape. Deborah took in a deep breath, apparently startled by something. "You know who it is, don't you?"

Laguerta's head whipped around to my sister, almost with a snake like speed.

Deborah's voice was breathy, as she said quietly, "You really do. You saw him, and you knew him. Jesus Christ. "

All eyes turned to Alyra. Alyra said nothing.

"Do you know who this is?" Laguerta turned to Alyra. Again, Alyra made no effort to reply. Which was reply in itself.

"One hour. Get the word out. Briefing in one hour. And no one, not on this team is there, got it? No one. We should have thought this out a long time ago, but now we are going to do this right. Finally."

She looked up at Alyra. "No thanks to you."

Laguerta bore down on Alyra, crossing the desk to stand over her. "I am going to ask you one more time. Do you know who this person is?"

Alyra looked up at her, and the silence was as good an answer as any.

"Damn, damn, damn!" Laguerta stormed out of the conference room, muttering curses as she strode.

Alyra nodded quietly, her hands folded in front of her. All evidence of her previous defiance was gone. The game was out of her hands now. And it was her own fault.

As we scrambled to get ready, Alyra put her hand on my arm. "Dexter."

"Not right now. I mean it. Not right now. Just leave me alone, okay?" And I turned my back on her, as I strode into my office. I didn't even know what I felt. Betrayed. Lied to. Played with. But she had told me it was a game all along. Nothing more than a game. But the anger would not settle down. This was not a time for cool, logical Dexter. This was damned angry Dexter.

"I'm sure if she didn't tell you there was a good reason," Weiss said over my shoulder.

I didn't turn. "And who said this was any business of yours?"

He said nothing.

She knew who the killer was. There was no telling how long she had known, but she knew. And she kept that from me.

I got my files together, and helped Deb to assemble as much as we could for the briefing room. Matthews was steamed, but apparently accepted that Laguerta's team needed to meet alone to verify some additional theories and evidence.

We all stumbled into the room, like we were all in some kind of shock. We all sat down.

It took me over two hours to realize that Alyra was nowhere to be found.

It took me another hour to realize something very significant, and it took my sister to bring it to my attention. "You said this girl is all alone, right?" Deb said quietly.

"Yes," I said crisply, still feeling dense irritation.

"And that she basically has tried to kill herself twice now."

I could feel a cold thrill in my blood. The anger faded rapidly. "Yes."

"What does she have to live for in this world if she loses you?"

I stood before she finished the sentence. Debs said, "I'll take some of the places we've been, and you can check the houses and the docks."

"Damn, we have to find her. I can't believe I was so stupid!"

Deborah's voice was soft. "I know. All of us were."

Chapter 72

I was about as edgy as I had ever been as I fumbled through my keys to open the front door to my house. The rumbling of the cell phone did very little to ease my nerves.

Debs launched right in. "Have you found her?"

"No, dammit," I said as the key finally slipped into the brand new deadbolt lock. "And I have looked everywhere." I stepped into the house, closing the door behind me. "I tried the hospice, her house, a couple of the places that I know she used to hang out, even the places she and I frequent – and nothing. No one has seen or heard from her."

I dropped my bag to the floor, as I made my way to the kitchen to get a beer. "Dex," Deborah said, "You have to find her. We have to find her. There is no telling what she might do."

I took a long drag on the beer. "Like hell. I know exactly what she would do. She is dying, and she just lost everything she had to live for. I am smelling an option here that I really, really don't like and I don't know what to do about it. And she's tried it before."

That got Deborah's attention. "Where else could she be?" Deborah queried. "We can spread out. Try every place you can think of. How about that GPS on her phone?"

"The phone has to be on. It isn't on."

"Damn," came Deborah's curt reply.

"I don't know, Debs. I can't think of anyplace else," as I marched toward the bedroom, to at least wash my face and change into some more tolerable clothes. It was going to be a long day, and an even longer night, but I would find her. One way or another. I clomped into the bedroom.

I froze in my tracks. "Except one," I murmured into the phone.

"Where, Dex? Where?"

It took me a moment to remember that you have to breathe to talk. "Here, Deb. She's here. In my house. In my bed." I choked. "In my shirt, if I am not mistaken."

"Dexter? Dexter? Is she really there?" I could hear the slight panic in Deborah's voice.

"Yes," I answered. "She is really here. I have to go now."

"Be easy with her, Dex. Be easy," Deborah chanted.

"I will," I said as I closed the phone, and felt all of my weight fall hard onto my knees.

Alyra was lying on my bed, although lying is probably not the right term. Curled up into a tight, trembling ball would be somehow more accurate. She was naked, as far as I could tell, except for one of the shirts that I had recently placed in the laundry hamper for a well deserved cleaning that it had not yet received. Her breath was ragged, and her muscles were tight enough to see them – as though she could pull herself even more into herself, into a yet even tighter ball. Her breath was coming in aching gasps, as if she were struggling for air. And beside her, naked, lay Esmerelda. The sheets were spotted with blood, and it took everything I had not to just grab her, shake her, demand to know what she had done. But I forced myself still.

She was alive. She was breathing. That was something.

The tremors were large enough to feel through my knees as the bed shook with her. I closed my eyes, thanking whatever god had brought her here, of all places. I reached out carefully, slowly, and ran a single finger through the hair that covered her face.

Her eyes snapped open.

"Hey," I said, always the master of eloquent conversation no matter how unusual the circumstance.

"Hey," came the reply, softer than a whisper, barely a breath of sound. Her mouth was slightly open, as she forced her eyes to meet mine. And we just stayed like that, for a brief eternity, my hand gently running through her hair, over and over again.

"Dexter," she started, her voice no more than a choked gasp, "I am sorry… I never meant to… I never meant to… I swear..."

"Shhh," I whispered softly. "Hush." I took her face in my hand, and I watched her eyes close as she leaned into my touch.

"I never meant to… I never…" the words were garbled, lost in the rasps that were her breathing.

"Be quiet," I said softly, moving myself closer to the edge of the bed where she lay. Her eyes opened, remaining fastened on mine as I reached out to touch her again. I ran my hand down her hair, to her waist, gently stroking the length of her body, until my hand found its way to her legs, taut and trembling. "You have nothing to apologize for. You told me, over and over. I just wasn't listening. I should have listened."

"I can't lose you, Dexter," the words came out as a gasp, like a fish finding itself thrown violently onto the shore. "I can't lose you. If I lose you, I'll die. I'll die."

With trembling lips she said the most beautiful words I had heard all day. All month. Maybe all year. "I don't want to die yet. Not yet."

I felt my own eyes close, as I lowered my head to the bed. A deep breath expelled itself from my lungs. I took the blade in my hand, slowly lowered it to the floor.

When I opened my eyes, she hadn't moved. Her eyes were still locked on my face, as if I were her entire world, her everything. She had even let me move Esmerelda, which would usually at least purchase me a good scolding if nothing else.

The wave of relief that washed over me felt like a tsunami, enough to shake me to my very foundations. I felt my weight slide from my knees to my hips, bringing my face directly level with hers. "I am very glad to hear that," I whispered, bringing my hand back up to her face. I stroked her cheek with my thumb, slowly, rhythmically.

I took a deep breath, and met her gaze. "You aren't going to lose me. You are never going to lose me. I promise you that. You have my word. I will never, ever leave you."

The sob was violent, and it tore at me again. I brought both hands to her, one to her face, the other to her body. The streams of the tears the dam had released poured onto my fingers, and I brought my forehead to touch hers. "I will never, ever, ever leave you. There is nothing you can do, nothing, that would make me leave you. Do you understand?"

She didn't move, eyes closed tight against the tears that fought past her eyelids.

I took a deep breath, touching my lips to her forehead. "I am an idiot. You told me. You did. I asked you if you wanted him caught, and you told me, then and there, that you didn't. I had no right to demand that from you. Not me, of all people."

"I never lied to you. I swear, I never lied to you," she murmured.

"I know. You never did. Not one time. We promised we would be honest. And you were. You always were."

The tremors were so violent now that my upper body was shaking, just from holding her with my hands. "Shhhh," I whispered again.

I deliberately got to my feet, lifting Esmerelda in my hand by her hilt. I strode into the kitchen, found the highest place I could find, which was just over a piece of crown molding, and I balanced her there. My breath still coming in pants but slowing, I went back to the bedroom, and circled the bed, bringing my weight down. I lay there for a moment, on my side. She made no effort to turn to see me.

I edged myself closer, closer, until I wrapped my arms around her waist. Another choking sob, as her hands grabbed mine, hard. I pulled her tight against me, so hard that I know that it hurt, but she made no effort to resist. I could feel the wetness of her tears as they soaked through my shirt that she wore.

And I just held her. The little earthquakes that were racking her tiny body shook me as well, but I held on tight. I burrowed my face into her hair, pulling her head tightly beneath my chin, curling my entire body around her. I didn't know what else to say. I had no idea what to do. So I just held her.

Finally, I whispered, "You are safe. I am here. I am not going anywhere. There is nothing you could do to drive me away. Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," came the whispered answer, and I felt emotion, genuine emotion, swelling through me as I angrily turned her to face me.

I took her face into my hands, feeling the wings of the Passenger spread, as we told her with finality, "There is nothing you could do that would make us leave you. We are here. We are with you. We are not going anywhere. You are ours. We have claimed you. You cannot leave. You cannot let us go. We cannot let you go." Her green eyes met mine, met the Passenger's own steely stare, and in one moment, one giant rush, all of her muscles went limp, as she let herself fall into our arms.

We put our arms around her, stroking her hair, stroking her back, pulling her tight against us. I spied the spots of blood on the sheets, and turned my attention to her hands. I took them into my own, and I could see the small wounds that she had made there, on her wrists. Preparation for a larger wound, creating a path. A dangerous path. The anger swelled again. We had almost lost her. We could not let that happen. We would not let that happen. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What job was worth her? Who cared who this killer was? I didn't care before – why should I care now? Stupid.

We held something small, precious, and oh so fragile. Yes, she liked to appear invulnerable, the warrior, the fighter, but inside, deep inside, where we were now, so much yet to be broken. And that must be protected, protected at all costs.

I felt her begin to move, as she moved under my arms, which were holding her wrists. She pressed her face into my chest, almost as though she could burrow inside it, become one with us. I let go of her arms, brought one hand onto her neck, just beneath her head, the other around her hips. I pulled her tight to us, stroking her neck with my fingers, whispering softly into her hair. "It's alright. You're safe. I have you. We have you. Just rest. Try to sleep. You need to sleep, we know."

As her breath slowed, I could hear that resonant whistle, the reminder that all was not yet well. "You didn't take anything for your pain, did you?"

The answer was cut off, short, clipped. "Didn't deserve it."

I took another deep breath. This was no place for anger. Anger could not tread here. I could feel it all I wanted, but it could not trespass on this place. I got up, went to the bathroom, and prepared two syringes with professional speed. She didn't even react as I pushed the needles in, depressing the plungers, which brought with them a cool, smooth calm. The tremors slowed, until they were finally barely more than a shiver.

She lifted her head as though to speak, and I shook my head. "No. I was wrong. I never should have yelled at you like that. I know you. I understand. It's alright. I promise. I'm not angry, I had no right to be angry. You told me. Over and over again you told me. And in the moment when I should have remembered, I cast you out, as though I was one of them, not one of us."

"He was made," she whispered softly. "Just like us. They made him."

"Shhh," I told her. "It's alright. I understand. You could help us stop him, but you didn't want us to catch him. Of course you didn't. He's like you. He has a Beast. Like yours. You understand things, we don't. The need for his justice, at any price. He can't go on, without that closure. Any more than you could have gone on without yours."

"It's not…" she began.

"Hush," we commanded, as I felt the Passenger assert himself again. She became silent. "No more explanations. You don't owe us any. You need to rest now. We are here, to keep you safe. We will never leave. Ever."

I watched as she closed her eyes, and one lone tear trickled down her cheek. She lowered her head, pressing it again to my chest. In one swift movement, I lifted my arm and the shirt was off, and I could feel her bare cheek against my skin. One more tight sob, as she nestled into my flesh, me holding her head, gently, supporting, stroking.

I had never understood this, comforting another person. It had always seemed so forced, so strained. The best I could usually do was a pat and a "There, there." But she was ours, ours to protect, ours to defend. And we would do this, no matter what the price.

The phone rang again. It was Deborah. I grabbed the phone. I told her that everything was fine, but asked if she could take the kids for the night. She agreed. "Are you sure she's alright?"

I felt myself laugh. "With Alyra, who knows? But she's asleep, in my arms, and that's where I want her to be right now."

"Keep her safe, Dex," Debs said softly.

"I will."

And I did.

The next morning, when the alarm was rude enough to wake us, I slowly extricated myself from Alyra. In the night, our legs as well as our arms had become entwined, as we kept trying to get closer to each other, me to protect her, her to be safe. As I expected, she began to shake again, confronted with the possibility of another day dealing with all that had been wrought. I went into the bathroom, and I came out with a syringe.

"Not today," I said swiftly. "You need to rest. You will be safe here. And I will be back soon."

She looked at me with guileless eyes. She had no illusions about what was in the syringe – I knew that. I was cheating, and she knew that too. But she made no effort to fight me as I placed the needle under her skin and depressed the plunger.

I watched her taut muscles gently unfold, her eyes close as the sedative took hold. I could not resist one more gentle stroking of her face, as I bent down, placing a kiss on her forehead. No, there were battles to be fought of which she had no part. She had given us all of the pieces – it was now up to us to put them together.

Chapter 73

As the elevator doors slid open, I was confronted by almost the entire group. Just as I had expected to be. It appeared that Deborah had filled everyone in on the emotional turmoil that we had wrought, and the likely consequences.

"Where is she?" Laguerta demanded, her hands gripped tightly into fists.

"She is safe, and she is resting. Where she should be," I answered.

Batista stepped forward. "Dexter, she knows the identity of a killer. We need that information."

"Yes, we need that information, but not from her," came my answer.

"This is obstruction of justice," Laguerta spat.

"No it isn't," Debs' voice echoed. "Whoever this man is, he is special to her. Or there is some other reason. Some other connection. But she can't betray him."

"Or she won't," came Vince's retort.

"Or she won't," Deb replied. "Don't you see? She has given us every piece of evidence we have. We would have nothing without her. She saved two people's lives, and gave us all of the leads that we have. She even told us that the FBI guy was a twit, and we weren't listening hard enough. She gave us EVERYTHING. But the last bit, we have to figure out for ourselves."

"Detective Morgan, while that is a nice sentiment…" Laguerta began.

"No," Deborah said, this time with a fierce edge to her voice. "She is not a cop. We never treated her like a cop, and we sure as hell never treated her as part of the team. We spent more time laughing at her outrageous theories than congratulating her when she wound up being right. Every damn time. And we still, damnit, we still wouldn't listen."

"What do you mean?"

I turned to Laguerta. "It means that she already told us, Lieutenant. We have the information. She gave it to us. We just weren't listening."

Deborah nodded in agreement. "She told us, probably more than once. And we were so interested in the story some FBI geek pulled out of his ass that we didn't hear her. And now, everything has changed. She knows not only the what, and the who, but the why. And she isn't convinced that we deserve to stop him."

"What the hell do you mean by that?" Angel asked, a look of puzzlement on his face.

I turned to face him. "She knows why he is doing it. She figured it out. And for whatever reason, and we may never understand it, she thinks that he has a right to do what he is doing. She told me he was made. He wasn't born like this, some kind of monster. Something turned him into a monster, and I am pretty sure that she thinks it was us."

"What do you mean, us?" Vince chimed in.

Debs took a deep breath. "The police. The authorities. The law. The system of justice," she spat.

"Something happened to this man. Something horrible. Horrendous. Unfathomable. And he waited for the justice system to set it right, but we didn't. Some idiot somewhere did something stupid, and whoever this person was who did this horrible thing was set free.

"So there was no justice. Nothing. Only pain. So he knew he had to make things right. Someone had to die. But this man wasn't a killer. He didn't know how to be a killer."

"So he set out to learn how to be one…" Batista whispered.

"Yes," I answered. "In the only way he knew how. He had to become a monster. But he knew how to do that. He had years of training to teach him how to do this. It was academic training, but so what? He knew how to do it, and he set about doing it."

"You think this is one of those folks at the university, don't you?" Laguerta asked.

Weiss turned to Laguerta. "It fits the pattern. This guy is smart. Really, really smart. He doesn't want to do this, but he has to. He has no choice. He has no other purpose in his life but this. And he may not be a killer, but he knows how to learn. And so he sets about learning."

"No other purpose in his life…" muttered Laguerta.

