Work Text:
I wanted to speak of existence, the ants most of all,
dressed up in their naughty flame-trousers, the exact jaws,
their unknowable kindnesses, their abyss of hungers,
and science, their mercilessness, their prophetic military
devotions, their geometry of scent, their cocoons
for the Nomenclature,
I wanted to speak of the Glue Sniffers
and Glue Smoothers who despise all forms
unbound, loose in their amber nectars, I wanted
to point to their noses, hoses and cables and networks,
their tools, if I can use that word now—and scales and
scanners and Glue Rectories.
I wanted you to meet my broom mother
who carved a hole into her womb
so that I could live—
At every sunset she stands
under the shadow of the watchtowers
elongating and denying her breath.
—Juan Felipe Herrera, “This Is My Last Report”
Deb doesn’t tell Dexter to tell Rita about the fight club, though he kind of feels like he should; when he brings it up with her while she’s patching up a nasty scrape on his side, she says, “She has a right to know what she’s getting into, I guess. I think—you’re not a gentle person, but you are a good person. You can protect her.”
“You think she needs protecting?”
“Don’t you? That creep Paul is still out there. She’s not convinced they’ll keep him in prison.”
“I’m not sure—I think she might deserve someone as kind as she is. Or at least who doesn’t—I fantasize about killing people every single day.”
“You are such a freak.” Deb rolls her eyes. “Wanna watch Kill Bill?”
“Only if you make popcorn.”
Deb grins.
He’s still never killed anybody; he’d thought it would get worse as he got older, and sometimes he does think about “accidentally” killing some random person in fight club or in line at the post office or while he’s dealing with a particularly unruly suspect. It’s maybe once a day that he seriously considers snapping. But he isn’t an animal; just because he wants to do something doesn’t mean he has to. He also wants to not show up for work, and he wants to eat out every night, and he wants to punch Masuka and Doakes in the face.
Well, he and Doakes do that, sometimes, in the basement of an abandoned warehouse; neither of them talk about it, but he always gives Dexter looks that are both suspicious and respectful for the next few days. He’s sure Doakes has heard from the other cops how often he’s there, but isn’t sure he cares. So what if Doakes knows he’s addicted to violence? Why the hell else would Doakes have become a cop?
Harry knows about the fight club too, of course; he’d looked remarkably pensive when he’d confronted Dexter about it, and said, “It’s about the violence for you. Not the act of killing.”
“I don’t know,” Dexter said. “I do like that part.”
“You’ve never killed a human.” Harry shook his head. “And I don’t think you should start. If this is an outlet for those feelings, I won’t—it’s certainly better than killing strangers in cold blood.”
He’d changed his tune rather dramatically after the close call at the hospital, seeming to adopt an almost religious awe that Dexter was trying not to kill anybody. He’d found him sitting in the dark maybe a week after they talked about it, and said, “Dad?”
“You almost killed that woman,” Harry said. His voice was hoarse. When Dexter flicked on the lights, he saw that his eyes were bloodshot. “We almost killed her. Took her out like a pair of assassins.”
“Dad, you should get to bed. You’re drunk.”
“Thank God for Debra,” Harry said. He was shaking. “You really think you can just—just not kill anybody? You think you can do that?”
“I’m gonna try. I have to.”
Harry slumped, and then—to Dexter’s profound terror—started crying and laughing at the same time. “I thought you were ready to start killing people.”
“I’m really not.”
“I love you so much, son.”
Dexter squirmed. “I know.”
He’d helped Harry to bed, thinking back on the conversation he’d overheard between him and Debra a few days before. It hadn’t been hard to overhear them; they had both been yelling.
“—think I don’t know what you were up to?” Debra shouted. “You trained him into your own personal killing machine!”
“Debra, keep it down.”
“I knew intellectually what you were doing, but my God, I’d never seen it in action! You have got to stop—stop fucking grooming Dexter into a murderer! There’s another way, Dad!”
“You have no idea what I have been through. What goes on in his mind. I—”
“Oh yeah? Has he told you about the visions of black blood?”
“The what?”
“You don’t know anything,” Debra spat. “You barely know him at all. If you treat him like a weapon, he’ll become one. But he’s just a fucked-up kid. He felt bad for killing that dog. He—”
“He didn’t feel bad about killing the dog.”
“Well, he felt bad that we had to get rid of Banjo. And he knew it was wrong. How do you think he would feel about having killed a human?”
Harry had gone very quiet. “You’ve been talking about all this with him for a very long time.”
“Yeah, I have. And we have our own goddamned Code.”
Harry laughed. “You do, do you?”
“Thou shalt not lie to Debra,” Deb said, and Harry laughed again. “Is rule one. Rule two is no killing people.”
“I see.” A beat. “You’re good kids. Both of you. I’m very proud of you, Debra.”
“Oh,” Deb said, and Dexter retreated from where he’d gone to listen at the door when the voices had begun to taper off.
It had been odd to have it all out in the open like that, at least at first; Harry had suspended his lessons for an entire month, and then sat him down at the kitchen table and gave him an astonishingly kind look. “Debra knew. This whole time.”
“Yeah.”
“She says you never intended to kill anybody. That you were just letting me think you meant to.”
Dexter shrugged and looked away. “It seemed better to know how to get away with it. Just in case.”
“You’d lie to her about it?”
“No.” His face must have made it clear that the idea of lying to Deb disgusted him, because Harry blinked and looked away. “I was lying to you, Dad.”
“This is the best possible scenario for my kids going behind my back, I think,” Harry said, a bit blankly, and Dexter ducked his head.
He’s thirty-five now, and he’s able to be open with Harry and Deb about the violence inside him. It isn’t a dark secret, a hidden thing, something to be feared and shrouded in mystery and drama; it’s just a part of who he is. He can’t help craving brutality.
The fight club doesn’t satisfy the part of him that wants to dissect and dismember—now there’s something he’s longed to do ever since Harry first described it—but he gets it out with his job as best he can, and with animals. It’s not as satisfying as he knows it would be with a human, but it’s satisfying enough, in conjunction with his fight club, to keep him from getting pushed over the edge.
Deb and Harry know what he is, and they love him anyway. It makes him hopeful he can meet someone who can live with his darkness. Maybe Rita’s the one. And if she’s not, well… maybe that person exists, somewhere out there. It’s not an impossible thought.
He answers the phone when Deb calls in the morning, clicking accept and holding it up to his ear. “What?”
“I need your help, bro,” Deb says. “Come to the Seven Seas motel ASAP. We got a body. I need your big brain on this one.”
“On my way,” Dexter says shortly, and hangs up. He’d been thinking about swinging by Rita’s with coffee, but there isn’t time. Well, he’ll see her this evening.
The nice thing about Rita is that she isn’t interested in sex either. Of course, that’s because her husband raped her; but the outcome is the same. They don’t fuck.
It’s nice to be around her, and around her kids; she smells good, and she’s sweet as hell, and so are the kids, though usually the smells they create are somewhat horrifying. But they’re fun, good kids, and they adore him; Dexter wonders sometimes what they’d think of him if he dropped the mask, but hasn’t ever dared. He’s good at seeming normal; he’s honed his skills over the years, though some people can always see through it. Deb. Dad. Doakes. The cops he runs into from fight club, who share secret smiles, acting like they know his deepest, most craven desires. And to an extent, they probably do, though they surely never kept a serial killer scrapbook or took a trophy from a crime scene.
But they crave the feeling of fists against their faces, fists driving into other people’s guts. Dexter held back the first few times; now he always leaves his opponents weeping. It’s become a rite of passage for new initiates to get beaten senseless by him, a point of pride for people to last multiple minutes against him. He almost always wins, of course; but it doesn’t seem to be the point to win. These people just want to taste blood.
Debra accosts him the second he gets to the crime scene, dragging him over to an empty pool. “Look at this shit.”
She’s the youngest person ever to make Detective at Miami Metro, though everyone attributes it to nepotism; but she’s so damn good at her job that nobody is willing to say it to her face. She works directly under their dad, as does Dexter; Harry’s obviously uncomfortable with the politicking that comes with the rank of LT, but he’d accepted the promotion when it came. It makes things both easier and harder, working under Harry; it’s easier because he doesn’t have to explain the nature of his hunches, can help with the detective work without explaining how he learned how. It’s harder because Harry knows everything about him, can tell when a crime scene is provoking in him an inner competitiveness, a desire to emulate. He isn’t always sure he likes being seen so fully, so totally, without any sort of mercy.
Except there’s always mercy. It’s what makes him feel so damn small.
The body is bloodless, dismembered, half wrapped up for them in brown paper. He looks at Deb, mouth open, and she says, “Bet that gets you pretty horny, huh, you sick fuck?”
Well, he’s definitely feeling something. He steps closer, into Masuka and Angel’s radius, and lets them both walk him through the body, pointing out the aborted cut on the left leg. “We could be looking for a witness,” Angel says. “He didn’t have time to finish.”
“Then how’d he have time to drain the body of blood and deposit it here?”
“Oh,” Angel says. He looks away. “Uh, good point, Dex.”
“Told you we needed him,” Deb says. “What else do you see?”
Dexter lets himself go full psycho whisperer, as Deb calls it, and absorbs the body as best he can. “The cut on the leg isn’t tentative,” he says, hovering a gloved hand just above it. “It’s intentional. Clean. The whole dump was clean, really. We’re looking for someone meticulous.”
“I could’ve told you that,” Masuka mutters.
“But you didn’t, did you?” Debra says. “What else?”
He keeps thinking about the body as he goes by the donut shop, as he makes his way to the station, as he gets accosted by Doakes about a spatter report he hasn’t done yet. It inspires his urge towards imitation; he wants to find a killer and drain them dry, to watch the blood flow out into some kind of receptacle, to bathe in it.
Hookers, he thinks in disgust. He’d never kill a hooker. This killer is low class, motiveless, or at least his motives aren’t interesting; he’s killing from bloodlust, from need. He has no sense of justice. But then again, they never do.
He does Doakes’s spatter report, making it clear that he disagrees with his working theory, and they have it out in Harry’s office, though Doakes already seems resigned to losing. “Like to see you when the boss isn’t your fucking dad,” Doakes says on the way out, shoving his arm, and Dexter thinks about how easy it would be to snap his neck, how simple and clean it could be.
But he shakes the thought off, and goes back to his work, and is out the door a little before six, stopping for ice cream and then pulling up to Rita’s. “Hey,” she says, and kisses him briefly. “Say hi to the kids? I need a minute.”
“You got it.” He plays with Cody, charms Astor, and then heads to the streets with Rita, where he watches her brutalize a crab shell.