Debs looked at me. I nodded. "We think he lost someone important, maybe even his whole family. Somehow. All in one blow. His whole world just died, everything that meant anything to him, gone in an instant."

"Fuck," Batista muttered.

"So all he had was pain. And he hoped that the justice system would alleviate his pain. But we didn't. We cocked it up. So not only does he have his tremendous loss, this cavity within him, but the bastard or bastards who did it walked out of the courthouse with a smile."

"So he wants revenge," Laguerta posited.

"No," I said firmly. "He wants justice. But he starts to realize that there is no justice. All of the morals and foundations that he has built his entire life around start to come unraveled, as everyone turns their back on his pain, his loss. On his justice."

"So he hates humanity?" Vince asked, his face pinched hard as he tried to fathom it.

"No, but he doesn't want to be a part of it anymore. Who would, after what this guy has likely been through?" Debs said.

"Humanity can be seriously over-rated," Weiss added thoughtfully. "Animals don't have the complex issues that we do, the emotions, the moral outrage. They just live. If an animal breaks the covenant of his pack, he dies. It is that simple. There are no moral what-if's. No legal system that provides a loophole, a way out. He is just ended. "

"But we don't know what he has been through," Vince riposted.

"No, but we know it was enough. And we should be able to find it. Go through our list of potentials again, look at their recent history, see if someone really would have enough reason to just cast the vestiges of humanity aside to learn to be what he needs to be a monster, a killer.

"She has given us everything we need to know. Everything. All we need to do now is sit down and do the grunt work to find him. "

And with that, we all divided up the list of possibles, and got down to work. Weiss set out to interview several of his colleagues. As I was scanning the recent antics of one of the religion profs at U of F, I heard a gentle knock at my office door. Laguerta was there. She stood silently in my door for quite some time.

I figured she would tell me what she wanted when she felt like it, so I just waited. "When you found her, was she alright?"

I choked back a laugh. "No, about as far from it as someone can be. But I got there in time."

"You mean she almost tried to kill herself?"

I turned to face Laguerta. "Deb had it nailed. The woman is dying. All she has in this world is us, and every single one of us turned our backs on her. This isn't even her JOB. She didn't have to help us, but she did. And in the end, we all cast her out. What did she have to live for?"

Laguerta smiled softly. "You, I am hoping."

I laughed, a mirthless laugh. "Apparently so. I found her in my house, waiting for me. I searched everywhere, and I mean everywhere. And there she was – in my own bed, in my own shirt, waiting for me."

Laguerta started. "We never meant to hurt her like that."

"I know. And I was the worst of all of us. But she's alright now – just resting. She needs to be safe, and I intend to keep her safe."

Laguerta leaned forward, an intent expression on her face. "We still need her. You know that."

"I do. But not today. For one day, we give her peace and quiet and we get our shit together, I hope, so when she comes back we all make it very clear that we were idiots." The last I said with emphasis.

I could see Laguerta's hackles bristle. "Dexter, she knows the name of a serial killer. That is not something we can just ignore."

"Yes, it is," I said flatly. "If we want her to help us, then we ask her to help us with what she will, and to hell with the rest of it. No guilt. No blame. She does what she can, and we don't ask for anymore.

"And if we can't do that, she needs to stay at my house, and stay safe."

Laguerta turned her head, resting her weight on the frame of the door. "So we take what she can give us, and don't ask for anymore."

"That's it, in a nutshell. Honestly, I don't know if I can get her back here. I am pretty sure if I were her, I wouldn't step within miles of this place, or any of us. We were all complete asses, and we didn't even stop to think that she isn't a cop, she isn't a forensics expert from Quantico, or even a blood spatter geek. She was just a woman who happens to be dying, who found an unusual friend to hang out with, and a group of people who appeared on the outside to be her friends. It isn't her job to solve our crimes. It never was."

I could hear the deep sigh as it drifted from Laguerta's lips. "We still need her. You know it. I know it. We all know it."

"That is my conclusion as well, but that means we take what she can give, and leave it there."

Laguerta nodded. "I don't like it."

"I am pretty sure she isn't going to like it either."

"But we need her," Laguerta affirmed. "We will do what we have to do. Will she be here tomorrow?"

It was my turn to sigh. "I just don't know. She was really shaken up yesterday, I mean shaken to her foundations. The state I found her in – I would never, ever tell anyone what I saw. I know if it was me, I would tell all of us to go to hell in a hand basket. But with her – she has a very, very intense sense of honor, integrity. If we need her, I think she will come."

Laguerta's soft smile returned. "Well, you can certainly tell her we need her. And that comes from the highest levels."

"I will do that." And with that, Laguerta left.

The day was not terribly productive, but we had made a significant dent in the recent lives of our most prominent suspects, who at this point could likely include Elvis, a yeti, and the invisible man. But we were moving, and it felt like the right direction. We were looking at vets, biology geeks, zoo animal trainers, even park rangers as potentials now. We at least had a list. And that search was a lot more narrow than it had been. As I drove home through the homicidal traffic of better Miami, I could not help an increasing sense of agitation as I pulled into my neighborhood.

I was actually holding my breath as I opened the door. I went straight for the bedroom, and of course, she wasn't there. I am not at home with human emotions, and I think I find panic my least favorite of these. I had had a bit too much fun with panic these days. And just as I thought my own heart would burst out of my chest, the roaring in my ears quieted down enough to hear the running of water. I crossed the bedroom – the light was on in the bathroom, and the shower was running. And finally, I could breathe again.

The door wasn't locked, so I went inside. I could see her, standing in the shower stall (completely clear glass – what good that does for modesty I have yet to discover). She appeared to be washing her hair.

For reasons I still cannot explain, I found myself rapidly divesting myself of my clothes, and reaching for the shower door. I felt dirty somehow. Time to get clean.

She turned to face me as she was lathering up her hair. Her first look was one of panic, like a faun caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But she quickly closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and forced a smile. "Come on in. The water's fine."

As I made to step into the shower, she grasped the edge of my boxer shorts. To my surprise, she pulled them down. "I'm not afraid of you, Dexter Morgan." In awe, I stepped out of my shorts, standing in front of her, naked. She smiled at me.

I felt my own face break into a grin as she took my arm and led me inside the small shower, certainly not built for two, but one could improvise. I immediately took over the job of washing her hair, a task I had previously enjoyed, and she leaned back against me, allowing me to support her weight as I scrubbed. I leaned back, and the spray of water erupted over her head, rinsing the suds down the drain. Next, came the conditioner that I had recently purchased, now that sometimes having females again using my facilities was a possibility.

She turned to face me, armed with loofa in hand. I got a very good scrubbing, from head to foot (well, I had to lean down a good bit to let her get the head, but I was feeling amenable). Particularly that lovely part where she found that spot of my back that I cannot reach by my own devices. As she handed the loofa to me, I contemplated my own path to cleanliness. I knew that she had probably already washed, but was inviting my touch, and I was not about to walk away from such an invitation. Finally, I leaned her back again, rinsing the conditioner from her hair, watching as her hair spread in tendrils across my chest.

As soon as she stepped out of the shower, I ambushed her with one of the "guest" towels, the big fluffy things far too good for the actual owner of said house. She laughed as I started with her hair, knowing I was giving her knots she would have to untangle, and sincerely hoping I would also be a part of that process. She took the towel from me, and dried my body as well, as though it was a sacred church rite. Not one bit of moisture to be tolerated.

I stepped out of the bathroom, and grabbed two shirts from my dresser (clean, this time), tossing her one as I donned my own. She looked at it and laughed. It was the Joker shirt she had given me for next Halloween. I helped her pull it over her head.

We stood there in the warmth of the residual vapors, and I turned her to face me. She looked up with those piercing green eyes, as I took her face in my hand. I bent slowly, just in case this was too forward, too much too soon, but her eyes stayed on mine as I lowered my lips to hers. I could feel the sigh from deep within her as I kissed her. She reached up, twining her fingers in my hair, pulling me towards her. I lifted her up in my arms, starting her to laughing again, as I walked into the bedroom and deposited her onto the bed.

I sat down next to her, continuing my ministrations, feeling the kiss deepen into something further. I could feel the tickling edges of the Passenger, the surly chuckle of approval, as we, well, played. As I lowered by lips to her neck, raising my hands to her chest, I heard a very soft, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

No, quite frankly, I could not think of anything that I had forgotten. I had ambushed the woman of my dreams in the shower, used the loofa as an excuse to touch pretty much every inch of her body, and now, I was intending to show my affections in a myriad of other ways.

"Don't you need to go pick up the kids?"

"Damn," I hissed, lifting my head. I had not thought to ask Deborah for kid duty this evening, and the time for their afterschool programs to end was rapidly approaching. And Harrison's daycare director got quite hostile, even if you were only a few minutes late.

Alyra smiled at me, with a warmth I do not think I had ever before seen. She reached up, pulled my head back down, and planted a firm though inexperienced kiss on my lips. "I'm not going anywhere. We have all the time in the world. Or, at least, all the time I have left."

"Yes, you are. You are coming with me. So get dressed."

"With what?" She gestured to the shirt that easily came to her knees. Her own clothes were in a bundle in the corner of the room, but had been so saturated with sweat that they would not be appropriate for an encore until they had a good washing.

I hit the dressers again, and finally found a pair of sweats with a drawstring tie, and tossed them to her. She groaned. "We are not making fashion statements," I said as I pulled up my jeans. "We are taking care of wily children."

As I sat on the bed, tying up my running shoes, I felt a tickle of a touch on my shoulder. I looked up.

Alyra's face was no longer that beaming, radiant smile I had quickly developed a fondness for. "So, we are alright?" Her voice held a hint of tremor, unwelcome uncertainty. That slight hesitation, indicating that she didn't want to ask but at the same time had to know.

I felt my own grin emerge rapidly. "Never better."

She closed her eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath. And of course, in her quiet moment of contemplation, I made a direct strike for her sides, setting her into a tickling convulsion. Her laugh sounded like bells, chimes from a church choir, and were a lovely sound to reach my ears.

One of the most beautiful sounds I had heard in quite some time.

Chapter 74

Of course, as was his wont, the killer struck again. This time, he had selected an area of private woodlands, with thick underbrush. Very difficult for running. Again, he had upped the ante, as this man did not have a pre-chase injury. Not only that, he appeared to be moderately athletic – or at least, there was certainly a decent amount of muscle that you could see through the slashing wounds.

Characteristically, the throat was gone, but it appeared to have been a more difficult fight, as there were several large chunks missing from the throat area, rather than the neat single piece that we were accustomed to finding. This man had fought, and fought hard. Chunks of fur littered the kill site. Some of the slashing injuries even appeared to be pre-mortem, as though the killer had a much harder time subduing his prey. Once again, the dissection was more brutal, and yet cleaner. The victim had been gutted, but with care this time – many of the internal organs were not even ruptured (which did wonders for the smell, which was usually quite horrid). But he had returned to removing limbs, scattering them about the site. More practice? But for what?

We were all sitting around the conference room table, feeling as stymied as ever. We had a few potential suspects for the werewolf killer, but nothing that really held water. Most of the men had solid alibis, hard to fake.

I don't know when I noticed it, but I think Deborah caught it at the same time. "Where is Weiss?"

"He didn't come in this morning," Laguerta said casually. "He called – said he had some important things to attend to at the university."

It was a moment. A flash of a moment. "Holy shit!" Deborah cried. "He knows. He knows that she knows. He heard the fight – he was there. Oh my God."

Alyra sat quietly, her face a mask. But I could see in that one moment that she had went, in a flash, poker-faced.

"I am not following you, Detective Morgan," Laguerta admonished.

"It's him. It's Weiss. It has to be. The one man we wouldn't think of, because he was helping us!"

I turned to look at Alyra. Her face was still immobile, giving away nothing.

My giant brain finally caught up to Deborah's gear. "He knew all about it, the myths, what to expect at the scenes. He was a better profiler than our profiler. He told us the killer would return to his old sites, and he did. He said that he would progress through the male victims, just like the females. He knew."

"How hard can it be to profile yourself?" Deborah asked.

I could see Alyra beginning to tremble. I reached under the table, grasped her hand. She was giving us nothing. This was all from us. That was the way it had to be.

"But we have no proof," Batista countered.

"Then we have to find a way to find some."

"We can at least try to get a warrant to search his house," Quinn suggested.

"On this amount of evidence? Which I must remind you, is zero?" Batista countered.

Laguerta stood. "I can get one. I know some people who owe me some favors."

Everyone turned to Alyra. She hung her head, but her voice was cool, calm. "I am not entirely sure. I can't be entirely sure. But I think you have it right, Detective Morgan."

Deborah stared at her in silence. We were all surprised, but grateful for the confirmation. "Who else can it be?" Deborah added.

"Be careful," Alyra whispered.

"Do you think he would hurt one of us?" This was Deb. "Shit, no wonder we couldn't catch him. We had him on our team!"

Alyra shook her head. "No. It isn't like that. He helped you, remember. He even took you to several of the hunt sites. No, but you have to understand. He is fragile. He sat in front of you, incriminating himself over and over, and he didn't know it. That is how distant the connection is. I told you – he doesn't know what he is. He is a good man, doing horrible things. He's broken. He's fragmented. Confronting him with this would be a very, very bad idea. If the human and the animal connect, we will all be up shit creek without a paddle."

"Why?" I asked.

"Right now, he has a series of rules. He is following those rules. And he expects us to follow the rules. If someone does something stupid, then the man will become aware of the monster, and we have already seen how strong the monster is. They are already interconnecting in new ways, with the stealthy hunting, the reduction of the practice injuries, and stopping the trails with scent bombs. Who do you honestly think will win?"

Laguerta said. "Enough. We have a name, but we need more information. Let's start getting that information, and I will work on the search warrant."

Chapter 75

The next morning, Alyra decided to take her car into work, as she told me she needed a few more hours of sleep. I was surprised when she finally made her way into work, at the bottled up rage that seemed to be stirring within her. I followed her carefully to Laguerta's office, not sure at all what to expect but knowing that I had to be there.

"What have you done? What were you thinking?" Alyra's distress was plain as she paced Laguerta's office.

"We found out who our killer is and we searched his house."

She shook her head angrily. "And you searched the house while he was at work, right?"

"Of course." Laguerta was not used to getting interrogated by those inferior to her in the workplace, and it was clear that she was losing her patience. I knew she liked Alyra, but there were limits.

"Then why did they ransack it?"

Laguerta stood abruptly. "What!"

"The house is torn to pieces! The furniture is cut up, the pictures are everywhere. You can see it from the road!"

Laguerta gave me a cool look, as she strode past us. We followed in her wake. The Captain was at his desk. "Who gave those searching the house of Weiss the authorization to tear the place apart?"

The Captain sat back coolly. "I did, Lieutenant."

"Why?"

"I wanted to find the evidence to put this monster away. It was in that house, and I wanted it found."

Laguerta threw up her hands. "I only wanted the property searched, to see if there was anything clearly incriminating. In, out, undisturbed."

"I wanted answers, Lieutenant. Sometimes you just have to be proactive." That was one of Matthews' favorite words.

Alyra stepped forward, putting her fists on the Captain's desk. "Did you find any?" The anger in her voice was a bubbling cauldron, and even the Captain was brought up short by it.

"Unfortunately, no. He had a workshop, with some hardware that fits with what we know about the design of the suit, tools needed to create it, upkeep it. Some knives. Lots of books on wolves, though…"

"Which tells you he has an interesting reading hobby, since he has a PhD in wolf behavior…" Alyra muttered.

"Now you hold on here!" the Captain exclaimed.

"You got nothing. Absolutely nothing. And now, he won't come back there. You didn't even get the suit. And you are going to pay for this. Oh, God, are you going to pay for this. He is going to make you pay in so many ways…" Alyra turned on her heels, with me quickly behind. I could hear the Captain and Laguerta arguing, "I meant for him to be able to return to the house, so we could watch him. Monitor his movements."

"I wanted something more definitive."

"And you got nothing!"

Finally, we both made it to the relative refuge of my office. To my shock, I could see that Alyra was crying. I sat down quickly, pulling up a chair for her. "What's wrong? I have never seen you react like this to something stupid that they've done. You usually just laugh them off. They didn't catch him. Isn't that what you want?"

The look she gave me was one of agony. "You don't understand. You don't understand what they've done. What they have created. The door they have opened wide. They created something he never meant to be, never wanted to be. And it is going to be horrible!"

Because I couldn't think of a single other thing to do, I took her in my arms and just held her as she cried. She would explain it. She always did. Her curse, so different from mine, the violent rafts of emotions that she had to ride.

I heard a gentle knock at the door. It was Laguerta. Her shoulders were still heaving from her own anger, but she outwardly appeared calm. "When she is ready, I need you both to come to my office. I need to know what she meant."

No matter how unclear she was at the moment, Alyra had never missed a beat with our serial monster. Her emotional upset was something we needed to know about. Anything that could upset her this much did not bode well.

I nodded. I pulled my hands through Alyra's hair, remembering the times when such gestures would have revolted both of us. It was honestly a nervous gesture on my part, and I knew it. I never really knew what to do in moments like this, but she always told me that all I needed to be was me. That as long as I was there, the emotions were better.

I could be me. With her, I could be me.

Finally, I could hear her clear her throat, and I quickly backed away. No one could see us in the back of the lab, and she didn't care what Laguerta thought, but she was never fond of public displays of affection, no matter how needed. "He has no safe place now. He has no place to be human. All he has is the wolf, and the wolf is going to eat him alive."

"Damn. You mean…"

"He needed a place to put the wolf away, don't you see? A place where he could be with his family, or at least the memories of his family, not consumed with rage and wrath. The house was a museum, Dexter. Even the shirts that his girls had left on the floor in their rooms, he left them there. The last moment that his family was with him, intact. He preserved that, to preserve his humanity. That is why – only the full moons. We went to his house once, just to pick something up – it was a mess. He apologized, over and over, but I understood. It was just as they had left it. It had to be."

The mental arithmetic was quick to add up. "So now you are saying…"

"Yes. He has no humanity to go back to."

I could only shake my head. Now we had really awakened the monster.

We proceeded to Laguerta's office, and she quickly hailed Batista, who grabbed Deborah and Quinn. We all moved to one of the smaller conference rooms, grabbing Vince on the way. Alyra had cleaned herself up well, but she was obviously clearly shaken. And Laguerta and Batista were obviously uncomfortable about this. Alyra was the ice queen – the iceberg of floating rage that had even zipped the mouth of my sister. But all of that was gone. This was pain. Pure pain.

Laguerta opened carefully. "I know that we have not been heeding your advice as well as we should have, and we rectified that as soon as we could. I don't have the right to ask you, but I know you know. I could see it in your eyes in there, with Captain Matthews. You know what is coming, and we need to know."

Alyra sat next to me, carefully looked at me, and then turned to Laguerta. "You understand what he is, right? Now that you know. He lost his family – his entire family, in one horrible night. To a man. A single man. His whole world was destroyed by the actions of one man. And so he waited for justice. He did. But there was no justice. There was nothing."

Deborah nodded. "Approximately three years ago, his wife and three children, along with two other children, were killed by a hit and run driver, a drunk no less. They were coming back from a soccer game, and were hit by a drunk driver."

Battista interjected, "But that happens to a lot of people. Why did this happen to him?" We all knew what he meant by "this."

Alyra sighed. "When they didn't come home that night, he called the police. You were slow to respond."

"Not us," Laguerta corrected. "Not homicide."

Alyra nodded carefully. "Alright, not you. But the police. As I understand it, even though children were missing, they didn't start searching until very late that night. And the car wasn't found until early the next morning, when the sun had come up. It had run off an embankment.

"He found them. Not the police. Him. He saw the fresh skid marks on the pavement, and he found them. They were all dead, but that was not the worst of it. They had died very, very slowly. One of the children had been decapitated, instantly killed, but the two other girls were only hurt, but bleeding badly. His wife was pinned into the front seat of the minivan, because the steering column had taken off part of her legs. But she turned, held the hands of her children as she died, as they died. And that is how he found them. And the two other children had been pinned in the back of the car, dying alone, with only a voice to comfort them."

"Oh my dear God," Deborah breathed. "And he told you this?"

"With the same amount of emotion you would expect from someone talking about the watermelons in a grocery store."

"Then what happened?" Batista prompted.

"Well, the police were too slow to respond. Although the car had hit a tree as it slid down the embankment, there was another area of the car that had been crushed, by the impact with the drunk driver. It took them too long to identify this, to see the extra pair of skid marks on the road. So by the time they were ready to confront the man who might have done this, he had already gotten his car fixed by a shady mechanic, and he had bought half of the bar where he had been drinking, getting them to say that he was in the bar at the time of the accident. "

Even Vince was only able to stare. The story was genuinely horrible – I could only imagine with my recent experiences as a father with potential tragedy how it would feel to lose all of them, every one of them, in one blistering moment. To know that they had suffered. I could imagine it only too well.

"His world, his entire world, was gone. But there was this other world – his academic world. The wolves. He had the wolves. So he retreated into the wolves, waiting for the trial. He put out 10 papers in that period. Only a few months."

"But there was no trial, was there?" Deborah's voice was almost a whisper.

"Correct. The district attorney, after some vacillation, finally had to admit that they had no solid evidence. Everything was circumstantial, and they wouldn't be able to make the charges stick, so why bother?"

"Are you saying if the guy had been convicted we would have no werewolf?" Deborah asked.

"No. I can't guarantee that, but I think it is likely, you would have had a man who politely moved out of his house and into a campsite in the forest, in Montana somewhere. But he had no justice. All of his ideals were destroyed, and the press mocked the whole thing. The incompetence of the police, the justice system, letting another killer walk. He believed in justice, he believed in the truth, he believed in all of you, and all of that failed him."

"So, then what happened?" I asked.

"He gave up on humanity. He had his minor in animal archetypes, religious figures. And he knew that wolf societies could be like human societies. He wanted to become a wolf."

Batista said flatly, "Wolves do not go around killing people for sport."

"No," Alyra agreed. "But I genuinely believe that it started that way. He went to Montana first, spent at least six months there, living with a wolf pack. He lived with them, and he hunted with them. But it wasn't enough, so he came back here. But he hunted animals in the forests – check the records. The forest rangers reported strange animal kills, starting from rabbits up to deer. I don't know when he started making the claws, the tools. But then something changed. He got angry. I don't know if that asshole getting in the press did it, or the lawyers, or maybe even the press coming after him. I don't know. Maybe even just how easy it was to kill the larger animals. Something broke – something in his mind, his moral corridors. Something HARD broke. Not just humanity, but the ideals of humanity. Even wolves have their own kind of moral system. They don't kill for fun. They don't torture. We may not understand it, but they have it. He didn't want that. He wanted rage. He wanted chaos. He wanted anarchy. He wanted madness. He wanted to kill. He wanted to be able to tear this man apart."

Deborah gaped. "You are telling me that this man researched how to go crazy?"

"Look at the books in his house. Really LOOK at them. Not like Captain Matthews – really LOOK at them. These are not just fab readings of a werewolf fanatic. He researched. He went to Europe. He found the evidence, the old stories. The myths, the realities. He knew what lycanthropy was, the REAL thing, the illness, the disease. He had to know. And I will wager you solid money those cases are in that house. Direct from Scotland Yard. He brought two of them here to show us. He went to Europe after he tried to live with the wolves. I can almost guarantee you he went there to research lycanthropy. The man who thinks he is a wolf. That is what he wanted. That is what he was searching for. He needed a tool."

"So, this lycanthropy, has happened before?" Batista asked.

"Many times. It is a common disease of the medieval period. There are even modern reports, but most were suppressed to avoid humiliation of the family. I will wager he got those too. He needed a tool."

Batista snorted. "Well, he found it."

Alyra turned on him. Tears burned in her eyes. "Imagine the pain, detective, if this happened to you? If something happened to your Maria? What would you do? To what lengths would you go? You can't judge him. You can't. You have to hear him, you have to listen." Batista lowered his head with a quick nod.

I put my hand on Alyra's quickly. "We are ALL listening. Tell us."

"He wasn't a killer. He wasn't a bad man. He didn't know how to kill. He wanted to learn. He wanted to do it right. And the werewolf was his way. The way for him to still be human, but to be able to learn how to take a life. The monster was the key."

Then room was eerily quiet, as Deborah exploded. "He wanted to kill that fucker. He wanted him dead, and he didn't know how to do it. And he didn't just want to kill him – he wanted to tear him apart. He didn't know how to do evil, so he wanted to learn."

"Yes. Remember – he is a biologist. Animals are not like humans. But humans are animals. He wanted to kill like an animal, like a predator. He knew about predators, how they hunted, how they moved in their predatory world. He knew he could do that. He just needed to learn. But he wanted more. He wanted the chaos, the destruction, the pure anarchy of complete destruction. He wanted to absolutely destroy this man. He wanted to become a true monster."

Deborah leaned back in her chair, taking in a deep breath. "It really is brilliant. He found the only way he could do what needed to be done, and he simply took the steps, one at a time, to be able to do it."

Alyra nodded. "All of this has been his learning process. He took what he knew about wolves, how wolf mothers train their pups. He took victims that were weak, weakened them further, and hunted them. And then he got stronger. And each time he got stronger, his victims got stronger."

Battista shook his head. "He was building the suit as he went along, wasn't he? He was learning how to do this. How to be a cold blooded killer."

Laguerta gestured with her hands, a quick gesture of dismissal. "This is all nice, but you said things had changed now. How have they changed?"

Alyra took a deep breath, and looked at me. She reached out her hand. I took it. You could have heard a pin drop. Deborah stared, but I shook my head quickly. "He was still human. He was still teaching. He went to work every day, except for three days a month. He lived with the remains of his family, in his home, in his safe place, so that he could let the wolf go. He could be a killer, but he could put the killer to bed."

"Oh my God," Deborah murmured. "And now that place is gone!"

"He has nothing left of his humanity. He knows that we know who he is, he will retreat to the forests. And the werewolf is in the forests. I can promise you that. He has a home there. The reason you didn't find the suit and the weapons at the house is that he kept them separate, he wanted to still be able to be a human being. That meant something to him. Probably for his family, to love them, to respect them."

"Underground?" Battista suggested.

"Most likely. Like a wolf den. But he won't have his family there. He won't have contaminated the two places.

"Now, there is only the wolf. And not even the wolf. The werewolf. The real werewolf. The monster that he was never capable of being with the anchors of his family and his life."

Laguerta swallowed hard, holding up her hand for quiet. "So you are telling me that all of the rules that we have followed so far, this careful pattern, is about to change."

Alyra looked at her, her face hollow. "I am telling you that as of today, there are no rules."

Deborah stood up, slamming her fist into the glass wall. "Fuck! We could have had him. If they had just waited until he got home."

Battista shook his head. "No, we still have no evidence. We couldn't have held him. But we could have at least tried to stop this, talk to him, something."

Alyra's eyes were down, out of focus. I could see her mind, brilliant, whirling. She knew. She knew.

I looked at everyone else, gesturing for silence.

"Did you know this man? Before?" I asked quietly.

"Yes," Alyra whispered, her eyes still lost in her mental corridors. "I only met him a couple of times. Kind of man that makes you think that marriage might actually be a valuable institution. A good man, a good researcher. Loved his wolves. Her voice trailed off.

"That's why he asked you out."

"Yes. He actually said that he remembered me," she said with a tiny smile.

I put my hand on her leg, and she turned to me, eyes still half lost in their thoughts.

"What is he going to do now?"

"I don't know, Dexter! I don't know. This is real madness. What he was before was an exquisite kind of sanity – only a master could do it! He could compartmentalize his darkness so well that no one could see it, even HE couldn't see it. He could hold onto that humanity so well that even he believed in it. Insane three nights a month, completely lucid for the rest."

Deborah stood up again, beginning to pace the room. "This is getting us nowhere. So he is fucked. We knew that already. Now he is more fucked. What is the big deal. What more can he do?"

Alyra's face came up slowly, focusing carefully on Deborah. I knew what was coming. I could feel it, just as well as Alyra could. But she had to say it. She was the psychologist, not the serial killer. Alyra's voice was cold, clinical, distant. "In situations of this type, when the previously dominant form is suppressed, the alternate form will expand. It will become more creative, more constructed, more real. It will take on a life of its own, even more than before. Become more powerful. Much more powerful. And its needs, well, its needs are going to increase."

"What do you mean?" said Laguerta.

"He's gonna explode!" Battista cried.

"What do you mean?" Laguerta asked again.

"Every time he has changed, he has killed someone. We stopped him twice, but still, someone died. The next night, or the next month. Every single time, that suit goes on, someone dies. Now, all you have is the suit. Or the thing in the suit." Batista's face paled.

The office was deathly quiet. "Not just at night either, but during the day?" Batista queried.

"Likely, but he may hunt animals during the day. If we are lucky. Tell the forest rangers to stay out of the woods. No easy targets."

"But he isn't going to stay in the woods now, is he?" I interjected. That was the other shoe dropping. No one else wanted to say it, but we all knew it.

"No. I don't think he will be limited in his territories now. He will Become. He has nothing else to be. He has lost everything. Again. And werewolves, in the traditional form, while rural creatures, will seek out their victims in the urban environments. In the past, they would raze whole villages. One single man, would just kill everyone he could find."

Laguerta's mouth fell open, as the ultimate realization, the real realization hit all of us. "You are telling me we might get a fucking werewolf in downtown Miami?"

"Not likely. Not to start. But he will learn. Just like he learned before. And he is going to start somewhere. And I will wager you solid money he is going to start tonight."

Laguerta took in a deep breath. "Do you have any idea what he might do?"

Alyra peered at me. We both knew this drill. "Someplace remote. Again, he will be learning. He will want a place where he won't be disturbed."

Regrettably, that left us with the majority of Miami to search.

Chapter 76

Because we hadn't been sure what form his reaction would take, Laguerta had decided to keep the news out of the potential change of pattern. Matthews wouldn't have approved it anyway. This turned out to be a lethal mistake.

The scene was deep in the woods, but this time, rather than a solitary victim, we had a group of campers, some jolly old souls who had decided that a night spent out in the forest would be just the thing after a stressful work week. And of course they felt safe – no full moon. There were seven campers, four men, three women. There were no survivors.

From the first moments on the scene, there was no question as to who the culprit was. The tents were shredded, food and supplies scattered everywhere, and remnants where the campfire had been spread in the skirmish. From the layout of the bodies, it appeared that the campers had been sitting around the fire when the attack happened, as two of the bodies were lying just beyond the firepit, their throats cut as though from behind. Another two bodies were found lying several feet away. Camping gear was strewn everywhere, and the remains of some cooking gear had spilled around the edge of the firepit.

One of the other bodies was found inside one of the tents, literally mummified by the tent wrapping, the body shredded, throat ultimately cut. The last two bodies were found several yards away, appearing to be a husband and wife – apparently the wife had been taken down, and the husband had turned back to help. They both met the same fate.

It must have happened in only moments. The sheer frenzied brutality was nothing like we had seen before. The kills were still quick, but there was clear evidence of significant struggle. And the damage to the bodies was tremendous. But not all of these wounds were postmortem.

None of them had stood a chance. It had been a bloodbath.

I laid out my kit by the firepit, studying the rows of spatter as the claws had torn again and again into flesh. The smell of burning blood was acrid, burning my nose. Alyra looked at me, and I gestured for her to start on the other side of the fire. It would take two pairs of hands for this.

At most crime scenes, the forensic geeks chatter. We have seen a lot – and it takes a lot to surprise us, and certainly a lot to shock us. We can find humor in some of the worst things you can imagine. But the silence was penetrating. What was there to say?

There had been no full moon last night. This didn't have to happen. These people hadn't had to die. And no one had to say it, because we all knew it.

When we all got back to the station, Laguerta informed us that we would need to meet in about an hour to go over what we had. So we had roughly an hour to catalog our initial findings and go over them. This was fast work for us – normally, we didn't have the first meeting for 72 hours, but given the magnitude of this killing spree, getting an early start sounded like a good idea to all of us.

Alyra and I made our way to the blood lab, to start categorizing samples, printing pictures. Alyra was very quiet. I turned to her. "Are you alright?"

She gave me a wan smile. "No, not really. Sometimes, you don't want to be right, you know."

"Yeah, I know. It's going to get worse, isn't it?"

She sighed. "This was an experiment. The monster wanted to see what it can do, and obviously, it can do a lot. It will keep escalating. That is what monsters do."

"You and I don't do that."

Alyra laughed out loud. "I did. For the longest time, I did, until I found patterns that I like. But we aren't real monsters, Dexter. Not the fairy-tale kind of monsters. Monsters that destroy for the sheer joy of destruction."

She smiled at me. "We are sophisticated monsters."

"Sophisticated. I think I like that."

"Hey, you're even neat. Not many monsters can say that."

I grinned. A neat monster. Yes, I was certainly that. But that didn't help me in the least, in figuring out where this monster was going next.