How would you react if you knew the extent of my own violence? Dexter wonders. If you knew what I did in the dark of the night? If you saw the bruises and the scars? Would you let me keep coming around?
They make it all the way to the end of the street before Dexter notices it’s cordoned off by cops, and he grabs her hand and approaches, curious. She retches when she sees the body, and he says, “Sorry. Sorry. Stay here.”
Rita lets him go. The body is the same guy from earlier, the artist, the man without taste; except he obviously has taste. Who else would make a dump this immaculate?
But he certainly does have different standards from Dexter. That much is clear. He’s distracted as he drives Rita home, and she asks, in the parked car, “When will they find him?”
“I don’t know that they ever will,” Dexter says, still lost in his own head. “He’s obviously brilliant. The way he presents the bodies is—they’re completely without blood.”
“I—I saw.”
“It’s beautiful,” Dexter says. “In its way.”
She tilts her head at him, looking curious, but remarkably unoffended. “Do you want to come inside?”
“I’d like that,” Dexter says. He follows her into the house, pays for the babysitter over her protests, and sits down at the kitchen table as she starts on some decaf. “I really like you, Rita.”
“I really like you too,” she says shyly, and tucks her hair behind her ear. She’s so unbelievably sweet, so gentle, so kind; it makes him feel like the biggest monster in the world.
Deb set you up, Dexter tells himself firmly. She wouldn’t have done that if she’d thought Dexter was a danger to Rita. He smiles at her with as much real feeling as he can muster, and she smiles back, and he thinks again about telling her, decides against it. What they have is good. She keeps him at arm’s length. Every other woman he’d been with had expected an intimacy he’d been utterly unable to attain, but Rita seems happy to have him around as a kind of loyal attendant and social partner, too distracted by work and motherhood to look the gift horse that is Dexter in the mouth.
She’s going to get up close and personal with his teeth eventually, and realize that they’re fangs, but until then, it’s nice to have her around. He doesn’t want to fuck it up. He’s used to her.
They sit in silence for a while, and then Rita says, “I can’t believe you can do that for a living.”
“It doesn’t bother me.”
“You’ve got a strong stomach.”
“I always have.”
“Yeah, you go hunting, don’t you?”
“You’ve had my venison.”
“You know how to cook it.” She smiles. “Do you ever fish?”
“I have. I don’t particularly enjoy it.”
“It’s the thrill of the hunt for you, huh?”
“Very much so.” He smiles at her, and she smiles back. “It doesn’t bother you? That I kill animals?”
“Well, you’re a cop from Florida. You grew up hunting, right?”
“Yeah.”
Rita shrugs. “It must have seemed normal to you. It’s just part of the macho Southern environment.”
Dexter shrugs too. He’s not sure he’s ever thought about it quite like that; he suddenly feels tremendously cheered. All told, he isn’t that different from any other hick in Florida; it’s not a great way to view himself, but he likes it more than “murderer.” Sometimes his brain does whisper that he’s giving up the chance to be one of the greats in order to adhere to a ridiculous set of rules his sister came up with when he was fifteen, but mostly he thinks he’s making the right call. And he’s never going to be in the kind of physical shape he had been in back when he’d been training to kill. Who’s to say he even can still subdue a victim?
Except he fights four nights a week; he knows full well how to kill. He just makes the conscious decision not to, every day, all day, out of blind obedience to Deb.
She got her own dog after all, he thinks darkly, and looks up at Rita. What if there were more to it? he considers asking, and doesn’t.
The next day, he gets more details from Deb about the crime scene from last night; they figure out that the killer probably used a refrigerated truck, and then Deb asks about his date with Rita. “I keep thinking about telling her,” he says. “You know, that I’m a freak.”
“Well, you shouldn’t lead with that.”
Dexter groans. “She definitely is very—pleasant. To be around.”
“Aww, Dexter had a feeling!”
“Oh, fuck you.” Debra grins. “How do you think she would react? She’s so fragile. Maybe I should be looking for a person who’s… like me.”
“You definitely should not be doing that,” Deb says. “For all that you have this dark side, Dex, in other ways you’re one of the most sickeningly normal people I’ve ever met. That’s the side of yourself you should be encouraging. The side you want to cultivate and nurture.”
“Dad taught me that stuff.”
“But you’re good at it. And trust me, I don’t just mean—trust me, you’re more normal than you think you are.”
“I thought about snapping Doakes’s neck yesterday.”
“And you brought everybody donuts.”
Dexter shakes his head. “I do that so I seem normal. Not so everyone can enjoy donuts.”
“We all do stuff so other people will like us.”
“You’ll never stop seeing the best in me, will you?”
“Not a chance.”
Dexter grins at her.
Grunt. Slap. Kick. Dodge. Breath. Dodge. Punch. Breath.
Gutierrez drops to the floor like a stone, writhing, insensate; Dexter wipes sweat off his forehead, accepting water when someone hands it to him. He pours some over his head, then drinks; a few people laugh and clap. “Dexter!”
He grins, and Doakes steps forwards. He’s good, and he’s been fighting Dexter for years now; he knows his tells, his tics, his moves. They barely touch each other for the first couple of minutes, and then Doakes lands the first blow, a hard but somewhat ineffectual hit to Dexter’s left shoulder blade.
They circle each other again, Doakes watching him with sharp, wary eyes. The room is deathly silent, all eyes on them. Dexter lunges, but Doakes knows how he fights by now, and he intercepts, throwing Dexter over his shoulder as his momentum carries him forwards.
Dexter springs up, but only to receive a punch to the gut. He absorbs it, skipping backwards, and Doakes watches him with shrewd calculation.
He manages not to telegraph his next move, and catches Doakes off guard, punching him swiftly in the spleen and then catching him with an upper cut on his jaw. Doakes’s head snaps back, but he recovers quickly, and kicks the side of Dexter’s head, which sends him to the floor again. Doakes takes advantage of his being down this time, stepping over him and kicking him again, this time in the stomach. Dexter considers trying to get up, but Doakes seems to sense this, and kicks him again.
Dexter lets his head fall to the mat, and Doakes says, “That’s right, motherfucker. I win again.”
He’s the only person who ever beats Dexter, but Dexter doesn’t resent him for it. If anything, it’s helpful; it lets Doakes release his loathing in a constructive way. He’s already on the man’s bad side, but he doesn’t need to be on his shit list. He’s got enough problems trying not to kill anybody.
He’s in the car, heading home, when he spots it: a refrigerated truck.
Surely not, Dexter thinks incredulously, and follows. They get all the way to a closed Port of Miami bridge, and then there are headlights blinding him, and a head bouncing off his car and into the street beside him.
Deb insists on escorting him home, though he thinks it’s overkill; but he finds he’s grateful she’s there when he opens his door and sees a plastic Barbie head on the freezer.
They exchange glances, and then she steps forwards and flings it open. “There’s a little dismembered doll body. The killer left it here.”
“I’ll bag it for evidence.”
“You keep evidence bags in your apartment?”
Dexter shrugs, and Deb laughs. “Okay. I’ll take it up to work. And I’ll let Dad know.”
“Thanks. I’m gonna crash.”
“Yeah.” And she leaves.
Dexter gets undressed and lies down, his head spinning. Why would the killer come after him? What is he thinking? It’s true he has this inner darkness, but he’s not a killer. He’s not interested in playing some kind of game with a man who strings people up in refrigerated trucks.
Except he is. He really, really is. And he’s going to win, too.
The next day, the cops find a refrigerated truck with fingertips in it, encased in an ice block. Dexter spends most of his day dealing with the lab work for that, though he does stop by Deb’s desk to needle her about meeting her new boyfriend. “You’ll scare him off,” Deb says, scowling at him. “Like you’ve scared off every other boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
“I have not.”
Deb starts counting off on her fingers. “Thomas. You punched him in the gut.”
“You said he’d been trying to convince you to—”
Another finger. “Jericho. You threatened to kill him if he hurt me. He believed you so much he changed schools.”
“Well, I was only sixt—”
“Reynaldo. Isaac. Hector. Kendrick. Look at that, I’ve moved on to a new hand!”
“Debra—”
“You have scared off every boyfriend of mine you’ve ever met,” Deb says flatly. “I really like Jorge, Dex. He’s funny and he’s great in bed, and he doesn’t seem intimidated by me at all. He’s one of the Miami Marlins.”
“A baseball player?”
“I like him,” Debra says. “And I will only introduce him to you if you bring Rita along.”
Dexter tilts his head, considering this. “Okay.”
“Okay.” Deb jabs a finger at him. “Best fucking behavior!”
“Who, me?”
The fingers switch, and she’s flipping him off. He laughs as she goes on her merry way, leaving him to deal with frozen fingertips and procuring plans.
He goes by Rita’s that night, bringing the whole thing up; she seems enthused, and the next evening all four of them are sitting outside at some cantina, the setting sun bright in their faces. “So you’re a forensic tech?” Jorge says. “What does that entail?”
“I’m not sure it’s appropriate dinner conversation,” Deb says, casting a glance at Rita. “He does all the lab work and shit.”
“Well, Masuka does some too.”
“Ha ha.” Deb rolls her eyes. “He’s a blood spatter analyst. He does all the blood stuff.”
“Gory,” Jorge says, and takes a big bite of his beef fajitas. “I play baseball.”
“I heard.”
“Professionally?” Rita asks, and Jorge takes the opportunity to expound on his own accomplishments and greatness, not asking even one more question about Rita or Dexter or even Deb.
As they’re walking to their cars, Dexter falls into step next to Jorge, letting the women lead them. When he’s confident they’re out of earshot, he says, “What are your intentions with Debra?”
Jorge laughs. “Yeah, man, she warned me about you. She said you’d try to intimidate me or some shit.”
“Answer the question.”
“I don’t really know,” Jorge says. “She’s fun to be around.”
Rage envelops Dexter, and though he manages at least not to attack Jorge, he doesn’t manage to keep it off his face. Jorge glances at him, then gulps. “That’s not good enough,” Dexter says. “If you’re not serious about Deb, you need to let her find someone who is.”
“Dude, I don’t—”
“I don’t fuck around when it comes to my sister,” Dexter says. “If that doesn’t scare you, our dad is a homicide lieutenant. We know how to get rid of a body.”
“Jesus!”
“Don’t lead Deb on,” Dexter says. “She deserves better. The best there is. And that’s obviously not you.”
“Message received,” Jorge says shortly. He’s gone by the end of the week.
Dexter goes by Rita’s to help replant a new lemon tree, and watches her car nearly get stolen. He wants to kill the man, and finds himself stepping forwards when Rita goes inside to get the keys. “You ever come back, I’m not responsible for what happens.”
The man snorts. “You gonna take me with your little red shovel?”