Chapter 77

Unfortunately, Alyra was not wrong. I know she wanted to be. We all wanted her to be. But this time the site was a Pancake House, just off the highway. We got the call in at around 6:00 am. It was a rare place for folks to stop, so those who were there were regulars. A trucker didn't pull in until long after the attacker had fled.

Alyra grabbed her bag, as I got my box. We didn't need to be told. The numbers were jostling around, how many victims? We both knew. We didn't need to ask. There would be many victims this time. A rampage.

Everyone in the building would be dead.

When we got to the site, it was almost unreal. The parking lot was huge, with big trucks slotted out for their drivers to take a quick nap or grab something to eat before getting back on the road. But these truckers would not be taking any more naps, or grabbing anything to eat, ever again. The building was standard – a box with a yellow top, with a brightly lit sign. Just your good old fashioned place for an all night breakfast.

The doors had to be smashed open. The attacker had used some kind of glue to lock both the front and the back doors.

Of course, we really didn't need to do that, since the werewolf himself had made his own exit through one of the plate glass windows. I studied it. No blood. The suit was good, covered every inch of him well if he could jump through glass. Alyra was behind me, standing in my shadow. I turned to her. I took a deep breath, "Time to get to work." She nodded. We had all agreed that if she didn't want to come out on this one, she didn't have to. But we all knew it – we needed her with us. Any insights were important now, since the previous insights had gone unheeded.

It was a massacre. There were no other words. There were bodies everywhere, and the only reason we had so few was because of what the place was, not what had done this. Several of the tables were ripped from their frame, thrown into the wall. Several of the bodies were brutally mutilated. Several eviscerations, limbs torn from their sockets. Lots of throats were torn out, others had bled out when a blade caught an artery when they were trying to run. Bodies were splayed on the tables – others had crawled into corners to die quietly.

In the kitchen, the cook, the standard fat man with the white shirt and greasy apron, was gutted, and thrown on top of his grill. The two waitresses were both eviscerated, as giant claws had made short work of their aprons, to open up the cavities beneath.

One of the victims was an off duty cop – you could see that he had pulled his gun, fired it. He died anyway.

All in all, fourteen people had died that night.

When Alyra and I were done, there were still cops heaving in the parking lot. So much ugliness inside a human body, and so many of them, in such creative ways. The press was clammering to get inside, to get photos, but several truckers had sealed off the site. Too many glass windows with too much pretty blood for front page pictures. No one deserved that as an obituary. Several photographers had been punched by the more aggressive defenders – no one was talking about pressing any charges. The one photographer who got through, took one look, and before they even picked him up to escort him out, he turned around.

There was no doubt, no motives to elucidate. We knew his weapons, and those hadn't changed. We followed a blood trail briefly back into the woods, but it didn't get us more than a quarter of a mile. He was learning.

Could we?

We were all somber when we returned to the office. There were no jokes, even the normal tasteless ones that keep forensics guys in the job. We just wandered back to our own little areas. We certainly had enough work to do. It was hard – when you knew who the killer was, what his motive was, his methods. Forensics got lost when everything you needed to prove you already knew. But we did the job anyway, hoping there would be some kind of new insights – something to tell us where he might be hiding. How he might be stopped.

Alyra was working on the picture evidence, organizing as best she could, while I was putting together some scenarios for how the attack started, progressed. There had been so much spray, that getting a true story of the attack was very, very hard. Debs wandered in, dropping herself into a chair.

"This is depressing as fuck, man."

I looked up at her with sympathy. Or the best that I can fake.

Batista sauntered in, leaning against the door. He looked at Alyra. We all were looking at Alyra. "This is going to get worse, isn't it?"

She just looked at him. "We did this. We closed the door on his humanity. There is no telling how far this could go."

"Fuck."

"Will he hit tomorrow?" That was Debs.

"Probably. He is angry. He lost his life once. Now, he has lost it again."

"Any ideas?" I asked. Someone had to.

"Matthews broke the rule book, he smashed the game board. There is no way to know now, except that this one will likely be bigger."

"Yes, our boy does like to learn. He progresses well, you have to give him that." That was Masouka. Once again, my office was turning into a sardine can.

Finally, Laguerta arrived. Laguerta turned to Alyra. "You are thinking he will strike again tonight." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, I am almost positive."

"Do you have any ideas as to where?"

Alyra paused. "Only gut feelings. Intuitions. Nothing more."

"We'll take those," Deborah said quickly. "You haven't led us astray yet."

"I don't want to waste your time."

"We don't have anything. Give us something," Batista pleaded.

Alyra closed her eyes. "The first hit was an experiment, to see what he can do. He now knows that he is powerful, strong, can take on multiple victims, even in an open setting. The second attack was exactly what it appeared to be – a massacre. He did what werewolves do – destroy. But he was smart enough to seal the doors, so none of them could escape. He wanted all of them. He wanted to see what he is capable of."

"And what did he learn?" I whispered.

"That he can do anything. But I am guessing that the closed in setting was not a good one for him, that he didn't like it. He prefers the free air, the moonlight. That is the home of the werewolf. He will find a place tonight where he can attack under the moonlight."

We all sat entranced, watching her follow out her train of thought. She could clearly sense something about this creature that eluded all of the rest of us, and we needed that sense, now more than ever.

"I hear pounding. Pounding, like music. Good cover. People dancing. Packed in like sardines. Easy prey. Just carve through them. One at a time. No place to run. No place to hide. Panic. Fear. The thrill of it. Sheer, wanton destruction."

All of us just stared. "You mean like a nightclub, with an outside dance floor?" Deborah asked.

"That's what feels right. The next step. He took them where they could run, but they couldn't run fast enough. He took them where they couldn't run at all, and it wasn't enough. Now, he wants them where they can run, but they are going to have a bloody hard time doing it. He wants to kill. This is all about destruction now. No humanity. Even the killing may be secondary. Just chaos. Madness. Anarchy. The more killing, the better. He wants more victims."

"How do you know that?" Deborah ask, hoping, as we all were, that she was wrong.

"He is testing his limits. Just like any good monster. He wants to see what he is really capable of, out in the open, under the moonlight."

Batista stood up. "There are only so many outdoor nightclubs in Miami. This is doable."

Laguerta turned to him. "Get on it. I want a member of the team at as many of these places as we can get. And we will need blues, to surround them."

Alyra said softly, "You should try to get them to close, if you can. This is going to be horrendous. If he gets inside, there will be no stopping him, and even if you do, a great many people are going to die."

"Agreed. Morgan, get on the horn with as many of these clubs as you can. Tell them what we are looking at. If we can get some of them to close, that will also narrow our search pattern."

Laguerta turned to Alyra. "I know this isn't easy for you. We are grateful for your help."

Alyra turned sad eyes to her. "It isn't his fault. He didn't mean to become this. But he has to be stopped. He has to be stopped."

Laguerta nodded, then stood to leave with Batista. Deborah turned to Alyra. "Are you alright?"

Alyra smiled. "As much as can be expected. Betraying a friend isn't easy, but letting someone just wantonly kill innocent people isn't exactly a cake walk either. I will be fine."

"You want to go with us?"

"Yes, if that's possible."

"I'll make sure that it's possible, even if that means no one knows about it." Deborah gave her a quick smile and was gone.

Alyra sat down hard. I reached across the table, lightly touching her hand. "You don't have to do this, you know. You can go home."

"No. I started this. I need to finish it."

"You are pretty sure you know where he is going to be, don't you?"

"There is one club that the bikers and I used to hang out at, huge field dance floor. Thumping music, usually techno or metal. And the dancers were always packed in, all the way across. I can't think of a more perfect place than Reynaldo's for him to strike."

"How can you be so sure?"

She looked me square in the eye. "It's where I would go."

Enough said.

Chapter 78

I was not exactly pleased that I had been included on this little expedition, especially as I had no side arm and was basically positioning myself as wolf bait. But when Deborah found out that Alyra wanted to go to Reynaldo's, that was where we were going. And I didn't want to leave Alyra, as ridiculous as that sounds. But a stakeout for an insane werewolf serial killer is not quite the normal place for a blood spatter geek.

We positioned ourselves just outside of the back doors of the club, as they entered the main outside dance floor. It was impressive, with multicolored lights and a raised wooden floor, clearly built with the hard core dancer in mind. And it was packed. Despite Deborah's attempts to get the owner to close for the night, he had flatly refused, saying that this was some kind of ridiculous police stunt to put him out of business (apparently, Reynaldo didn't get along all that well with the cops), but he agreed to the stakeout. Better to be safe than sorry. And to be frank, he did appear to care about his customers, but he still didn't see how big large and hairy was going to get into the dance floor. The surrounding fences were quite high, and though not covered in barbed wire, were pretty slicey-dicey up at the top end.

I had flashbacks to the movie Jaws. Even though the big fish was out there, people still wanted the beaches open. Well, they had learned a valuable lesson. Always listen to Chief Brody. Hopefully, Reynaldo would not learn a similar lesson.

Regrettably, Reynaldo was not lucky.

It was around 2:00 am when the movement on the dance floor changed. It was hard to hear anything over the pounding music, but what sounded like screams just tittered in the air, and suddenly, all of the dancers were moving in one direction – away from the west corner.

I got Deborah's attention, and sure enough, the dancers were fleeing something that had entered through the corner of the fence. As I looked closer, I could see that bodies were actually flying through the air, sweeping across the night sky, landing on other dancers who were trying to flee, and even in the dark light, I could see the sprays of blood casting down onto the paler clothes of some of the customers.

"Get them to cut the music, Dexter!" Deborah screamed, as she drew her side arm. She had her radio in her other hand, calling for backup. And we were going to need some back up.

I struggled through the sea of bodies, trying to get inside the building to get to the DJ, who had also noticed that something was not quite right. He was more than willing to cut the tunes, and as soon as the silence hit, the night was filled with a myriad of piercing screams and cries.

The only way off the dance floor was through the club, which had a very small doorway, so the struggling masses were moving very slowly, as the source of the disturbance simply danced its way through them. The creature could not be seen among the mass of bodies, but the havoc he was wreaking was certainly evident. Deborah was struggling to get through the crowd, to at least get a shot off, but this was nothing doing – people were too panicked, and packed, to let anyone through.

By the time we could see him, the creature had cleared a swathe of humanity, simply swept it out of his way, continuing forward, plunging into the retreating masses. I felt something pressed into my hand, and recognized the hilt of a blade. Trust Alyra to be armed. Alyra was always armed. I followed, as she attempted to follow Deborah through the swirls of humanity – the difference was that Alyra wasn't nice about it. She simply shoved and pushed.

I have no idea how long the struggle continued, but I remember hearing the two shots fire as Deborah finally got within range, close enough that she could see the monster amidst the struggling bodies. It lifted its head, appeared to sniff the air, and then was just gone. As quickly as it had arrived, it had just disappeared.

When we finally made it to the corner of the fence, we found the wire clippers just lying there, where the creature had made entrance and likely exit. Deborah was on the radio quickly to the surrounding blues, to check the alleyways surrounding the club.

Alyra sheathed her weapon, and began to turn to the victims. And there were a lot of them. Some had only minor cuts and bruises, but several had simply been torn apart. Body parts were everywhere, in a scene of carnage that probably matched some of the worst I had ever seen, and I had seen quite a few, including chain saw massacres.

I could feel my heart pounding. The sheer adrenaline of it was intoxicating. The thought of just bursting into a place and killing, killing, killing. The Passenger hungrily glanced around me, looking at the devastation with just that fraction of awe and admiration. Brilliantly done. Brilliantly played.

I shook my head to clear it. Not the time, not the place.

Debs was still on the radio, but I knew they wouldn't catch him. Not with artwork like this. No, he had an escape plan, just as much as he had had a plan for getting in. Sure enough, the blues reported no sightings of a giant man in a wolf suit, despite the fact that the club was supposedly surrounded. There were two blues in the back alley behind the club, but no one had heard from them. I had a good suspicion as to why that might be.

Finally, the dance floor had cleared, but most of the dancers were being held in the club for questioning. The panic was dying down, and we were left with a wooden field of bloody, battered bodies, some beyond help, others beyond life. But Alyra was focused on those with relatively minor injuries (in these, I include losing an arm, mind you).

The techno lights had been shut off by this point, and the white lights of the surrounding walls had been lit up. It did little to improve the images. There were bodies everywhere. Some still kicking, others all too still, and many in pieces.

I was not looking forward to this blood spatter.

I went to Alyra, to see if I could be of some assistance. Not out of genuine caring, mind you, but out of a sense of making myself useful. She used my hands to put pressure on wounds, as she tried to apply pressure dressings from any cloth she could find, including her own shirt, sliced up jeans, and torn clothing from those who would never be needing clothing again.

Deborah stood frozen, her gun still drawn. "Damn, damn, damn!"

Alyra turned to her. "You stopped him, Detective Morgan. It would have been much worse."

"Worse than this?" Debs screamed.

"Much worse. He would have kept killing until there were no more left to kill, just like the Pancake House. It is a tragedy, but far less than it could have been."

Deborah did not appear to take much solace at this, especially given how close she had been to her target, and still unable to apprehend him. She stood there, cursing the blues who couldn't even find a seven foot man in a wolf suit. Then she got the call. Two blues in the back alley were both dead, killed quickly and efficiently. Deborah took the news solemnly.

"But how did he get out of here? There were blues everywhere. He only took out the two in the back alley, so he could get in here."

"There is no telling how fast he can get into and out of that suit. He could have been out of it in minutes, stashed it, and then just walked out into the street. He could have climbed into the back of an SUV and waited. If he had a bag, he could stash the suit in the bag, and just literally waltz out of here."

Deb just stared at her, but barked out a series of orders to start searching cars in the area, and to put up road blocks on the ends of the streets to check all vehicles.

Finally, the EMTs arrived, which was a gory enough scene. I had only rarely seen a paramedic get sick at a scene, but almost all of these fellows were pale around the lip area, and several had to find a nice place to commune with nature before proceeding to work on those who could be saved. Alyra stepped back.

"Well," I said, as I slipped her back the weapon she had kindly loaned me. "Looks like we are headed back to the office for the kit, to start another beautiful Miami day covered in blood."

"What more can a girl ask for?" Alyra said, giving me a faint smile.

Chapter 79

Twenty-six this time, either killed or wounded. Many of the wounds were so severe that the body count, which was already at 19, was likely to climb still further. We were all somber as we gathered at the table to discuss our findings, which were limited at best. I mean, we knew who was doing it. We just didn't know how to catch him.

Alyra did have some hopeful news for us. "Likely, he'll take a couple of days after that one. If he wasn't outright injured, which I will wager he was, then he likely will be exhausted. And the thrill had to be tremendous. He will want to ride that for a while. Not to mention that it will quite frankly be difficult to top this one, which he will want to do."

"So, he is going to continue to escalate."

"Until we can stop him, yes. That is how the classical werewolf myth works. The monster gets bolder and bolder, until finally it meets a champion or an enemy it can't match."

Laguerta cursed. "We had him right where we wanted him last night, and we still couldn't catch him."

"I told you – he's smart. He rampages like a wolf, but he is planning like a man. An extremely dangerous combination. He took out the two officers in the back alley, but he did it quickly, quietly, while his assault in the club was an exercise in brutality. He's broken off from his humanity, but he still has his intelligence. Very, very dangerous."

"Is there any way to give him some of his humanity back?" Debs asked. We all stared at her. "What? There has to be something."

Alyra nodded her head, slowly. "That is an excellent idea. There has to be a way to give some of it back. Something. Anything. Something to connect him to his humanity."

Debs jumped up. "What about pictures from the house? We could get some of those."

Batista grumbled. "But how do we get them to him?"

"We don't," Alyra said quietly. "We just leave them where we know he has been. And let him take it from there. Weiss said it himself – he would start to go back to old hunting grounds. He would have to. So maybe we can help him find himself."

And so that was how we spent our afternoon, combing through Weiss's destroyed house for pictures, clothes, paintings, anything that might connect to the man inside the monster. We all took separate sites, but we made sure that we left something at every kill site. And not on the ground – tied to a tree or a cross beam – eye level, for a six and a half foot monster.

That evening, there was no massacre. Nor the night after that. Nor the night after that. We all held our breath. Now, we had to wait for the full moon, to see what that would bring. Alyra had no insights for us – all the rules had been changed. He could go back to his original plan, or start something completely new.

Chapter 80

One night, for some odd reason, Alyra picked a dance club to go to. She was feeling a little bit stronger, and she said that she enjoyed watching the moves of others, even if she could not do them herself. And the stress of the past few days had been wearing on her – she needed a night out, even if only to sit and watch. It would have made me sad, if I could feel things like that.

So we sat there, me sipping my beer, her with her whiskey straight up (no girly drinks for Alyra). She had elected for a little color this evening, which was quite shocking given her palor. I had thought the black she preferred made her look white – but the dark red dress, high in the front, but dangerously low in the back with criss-cross straps, made her look like a vampire. No attempts at darker make-up tonight. She was enjoying herself, and the almost goth look flattered her, in a peculiar way, even the striking slenderness of her arms, and the pale, pale, pale aspect of her small fingers as she curled them around her glass.

We talked of horrible things, but no one else seemed to notice, and those who did, made a bee-line in the other direction. She seemed to enjoy that – shocking other people, even scaring them. She was a tiny woman, with a thin frame, unlike my burly self (I have always been a big man, but working out had given me a bulk that made Dexter one not to mess with, on the whole). She had enjoyed fighting at one time, and she said that looking like she did made her absolute jail-bait, just not in the way that the term was normally applied.

We were approached by a very large man, dressed head to toe in biker leathers, studs and all. His face was almost handsome, except for the yards of stubble that poked out of his scarred jaw like a hedgehog. He looked like he should smell – gratefully for the Dexter nose, he did not. He gave me a brief glance and nodded, and then suddenly, I was just not there. I mean, no acknowledgement whatsoever. His eyes were for my companion. He spoke with a Southern drawl, as I admired his leather coat, his leather pants, and leather boots – contemplating if he was wearing leather underwear. "Would the pretty lady like to dance?"

Now, you have to understand – this was somewhere around guy number ten-twelve who had asked her, and her rebuffs had gotten more and more forceful. I was waiting for a good one, when to my surprise she extended her pale hand, saying, "Delighted, I am sure." The big man took off his coat, draped it on her chair, taking her tiny hand in his.

She didn't even give me a backwards glance, as monstrous and leathery escorted her to the dance floor. I felt my jaw drop open, but I quickly closed it. I should have given up trying to predict this woman a long, long time ago.

The dance floor was not crowded, and the music was a variety of torrid hits from the eighties and nineties, rather than the pop crap that normally pervades establishments of this nature. It was almost bearable. As they glided, genuinely glided to the dance floor, I felt a nasty surge of jealousy rear its ugly head. I knew I had no right to it – I had three kids, and a recently deceased wife. More than that, I had asked her to choose, and she chose me. Who was I to bitch if she wanted to dance, even with Tall, Dark, and Hairy. The tune that started up was a banger – Janet Jackson's Nasty, and I waited to see the show, sipping my beer.

I had to give him credit, the man could dance. He held onto her tightly, bumping and grinding to the music. Her smile was a luminescent thing – I had never seen her smile like that before. My eyes felt the color of green dancing in front of them, but I quickly pushed it down. There was still a part of me that really did enjoy seeing her happy, as much as I can enjoy anything. And this was nice.

Then, the predator in me began to notice things. This was not an intimate song – this was a flashy song, a distant song, one where each partner shows the other what he or she can do, displays their moves, if you will. But they were dancing close. Another look showed me that indeed, he was supporting most of her weight. How very curious. As the song came to its close, he dipped her dramatically, and took a kiss that I would imagine would have resulted in having his lips bitten off, but she appeared to tolerate it, if not return it much, but her hands slipped into his hair. It was a long kiss, and I did not like that.

It was odd that I did not like that as much as I did not like that. I had thought myself a wee bit more secure in this relationship, at least until now.

I noticed that he then escorted her to the ladies room – they were both dripping sweat. He did not wait for her, but came over to sit at our table, pulling up a third chair, flipping it around carelessly, crossing his arms and placing his face on his hands.

He smiled at me, a languid thing, as though he had taken something from me. The odd thing was that it felt as though he had. I did not return his smile. "Why do you not dance with your lady? She is lovely, is she not?"

"She is not my lady." Alyra would kill me to hear me refer to her in such a way. Which is probably why I didn't outright want to kill this man at this point. But it was a close thing.

He quickly countered, laughing. "She is not my lady, but still I offer my hand. She brings you here – what do you think she wants, to sit on her ass and watch?

He looked at me intently. "How long you have you known her?"

"Long enough," came my terse reply.

"How many times you ever see her just watch anything?"

He had me there. She was not an observer, she was a doer. She had always been. Tall, Dark, and Becoming More Interesting picked up her whiskey, took a swig. "Still, she gonna kill herself in those damn shoes, I tell you. She gonna do it all day. You know what she calls them?"

"No." I said curtly, disliking that this man knew more about my friend than I did.

"Ankle-breakers."

Even in my sulky mood, I had to admit that was pretty damn funny. The man smiled again. "My name is Raphael, but my friends call me Rafe. You wanna be my friend?" Now I knew where I remembered him from. Rescuer of children. Visitor at the hospice.

Given that the shirt he wore was bursting with muscles, and that his legs looked more like those on a bullock than on a man, wise rather than irritated seemed the appropriate response. "I never say no to potential social opportunities. How long have you known Alyra?"

He took another sip of her whiskey. "Damn, she gets the good stuff, doesn't she? Smooth as a baby's butt, she says. Slides down with a fire like a burning building, but comes back with a silk that just touches your throat with a kiss."

I knew nothing about whiskey, but I knew when someone was avoiding my question.

Rafe smiled. "Years, really. Long time." He looked off into the distance, as though trying to contemplate an answer. "Off and on for at least twenty years, close for around ten or so."

I pondered this. "I do have a question for you."

"Hit me, pretty boy."

"How in the world did you get her to let you get so close to you? I mean, even though she has known you so long? Were you lovers?"

This got a guffaw. "She ain't had no lovers, at least, none that I know of. Not her thing. But you stay within the rules on the dance floor, and you will be fine."

I made a mental note of the first comment. Curiosity rose its head. "Rules?"

He picked up the whiskey for one last swig as he stood, pulling the chair back around, placing it under a nearby table, to the chagrin of its occupants. "Anything you want from the waist up. But below the waist, you touch her with ten fingers, you come back with nine."

He leaned a little closer, looking slightly above my head. I could see Alyra slowly making her way back to the table. I moved to stand up, but Rafe pressed his hand hard on mine. I hadn't seen him move. Things like that do not often happen to me. "You dance with her, you hear? She brought you here for that. She is proud, but she will never ask you, because she sometimes just too damn stupid for her smarts.

"We are glad that she has got someone, though, pretty boy. She needs someone right now. We are glad she got you. You stay with her, take care of her. Friend or whatever you are, you do what we wish we could do."

And then, he vanished, merging into the crowd, and then I saw the table, filled with at least six men and two women of the same dead cow garb. I had the distinct impression that this man was far more intelligent than he appeared, and he likely had a very clear reason for this. But the table was full of them, leather clad warriors. One lifted a glass to me. Another just nodded. But they all watched me as Alyra came to the table. Automatically, I was on my feet, and pulled out her chair for her. She was still wet with sweat, but she was glowing under the odd dark lights of the club, the strobe lights flashing into gleaming green eyes.

"Have fun?" I asked.

"You have no idea. He didn't give you any trouble, did he?" Her question was intent, and I knew it for what it was. Did he give me information she didn't want me to have.

"No, very much the gentleman. He made no passes and he kept his hands to himself."

She roared with laughter, throwing her head back. It was a delightful thing to see. I felt, yes, almost happy. She went back to nursing her drink. I felt like school boy at the prom who hadn't managed a date. Getting the words out of my mouth was far harder than I would have imagined. We sat there for a long, long time, just chatting about odd things, making fun of the dancers (one woman who weighed close to 250 lbs seemed to think that sequins somehow flattered – not quite, especially since her skirt of choice gave the term "skin-tight" an entirely new meaning, in that it was far tighter than her skin could possibly be). But finally, I managed.

"Would you like to dance?"

She scowled at me, precisely the reaction I had expected. "That little shit said something to you, didn't he. I will kill that bastard…"

"No," I countered quickly. "But this is a dance club. Seems a waste not to dance, and the music is decent, rather than the crap that most of these places play." And it really was true – none of that techno-jam nonsense (is that even how you spell it?)

I stood up, and extended my hand, for all the world as though no simply was not an answer. She glared at me, but finally, took my hand. She had lost her sweaty sheen, but none of that glittering wickedness in her eyes. Rafe had been right – this is what she wanted.

As we made our way to the dance floor, it had become more crowded. The first dance was another Janet Jackson, Control. We had fun with that one. At first, I started with the biker's technique, just getting her close, feeling her body close to mine, supporting as much of her body weight as I could through a bump and grind that would have given Rita a heart-attack, if she wasn't already dead, either from seeing it OR doing it. It was genuinely fun. But I started to learn that my arms were stronger than I had thought, and that I could let her slide away from me, and help keep her upright. It was hard, but when I saw her delighted expression, the ache I knew I would have in the morning somehow became more than worth it. As we slid into some Michael Jackson, Beat It became a line dance of sorts, and I was able to help her through a great deal of it, and the young man on the other side of her seemed to pick up the idea quickly, taking the other half of her weight. Her eyes were on fire, as she smiled at both of us. By the time we hit Thriller, we were both dancing like mad people – she could barely do the entire Thriller dance, of course, but we managed as much as we could. The people around us were slowly becoming aware that all what not right in Alyra's world, but most of them had enough sense to act like they didn't know, and Alyra sure as hell acted like she didn't know, so the odd way in which we danced, doing the Thriller with me directly behind her, caused no overt controversy.

Then, came the inevitable slow song. As I watched the men taking their women into their arms and pulling them close, I could hear Alyra's breathy call, as she grabbed my hands to make it to our table. But I didn't move. I pulled her hand, gently at first, and then a little harder than I meant to. I brought the weight of her body hard against mine, as I wrapped my arms around her. I could smell her sweat (something I normally find quite abhorrent), but it was mixed with a heady sandalwood that was quite nice. She made to break free of me again, but I took her hands, placing one on my shoulder, the other at my hip. Broken Wings by Mister Mister purred through the air, as we joined the group of couples on the dance floor.

At first her body was incredibly stiff. We had been dancing quite close, as we had to be, for me to help keep her on her feet. But this was different – close and intimate, I was starting to learn, are not the same. She nailed my feet a couple of times, and I know I got hers at least once. But slowly, ever slowly, she began to lean into me, finally melting into my body, allowing me to lead. I placed one of my hands behind her head, pulling her head to my chest. Her eyes had closed, as we just swayed to the music.

This was my friend. This was my confidant. Almost my lover. She knew what I was, and didn't flinch from it. Not one iota. And the fact that this was because she might be an even bigger monster than myself didn't change that for me. Not one iota. Again, it was more than closeness – it was intimacy.

I lowered my head into her hair, taking a deep smell of her. She was lovely, smelling of lilacs and rain and sandalwood and just than hint of sweat. And I knew how this had to end. I just knew.

When the song began to come to its close, I dipped her low, low, so that her hair spread across the dance floor like spilled blood. I lowered my head, and kissed her. A chaste thing, a careful thing. She opened her eyes, at first a look of puzzlement on her face, then warming to that glowing smile. "I think if we don't find our table, we aren't going to be dancing – you are going to be lifting weights, and the weight is going to be me."

The joke soured on the tongue, but still, we both laughed. Then, after a bit more chatting about blood and guts and gore, as the fates would have it, someone asked me to dance. And there was a lot of girl to dance with – while I am certain, as they say, she had a lovely personality, she did not have much dress sense for a person of her size, and the tank top with "Hot Mama" simply did not flatter, nor did the gold colored pants. As I politely tried to demur, Alyra laughed, "Oh, he's just shy. I am sure he would love to dance with you." I gave her a glare, but got up. I knew when I was being dismissed. But if she wanted some time alone, I would give it to her.

As I danced as sedately as possible with my own personal beluga whale, I noticed that Rafe had made his way back to our table. I stifled the jealous urge. One damn dance, then I could reclaim what was mine.

Did I just really think that?

Then, I caught the change of body posture between the two of them, the straightening of Alyra's back that did not bode well for any person with whom she was having a conversation, and the intensity of whatever they were talking about seemed quite clear. Finally, Rafe just stood up, gave her a deep bow, and made his way back to his table.

I had never, ever, ever seen Alyra pout. But that was what I was seeing. And it didn't look good.

After a millennium and a half, the dance finally ended, and I made my way after graciously thanking the elephant seal for a lovely dance back to our table. I sat down, reaching out for the hand that was in a tight fist on the table. Alyra had not even seen me approach, much less sit down. She jumped, but then relaxed when she realized it was me.

"Are you alright?"

"Little bastard. After all I have done for him, I ask this one little thing, and he says he just can't do it. It isn't their way. They see death and dying all the time, and they kill people all the time, but not one of their own. Oh, no, not one of their own. Little shit."

I realized, at this point, that I was in a conversation in which I had no part. I generally find this quite annoying, but as the fist began to relax, I allowed my thumb to gently stroke her hand. I tried to make my voice as gentle as possible. "What is it that he won't do?"

Her eyes met mine, alive with green fire and anger. "The fucker won't kill me."

I felt my breath catch, and it really could not quite free itself from the precipice. She looked up at me, as I realized that my hand had taken a vice grip on hers. I forced myself to relax it, as my Dark Passenger sent out tendrils of curiosity. But I was in no mood for it right now.

"Could you repeat that please?"

She yanked her hand away from mine, crossing her hands across her chest. "I said that the little shit said that he would not kill me. I have done so many things for them, taken out targets, protected their kids and their wives, risked my life over and over for them, and I ask this one little thing."

I could not believe my ears. How a person could quite conceive of asking someone else to take their life as "one little thing" was a bit beyond me, as I quite valued the Dexter and would take quite a great deal of offense if anyone tried to make off with my precious existence.

I guess that my confusion showed on my face. Alyra sighed. "You see me, now? I can barely stand. I hurl most everything I eat. The pain is so bad that I can barely breathe, much less move. And it is going to get so much worse, so much worse. I want a way out, Dexter, I need a way out. Just one little favor, that is all I am asking for. I even told him he could use a gun, and you know how I hate guns."

Yes, I did know how much she hated guns. For her to die like that would be almost blasphemous.

"But surely they can do something for that, medicines or something. I mean, really. All those meds we are using, they help calm things down." My words were falling into a black hole, and I knew it.

The look she gave me was almost sad, as she gave out a deep sigh. "Oh, shit," I muttered. "They really aren't working."

She patted my hand gently. I could see her recognize that this might not have been the best conversational segue. "Dexter, they help. Everything you do helps. But when it gets so bad that I want the drugs you hit your targets with rather that the pain meds, and I swear, I almost ask you for them, things are not good."

I felt my face go blank. "I had noticed that. You used to complain so hard when I put you down. Now, you just take it. You bitch a little, but you just take it. That had been worrying me."

She took my hand now, her own grip vice-like. "Dex, you are trying so hard. And that means so much. And it does help. All of it helps. And unlike those fucks at the hospice, YOU pay attention. You watch for the signs that other people don't. That tightness of the muscles, how my lips get thinner, that little tremble that develops only in my hands and in my lower lip."

I sat there, stunned. I had no idea that she realized that I was watching for those signs (even though it had been my son who had to fill me in on what they were). I had no idea that she even knew what those signs were. But of course she did. She just knew that she couldn't control them. And they were things that no one else could see. But that I could see, because I knew her.

"Dexter, it will get worse than that. And I am scared. Really and truly scared. I don't want to be lying there, shitting myself, pissing myself, wailing like a baby, when all the meds in the world don't do a damn thing, crying for my mother and my father, begging to die and being unable to do it."

I felt my eyes widen. I had known that her pain was bad. But she was far from debilitated. I also knew that if you told her that, you needed to fear for your life (again, this is not a metaphor). But here she was, admitting it to me. Telling me what she felt, what she feared. I knew what that meant, what she was trusting me with.

"This is why you went for the wolf? Contemplations of suicide? Still? Even now? I thought we were past that." I tried to keep my voice level, and to some degree, I was able to achieve that. But I did not like this conversation.

"You know that little bitty part of yourself that isn't quite sure if there is a heaven or a hell? That part that doesn't quite know which way you or me might really be headed?"

I nodded. I was pretty high on the Agnostics-Are –Us meter, at least sometimes. I think it goes with the territory. But what kind of God would allow something like me? That simply made no sense.

"Well, I may not be a good Catholic girl, but I got enough doubts to prefer not to find out that whole business about suicide being a mortal sin. You know – just to be on the safe side."