Dexter drops the mask, staring at him with all the hate he feels, the cold predatory calculation, and the man takes an involuntary step back. It’s moments like these that remind him that he really is separate from the rest of the human species, in some indelible and permanent way; he’s a man apart, a wolf amongst sheep, and the whole flock can sense it.
He takes a step forwards, and the man scrambles away, falling on his ass, scuttling backwards on the concrete, scraping up his hands, leaving a faint trail of blood. “Look—look, man—”
“You’re never going to bother Rita again,” Dexter says coldly. “You’re going to leave. Right now. And you’re never going to come back.”
“Yeah,” the man says, “yeah, okay, shit—”
And he scrambles up, and away, as fast as his legs can carry him. When she gets back, Rita looks perplexed. “Where is he?”
“He had to go. I don’t think he’ll be bothering you again.”
“Oh,” Rita says, and looks at him, then down at her keys. “You threatened him, didn’t you?”
Dexter looks away. “Yes.”
Rita lets out a harsh breath. “I asked you not to get involved.”
“Well, I—”
“He’ll just come back when you’re not here.”
“I don’t think he will.”
“You’re not that scary, Dexter.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She gives him an appraising look, then lets out a sigh. “Well, that’s just fucking great.” She shakes her head. “I just want to forget about Paul.”
“And not having your car will help you do that?”
She looks annoyed. “You shouldn’t have interfered.”
“Oh.” A beat. “Sorry.”
A long, irritated breath, and then her mouth twitches. “I’d have liked to have seen that.”
Dexter grins, and Rita’s mouth twitches again, and they head back inside to retrieve the kids, all almost right in the world between them.
The Ice-Truck Killer’s next dump is actually on ice, more specifically the home ice of the Miami Blades. It’s an ostentatious place to leave a body, and it makes Dexter’s blood sing; Debra gives him a knowing look when he glances over at her, and he looks away. “Not sure you need me for this one. No blood.”
“Tell me what else you see.”
Dexter sighs, and does. There isn’t much the other dump sites haven’t revealed, but as he’s finishing, Angel says, “Cabrón, I will never understand why you became a forensic tech and not a detective.”
Dexter shrugs. Deb laughs. “He was making sure I didn’t have any serious competition.”
Angel shakes his head. “Heaven help me if I had to work with my sister. But you two make it work.”
Dexter shrugs. “I’ll see you both at the station?”
“You bet,” Deb says, and Dexter is gone. He stays on the periphery of the investigation as it progresses, getting updates from Deb; they catch the security guard looking off camera in the surveillance tape, which combined with the unlikeliness of him suddenly being sloppy enough to just leave stolen security tapes around and his not owning a wood-paneled station wagon (which Deb had apparently picked up from a contact in Vice) leads Harry to discard him as their likely prime suspect. “We believe Tucci is taking direction from the real killer,” Harry says during the briefing, which Dexter attends out of sheer interest. “He’s most likely already been killed as well.”
Angel shakes his head. “Pendejo.”
“You’ve got that right.” Harry clicks forward on the slideshow. “We’re looking for any other witnesses who might have seen our killer approaching the scene. Soderquist, I want you to stay on that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re also scouring traffic and surveillance cameras around the area,” Harry says. “Maybe, if we’re lucky, we can get a glimpse of this guy before he has the chance to kill anyone else.”
The next thing the Ice-Truck Killer leaves them is a hand. He recognizes the beach, and remembers taking a picture there; he stops by his apartment and picks up the picture, bringing it straight to Harry’s office. “Whoever he is, he’s taunting me,” he rants, and Harry nods slowly. “He knows who I am. What I am.”
“You’re a good person.”
“I’m a would-be killer wearing a human mask.”
“You’re a man with demons. You know by now how to live with them.” Harry sighs. “Has it been bad lately?”
“It’s always bad.”
“Is this Ice-Truck Killer thing making it worse?”
“How the fuck does he know who I am? What I want? Why would he—”
Harry’s eyes widen. “Give me that photograph.”
“What?”
“Now, Dexter!”
Dexter hands it to him. Harry turns the photograph over; on the back is a crude smiley face.
“You need to check the rest of your photos for these,” Harry says sharply. “Maybe it can give us a jump on his next move.”
“Right,” Dexter says, and doubles back home again.
He finds seven photos with smiley faces on them, and brings them back to the station; Harry looks at them, then says, quietly, “I’m in every one of these photographs.”
“But what about—”
“Here’s my shadow. See?”
“So he’s obsessed with both of us.”
“Looks that way.” Harry lets out a long, slow breath. “I managed to keep a lid on that doll he left you, but I don’t see how I can keep a lid on this.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.” Harry shakes his head. “I need to move on this. Grab Doakes for me.”
Dexter, as always, obeys.
They find Tucci at an old shut-down hospital, sans one hand. Deb tells him later it was obvious the killer had fled the scene in a tremendous hurry—he’d cut halfway through Tony Tucci’s foot when they’d barged into the room around four in the morning, and there’d been some kind of dramatic car chase that the killer had won.
It’s still a hell of a find, Tucci alive, and Deb is practically glowing as she informs him. Some small part of Dexter is disappointed at how abruptly this stage of their game has come to an end, but he shoves it aside and starts combing the scene with the rest of them.
The next night, when he get home, his apartment is completely wrecked. He stops dead at the threshold, taking it in: the fridge and freezer are wide open, the pillows have been stripped from the couch, the grate to his A/C unit is hanging off one loose screw, and there’s a thick trail of what looks like blood leading back to his bedroom.
Dexter pulls out his phone. “Deb?”
She’s there within half an hour with Angel and Harry and Masuka, who’s lugging a forensic kit. “Dude.”
“I know.”
“Have you been in the bedroom yet?”
Dexter shakes his head. Masuka cocks his own, and they follow the trail into his bedroom, where there’s an exsanguinated, dismembered body laid out in his sheets, the head on his pillow, fat tongue lolling out of a blue mouth.
“Jesus, she looks just like Debra,” Masuka says, and Dexter realizes he’s right. Masuka raises his voice and calls, “Lieutenant, Detective, you might want a look at this.”
Deb and Harry file into the room. “She looks just like me,” Deb says, unnecessarily. “Jesus, we’ve got to get you the fuck out of this apartment!”
Harry sucks in a breath. “We should have done it after the doll.”
Masuka looks confused. “What doll?”
They fill him in, and now Masuka looks dismayed. “Why would he target Dexter?”
Debra and Harry and Dexter all exchange heavy looks, and Debra says, “Because he’s a sick motherfucker?”
Masuka shakes his head. “I guess. Why didn’t you say anything?”
Silence, and then finally Dexter says, honestly, “I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.”
“Well, he doesn’t seem to be giving you a choice at this point.”
“No.” Dexter sighs. “Let me get my gloves and my kit.”
“It’s your apartment,” Harry says firmly. “Sit this one out. Vince has got it.”
Dexter opens his mouth to protest, then closes it. “Okay.”
“Okay. Go on, go back home. I’ll see you there.”
Dexter packs a bag and leaves, and Harry’s there after another two hours, Debra in tow. They’re bearing Cuban food, because they really are two of the best people on the planet, and they all sit around the table and eat their weight in pork and fried plantains in utter silence. Then Deb says, “You need to be careful, Dex.”
“I know.”
“This guy has got it out for you. He—”
“I know, Deb!”
“Don’t fucking snap at me!”
“Settle down, you two.”
“Sorry,” Dexter mutters, and there’s silence. “I don’t… I don’t think he’s trying to threaten me. I think he’s trying to get me to play with him.”
Debra’s face scrunches up in disgust. “Play?”
“Yeah,” Dexter says. “Play. That’s how he thinks of it. He’s having fun. This whole thing is a big game to him.”
“People are dying!”
“I know that.”
“But you don’t feel it.”
“Debra,” Harry says, warning in his tone.
“Sorry,” Deb says, looking genuinely abashed. “I know it isn’t—you don’t have to care to do the right thing.”
There’s silence. Harry says, “We have to assume he’ll target Debra too.” Dexter flinches. “He was leaving a message with that body. For all that he wants to play with you, he means her serious harm. You’ve both got to be very careful.”
“Yes, Dad,” they chorus.
Harry nods once. “Good.”
Rita calls as he’s settling down for bed, her voice so rushed and frantic it takes three tries for him to understand her. “He came back,” she says, sniffling. “Paul’s friend. With another man. They both had guns.”
Dexter sits up. “I’ll grab my dad. I’m at his place. We can be there with some unis in—”
“No!”
“Rita—”
“I just want to not think about Paul anymore! I don’t think involving the police will help.”
“What about your car?”
“I’ll take the bus until I can get a new one.”
“I’m happy to drive you around.”
“It’s fine.”
“Please. It would make me feel better.”
She lets out a shuddering sigh. “Alright.” A long pause. “Can you—can you come over?”
“Yeah.” Dexter stands. “Be there in twenty.”
Rita’s face is dry by the time he arrives—for about ten seconds. Then it crumples, and he leads her over to the couch and takes her in his arms. “I just—I was really hoping you were right that he wouldn’t come back. And now I’m gonna be putting you out of your way, and—and the kids can’t sleep because of that fucking dog next door!”
“I’ll talk to the neighbor tomorrow.”
“I’ve already talked to her. It’s no use. I’ve actually been thinking about—about stealing it and giving it to a woman from work. Isn’t that silly?”
“I think it’s a great idea.”
“Really?”
Dexter nods. Rita laughs. “Here I thought my cop boyfriend would be opposed to stealing.”
“Well, technically I’m forensics.” He purses his lips. “Tell you what. Why don’t you take my car, and I’ll borrow something from impound? I’ll drive you to work tomorrow, and then I’ll bring you to the lot afterwards and we can trade off.”
Rita turns in his arms and kisses him, and he kisses back, and then she pulls away. “Okay. Why were you at your dad’s?”
“The Ice-Truck Killer left a dead body in my apartment.”
“What?”
Rita pulls away, her mouth agape. “You just let me go on and on about my problems when—”
“Your problems are important.”
“Not as important as that!”
“Men with guns stole your car.”
“I—I guess so.” She shakes her head. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “No. The body looked just like Deb. And he’s been—he threw a severed head at me, and left dismembered doll parts in my apartment, and there was this whole convoluted thing with pictures of me and Harry and a captive security guard.”
“Tucci?”
“Yeah. He left us his hand. And he was—he left smiley faces on a bunch of photos of me and Harry, and we found Tucci at one of the locations he’d marked.”
“That’s so scary.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Dexter shrugs. “I dunno. I don’t scare easy.”
“Still, you must be worried for Debra. I know how close you two are.”