I did know. Most likely, people like us would be warming our feet and toasting marshmallows. But that little niggling doubt, since we really did kill very bad people, who were going to kill other people – well, it was just there.

I thought about that for a minute. And there was an idea. An unpleasant idea, but an idea. That might be hard to pull off. Some modifications might be necessary, but nothing major. I forced myself to smile warmly, sitting back down. I took her hand, kissed it gently, my eyes never leaving hers. "We will figure something out, I promise."

She looked up at me, a truly puzzled expression on her face. "We?"

"We," I reiterated. "Two brains are better than one. But promise me you will talk to me before you make any hasty decisions."

"You mean give you an opportunity to stop me," she said with a grimace.

"No," I said slowly. "If it's time, it's time. But just talk to me first, please."

She gave me a brief smile. It wasn't a real answer, but she wasn't alone anymore. I would do my best to insure that however this whole thing was going to end, that it was done the right way. I owed her that much. And I think she knew that. Even if it hurt.

Chapter 81

Toward the end, she had time when she had a lot of trouble with walking. She had elected for more flat shoes (I think it truly broke her heart in some way, or whatever she had that functioned as an emotional heart – she would have found that phrasing very amusing, or irritating – I am not sure which). So I decided to take her to the beach, where flat shoes were something of a requirement. We were walking like lovers do, which we both laughed about – we certainly did love the same things, if not our own bodies, then other's bodies, although not necessarily in one piece. But we had our shoes in our hands, feet dancing in the chilling water.

I had her arm around mine, to support part of her weight. The illusion was good – we had worked at it. She did not like to appear damaged – so it just looked like I was a lover, a friend, holding her arm as a gentleman might, not a man supporting most of her weight. It never bothered me. My whole life was often an illusion. I did illusion well. And this was important to her, so I worked extra hard at it.

I asked her a question that had been niggling at me for a while. Her numbers were, supposedly, impressive. I had never really asked her (I was a man – I had my pride, and her skills and hints led me to believe that she would genuinely have statistics that would compare to mine like a Care Bear compares to a Grizzly). But there was simply one thing I never understood.

The beach was not crowded, but we were certainly not alone. I chose my words with some care. "You were so successful, you took so many down. How did you get your information?"

She turned to me with that radiant smile. "You are the smart Boy Scout, with his databases. Say you don't have your databases. Where would you start?"

I shook my head, feeling my feet slow as I pondered. She stumbled a bit, and I pulled her into my arms for a playful swing. She laughed out loud, at my smooth Dexter cover. She enjoyed that I made such an effort to preserve her pride, although she had never said so. It was just something that I knew. We were soon back on our way. "You know, honestly, I have no idea. Word on the street, newspapers maybe, going to courts and listening to cases. But that wouldn't add up to too much, I would imagine."

She nodded, looking up into my eyes. I enjoyed looking into her eyes, especially when she didn't wear those damn contact lenses. They were bright, to distract from the lack of emotion often behind them. But they had emotion when she looked at me. I am not certain why I liked that as much as I did, but I did.

I never really had cared about those things before. It was, and remains, a bit of a puzzler.

"Yes, those are good places to start, but the place that you end is an odd one. Often, the best place for information is gangs, many times the bikers. They are fantastic repositories of information, particularly if they know what it is that you do."

I stopped cold, feeling the sand mingle with my toes. I pulled her around to face me. "Biker gangs? Know what you do?"

The look she gave me could only be described as bemused. "Don't look so shocked. The bikers are outcasts, pariahs, in most parts of society. It is necessary that they keep their ears to the ground, so their asses stay out of jail. And don't forget, most of them have their own dark history, horrible tales to tell. The all hate child molesters, child killers. They will do all that they can to help you."

"But they know what you do. How can you tell them?"

She tugged on my hand, resuming our walk, but at a much slower pace. She kicked at the water with her pale, pale toes. It was a striking contrast to the dark sand. "You don't tell them, of course. But they give you information. You scout out the target, you confirm the information – then suddenly, the target disappears. They drive by – first, there is no one home, but the car is there. They become curious. Then, the car is gone, and there are either police or some sort of foreclosure sign or some moving van. But no target. They look for him, and they look HARD. And they don't find him.

"So they give you more information. Same thing happens."

She gave me a radiant smile. "They wear leather in the heat of Miami, but they ain't stupid."

I looked down at her, with genuine shock on my face. I suppose it made some sense. Some bikers were killers as much as we were, but I assumed they were less selective in their choice of victims, and that their kills were more related to intergang violence. But having them know what you were doing. That was genuinely hard for me to comprehend.

"Oh, sometimes they just assume that you know someone who knows someone. But eventually they figure out who you are, what you are. They know a dead man's eye. It may take them a while to find it in a woman, but they know it. And their resources are GOOD. When they recognize what you are, they move for you. But there is a price. Nothing for free." She leaned down to pick up a small shell. She cleaned off the sand. It was a tiny, tiny Welch shell. Quite lovely. She enjoyed beauty, all kinds of beauty. Especially beauty of a darker nature.

"What kind of price?" I queried, still lost in a kind of wonderment at the resources of this genuinely tiny woman, trying to imagine her in biker leathers, amidst a gang of leather clad gun toting bikers. I found that I could do it readily.

It was a surprising pleasing image.

"Well, when something happens to one of their brothers or their sisters, or their cousins, nasty stuff now, not gang related crap, they will come to you. And they expect payback. And that is the deal. As it should be. It is the one time when one kill, one molestation, one rape, is enough. Especially if it is brutal, and no biker ever asks you if it isn't brutal. They are not fools. Like I said, they know you what they are. You are bruja, witch – you make men disappear. Or, moreover, you know someone who knows someone who can make people disappear. "

We continued our walk. I looked at the beach ahead of us, thinking that I could talk to this woman forever, until I was old and gray. That I could go on killing with her forever. That is was a kind of making love, in its own terrible but beautiful way. And I adored her voice, as she talked of things that would make most men, even great big men, just tremble, as though we were talking about the wind or the weather.

"Actually," she said casually, "This may be more important than it seems right now."

"How so?" I replied.

"When I die, they may approach you. I don't know that they will, but they might. They are good men, you must understand. It depends on how the news gets out. There are links all over, and only one of them has come here. They do not want to watch me die – that is their way. But they come, they bring me a nice knife. They visit at the hospice sometimes.

"They see death all the time. It does not shock them. They just move on. But they say goodbye. I was flattered. The bruja. But they knew better to come when I was weak, failing." She laughed cruelly. "Yes, they knew better.

"But if they find out about you, or they see you, and they are likely to see you, yes they are, then they may contact you, to see how I died. I mean, Rafe has already seen you, introduced himself. Bold. They are like that. They will want to know that I died well (which I will)." The last words were spoken as a challenge. I knew better than to argue, so my only response was a terse nod. How she was actually going to die had been a rather active source of conversation for us. Not pleasant, but necessary. She would not wait until her body was of no use to her anymore, until she could not walk, eat, move. It would be done by then. Somehow. She was calling in favors, to find someone to kill her. But I had made her promise that she would discuss this with me, before she took any real action.

She sighed deeply. "Dexter, they will know what you are. You must understand this. I cannot truly explain it to you. They did not expect it in me, because I am a little girl to them. A tiny little woman. This, of course, has kept me safe for years. They see the bodies, all of the blood, the carnage. The find the fibers, the blood. But they all say, this could NEVER be a WOMAN. So I stay safe. But you are a man, a big man. And they will see your eyes and they will know."

I stopped again. This time she stopped as well, turning to face me. I pulled her into my arms, as though to hug her. I could feel my heart pounding. To be recognized, just by my face, my eyes. This was too much, a terrifying notion. I had no desire to have a meeting with Old Sparky just because I had a friend who died who had friends who knew what a serial killer looked like.

She smiled again (I hardly saw how this was a situation worth smiling about, and she put her pale, pale hand on my chest). "You mistake me, Boy Scout. You take care of me. They will not betray you. They will respect you. They will honor you. But they will ask you. Yes they will."

I could feel my heart slow, either to the vanishing thoughts of Old Sparky or to her touch, to which I am not sure. "What do you mean?"

"They will ask you if you need them."

I was puzzled. "Why would I need them?"

She moved her fingers, to flatten her hand across my left chest. I knew she was feeling my heart beat, as it calmed. "You ever have one of those cases where your damn database gives you nothing. You know. You see him, you touch him, you taste him – you just KNOW. But there is nothing. No prior convictions. Not even a parking ticket. You cannot find out where he lives, because he slipped away into the night, smelling the wolf in the woods that smelled him out. And you are frustrated, yes you are. Maybe you have a picture, maybe you have a tag number – but it doesn't trace. You don't know how to find him, but you know someone who might. Yes, you do."

I thought of the man who had taken pictures of Cody and Astor at the beach. That very easily could have been one of those situations. I had been lucky – in Rita's ramblings, I had had time to get his license plate number, so I had been able to find him in the Miami Dade traffic database. But if Rita had made us leave earlier, then I would have had no way to track him. Or I might have had a car color or make, but no tag, if he left just after us. Or if I had been able to come back later, and he was just pulling out of the beach lot.

Yes, more resources could be handy.

She took her hand from my chest, and placed her tiny hand into my larger hand, tugging me forward. I quickly pulled her weight onto my shoulder – she was a dangerous little minx. She wanted to walk, wanted to run. Sometimes she denied her weakness even to herself. Those were the hardest times for me, but I knew that I had to let her, and do the best I could to help her stay on her feet, do the things she wanted to do. I had learned a lot about friends from this woman. And even more about dying. Really dying. Not the kind of dying that I perpetrate. Dying as nature had intended.

Death was not a pretty thing, when all is said and done.

There was very little beautiful in that kind of dying, at least as far as I was concerned. Do not go gentle into that good night indeed. Fight like hell. And that is what this woman did, every moment of every day. And while it was brave and noble as hell, it was horrible to watch.

"The leader's name here is Raphael. They would send no one else. You met him. Rafe. It would be a dishonor to me to send a minion to get information about me, to contact you, when you were clearly my friend. Respect this honor, especially if you are with your sister. He will take shit from her, but not from you. When they contact you, he will call you a brujo. It will not be a question – he will simply call you a brujo."

I had to admit it – I was intrigued. "So, what do I say?"

"You say one of two things. You either look at him with a confused face, and say something like 'What?' like you don't speak Spanish, or something else stupid, and he will ask whoever it is that is with you to leave, and he will ask you how I died, and that will be the end of things. But if you want them, what you say is something like, 'Yes,' or if you are with your sister or someone who speaks Spanish, you say 'Brujo? You mean am I a witch? I am many things, but I don't think I am a witch.' He will understand and he will nod to you. That nod is all you need. And then he will ask your friends to leave, he will ask about me, and he will tell you more about himself and his pack (they call themselves The Wolves – cute, yes?). But they are valuable, you must understand this. And more, if you are their brujo, they will protect you. Because they need you, as much as you need them."

"So they will know that I am a killer?"

Alyra laughed. "No, they will know that you know someone who is a killer. They assume you are the middle man. Or woman, as may be."

She looked up into my eyes, with that glowing smile. The smile she reserved for me. The smile that reached her golden eyes, as she swung my hand back and forth. I hated it, because it made it damn hard to support her weight, but I had to admit that the smile was often worth it. I took the pain in my shoulder, gritted my teeth, and smiled back at her, making sure that it reached my eyes. I knew that she would know that my shoulder hurt, and that in her own way, she would care, but that she would do it anyway. But not for too long. Not for too long. In some ways, she had very little capacity for emotion. But she was not heartless.

Unlike myself.

Chapter 82

One night, when we were just sitting alone, looking at the night sky, she and I had both been in a reflective kind of mood. "Are there any things that you regret?" she asked.

"Regret is a hard term for me. It means that you have to feel guilt. I don't do so well with guilt. I mean, I feel bad sometimes. My wife wouldn't have died if I hadn't gotten involved with Trinity. I feel bad about that. But guilty? I just don't know.

"I know that I regret that I hadn't met you a whole lot sooner."

She smiled. "Yes, but then things wouldn't be like this, now would they?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, let's say I had introduced myself outside that gentleman's house, that fellow you were planning to kill. What would you have done?"

I paused. "Either kill you or just blow it off. Say I was a meter guy or something."

"See, that's not good. So how else could we have met?"

I smiled. "I am hearing that serial killers are working on an annual convention. That could have worked."

That got a grin. "It isn't a bad idea, you know. I can't tell you how nice it is to know someone who KNOWS. You can actually talk about what you love, without having to worry about someone just looking at you like you are a freak. Well, I mean, I am a freak, but you know what I mean."

And I did know what she meant. That had been the nice part about Lyla. She had known, and had accepted me. She had been a crazy bitch, but she had accepted the killer in me. So had Miguel (until he tried to get me killed, that is). So had my brother. Even Trinity, in the end. But none of them cared for me, truly cared for me. Except maybe Lumen, and I still didn't know what all of that meant. That was the thing that had always been missing. To know me, and to love me. I know – it sounds bizarre enough coming from my mind, but this woman valued me, and knew exactly what my head did, what my head wanted to do, and didn't think any less of me for it- possibly even thought more of me for it. Now, if that ain't nuts, I don't know what is.

"Sometimes, sometimes, I wish I could truly love someone."

Alyra shook her head. "Quit talking like an idiot. Love is not a feeling. It never has been. Love is about what you do. Love doesn't lie in what you feel for someone, but in what you do for someone, what you are willing to do for someone. Would you kill for Deborah?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation.

"Would you die for Deborah?"

Now that one took a moment. "I think, maybe, yes. I owe her a lot. If my life could save hers, then maybe so."

Alyra smirked. "Then for all intents and purposes, you love her. End of story. Period. Dexter, you loved your wife, you love your children – it radiates off you. Like I said – you are not the cold emotionless bastard you think you are. Your emotions may not be as deep as some – that is the nature of those who came to this path the way you did. But you love. I promise you that."

And yet, Alyra never once asked me to love her. How very strange.

Chapter 83

We finally wound up just moving our regular visits to Alyra's house. The kids loved it, since they got their own bedrooms, which they had been complaining about for years now. And the place was fun, even I had to admit. The bedrooms were cool, and the playroom, although meant for adult playing (not THAT kind of adult playing – get your mind out of the gutter) had a trainset, a full mini-kitchen, and loads of stuffed animals, dolls, and toy horses. And art supplies out the ying-yang. The music room was even better, with two cellos (which Alyra told the children politely that if they broke they would die), a piano, a guitar, and some instrument called a dulcimer, that even a musical idiot like myself could play. With the two bedrooms for the kids, and the master bedroom for us, and the only real price being that every now and then, I had to help Alyra up and down the stairs, and I had to watch her like a hawk for when she hurt but was refusing to show it (and THAT was a 24/7 job, thank you very much), until finally she started to actually tell me (which either meant she trusted me, or that she hurt so bad she didn't want to mess with the games anymore). Later on, she actually told me that it was because she trusted me not to make fun of her for her "weakness." I told her in return that many things she might be, "weak" was not one of them.

She seemed satisfied with that answer.

But in truth, I knew she was holding back. I knew I had to confront her with it, and that this experience would not be pleasant.

She was sitting on the edge of her bed, clearly thinking of what she had to get done. But I noticed the slight tremor had returned. "I have a question for you, and I don't want you to lie to me."

She laughed, "But I am so good at it."

I rolled my eyes. "This is important."

"Alright. Fire away."

"How can I tell that you are hurting, when you continue to deny that you do?"

Her face went pale, as she simply stared at me. "I know that you are hurting more than you are telling me."

"You are asking too much, Boy Scout. We are talking about pride now, strength. You know the signs. We have talked about those. That is more than I give most people. "

"Yes, and I think you should trust me enough to know that those are exactly the things I am trying to protect. Your pride, your strength. But I can't do that if you shut me out."

She sat there in silence. Finally, I got up and made for the door, when I heard her voice. "My muscles get tight, especially the muscles in my neck and shoulders. Can lift my shoulders up at least two inches, they rachet so high. My face will be pale, paler than usual, and I usually get a small tremble in my lower lip that I simply can't control. And you know about the shaking, but what you don't know is that I have a fine, fine tremor when I am really hurting, and you will only feel it if you touch me."

I walked over to the bed, laid my hand gently on hers. And sure enough, I could feel the tiny vibration tracing across her skin. I reached up to touch her shoulders, and indeed, they were very, very tight. I stood up, went to the bathroom, came out with a syringe.

Alyra started. "That isn't fair. Using that kind of information against me."

"Didn't your mother ever teach you that life wasn't fair." I pushed the injection, and then placed my hand on hers. Gratifyingly, the tiny tremor stopped. "Better?" I asked.

She sighed. "Better."

"I want to make this very clear. I am going to stop asking, and start watching. If I think you are in pain, you just get the meds. It's that simple. We both know that it doesn't make you loopy, and if you are spending a lot of time with me, which I sincerely hope that you are, I don't want you to be in pain if there is something I can do about it."

"Just like a man, trying to fix everything."

"Nothing like a woman, hurting like hell and saying nothing."

"I am tough," she countered.

I sighed. "Of that, I am well aware. I just don't want you to suffer when you don't have to. I want our time together to be good, enjoyable, and I know I can't get rid of all of your pain, I want to help. And I know that I can."

"You are one crazy dude, Boy Scout."

I only smiled. "Now, see, now you aren't being weak. I am just being an overprotective bastard. Much better scenario, if you ask me."

Closing her eyes, she let out a deep sigh. "Now I get to see how good you really are."

"Oh," I assured her. "I am very good."

And I was.

Chapter 84

It became clear that assisting Alyra with her pain would be a full-time task. She made little effort to really help me, although I confess that upon my request she had become much more honest when queried about how much she actually hurt. The point was that you had to ask her, because she certainly wasn't about to tell you.

But one of the things that it allowed me to do was to increase my physical contact with her. There was simply no denying that physical touch had a powerful analgesic effect for her, and now that we had become more intimate, it was simply a matter of knowing when and where to touch. Even at work, she was accepting my touch, casual though it might be. Why I took so much pleasure in this I do not know, but I had no doubt that very few men if any had ever had this level of intimacy with her. Particularly physical intimacy.

Like she said. She wasn't afraid of Dexter Morgan anymore. How smart this made her, I have no idea. But I still enjoyed it.

The children seemed to have no problem with that increasing intimacy either. When I actually asked them if it was alright if I dated Alyra, they literally were confused – asking me hadn't I been doing that already? Both Cody and Astor were very blunt, saying that they liked her very much, and that she was a lot better than the other women I had brought home (Debs' dating menagerie). So I couldn't complain there. So Astor had taken the guest bedroom as her own, and Alyra simply slept with me.

What had at first began as a companionable embrace had changed, ever since the situation with Weiss where I asked her to stop seeing him and of course the arrival and departure of Lumen. We had become more intimate slowly, carefully. Although she rarely initiated it, she did not shy from my touch, and I thoroughly enjoyed the times when I could simply kiss her and be with her. I knew better than to push, and truth be told, I didn't need to. While sex with her was something I was growing more and more interested in, it was not something that I had to have. Nor that I expected.

You can imagine my surprise when she actually brought it up. "Boy Scout, what are we?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know, what is the status of our relationship. It would appear that we are more than friends."

I concurred with that statement. "I would agree with you there."

"Boyfriend and girlfriend doesn't really cut it, and anyway, those are stupid terms for high school kids, not adults."

I laughed. "I suppose we are lovers."

"You really think so?"

I considered my answer carefully, not wanting to offend. "We do what lovers do. We hang out together, we go out together, and we touch one another. I think that qualifies us."

"But we don't have sex," she said flatly.

I replied, "That's not because we couldn't. We just choose not to."

"Why do we choose not to?"

This question took me completely off guard. I had assumed that we weren't having sex because of her traumatic history, and I had considered even making the suggestion to be offensive. "Well," I said hesitantly, "because of your past history."

"But I'm not scared of you."

I paused. This is something I simply had not considered. I won't deny that she aroused me significantly, and oftentimes it took a good force of will not to allow things to escalate, especially given her inexperience. "Are you saying that you would like to have sex with me?"

She seemed to consider this. Then she simply nodded. "Who wants to die a virgin?"

I laughed. Only Alyra would put it in such bald terms. "Anyway, I would like to know what it's like. And like I said, I'm not scared of you, so it seems reasonable…"

It was now my time to pause. Unfortunately, she took this the wrong way.

"But if you don't want to, I understand…"

I choked back the laugh. "No, no. Trust me. I would love to have sex with you. I have been wanting it for some time now."

She scowled at me. "Then why didn't you say anything?"
I sighed. "Honestly, I didn't think it was an option, and as I have told you many times, sex is not something that I need. Just being with you was enough."

She glared. I laughed. "I am assuming, of course, that you know how to do this."

I smiled. "There is living proof in the other room that I know how to do this."

Her face became serious. "You really would like to have sex with me."

I shook my head slowly, almost in disbelief. "It amazes me that you don't know this."

"You did tell me that you didn't do sex. That it wasn't your thing."

"I don't, and it isn't. But you and I have been becoming more and more intimate. It is something I would like to explore with you. In general, I don't want sex, but I do want you. I can't explain it any better than that. Sex is something that I don't need, but sometimes I want. And you, I want."

I could see the slight flush on her pale cheeks. She wasn't much for taking compliments, so I wasn't about to tell her how attractive I had come to find her over the months we had known each other. I just let it stand.

She tilted her head, appearing to consider something. The children were in the house, so it probably wasn't the best time to go sexually exploring. She looked at me. "How do we do this?"

It was my turn to consider. "Well, probably, we should just let things happen."

"I am not good with letting things happen."

I smiled. "I know. But when we are together, particularly when we are alone together, we should just be together, and see how far things go. No need to rush things."

"I want to rush things."

That got a laugh from me. "I think I'm flattered. But first off, I am pretty sure we want the house to ourselves, and second, I think we want to make sure that we aren't rushed in any way."

She nodded. "That makes sense. I could be a mad screamer."

That got a smile from me. "Wouldn't surprise me." That got me a punch, but only a playful one. "Hey, as far as you know, I am a mad screamer."

"Are you?"

"Not particularly. But with you – who knows?"

I bent down, placed a very gentle kiss on her lips. She sighed. "This is completely uncharted territory for me, Boy Scout. I sincerely hope you know what the hell you are doing."

I smiled. "No worries. I will take good care of you. You know that I will."

"Yeah, well, that's why I want it to be you."

And I was flattered. While she wasn't beautiful, she wasn't unattractive. There were several men she could approach for this, and she had chosen me. Better make sure not to let her down.

And I wouldn't.

Chapter 85

And so I began to research sex, particularly with the inexperienced. It started off as a bit of a whim, but quickly became truly engrossing. I had no idea how much advice you could get for sexual intercourse with those who had never done it before. Lots of little tricks that could make the experience less painful, more likely to be pleasurable, all sorts of thing.

And of course, there was asking for the real advice. Going to Masouka never really crossed my mind – while by definition a sexual creature, he never struck me as a successful sexual creature, but rather more as a desperate one, particularly given the humor (horrible though it was) that he shared with my sister. But I figured of all of the people I knew, Angel would be the most likely to be able to offer me some solid advice about how to approach a situation of this nature.

And I was not incorrect in my assumptions.

"When you have sex with a virgin, you have to take your time, no matter how hard it is. Follow her lead. Believe me – it isn't easy. But the harder you push things, the more anxious she's going to get, and the harder the deed will actually be when you get down to it. Lots of foreplay, creative foreplay."

"Lots of foreplay. Got it."

"Respect that she is probably scared out of her mind. I mean, likely she knows what is going to happen, but if you think about it, it's a pretty scary thought, especially from the woman's perspective. I mean sex is pretty intense, and if she knows anything, she knows its going to hurt."

"Is there anything to do to make it hurt less?"

"A couple of tricks." He shared those with me. "But even then, you have to understand, it isn't exactly going to be comfortable. The first time isn't the good time, not for a woman. The SECOND time is when you get to have some fun."
"That seems a shame."

"Couldn't agree with you more. But the best you can do for the first time is make it the best experience that you can, make sure it hurts as little as possible, and be respectful if she really wants to take it slow."

"What if she doesn't want to take it slow?" Knowing Alyra, this was my solid belief.

"Then you make her take it slow. Trust me. It will be better that way."

"I appreciate the advice, Angel."

"No worries, mijo. Is this someone I know?"

I smiled. I was quite confident he knew EXACTLY who this was. "I don't think I should answer that question, do you?"

"No," he said with a smile. "Be a gentleman. You have to respect that. But at any rate, I am glad that you found someone, and that she found someone. If you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean."

"So, what did I miss?" Vince had wandered up in the midst of our conversation. I turned to Angel.

Angel smiled. "Nothing. Dexter and I were just talking about things. You know, nothing serious."

"Oh. Well, I'm bored. Anyone want to do lunch?"

Angel reflected. "I normally eat with Maria, but I think she can spare me for a day."

"I need to see what Alyra's plans are. But I am pretty sure lunch sounds good."

Vince winked at me. "Two of you getting close, eh? Banging some bootie, eh?"

I shook my head slowly, reflecting again on the wiseness of not bringing Vince into this conversation.

Batista scoffed at Vince. "You should know better. Gentlemen don't talk about those things, and Dexter is a gentleman." I smiled, and gave him a grateful nod. I began to reflect if we could actually get through a lunch with Alyra and Vince without Alyra trying to kill him, or at least do some type of serious bodily damage. Ah, well, only one way to find out.

We went to a local Cuban place, and to my surprise, Vince actually behaved himself. Alyra was more open than usual, actually engaging. She talked some about her time with the biker gang, which surprised me, but primarily limited herself to topics such as cello playing, artistry, and of course, our werewolf. Couldn't escape that. Both Vince and Angel were intrigued as to how she knew so much about him – she simply said that she had her own trauma, and she could see where he was coming from. "There are a lot of people I would like to see dead. For lots of reasons. So I can imagine how he must feel, as he has much better reasons than I do." I had to check my laugh. She would more than like to see them dead – she would make them dead. But the fellas didn't need to know about that. But the Passenger gave a sibilant chuckle, as she turned to me with a robust smile.

I smiled back. There were so many reasons why I liked this woman.

Chapter 86

It was a Friday night, and to my surprise, Deborah had voiced no objections in taking care of the children. I got a couple of looks from Cody and Astor, but they made no objections either as they were carted off with my sister.

Finally, after months of work, I had acquired tickets to see her favorite cellist, Yo Yo Ma. It had taken a good deal of money, as well as some serious begging (I mean, she is dying after all, and if you can't use that, what good is it anyway? It has to be good for something). Finally, I got some tickets called donor tickets (read that as very expensive), but the seats were incredible (third row, center), and we got the benefit of meeting the cellist after the performance. A solid investment, I thought.

I picked up Alyra early. I knew that if we were late, I would likely be drug out and shot (well, not literally shot, but likely knifed at the very least). As I reached her door, scratching at the itchiness of the tuxedo (she had explained to me that people would be in a range of garb, but I wanted to surprise her), as the door opened, I had to remind myself to breathe.

She was wearing a red dress. She must have a montage of red dresses. This one was a stunner, made of satin, with thin straps that followed low on her chest, and as far as I could tell, the dress didn't really have a significant amount of back to it. The dress was not completely formal – it was several inches off the ground, but she looked like she was prepared for the opera, not a cello performance. The color was pure scarlet, the red of the brightest, freshest blood, and her lips gleamed in a steaming red to match. Her long hair was spun up into some sort of upturn of some kind, and her face glowed pale in the moonlight.

In other words, she looked amazing, and the smile that lit her face only made her more so. "You wore a tuxedo!"

I bowed formally, extending my hand to take hers. I gave her hand a quick kiss. "You look stunning, Boy Scout! I had no idea you could clean up so good."

"Right back at you. You are truly stunning."

Alyra scowled at me. She had very little use for her appearance, and took compliments about it sorely if at all. "No, I mean it. You really do look lovely."

A small smile snaked onto her face. "Well, even if you are lying, thank you."

I brought her fingers to my lips. "About something like this, I would never lie. You might kill me."

The grin was infectious. "You might be right about that."

I smiled. "I figured a quick dinner, and then we head to the auditorium. Just to make sure that we aren't late."

She sighed. "Thank you very much, Boy Scout. You are right – it would be devastating to me to be late."

Dinner was lovely, but I barely remember it. All I could really remember was the smiling face in front of me. I had never seen her so very happy. Her excitement was catching. I wasn't much for classical music, but I could suck it up for a night to help give her one of her dreams. She was rambling a bit, talking about how she had been introduced to Yo Yo Ma – on The Muppets, of all places. She told me a great deal about him, including his charitable work, his teaching, and his willingness to play with just about anyone if he thought it would be fun.

Finally, I paid the check and we made it to the theater.

I was bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. I liked music and everything, but there was only so much of it I could actually take. And while I respected that Alyra really wanted to hear this man play, and of course, he was very, very good, it was all just a bunch of noise within a few minutes to me.

Which made the hands grabbing the corners of my jacket a very striking and odd sensation. Alyra looked at me intently, gesturing for me to remove my jacket. I did so, trying not to elbow the lovely older woman sitting next to me (while actually thinking it would be tolerably amusing). She took my right arm, propped my elbow firmly on the arm rest between our seats, and with a flash of movement, my cufflink was off, and my shirt was rolled up to my elbow. She leaned around me carefully, slowly, and placed her left hand across my chest, and took her fingers and planted them firmly on my arm, with her thumb resting just behind them. Then she looked up at the cellist, and her fingers began to move.

It took me a few minutes to realize that she was mimicking his movements, finger for finger, slide for slide, vibrato for vibrato. I found myself leaning forward, to try to catch the nuance of the sound as I could feel the pulsing of her fingers on my flesh. I looked at her – her eyes were forward, all for the performance, but she was duplicating the performance on my arm. And it was magnificent. Suddenly, the music had taken on an additional dimension, as I could feel how it was generated, what fingers were moving where, what tempo was being set, how the fingers were sliding up and down the fingerboard that was my arm. I closed my eyes, and gave myself up to the sensations. It was like being surrounded by music, enveloped by it, as her fingers danced across my skin.

By the time the performance ended, I was breathless. It took a moment for me to realize that I should lower my shirt sleeve, given that we were indeed in the third row in a very posh auditorium. The little old lady next to me stared at me, her eyes wide. I only smiled back at her winningly, saying quietly, "Aren't I the lucky one?" She dashed off, likely to empty her aging bladder.

Alyra sat very still, eyes closed, as though she could breathe in the last remnants of the music as their ethereal elements trailed throughout the auditorium. "What piece was that?" I asked her.

"Bach Cello Suite, Number Three."

"That was incredible."

"Yes, the performance was superb. He is technically flawless, and he puts such emotion into his playing. He even smiles…"

I turned her face to look at me. "You know that isn't what I meant."

She only grinned. "You looked more bored than I have ever seen you. You were kind enough to bring me. I thought I could enhance the experience for you."

"I could actually feel the music."

She laughed. "That was the idea."

"Can you do that again?"

She looked at the program. "The second piece is a Dvorak."

I looked at her dumbly. "And that means?"

"Much harder piece. I will make some mistakes."

I almost choked on my laugh. "Do you honestly think I will know?"

The smile got brighter. "If I do it right, yes, you should."

The performance was magical, and despite her concerns, Alyra did a magnificent job of imitating the cellist on the stage, even with the Dvorak. And as we were escorted backstage (the other benefit for purchasing donor tickets), I could still feeling the tingling on my arm.

We stood in line, programs in line, to get an autograph. It was clear that the cellist was tired, but he greeted each person warmly. As we reached the front of the line, he looked up at us and actually smiled. "So, this is the man who had his arm played for the evening."

Alyra flushed. "I am sorry. I didn't mean to offend you…"

The cellist laughed. "Far from it. I have never thought of such a unique way to appreciate the music. It was delightful to watch. And quite frankly, young lady, I was impressed."

That got another flush. He took the program from her, politely asking her name. "I won't ask you if you are a cellist, because I know that you are. Very few can follow along with Dvorak."

"I made several mistakes."

He laughed. "Not from where I was sitting, but of course, I was a little bit distracted."

That got a smile from Alyra. "I have always dreamed of meeting you," she said in a breathless voice, clearly embarrassed to admit such a thing, but loathe not to say it. "I have followed your career since you were in Charleston."

That got a look of surprise. "The Spoleto festival was one of my favorite places to perform when I was younger. Nowadays, I do a lot more, well, playing. The Silk Road Project, fun duets. Less classical playing."

"It was a delight to hear you do the Bach cello concerto. But of course, the Dvorak was a once in a lifetime experience."

He bowed magnanimously. Apparently a very humble fellow, he took the compliments easily, but let them pass just as easily. He reached for my program, and after asking my name, began to sign it as well.

The line behind us was getting antsy, but to my surprise, the man actually stood up, extending a hand to Alyra. Alyra took the hand, almost in shock. It was his left hand. I understood the significance of that. "It was truly a pleasure to be able to perform for you, and I thank you for the performance you gave me."