“Yeah.” Dexter sighs. “I’m sorry about your car.”
“Thanks.” Rita snuggles back into him. “Will you stay for a little while?”
“You bet.” Dexter settles into the couch, flips on the TV, and hunts down the History Channel, letting the blare of the past subsume the blare of the present.
Paul gets out of jail a week later, the day after Dexter gets settled into his new apartment. Rita calls during work hours, frantic, and he talks her down, listening to some new details about Paul and his impact on Rita, more than he’s ever learned from Deb, wondering if he really is good for her or not. She likes his persona—but in actuality, he’s just as bad as Paul.
When he expresses as much to Deb, she punches him hard in the arm. “Ow! What?”
“You are nothing like Paul,” Deb says fiercely, and punches him again. “You may have this inner darkness, but you don’t act on it. You’ve never raped anybody. And you never would.”
“I do fight club four nights a week.”
“Those guys sign up to get their asses beat.”
“People. There are some women too.”
“Huh!” Deb looks amazed. “What a world. Think I could take ‘em?”
Dexter tilts his head, considering. She’d made him pass along his jiu-jitsu lessons during college, and remains competent enough when they spar every few weeks or so; but the thought of Deb in that environment feels intrinsically wrong somehow. “You could probably hold your own. Not against me, of course.”
“Oh, buddy, I could kick your ass.”
Dexter grins and shakes his head. “Go. Get back to work. You’ve got an Ice-Truck Killer to catch.”
Deb leaves. That night, he goes to Rita’s, bringing pizza for everyone; she looks at him with incredible relief, and then gives him a hard look and draws him into the kitchen as the kids dig into the pepperoni. “Listen. I want you to promise me you won’t threaten Paul.”
“Can I intimidate him?”
Rita barks out a startled laugh, then quickly steels herself, harshness in her tone. “No.”
Dexter resists the urge to sigh. “Okay. But if he starts trying to hurt you or the kids, I—that might change the situation.”
“Violence is never the answer, Dexter. It only ever escalates. If you escalate things with Paul, you’d be endangering me and the kids.”
“Oh.”
“I understand where you’re coming from. I really do. And I’ve met Harry, and I understand how you got that way. But—”
“What?”
“That man has a very rigid sense of right and wrong,” Rita says, and something about the entire world tilts on its axis. That’s how she sees Harry?
“He makes it clear that he thinks the answer to every problem is cops,” Rita continues, and Dexter wonders if he’s gaping. “He thinks they can be solved with guns. He sorts the world into good people and bad people. He—”
“Rita, I—that isn’t true.”
“I’ve heard him talk about his cases. About criminals. The world isn’t black and white.”
“He knows that.”
“I don’t know if he does.”
“He does. Believe me.”
“What do you mean?”
Dexter glances over at the kids, back at Rita, lowers his voice. “The way he raised me—I had… difficulties. Very severe difficulties. Fitting in with other kids, and with… with empathy.”
“Really? You’re so—”
“He taught me all of it,” Dexter says. “All of it. I’d never have been able to function in society in a normal way without him. He—trust me, I was—if the world was sorted into good people and bad people, I’d have been one of the bad ones for sure without him. But he didn’t—if he broke the world up into those kinds of categories, he’d never have been able to help me transcend them.”
Rita is looking at him with an expression he doesn’t understand at all, and he mutters, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” Rita, to his surprise and delight, kisses him. “I do want to say… I understand that maybe Harry and I got off on the wrong foot. But it’s obvious he did teach you violence. And I do think that isn’t the answer with Paul. He has a right to—he is their father. I can’t pretend he isn’t. I don’t think he’s going to stop being a problem for me, and I need to learn how to deal with him in a nonviolent way. I could use your help, but only if you can do that without resorting to threats.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Rita looks at him again, with that expression he doesn’t understand. “Thank you, Dexter.”
“For what?”
“Opening up to me.”
Dexter opens and closes his mouth. I did do that, didn’t I? Huh. That’s a new one.
Astor’s birthday party goes off without a hitch, thankfully, Paul not making an appearance; Rita had been glowing with pride when she’d recounted the conversation she’d had with him, and Dexter had been pretty proud on her behalf, too. They celebrate with cake, and Dexter heads home alone, marinating in the ability to recharge, even if most of it does involve constructing elaborate fantasies about killing people and reading the goriest novels and war stories and true crime books he can get his hands on.
The next day, things don’t go so well. Rita calls him, frantic, late in the afternoon, with the news that Paul picked the kids up from school; he gets the cops involved, though he calls them off when Paul comes barging through the door with Astor and Cody in tow. He’s obediently mild with the man, though he doesn’t want to be; later, with the kids asleep, he and Rita give each other foot massages and talk it out. She’s still married to him, apparently; it makes things harder, but there’s nothing to be done about it.
“Did you know all along?” Dexter asks. “What he was?”
“That he was capable of hurting me, you mean?”
Dexter nods, though he’s not quite sure that’s exactly what he means. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I knew all along.” She gives him an odd look. “You’d never hurt me, would you?”
“No. No. Never.”
“You know, it’s strange,” she says. “We’re dealing with my ex-husband now. We’ve been together for eight months. And we’ve never once had a real conversation about sex.”
“Deb said you weren’t interested.”
“I’m not.”
“Okay.” Dexter shrugs. “Me neither.”
Rita gives him an exceptionally warm look. “Well, alright then.” She laughs gently. “You’re a very unusual person, you know that?”
“Yeah,” Dexter says. “I know.”
“Thank you for being so civil with him,” Rita says. “It was helpful. Kept things calm.”
“That’s what you asked me to do.”
“I didn’t know if you heard me or not,” Rita says. “I’m glad you heard me.”
“I’m always listening to you.”
“I know.” She gives him a gentle look. “I’m really glad we met, Dexter. You treat me like—I was with Paul before. And I didn’t really realize how much mutual respect there could be in this kind of relationship. I really… appreciate that about you.”
“Oh.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. I just…” Dexter looks down. “I’ve never been with anyone like you before either. I didn’t—and your kids are fantastic.”
“I know.”
“They’re really great.”
“Yeah, they are.”
“We’re not gonna let Paul hurt them.”
“Yeah,” Rita says, and squeezes his foot hard.
He’s called the next day to the home of one Neil Perry, a suspect for the Ice-Truck killings who’s currently on the lam. It’s obvious from the get-go that they’ve got the wrong guy, or so he thinks until they finish digging up the body in the backyard; there’s something disappointing about it, though he isn’t sure what. He’d had some real respect for this killer, for his meticulousness, his artistry. Neil Perry’s home is… not that.
They track him down at a motel, and bring him in; Harry insists on personally handling the interrogation. Everyone crowds around the monitor, waiting with bated breath for the show to begin.
“You know, there’s one thing I don’t get,” Harry says. “You chop hookers up and drain their blood. Okay. Maybe you have some kind of inner need to do that. But why have you been targeting my family?”
“What?”
Perry looks genuinely bewildered. Harry shakes his head and looks up at the camera. “He’s not the guy.”
Dexter lets out a breath. People start muttering. Harry stands. “You wanted your fifteen minutes of fame. But you’re out of your depth.”
“I—”
“We’re charging you for abducting that woman,” Harry says. “That was a crime. But I don’t think you’re in the major leagues. I think you’re trying to steal the Ice-Truck Killer’s glory. And this department does not have time for looky-loos and thrill-seekers. This is a waste of our resources.”
And he leaves.
There’s a close call with Paul, or at least he comes by; he swings a fist at Dexter’s face, but it’s obvious he’s pulling it, so he just lets it come close, and then fall away. When he tells Rita about it, she’s livid, and leaves him at the house with the kids so she can go make him sign divorce papers that instant.
When she gets home, she’s glowing, and kisses him, and says, “Do you want to spend the night?” He blinks, and she says, “No sex. But do you want to sleep here?”
“I, uh—yeah. I’d like that. Let me, uh—let me run home for some of my stuff.”
“Okay.” She gives him a warm look. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Okay.” Dexter flees. There’s something about spending the night at Rita’s that’s even more terrifying than the idea of having sex with her, though he isn’t sure what. Maybe she’ll see his inner emptiness if she wakes up next to him? He’s never had to assert the mask right after he wakes up; maybe that split second of in-between consciousness will reveal what he really is to her.
But he does want to sleep next to her; there’s something pleasant about the idea of Rita being the first thing he sees in the morning. So he packs a bag, and heads back over, and she kisses him and leads him back to the bedroom. She smells good, fresh, clean, and when they lie down together he runs a careful hand over her arm. “Thanks,” he says. “For inviting me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“What happens now?”
“Are you tired yet?”
“Not really.”
Rita yawns. “I’m exhausted. Hold me until I fall asleep.”
“Okay,” Dexter says, and does. In the morning, everything is good; the kids barge into the room and seem delighted to see him, and his mask stays on without a hitch, and he makes everyone pancakes in funny shapes, and Rita kisses him over the stove, looking in his eyes for a long moment before turning her face away and smiling.
He grows used to sleeping at Rita’s, in the days that follow, and used to Paul; he apologizes for getting up in Dexter’s face, which he certainly wasn’t expecting. He fantasizes about killing him, of course, but they’re not intense fantasies, not ones he dwells on when the man’s out of sight. He’s annoying, and he obviously isn’t harmless, but he does seem to be trying with Rita and the kids. It’s an odd thing, having an ex-husband around; he’s never had so much as another conversation with any of his exes before, let alone kids with them. Paul is exhausting, but he and Rita settle into a rhythm with the supervised visits.
Rita calls one day when they have a lunch date, explaining that the court supervisor bailed and she’s going to do it herself. “Why don’t I come to the park?” Dexter suggests. “Help you out, spend time with the kids?”
“I’d like that a lot.”
So he heads to the park, where Paul gives him a sour look as both kids run to him. He grabs Cody up and twirls him around, then offers him to Paul.
Paul looks startled, then growls and accepts Cody, zooming him over to the top of the slide. Rita comes to Dexter and says, very quietly, “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“Being so nice to Paul.”
“He loves his kids, I’ll give him that. Did he ever touch them?”
“No. Just me.”
Dexter nods. “I didn’t think so. He doesn’t seem like the type.”
“Thank you for offering to come help supervise him, too. I really appreciate—I really was worried you wouldn’t be able to—but you’ve been perfectly civil with him.”
“I get a lot of practice at work.”
“What?”
“My colleague Doakes hates me,” Dexter says. “And I hate him right back. But we manage to work together anyway. I wasn’t thinking when I threatened that man. I’m sorry about that. Sometimes I do have a—a very hard time with my temper.”
“You’re pretty good at handling it, though.”
Dexter shrugs. “I have to be.”
“Or what?”
“Or Deb will stop talking to me.”
Rita lets out a startled laugh. “You two are so cute. I wish I’d had a relationship like that with my brother. We were always—our mother was so strict. We never got to—”
“Mom, Mom!” Astor calls, and Dexter watches Rita go to her daughter, Paul closing in around her, and wonders what it would feel like to slit the man’s throat.
Deb starts dating Tony Tucci’s doctor, but refuses outright to introduce him even with Rita there. “I like him too much,” Deb says. “I’m not ready for you to come in and fuck it up.”
“I wouldn’t fuck it up.”
“Tell that to Jorge.”
“If he had really been right for you, it wouldn’t have mattered to him.”
“Right.” Deb rolls her eyes. “He’s something else, Dex. The way Rudy makes me feel is—it’s never been like this with any guy before. You’re not going to meet him.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
Dexter pouts, and Deb laughs. They both look up when a man approaches. “Dexter Morgan?”
“That’s me.”
“Here.” Dexter accepts a manila envelope, shares a glance with Deb, and cracks it open.
Inside it is a will from someone named Joseph Driscoll, naming Dexter his sole inheritor. Debra seems appalled, but Dexter isn’t sure how to feel. He approaches Harry in his office after a few minutes reading over the document, Debra on his heels.
“I got a letter about someone named Joe Driscoll,” Dexter says, and Harry looks away. “Was he my biological father?”
Debra socks him hard in the arm. “Dexter!”
“Was he?”
Harry lets out a long breath. “Yes.”
Debra gapes. “What the fuck?”
Dexter feels his mouth part. “You lied?”
“To protect you,” Harry says. His face is drawn. “That man was bad news. He was involved with bad people, and he made bad decisions. He would have been bad for you.”
“You could have explained that!”
“Are you honestly saying you wouldn’t have sought him out?”
“How did this turn into me doing something wrong? I could have met my biological father! He only lived a few hours away! He—”
“I made the best decision I could at the time,” Harry says. He shakes his head. “I don’t like the timing on this. The Ice-Truck Killer is obsessed with you. I don’t know how he knew about Driscoll, but I’m going to call the coroner in Dade City and tell them to keep him on ice for us. I want you two to go down there and investigate. This might be connected.”
Dexter draws in a breath, then releases it. “Yes, Dad.”
He and Deb go back to his apartment and have a mutual hour-long meltdown, but he’s still seething with rage as he makes his way over to Rita’s. She seems to read it; she shoos the kids back to their room and watches him pace around the kitchen. “What happened?”
“Harry told me my biological father died when I was three,” Dexter says. “I just found out that isn’t true. He died yesterday.” He throws his hands up in the air, but takes care to moderate his volume. “He fucking lied to me! For thirty years! I could have met him!” He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Harry thinks it might have been the Ice-Truck Killer. He wants me and Deb to investigate.”
“Oh.”
“Driscoll left me a house, too. I have to pack it up so I can sell it. I don’t—I can’t—he fucking lied to me, Rita!”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Dexter sighs. “I’m sure Harry had his reasons. I have to have faith that he made the right choice for me.”
“No, you don’t.” Dexter blinks. “He violated your trust. It’s okay to be upset about that.”
“It is?”
“Yes.” Rita gives him a kind look. “Why don’t I come with you?”
“The Ice-Truck Killer—”
“I’ll stay at the house, and away from the investigation. If he’s stalking you, he already knows about me anyway.”
Dexter tilts his head, considering this. “Is that—do you want to break up? I don’t want to put you and the kids in danger.”
“Absolutely not,” Rita says sharply. “I care about you so much, Dexter. More than you could begin to imagine. When I’m with you, I’m at peace. He only kills prostitutes, right?”
“The woman who looked like Deb wasn’t a prostitute. She was a bank teller.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t want to break up either,” Dexter says. “But I don’t want to put you at risk.”
“Well, we can—I don’t think breaking up would make a difference at this point. I think I’m probably already on his radar.”
Dexter thinks he might be feeling something like fear, or maybe just helpless rage. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for this.” She touches his arm. “I’ll come with you. Maybe Harry can help out this weekend with supervising Paul to make up for it. The kids love him.”
“I thought you didn’t like him.”
“I like him. And I trust him with the kids. I just don’t worship him the way you do.”
“I do not.”
“Dexter.” Rita gives him an incredulous look. “You talk about that man like he’s Jesus Christ. He’s just a person.”
“I do?”
Rita looks a little startled. “You do, yeah.”
“Oh.”
Rita tilts her head. “I understand it a little better now than I did before. But it isn’t—you talk about him taking you in like it was the most selfless thing anyone has ever done for anyone, but I—you treat Astor and Cody like they’re your own kids. And I’m not saying that’s not wonderful, but it shouldn’t be a sacrifice. Children aren’t burdens.”
“I was.”
“You were not.”
“Yeah,” Dexter says. “I really, really was.”
“A child is never a burden. They’re always gifts. They’re a whole new person who gets to learn and grow and change and influence the world. And good people treasure that. They don’t make people feel guilty about existing.”
“I don’t.”
“You just said you were a burden to your dad.”
“Well, I was.”
“I promise you you weren’t.”
“You don’t get it,” Dexter says. “He really did make a lot of sacrifices for me. I was not an easy child. I’m not an easy person. I know that.” He’s saying more than he should, but now that he’s started he can’t stop. “I try so goddamned hard all the time to be normal, and it never works. It never fucking works.” He realizes he’s gasping. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Breathe,” Rita says. “Just breathe.”
He breathes.
Rita, miraculously, still wants to come to Dade City with him after that, and Deb reports that after much argument and a bit of angry sex, Rudy had insisted on coming too. “It’s a disaster waiting to happen, bro,” Deb says. “I think he might fight back with you.”
“I can handle it.”
“If I have to physically separate you two, I’m gonna be pissed,” Deb says. “See you in a few hours.”
“Yeah.” Dexter hangs up.
The road trip with Rita is fun, but when they get there, Rudy and Deb are already at the house; Rudy gives him a cool look, and says, “Debra tried to outright refuse to introduce you to me. She says you intimidate all her boyfriends away.”
Rita sends him a sideways look, and Dexter shrugs. Debra rolls her eyes. “He was dying to meet you for some reason. I tried to tell him the last thing we needed was to introduce macho male dick-swinging contests into the whole thing, but he said he was confident he could charm you.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Rudy says. “I’d like to help pack up the house while you two…”
“Clear things up with the estate,” Deb says, and Dexter thinks, Well, at least she doesn’t trust him that much. He sends Rita a significant look, and she sends him back a quizzical one. He’ll talk to her about not mentioning the investigation to Rudy later—the last thing they need is press about the Ice Truck Killer targeting the Morgans. Deb may like the guy, but, thank God, she isn’t a total idiot. It’s different with Rita—she’s obviously trustworthy. Rudy? Who knows.
But he doesn’t start anything, not if he’s going to be stuck in Dade City investigating Driscoll’s death for however long that takes. And packing up the house.
Rudy’s giving him a very intense look, and Dexter responds with carefully curated blankness, and eventually Rudy looks away, looking a little disgusted. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” Dexter says, and steps inside, all three of them following.
The next day, they split up. Dexter goes to inspect the body; he finds a likely injection site, and takes a blood sample to send back to Miami Metro for a tox screen. Deb starts canvassing the neighborhood, and she doesn’t have to go far; she gets a hit at the very first house, a suspicious van outside Driscoll’s house the day he died.
They lean against Deb’s car while she smokes a cigarette, standing in silence. “Ice-Truck Killer was here,” Deb says eventually.
“Looks like it,” Dexter says. “You want to call Dad?”
“Fuck no! You do it. I’m still pissed at him for lying to you.”
Dexter calls, and fills him in, and Harry says, after a long pause, “I’m sorry I lied to you, Dex.”
“You are?”
“Yeah. I am. And I want you to know that I only did what I did out of love.”
“I know that, Dad.”
“Okay. Okay. Good. Say hi to your sister for me.”
“Will do.”
When they get back inside, there’s still the house to deal with. It’s made exponentially worse when people start dancing; and he doesn’t even want to tell this Rudy guy all this stuff about Driscoll, for all that he does seem markedly more intelligent than Deb usually goes for. Dexter hasn’t thought about killing him once.
Well, he hadn’t immediately wanted to kill him, anyway. He’s kind of starting to.
Rudy keeps trying to bond with him, which he politely sidesteps and deflects; the next morning, they get the blood test results. There was a sedative in Driscoll’s system; given that he was thirty years sober, it’s enough to start the process of transferring the body to Miami Metro as material evidence in the Ice-Truck Killer investigation.
It takes another day to pack up the house, during which time Rudy approaches him twice to ask how he feels about the whole thing. He is, by all appearances, a freakishly caring man, or at least he’s freakishly interested in Dexter. He doesn’t react well to being brushed off, his nostrils flaring, his eyes narrowing. Dexter doesn’t like having this intruder here, isn’t sure why Deb brought him; except when he asks, she says, “I just… wanted to have him with me after that shit with Dad. The way you wanted Rita around.”
“Oh.”
“I really like him, Dex. I want you not to threaten him.”
“We’ll see what happens,” Dexter mutters, and Debra socks him hard on the arm.
When they get back in town, there’s a jar of blood waiting for them. Or at least it comes in the next day, bright and early; in it is a key to the Marina View Hotel, room 103.
Debra warns him that it’s bad, but he doesn’t understand how bad until he sets foot on the threshold. There’s blood everywhere; on the dresser, the desk, the bed, the nightstand, the walls. It’s running through the middle of the room in a great slick, like a pool of afterbirth.
But he takes it in as fragments, blurred components of an individual whole. He hears a voice, a child screaming for his mother, and can see him, covered in blood, wailing, bathing in it. He doesn’t realize he’s convulsing on the ground until he’s already soaked in blood from head to toe.
He makes it out of the building, somehow; next thing he knows, Deb and Harry and Doakes are in front of him. “Jesus,” Deb says. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Dexter tries to play it down, to deflect, but Harry says, “Give us a minute.”
Doakes goes. Deb stays. Dexter looks at Harry, who’s watching him intensely, with an expression he doesn’t entirely understand. “Dexter, what happened?”
“Fifty, sixty liters of blood. Maybe half a dozen dead.”
“That’s good to know, but that isn’t what I meant. What happened to you?”
“I fell down,” Dexter says again. “I—”
He doesn’t want to tell him about the boy in the blood. “I’m fine.”
“Bullshit,” Deb says, and Dexter looks away. “You’re still trembling.”