Alyra smiled. "You have no idea what this means to me. But I am very grateful for your talent, and your willingness to share it with us."

That got a warm smile. "You have to have your fun," he said with a smile, just as we were escorted out of the line by some very serious people. Apparently, the other donors were getting antsy. As we were leaving, someone whispered something into the cellist's ear.

"Wait a moment," I could hear the sounds of the cellist as he came following us. He had a piece of music in his hand. Carefully, he held up the piece of music against the wall, drawing up his pen. He handed the piece to Alyra, and I could see the film of tears in her eyes. "So you can keep practicing," he explained. "Work out those mistakes."

And then he was gone. I turned to see the piece of music. It was the Dvorak cello concerto, and he had autographed it for her. I could see her tears, as we walking out of the auditorium.

She looked up at me. "Dexter, I really don't want to go back yet."

I smiled. "We can pick up some dessert somewhere, and I can make coffee."

The performance had been long – it was close to 11:00 pm. She sighed. "That sounds absolutely lovely. "

And so we went back to the rental house, drinking coffee and eating pastries. And talking about music. I could understand her passion for music during her kills, the almost dance of them, as I listened to her radiate exuberance, as she described all of the aspects of the performance that had been beyond me.

"I am boring you," she said quietly.

I grinned. "Not at all. No one could be bored listening to such enthusiasm. Not to mention that I am feeling just a little bit smug, and I am enjoying that." I took a sip of my coffee.

"It was a wonderful gift, easily the most wonderful anyone has ever given me." To my surprise, she slid along the couch, and placed a small kiss on my cheek. I felt my face almost flush, as to my even further surprise, she let me return the gesture.

I felt myself yawn. She smiled at me, as she looked at the clock. "I didn't mean to keep you up so late."

"It was delightful to listen to you explain how wonderful a cellist he is. And of course, I have been enjoying hearing what a wonderful friend I am."

Finally, I stood. "You need to get in the bed."

"So do you."

We both stood there, for the moment immobile. The music in its own way was still swirling around us. I tentatively reached out my hand, placing the side of my hand against her cheek. She closed her eyes.

"No. Don't close your eyes. Please."

The golden green eyes flashed open, fluid, languid. I could see that she was enjoying my touch, so I stroked down the side of her face with my thumb. She almost closed her eyes again, but forced them open.

I moved slowly, so that she could move away from me if she wanted to. She did not, as I lowered my head, placing my lips against hers. She tasted of chocolate and coffee. I felt myself smiling. I lowered my hand to her shoulder, as I deepened the kiss. I felt a tentative touch against my chest, and I looked down to see her fingers, still coiled, hesitant, resting there. I took her hand with my own, and pressed her fingers flat against my chest. Her eyes closed again, and I could feel the sigh against my face. She closed her hand ever slightly, feeling the muscle underneath. It was my turn to close my eyes, as I could feel my body responding to even this light touch.

I took her hand carefully, pulling her back toward the master bedroom. '"I'm not tired, anymore. Are you?"

She shook her head.

As we entered the bedroom, I stepped behind her, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her tight against me. She leaned backward. I placed my hands on her bare shoulders, running my hands down the length of her arms. She simply sighed, a sound of genuine contentment. I turned her to face me. "I don't know anything," she said quietly.

"I know lots," I said, trying to make my voice sound reassuring.

The only thing worse than getting into a tuxedo is getting out of one. It is a process. I felt my heart pick up a few beats as she reached upward, to the lapels of my jacket. Ever slowly, she pushed it backward. I bent down to allow her to remove it, extending my arms behind me. She was careful, taking the jacket and folding it, lying it across the chair in the bedroom. She carefully removed the white tie, placing it on top of the jacket. Then, she turned back to the dress shirt, starting with the cufflinks. I simply watched, as she moved button by button down the shirt, until she reached the cummerbund, which I reached behind to remove. She continued to follow the trail of the buttons as they lead into my pants, yanking out the base of the shirt, continuing her ministrations until the shirt lay bare and open. She placed her hands on my bare chest, stroking outwards, taking the shirt with her. Once again, she carefully folded it, placing it on top of the jacket.

As she made to reach for my belt, I took her hands in mine. This did not impede her progress, as she reached for the belt buckle, deftly sliding the leather through, pulling it off in one careful stroke. As she reached for the button on my pants, I let her hands go, closing my eyes as I felt her hands slowly unbuttoning my pants, pulling down the zipper, and sliding them down my hips. Then she sat me down, going for each shoe in turn, pulling off the socks as she went. Then she pulled me back to my feet. I stood there in front of her, naked except for a pair of silk boxer shorts. As she made to reach for them, I took her hands carefully again.

"My turn," I said softly. The satin dress had a hook at the top of the long zipper across the back, which took me a few moments to maneuver with. Once I had it released, it was the work of a moment to slide the zipper down her back, over the base of her hips. I reached for the satin straps, carefully working them down her arms, as the dress slid slowly downwards. I followed its descent, and as I reached the ground, I felt her arms on my shoulders, as she braced herself to step out of the dress. I mirrored her actions, folding the dress very carefully, lying it on top of my tuxedo. She stood in front of me, bare except for bra and panties. I took in the view. It was quite lovely, really. I lowered my head, to place a kiss on her bare shoulder. Her hands came to my hair, knotting in my tresses. It felt good, as she combed her fingers through. I lifted my head, meeting her piercing gaze. I could still see the languid, fluid aspect, but there was also an anticipation, burning there.

I pushed her backward gently, until her hips were up against the bed. I lifted her from the waist, depositing her on the bed. Her hands reached up to cradle my face, as I lowered my head to kiss her. The taste of warm, liquid chocolate filled my mouth. I felt her body melting into mine, as I reached up to stroke her hair.

I pushed her back gently, until she was lying on top of the bed, as I leaned above her. Her hands were on me now, stroking my chest, my back, my hips. It felt as though the bed was melting underneath my limbs, as I leaned into her touch. I reached my hands around her, searching for the clasp for the bra, finding it quickly. I sprung loose the hooks, and the satin material fell forward into my hands. I pulled it down her extended arms. I smiled, as I placed both of my hands on the flat of her stomach, then extended my touch upwards, sliding towards her shoulders. I could hear her gasp, as I took her breasts into my hands.

So lovely. So perfect. Even the ravages of her illness had not taken this vestige of her innate femininity. I caressed her, lowering my head to one breast, placing my lips on its surface. She gasped again as I placed my lips around the areola, gently kissing that most sensitive area. Her back arched for me. I ran a hand easily down her back, feeling the beautiful muscles there. I found my hands at her hips, and I grasped one of her buttocks, squeezed, feeling the bunched muscles beneath my fingers. That won me a giggle.

Then her hands were at my waist. We had been naked with each other before, but only in the shower, and only the one time. I almost took her hands as she slowly began to push the waistband downward. As I reached for her, she said softly, "I want to be with you, Dexter. I want you. I want all of you." I held my hands still, as she lowered the boxers. I shifted my weight to allow her to push them to my knees, and finally to my feet. I stepped out of them.

I could feel her gaze on that most intimate part of me. She had never seen me aroused, and I was most definitely aroused. I didn't want to frighten her, but as I felt her hand wrap around me, I gasped, feeling my eyes widen at so direct an approach. She only smiled, as her hands began to explore me thoroughly. "Like I said, I am not afraid of you anymore, Dexter Morgan."

I smiled back at her, reaching carefully for her own underwear. She lifted her hips, to allow me to slide them down her legs. I pulled them over her feet and deposited them on the floor.

Naked. Completely naked. Together.

"We don't have to do this," I whispered, despite my own body's arguments to the contrary.

"I know," she replied, tightening her grip around me. I felt the world swim in front of my eyes. I could find no words, so I did the next best thing, lowering my lips to hers. The kiss was a luscious thing, a powerful thing, as naked skin slid across naked skin. The feeling of her breasts against my chest sent a thrilling sensation down my body, and I felt my tongue plunge deeper into her mouth.

I ran my hands along her body, feeling the softness of her breast, the tightness of the muscles across her chest, the thick, dense muscles of her back, and finally, the soft yet firm flesh of her hips and buttocks. I slid my hand forward.

As I reached between her legs, I could feel her stiffen. "Trust me," I whispered softly. She looked at me. There was no fear there, only a moment's hesitation, and then it was gone. She nodded her head.

I tried to remember all of the things that I had read, but in the end, there was only movement, only the doing of the thing as I pushed my finger inside of her. I could feel the tightness, and slowly, I began to stroke the soft, virgin tissue. Her muscles were still taut, but I could feel her making an effort to relax. To allow me inside her.

I slid a second finger inside, as I moved back to her lips. I moved my hand as much as I could, stretching, preparing. I slid my fingers through her warmth. I would do my best not to hurt her. I owed her that.

I took my time, stroking gently, setting up a gentle rhythm, a prelude for things to come. She made no effort to resist, and I could feel her hand around me, mimicking my rhythm. It was a delightful feeling. What she lacked in experience she made up for with her sheer passion, enthusiasm. She broke the kiss, lying her head onto my shoulder, her hands rubbing up and down my back. I am not sure how I knew, but I knew that she was almost ready.

I swung my weight over her, pulling most of my weight onto my arms and upper body. I had given this a lot of thought – to go slow, or to just push myself inside her. While going slow had its merits, the basic strategy of having done with it made the most sense to me. I moved myself into position carefully. I could feel her forcing her muscles to relax, as I pushed forward in one hard, bold stroke.

I swallowed her cry in my mouth as I bent down to kiss her again. I plunged deep inside her mouth, stroking, caressing, as I held my lower body still. It took a tremendous force of effort, but I was going to do this right. I ran my hands across her body, feeling her own hands frozen on my back. I knew there was pain, significant pain, but it would pass.

She pulled her lips from mine. "So this is sex, eh?"

"Yes," I said softly.

"Not much to recommend it at this point."

"No, I would imagine not. But it gets better."

"It does?"

"I promise," I said fervently, hoping that I could do what I wanted to do.

She seemed to consider this. "That's you? Inside me?"

"Yes," I whispered.

"Fascinating. It feels like there is an empty place, that I never knew that I had, that you are filling. A place just for you. How very strange."

If I had a heart, I was pretty sure it would be breaking right about now. I could only swallow, again holding myself as still as I could as she adjusted to this significant change. I am by no means a small man, in any sense of the term. It was a lot to adjust to.

I bent back down to kiss her again, feeling her lips flow over mine. She still responded to my kiss, to my touch. I would use that, to dull the pain that I knew that she was experiencing. I would do that for as long as it took.

Finally, she began to make noises that sounded nothing of pain, but of something quite the opposite. "Dexter?" she said querulously. "What is happening?"

"What do you feel?"

"Like there is something missing. Something that needs to happen, needs to be happening. You are … starting to feel … very good. I don't understand."

I took my cue, and ever so gently, I began to move. I could hear her intake of breath. I slid my lips down to her neck, bringing her flesh ever so gently into my teeth. I could feel her back arch, as she cried out. I had to remind myself – this was all new to her. She had never experienced anything like this before.

As I began to move in earnest, I could feel her breath coming with my thrusts. Her heart rate, already racing, had begun to pick up, and her breath was deep, roaring in and out of her lungs. It was all intoxicating. I forced myself to hold back. Now that I had her wanting it, wanting me, I would not risk hurting her again.

Her words caught me by surprise. "What's wrong, Dexter?"

I could feel the tightness in my voice, as I spoke over the strain. "I am trying to hold back. I don't want to hurt you."

The laugh was tittering, lush. "Dexter, you forget, my precious Boy Scout, I know all about pain. Pain doesn't frighten me."

"I don't want to hurt you," I repeated firmly, shifting my weight slightly.

To my surprise, she took my face into her hands. "Dexter, I didn't want to have sex with a man who looks like you. I wanted to have sex with you. I want to have sex with you. I don't want you to hold back. If it hurts, I will tell you."

"Bet you a dollar?" was my reply.

"Okay, I deserve that one, but I promise you, I will tell you. I want to feel you, Dexter. I want to feel what you want to feel."

I looked at her in genuine wonder. I pulled myself back, and thrust hard, once, deep inside her. Her back arched, her head thrown back, a soft cry escaping her lips. But it was not a cry of pain. Not at all. Still, I froze, waiting.

She looked at me. "Don't stop, Dexter. Please don't stop." Her voice was almost pleading.

Don't have to tell me twice. I plunged into her warm, soothing body, over and over. By now, she had wrapped her legs around my hips, her hands groping for my buttocks, as though she could pull me deeper inside her. The sounds she was making were almost animal, something between a growl and a roar. She grasped my face, pulling my lips to hers, and I readily obliged her. My own hands were racing across her body, sensing, feeling, exploring, as our bodies became closer and closer with every stroke.

My body had made its own decisions about when this little tryst was going to be over, and I had to fight hard to suppress those urges. I knew what I wanted. And she would make it there. I could feel it. I only had to wait.

And to my delight, I felt her muscles spasming around me, her hands groping wildly at me, as she threw her head back, arching her back and me with it. She grasped my hips, as though she could bring me even deeper inside. Her cry was an animalistic sound, almost a roar, as she convulsed around me. She placed her head against my chest, as though she could burrow inside me, through me. I brought my lips back to hers, roughly forcing her mouth open, plunging my tongue deep inside her, riding the wave of her passion, over and over.

As for myself, there was now no holding back. I came in a scalding wave, pushing myself deep, deep inside her, still feeling her muscles contracting around me. It was a delicious sensation, almost as delicious as watching her face as she found her own pleasure.

I had known that I could do it, I could bring her her first time. I did not know that the route to doing this was simply being myself. It was delightful, as I lowered my head to her chest, listening to the pounding of her heart, the roar of her breath. My own pulse was gradually beginning to slow, as I slid off the wave of sheer pleasure, pleasure not only from my own body, but in watching her response.

She wrapped her arms around me, and I returned the gesture, pulling her tightly against my body. I tried to roll over, but she held me fast. "You move, you die."

"I don't want to crush you," I said urgently.

"I don't care," she said equally firmly. As I lowered my weight, placing my head just above her shoulder, I at least tried to lean to the side, to take some of the weight from her body. But she didn't seem to mind at all. Slowly, I relaxed into her body, still deep inside her. She made a soft, contented noise, almost like a purr. But I held her tightly as she clung to me, clearly somewhat confused as to what had really happened. But her muscles were soft, languid, as they so rarely were, and I enjoyed the feeling.

I don't know how long we just lay there like that, with me still on top of her. But finally, I rolled to the side. I heard her cry of protest but I pulled her directly into my arms, where she nestled tightly up against me. I could feel the twinges of sleep tickling just outside my consciousness, and I wanted to make sure she was comfortable. She also looked very tired, although quite content. Softly, she whispered, "Thank you, Dexter."

"The pleasure was all mine, believe me." And I meant it. I could hear the vestiges of sleep in her voice as well. I dropped a kiss on her forehead, pulling her body up against mine firmly.

Now, we were truly lovers. And it was a delightful feeling.

Chapter 87

When we got up the next morning, bodies knotted together, Alyra announced that she wanted a few more hours of the dreamless. I could understand that, and with a kiss goodbye, I made my way to work, with the understanding that she would be joining me when her legs were functioning a little bit better. I won't deny that I was very, very proud of myself.

There was a jaunt in my step the next day that probably led directly to what happened. I was quite happy, and I wasn't thinking as clearly as I needed to. As I pulled into the Miami Dade police department parking lot, I noticed the car in distress almost immediately. As I was feeling quite good about the world and my place in it, I decided that a little help offered first thing in the morning would be just the thing to put a cap on a most wonderful evening and morning.

As I strode over to the car, with both its hood and trunk open, I saw Weiss, leaning into the car's engine. He stood up. Just as Alyra had predicted, he looked completely normal. He smiled at me. "You are making this far too easy."

As I felt the rise of the Passenger, poising to leap, I felt the penetration of something cold and metal into my side, and a jolt of searing pain brought me to my knees. I could see the lines of the Taser, as it had been fired. "I am sorry. I know that it hurts. But it's the best way I have found. The pain won't last long."

I struggled to get to my feet, but Mr. Brain and Mr. Muscles were not having active negotiations at the moment. I tried to speak, found that I could not, as I felt another thick jolt coursing through my body. I felt Weiss's arms around me, as he lifted me as though I weighed nothing. I was deposited into the back of the SUV. As I struggled to reach out, do something, he only smiled at me, and the last charge penetrated deep into my body, and I finally gave up my struggle to remain conscious, as a dark curtain descended over my sensorium.