“I’m still dizzy, too,” Dexter mutters. “I can’t go back in there.”
“Nor should you,” Harry says. He opens and closes his mouth. “You can work from the hallway. Go clean yourself up.”
He goes. He can’t shake it the whole time Masuka’s in the room, or when they get back to work; Deb approaches him as he’s heading downstairs to go to Rita’s, giving him a concerned look. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Dexter looks away. “I had some kind of vision,” he says. “A flashback, I think. Of a little boy in a pool of blood. I—I don’t know what I could possibly be remembering, though.”
“Jesus.”
“I know.” Dexter laughs. “Something about that crime scene—do you think it was the Ice-Truck Killer?”
“What, he was trying to leave you some kind of fucked-up present?”
“Maybe.” Dexter shakes his head. “He knew about Joe Driscoll. Maybe he knew I would react like that.”
The doors open, and people step inside, and they both fall silent. As they’re walking to the parking lot, Deb says, “You can always talk to me. About absolutely anything at all. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“Okay, good.” Deb shoves his shoulder with her own. “Freak.”
Dexter smiles a little, and Deb grins over at him.
Paul is there when he gets to Rita’s, but he gives Dexter a tentative smile. Dexter smiles back politely, and Paul shakes his head a couple times. The court supervisor coughs. “Mr. Bennett, we’ll see you again in a few days.”
“Right,” Paul says sardonically, but there’s no real bite behind it. The court supervisor leaves, and Paul looks at Dexter. “I liked your dad.”
“He’s a good man.”
“Yeah, that’s obvious.” Paul shakes his head. “The things we do for our kids. I don’t need babysitting, you know that, right, Rita?”
“We’ll re-assess that in five months,” Rita says calmly, and Dexter has a gust of pride. She looks at Paul very kindly. “You’re doing well.”
“You really think so?”
“Don’t fuck it up,” Rita says, and Dexter and Paul both laugh.
They let him tuck in the kids, watching in the doorway, and then Dexter and Rita retreat to bed, lying down on their sides, facing one another. Dexter is dwelling on the boy with the blood, and Rita seems like she can sense it. “What happened?”
“Crime scene,” Dexter says shortly. And then: “Someone had a private party at the Marina View Hotel. Fifty-five liters of blood in one room.”
“Good lord.”
“No bodies,” Dexter says. “It was—it did something to me. Some kind of flashback. I fell down in it.”
“Are you okay?”
“Not really.”
“I don’t see how you could be.” Rita strokes his cheek. “What did you see?”
“A little boy in blood. Screaming.”
“You?”
“I think so.” Dexter closes his eyes. “I always knew something happened to me. Harry found me at a crime scene, and he never told me the details. He said it was good that I couldn’t remember. I guess he was right. I don’t—”
He draws in a shuddering breath. “He scares me.”
“The little boy?”
Dexter nods. “I’m fucked up,” he whispers. “Rita, I’m so unbelievably fucked up—you should leave me. You should—”
“Hey,” Rita says firmly. Dexter keeps his eyes closed. “Whatever demons lay in your past, we’ll face them together. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Rita strokes his face. “I’m so grateful to you for opening up to me. Those first few months, we were both—distant, I think. And all this stuff that’s been happening could have driven us apart, but instead it’s brought us closer together. I’m starting to feel like we really know each other, you know? And it’s—I’m not glad that we’ve both been through so much lately, but I am glad to know—I’m glad—”
“This is the next level, isn’t it? It isn’t about sex. It’s about this.”
“Yeah.” Dexter finally opens his eyes, and looks into extraordinarily gentle ones. The boy in the blood screams again. “I’m glad, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Dexter realizes. “Yeah, I am.”
The next night, Rudy shows up at his apartment. Dexter blinks, and stands at the door, giving him a bland smile. “How may I help you, Rudy?”
“I want to get to know you better,” Rudy says, and Dexter tries and fails to hide a grimace. “I don’t want you to think of me as some looming menace who’s not good enough for Debra. I want to prove myself to you.”
Dexter tilts his head, considering this. “I brought beer and steaks,” Rudy says, and despite himself Dexter’s mouth twitches. Rudy looks beyond vindicated, like he just won a Nobel in medicine, and Dexter steps aside.
It’s more than any of Deb’s other boyfriends have done, and he feels himself relax even as Rudy unerringly tracks down his pans and knives. “Deb’s special, you know,” Dexter says. “There’s nobody else like her.”
“I know.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to protect her.”
“I picked up on that.”
“If you hurt her—”
“I won’t.” Rudy meets his eyes; his own are earnest, but there’s some inner core of emptiness that Dexter recognizes. “I really care about her.”
Right, Dexter thinks. He watches Rudy cook, and doesn’t say anything; the man works easily, expertly, and stays quiet too. When they’re sitting down, he says, “I saw on the news about that crime scene. A room full of blood. You must have loved it.”
“No,” Dexter says shortly. “I didn’t.”
For a second, Rudy looks almost devastated, and then his face is blank again. “Why not? A whole room full of blood? It must have felt like it was put there just for you.”
Dexter glares, but it’s too late; all he can see is that room, rivers upon rivers of blood. And then there’s a whirr, and a scream, and he’s not in his body anymore. The boy in the blood is screaming, Mommy! Mommy! and it’s everywhere, it’s up to his thighs, it’s in his mouth—
“Dexter! Dexter. Breathe. Just breathe.”
“Get the fuck away from me,” Dexter spits, and Rudy shakes his head. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“I’m a doctor, remember? That looked like some kind of flashback. Panic is normal after—”
“I’m not talking about this with you,” Dexter says, through gritted teeth. Rudy looks like he’s been slapped. “I need you to leave now.”
“It’s okay, Dexter. You’re safe with me.”
Dexter shakes his head. “I don’t know you, Rudy.”
“That’s how it works. You don’t know someone until you do. Why are you so determined to hate me? I just want to be a part of your life.”
“Why?”
“I care about you.”
“We’ve met once.”
“We spent an entire weekend dealing with your dad’s death.”
“My dad is alive,” Dexter snaps. Rudy gives him a somewhat pitying look. “Joseph Driscoll was just someone who donated some sperm.”
Rudy’s eyes grow harsh, and he pulls away. “That man was your father, Dexter. You should show him some respect.”
Dexter shakes himself and stands up. “Here. I can pack your food up for you.”
Rudy looks disappointed. “I’m going to figure out how to get you to let me in.”
“Deb’s had boyfriends before,” Dexter says. “And she’ll have boyfriends again.” He shakes his head. “You do seem serious about her.”
“I am.”
“If you so much as lay a finger on her, I’ll beat you to death with my bare hands,” Dexter says. Rudy looks utterly delighted.
He sees Rudy the next day when he comes by the station to pick up his cell phone. He doesn’t explain his work, and is cordial but not friendly as he hands over the phone, to Rudy’s obvious frustration.
His mood improves when Deb follows Rudy into the room after a minute, and he smiles at her, and she smiles back and then kisses Rudy, who seems almost irritated. “Debra. Hello.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Forgot my cell phone last night.”
“Did you two bond?”
“Yes,” Rudy says, at the same time Dexter says, “No.”
Rudy looks a little despairing. Deb raises her eyebrows. “Yeah,” she says. “Dexter’s a tough nut to crack. You just have to keep trying.”
“I intend to.”
Dexter glares at both of them, and Deb breaks out into peals of laughter and kisses Rudy again. “Why don’t we all go out for lunch?”
“You two go ahead,” Dexter says. “I still have work to do here.”
Deb rolls her eyes. “I’m going to make you two get along.”
“Don’t bet on it.”
Deb rolls her eyes harder. Rudy says, “Come on, Dex. I’m buying.”
“Have fun,” Dexter says firmly. “Bye.”
And they head out, Rudy glancing back at him as they depart.
That night, Angel gets stabbed. It feels like the whole station shows up to the hospital; Rita offers to come by, but agrees with him that it’s better not to disturb the kids. They wait for a long time, and then Harry emerges with news: Angel’s going to live.
It should probably make him feel something, but it doesn’t. He sticks around anyway after Harry gives him a significant look, letting people hug him in relief, catching Doakes’s eye over Ramos’s shoulder; the man looks like he can tell Dexter’s utterly empty inside, but he doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head in disgust.
He goes to Rita’s, after; she takes one look at him and cocks her head. “You’re not feeling this, are you?”
“No.”
“Do you think it’s because you’re overwhelmed? Shutting down?”
“That must be it.”
She doesn’t look like she quite believes it, but she doesn’t say anything else; he takes a shower, then joins her in bed, and she says, “You’re not shutting down, are you? You just don’t feel it.”
Dexter closes his eyes and nods, and she sighs. “I know you and Angel are friends.”
“I should be relieved,” Dexter whispers. “I know that. I know that’s what I’m supposed to feel. But I just… don’t.”
“Does that happen a lot?”
Dexter nods, eyes still closed. He can’t look at her face, can’t live with her disgust.
But when she speaks again, her voice is kind. “Harry taught you how to fake it?”
Dexter nods again. “And Deb.”
“I’m glad you have people around to support you,” Rita says, and Dexter opens his eyes. “It must be hard pretending all the time.”
“Yeah,” Dexter manages. “Yeah, it really is.”
The Ice-Truck Killer leaves them another dead body, this one haphazardly scattered amongst presents at a local outdoor mall. They find a VHS amongst the body parts; the woman is strung up, weeping, her tears streaming up. “You have to remember,” the woman says, her voice shaking. “Please. Please. You have to remember. Remember when we were born.”
There’s a beat, and then the killer steps forwards and slits her throat. “Turn that off,” Harry snaps, and someone does. “Let’s start getting the evidence back to the station.”
They go. Dexter does his own work, tracks down a bit of the attacker’s blood on Batista’s shirt from the mugging, then follows Deb into Harry’s office.
“That message was obviously for Dexter,” Debra says, and Harry nods. “But what is he talking about? Remember what?”
“It—it could have something to do with the flashbacks I’ve been having, I guess.”
All of Harry’s attention is suddenly on him. “You’ve been having flashbacks?”
“I—yeah. After the scene at the Marina View Hotel.”
“You had another one?” Deb asks. Harry looks startled, then fond. “The same thing?”
“There’s a boy up to his waist in blood,” Dexter says. “Screaming and wailing for his mother.”
Harry goes pale. “You—you remember?”
“Remember what?”
“I don’t know if I should—”
“Remember what, Dad?”
“Debra.” Harry cocks his head towards the door.
Deb crosses her arms over her chest. “He’ll just tell me what you say anyway.”
Harry glances at Dexter, seems to read the truth of this, sighs. “Sit down, both of you.”
They sit. Harry sighs again. “I found you in a shipping container when you were three,” Harry says. Dexter feels himself go deathly still. “Your mother was caught up with criminals. When they—they took all of you to that container, and they—they killed her in front of you. You were left there with her body for days, starving.”
“Jesus,” Deb says.
Dexter feels lightheaded. “It happened on October third,” Harry says. “That’s what the number 103 is about.” He sighs yet again. “He—I’m pretty sure I know who it is now.”
“What? Who?”
Harry takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want you to know,” he says. “I didn’t—he would have been bad for you, Dexter. Look at what he’s doing. That’s not someone who should—”
“Dad, what are you talking about?”
“There wasn’t one little boy in that shipping container,” Harry says. “There were two.” Dexter stares, uncomprehending, and Harry says, “You have a brother.”
He and Deb retreat to his apartment and let the freak-out come. By the end of it, they’re both exhausted, and Rita calls just as Dexter is collapsing into the couch. “Hello?”
“Dexter, hey. Are you coming over tonight?”
Dexter glances at Deb. “I’m not sure yet. We just got some news.”
“Bad news?”
“You could say that.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“I’m not sure.” Dexter draws in a sigh. “It’s more about—let’s talk about it tonight.”
“So you are coming over?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Rita sounds almost possessive, which is… interesting. Pleasant. “I’ll see you soon?”
“An hour, tops.”
“Okay.”
They hang up. Dexter glances at Deb, who’s got a hand over her face. “You’re not going to tell Rudy about this, are you?”
“Of course not. It’s sensitive information. I don’t want any leads on this getting out to that motherfucker.”
“I’m going to tell Rita.”
“You are?”
“We’ve been… talking, lately. Really talking. About all kinds of stuff. She knows ITK is stalking me. She knows I had behavioral issues growing up. We had a conversation about—she knows I don’t feel things normally, or when I should. She—”
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Debra says, and punches him hard on the arm. “Dexter! You are completely and totally in love with her! I’m so fucking proud of you!”
“I am?”
“Big time,” Debra says, grinning madly. “Thank you for telling me about that. I needed that.”
“You’re still not going to tell Rudy, right?”
“It’s none of his business,” Deb says. “I like him a lot, but it’s only been a month. I don’t know him that well. And he… well, I met him around the same time the Ice-Truck Killer started stalking us. I don’t—”
“Do you want to get his DNA? Fingerprints? We could run him for priors.”
“Maybe,” Deb says. “I’m surprised you didn’t run a background check on him.”
“Who says I didn’t?” Deb raises her eyebrows. Dexter shakes his head. “I wish I had thought of that.”
Deb laughs. “I don’t know. I’m torn. I don’t want to be the kind of person who suspects everyone who comes around.”
“He looks pretty similar to that sketch from the witness in Dade City. The one who died the next day.”
Deb’s protest is weak. “No, he doesn’t.”
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea to check him out,” Dexter says carefully. “You should go with your gut. And for what it’s worth, I don’t trust him.”
“Rudy is not the fucking Ice-Truck Killer,” Deb whispers, but she doesn’t sound sure. “After Christmas. Let’s deal with this after Christmas.”
Dexter appraises her, then sighs. “Okay.”
Christmas arrives, ushered in by nothing but quiet. Paul comes by in the morning bearing tote bags full of presents, which the kids seem to enjoy, and then that evening they all meet at Harry’s, him and Rita and the kids and Deb and Rudy. They all arrive around one to start cooking; Rudy and Rita do the bulk of it, Dexter mainly helping with prep. Deb and Dad hang out in the living room and watch Christmas movies with the kids.
It’s odd to be around Rudy after his meltdown, humiliating in some small, private way; he doesn’t want this strange man to know anything about him, especially not when he gets a glimpse into his sharp, cool eyes. Rudy keeps trying to connect with him, seeming more and more aggravated each time Dexter shuts him down.
Rita pulls him aside after the fourth such incident, putting her hand on his upper arm. “Why are you being so mean to Rudy? He obviously wants to get to know you.”
“I don’t trust him.”
Rita tilts her head. “Because he’s dating Debra?”
“Yes.” Dexter shrugs. “No. There’s something about him that… he seems like he’s pretending.” Like me. “I think he might be dangerous.”
“Oh.”
“I know I’ve told you some stuff about myself,” Dexter says. “But it isn’t… Dad and Deb are the only other people I’ve ever—I don’t trust people easily. And I don’t trust Rudy.”
“Okay,” Rita says. “Well, I trust your instincts.”
“You do?”
“Just try to be kind with him anyway,” Rita says. “It’s obvious he’s trying to connect with you.”
“Alright,” Dexter mutters, and they head back into the kitchen. “Hello, Rudy.”
“Hello, Dexter. Rita.”
“How did you get interested in medicine?” Dexter grinds out. Rita nods at him approvingly. Rudy looks startled, then a little amused. “Prosthetics?”
“My mom lost both her legs,” Rudy says. “When I was a kid. Car crash. I wanted to put her back together again.”
“Oh,” Dexter says, then, “Our mom had cancer when we were growing up. She died when I was nineteen. Deb was sixteen.”
Rudy’s whole face twitches. Rita glances over at Dexter, her eyes wide. But then he smooths out, and says, “I know. Deb told me. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Right.”
“Dexter,” Rita chides, but it’s weak.
They get back to cooking, and Dexter thinks about what Debra said the day they found out about his brother, about possibly being in love with Rita. Is that even an emotion he’s capable of? He’s certainly never felt it before now.
He does spend a lot of time thinking about Rita when she’s not around. He likes her body, her soft blonde hair, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she smiles; he likes the unexpected core of fire that’s emerged since they started dealing with Paul. He likes being around her. And he trusts her. He’d thought she’d run away when she glimpsed his inner darkness, but she’d been gentle with him instead. The more he tells her, the more intensely she seems to like him.
There are people in this world who are able to live with who he is. What else can he call that but a miracle?
Do I love you? he wonders, watching as Rita laughs at something Rudy’s said. At what point does a lack of feeling enter into it?
But of course he has feelings, and plenty of them. He’d thought he hadn’t, once upon a time; and then, when he was a teenager, he’d said something about it to Deb.
They’d gotten closer after he’d told her about Harry’s lessons; she had started demanding updates, and somehow the updates had turned into real conversations, into Dexter talking about his darkness in such detail that he felt sure she would run away at any second.
But she never did. Maybe a year into this, Dexter said something about how he didn’t have feelings, and Deb snorted. “What? I don’t.”
“Right,” Deb said sardonically. “You are such a guy. Of course you have feelings.”
“I do not!”
“You feel bloodlust. Rage. Indifference. You love me and Dad and Mom.”
“Well, I—”
“I’ve seen you disappointed and proud and scared and happy,” Deb said. “Of course you fucking have feelings, Dexter. It’s just that they hurt, so you don’t want to think about it. But I think you might have to, because this whole bottling-everything-up thing isn’t working.”
He’d huffed off at the time, but he’d carried her words with him, and begun, gradually, prodding at the open wound of his own emotions. He can at least identify them some of the time. It’s better than it had been; his feelings may be mostly bad, but at least he can tell they’re there.
That night, he sleeps at Rita’s. He does it almost every night now, except when he has fight club; but lately he’s been doing that one or two nights a week, not three or four. He’d rather be here.
Rita snuggles up to him, and he considers saying it: I love you. Would it please her? Or would it scare her away?
He opens his mouth, but the words won’t come, so he closes it again, sighing a little. “Good Christmas?”
“Wonderful,” Rita says, and yawns. “It was just wonderful.”
“Good.” Dexter strokes her shoulder. “Maybe we can make it a tradition.”
“I’d like that a lot.”
“Okay.” Dexter opens his mouth, and the words spill out. “Deb says I’m in love with you.”
Rita goes very still. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you agree?”
“I think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
“I’ve never been in love with anyone before. I don’t…” He closes his eyes. “Obviously I have feelings. But I’m not—I have a very difficult time identifying them. And understanding other people’s. I always have. They feel… it’s like I’m trying to look at them through curtains. All I get is vague shapes.”
“Oh,” Rita says, and Dexter wonders if this is it, if he’s finally said too much, if she’s going to ask him to leave. But instead she yawns again and noses at his shoulder. “Do you wish you were better at it?”
“Sometimes.”
“There are people who can help with that kind of thing,” Rita says, a little cautiously. “Therapists.”
“I don’t need therapy.”
“I’m not saying you do. But it can be a useful tool.”
Dexter stares up at the ceiling, considering this. “You think it could help?”
“If that’s something you want to work on. You seem to manage okay without it.” She makes a drowsy noise. “I’m definitely in love with you. I have been for months.”
“Oh.” It’s not hard to identify this feeling: he’s so pleased he’s hot and cold all over. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Oh,” Dexter says again. “Well, that’s—I’m definitely happy about that.”
Rita laughs softly, and kisses his shoulder. “Good.”
Deb approaches him three days after Christmas with Rudy’s hairbrush and his favorite mug, covered in fingerprints. “Run them,” she says shortly. “And do a background check.”
He does; Rudy Cooper, it turns out, was a plumber who died in 1998 under mysterious circumstances. He gets another hit, too: the DNA Deb has given him matches that of Angel’s attacker.
He goes to tell Deb at once, and she looks violently ill. “Are you—they could just have the same name.”
“He stole the guy’s Social.”
“Oh,” Deb says, and sits down hard. “Oh, shit, I’ve been—I brought him around Rita’s kids—”
“We need to tell Dad,” Dexter says. “There’s no chain of custody on this stuff. It isn’t admissible.”
“Right,” Deb says. “Right.” And they go to him.
Harry looks ill too. “This explains why he’s so obsessed with Dexter,” Debra says. “If he’s actually Brian Moser.”
“He does look like him,” Harry says. “We need to find a way to get a warrant. And we need to get you away from him, Debra.”
Dexter nods. “I can go with you to pick up your stuff.”
“He can fucking keep it! Shit!”
“Don’t actually break up with him yet,” Harry says. “Just tell him you’re busy with work and can’t see him. We don’t want him to get it in his head to retaliate, or do anything rash.”
“Okay,” Deb says, after a long pause. “But I don’t—”
“I’ll find a way to get that warrant before it becomes an issue,” Harry says. “Go on. I need to make some calls.”
They leave, Deb still shaking a little. Dad, being as he is a miracle worker of the highest order, gets the warrant by the end of the next day, and when they show up, Rudy looks mild. “How may I help you, officers?”
“It’s ‘Lieutenant,’” Harry says, and holds up the warrant. “Step aside.”
“What’s this about?”
“We have reason to believe you may be connected to the Ice-Truck killings,” Harry says. “Brian.”
Rudy’s face is blank for another few seconds, and then it twists, and his mask is gone, he’s cold and harsh and empty, a void where his soul ought to be. He gives Dexter a sardonic look. “Hello again, brother.”
Brian goes quietly to the station with them, though Dexter had kept expecting him to try a runner or attack someone; but he’s silent as a fucking stone the whole way, and silent in the interrogation room. At last, desperate, they send in Dexter.
When he enters the room, Brian gives him a look of open disgust. “Brother,” he says. “How disappointing you are.”
“It’s mutual.”
Brian laughs a short, harsh, bitter laugh. “You can’t know how much I was hoping you would be like me. But you’re squeaky fucking clean. The most exciting thing about you is that stupid fight club, and sometimes you lose.” He shakes his head, glaring over at Dexter venomously. “I thought I could get you to give in. I thought I could inspire you. But you’re so fucking entrenched in your playacting. So determined to pretend it’s possible for you to live a normal life. It isn’t, you know. You’ll always want blood.”
“I don’t want blood.”
“Now who’s lying, little brother?” Brian laughs. “All I wanted was to get to know you. I thought, ‘Okay. So this is who he is. He’s normal. I can work with that. I can try to be a part of his life anyway.’ But you wouldn’t even let me do that much. You wouldn’t let me in.” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you’re so attached to this fake family of yours. But it’s obvious you are. Do you love them?”
“Yes,” Dexter says quietly, after a long pause. “I love them.”
Brian makes an aggravated noise. “People like us aren’t capable of that! You’re fooling yourself!”
“I’m sorry about what happened to you,” Dexter says. “I’m sorry you grew up where you did, how you did, with the memory of what happened to Laura. But—”
“At least have the decency to call her ‘Mom.’”
“I’m sorry you had to live with the memory of what happened to our mother,” Dexter says, and thinks about everyone in the station watching this, hearing it, knowing what happened to him. There’s nothing to be done about it. “But all I knew was that I wasn’t normal. And Dad and Deb—”
“He isn’t your fucking dad!”
“I’m sorry,” Dexter says again. “But he is. I wish he could have been yours too.”
Brian sits back, defeated. “He didn’t take me too. He split us up.”
“I know.”
“I screamed for you every time I woke up,” Brian says. “For years. And you were never there.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Stop fucking apologizing! None of this is your fault! You didn’t do anything but fail to live up to my expectations.” He looks away. “I’m not stupid. I’ve seen you around Rita, around Deb, around Harry. You can’t fake that.” A sigh. “I know I should be glad it didn’t ruin you.”
“Of course it ruined me.”
“Look at you,” Brian says. “You have this perfect fucking life. Perfect fucking relationships with your sister and Harry and Rita and her kids. Perfect self-control, perfect job, perfect apartment with your perfect fucking—ugh!” He rattles the handcuffs against the table and lets out an animalistic howl. “You’re fucking perfect! It isn’t fucking fair! I hate you, I hate you, I fucking hate you! Why can’t you just let me in?”
And he hiccups, and abruptly tears are streaming down his face, a wild torrent, snot running out of his nose, his eyes squeezed shut. Dexter stands, and goes to him, and Brian sobs into his side, uninhibited, unrestrained. “I hate you—I hate you—why did you have to be so fucking normal—”
“Sorry,” Dexter says again, and Brian sobs harder. “I’m sorry, Brian.”
“All I wanted was for you to love me,” Brian wails. “And I couldn’t even manage that.”
“Well, leaving a dead body in my apartment and throwing severed heads at me generally isn’t the best way to go about that.”
“You’d never have trusted me no matter what I did,” Brian whispers into his stomach. “You could tell what I was. Because you’re not like me. You’re good.”
“Of course I’m like you.”
“No,” Brian says. “You aren’t.” He pulls away. “I want my lawyer now.”
“If you cooperate with us, we can—”
“I’m not saying another word without my lawyer,” Brian says, and from that point on he’s silent as slack tide.
He goes to Rita’s that night, where the court supervisor is watching Paul play with the kids on the floor of the living room. She takes one look at him and drags him into the kitchen and gives him an inquisitive look, and he says in a low voice, “They arrested Rudy for the Ice-Truck killings.”
“Oh,” Rita says, her eyes wide. “He’s—he’s your brother? Brian?”
“Yeah.” Dexter looks away. “Harry split us up. He could have taken both of us, and he didn’t. He let Brian grow up alone in a mental hospital in Tampa.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t understand why he would do that,” Dexter says. “I’ve always—but he just—I didn’t think Harry did things like that.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” Dexter shakes his head. “He is my dad. I know he loves me. But he did a lot of fucked-up shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to—to trust him the same way again.”
“Yeah.”
“And poor Brian—all he wanted was to make friends with me.”
“And to kill people.”
Dexter looks away. “I understand how he got that way. And why—I’d be killing people right now if it weren’t for Deb.”
“What?”
Dexter glances over at the kids, lowers his voice. “It’s a long story. But I—I can’t say I don’t understand his bloodlust, even if I’d never act on it the way he did.”
“Will you tell me the story?”
“Yeah. Later.”
“Okay.” Rita reaches out and touches his arm. “I’m sorry all this happened.”
“Me too.” Dexter runs a hand over his face. “I think I’ll keep visiting him. In prison. Maybe now that—I knew he was hiding something, so I didn’t trust him. But now that I know for sure I can’t trust him—maybe I can build some kind of relationship with him anyway now that the truth is out.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“It is?”
“Yes.” Rita kisses him. “You’re a good man, Dexter Morgan, for all that you have demons. I love you anyway.”
“Oh,” Dexter says, then, “Me too.”
Rita kisses him again. “Ms. Bennet,” the court supervisor calls, and Rita pulls away. “That’s my time.”
“Thank you, Betty,” Rita says, and takes Dexter’s hand and tugs him into the living room. “New year tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Paul says. He hugs both his kids and stands. “Rita, can I talk to you for a second?”
“Yeah.”
Rita leads him into the kitchen. Dexter sits down on the floor with the kids. “You guys ready for 2007?”
“Yeah!” Cody says. “I’ll be eight!”
“A very good age,” Dexter says, smiling at him. The smile, for once, doesn’t feel fake, and he thinks of Brian: No. You’re not. “I love you guys, you know that, right?”
“We know,” Astor says. “We love you, too.”
On New Year’s Day, Deb comes over. Dad is still busy with ITK, but Deb’s been forced to recuse herself, so she accepts the invitation to come by Rita’s with good cheer. Paul comes too, and all six of them eat black-eyed peas and collard greens and cornbread and talk about the upcoming year, what could happen, what they hope for, what they dream of. Astor resolves to get straight A’s; Cody resolves to spend more time reading. Dexter resolves not to kill anyone, like he does every year, though only in the privacy of his own head. Aloud, he says, “I resolve to be around for my family as much as I can.”
Rita gives him a soft look. Paul says, “I’ll second that.” Deb claps him on the back. Dexter doesn’t bring up Brian, though he wants to.
He goes by the station later, finding Harry in his office. “You lied to me,” he says, and Harry looks away. “Over and over, you lied to me.”
“Yeah,” Harry says. “I did.”
“Are you sorry?”
“Yeah,” Harry says. “I am.”
Dexter wants to stay mad, but he doesn’t have it in him. He sits down instead. “Is there anything else?”
Harry’s still looking away. “There are… things,” he says. “That you don’t know about me. That might hurt if they came to light. But they aren’t about you. They’re mistakes I made, on my own time. I don’t think you need to know.”
“I don’t keep secrets from you.”
“Sometimes you do.”
Dexter looks away too. “There’s nothing else that could hurt us the way all this did?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Dexter shakes his head. “You’re… you’re as entitled to your privacy as any of us.”
“Thank you, Dexter.”
“I told Rita I love her. And the kids.”
Harry’s mouth falls open. “What?”
“I told her all kinds of stuff,” Dexter says. “About all this. About me. About my darkness. And she hasn’t run away.”
Harry shakes his head. “I’m sorry I tried to tell you not to trust anyone,” he says. “When you were growing up. I was wrong.”
“Yeah.” Dexter looks down. “She thinks therapy could help me.”
“You’re open to that?”
“Why not?”
“My God,” Harry says blankly, and Dexter meets his eyes again. “My God, Dex, I could have—you would have—if I had—”
“I worshiped you,” Dexter says. “I would have done anything you told me to.”
“Oh.”
“I think I do love them, Dad.”
“That’s wonderful, Dexter. It’s wonderful. I’m—I’m so glad you’re capable of that.”
“Me too,” Dexter says. He shakes his head. “I’m gonna go visit Brian.”
“Okay.”
“I’m sorry you felt the need to lie about all that stuff. But I understand why you did.”
“Thank you, Dexter.” Harry has a look on his face that Dexter can’t even begin to interpret. “Go on. Go see your brother.”
Dexter goes. Brian is curled up in a ball against the wall when he arrives, but he unfurls when he sees him. “Dexter? You—you’re here.”
His tone is reverent. Dexter nods. “You’re going to be in prison for the rest of your life,” he says. “Plenty of time for us to get to know each other.”
“Oh.” Brian gives him a tortured look. “You’re willing to do that?”
“You’re my brother.”
“Do you remember anything about me? Anything at all?”
“No.”
Brian leans back against the wall again. “I remember you,” he says. “I can tell you about us, if you want.”
“I’d like that.”
Brian’s smile is tentative, but it does seem almost genuine. “I remember the day you were born,” he says. “It was a home birth. I was only three, but I knew…”
Deb comes by on one of Dexter’s rare nights at his apartment, a few hours before he sets out for fight club. “Hey, fuckwad. Wanna watch Schramm?”
Halfway through the movie, she clicks pause. “How are you feeling? About everything that’s happened? Weird now that it’s over.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Well, I don’t feel great about having dated him,” Deb says. “‘Pretty fucking stupid’ would be more accurate. I was at his place the night he killed Monique, you know. I let him give me a Valium.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“I should have.”
“He was targeting us. It wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah.” Deb sighs. “You’ve got your fight club tonight, right? Told Rita about it yet?”
“Not yet.”
“But you will.”
“Yeah.” Dexter smiles a little. “I started telling her about—about the way I—I started with killing the neighbor’s dog. And what happened with Banjo, and telling you.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Me too.” Dexter sighs. “She’s taking it pretty well. I don’t think—I’m not sure I could scare her away.”
“Knew she was perfect for you.” Deb grins. “I met her, and I just fucking knew it.”
“You were right.”
“Now that’s what I like to hear.” Deb’s grin widens, and she shoves his side. “Roll ‘em.”
Dexter—as always—obeys.