“Just some random lunatic,” I said, with more reassurance in my voice than I actually felt. “Some people get off on scaring people they don’t even know.”
Cody frowned. “Same guy,” he said. “From the hospital.”
“You can’t know that,” I said.
“Can,” he said.
“It’s just a coincidence. Two different crazy people,” I told him.
“Same,” he said dismissively.
“Cody,” I said. But I could feel the adrenaline draining out of me and I really didn’t want an argument, so I let it go at that. He would learn as he grew that the greater Miami area was filled with a varied and impressive collection of wackos and predators, and many that were half of each. There was no way to know why someone had followed us, and it didn’t really matter. Whoever it was, they were gone now.
Just to play it safe I continued to drive on the side streets all the way home, in case our follower was watching the highway. Besides, with the sun going down it was easier to see somebody behind us in darker house-lined streets, away from the bright orange glow of the lights along US 1. And there was nobody to see; once or twice headlights flared in the rearview mirror, and each time it was simply a homeward-bound commuter, turning down his own street and parking in his driveway.
We came finally to the cross street that took us to our own little bungalow. I turned onto it and edged up to US 1 carefully, looking in all directions. There was nothing to see but traffic, and none of it looked sinister, and when the light finally changed to green I crossed the highway and drove through the two more turns that took us to our street.
“All right,” I said, as our little patch of heaven heaved into sight. “Let’s not say anything about this to your mom. She’ll just worry. Okay?”
“Dexter,” Astor said, and she leaned forward against the back of the front seat, pointing ahead to our house. I slid my gaze along her outstretched arm and hit the brakes hard enough to rattle my teeth.
A small red car was parked directly in front of the house, nose pointed at us. The lights were on and the motor was running and I could not see inside it, but I did not need to see in order to feel the rapid beat of dark leathery wings and the angry hiss of a wide-awake Passenger.
“Stay here, doors locked,” I told the kids, and I handed Astor my cell phone. “If anything happens call nine-one-one.”
“Can I drive away if you’re dead?” Astor said.
“Just stay here,” I said, and I took a deep breath, gathering the darkness—
“I can drive,” Astor said, unsnapping her seat belt and lurching forward.
“Astor,” I said sharply, and there was an echo of the other voice, the cold commander, in my own. “Stay put,” I said, and she settled back into her own seat almost meekly.
I got out slowly and faced the other car. There was no way to see inside, and no sign of anything dangerous; just a small red car with the lights on and the engine running. I felt the equivalent of a long drumroll from the Passenger—ready for action but no hint of what; it could be flaming chain saws; it could be a pie in the face.
I stepped toward the car, trying to plan what to do, which was impossible because I did not know what they wanted, or even who they were. It was no longer believable that it was merely a random crazy—not if he knew where I lived. But who was it? Who had any reason to act like this? Among the living, I mean, because there were plenty of former victims who might have loved to come after me, but they were all far beyond any sort of action at all, other than decomposition.
I walked forward trying to be ready for everything, another impossibility. Still no sign of life in the other car, and nothing at all from the Passenger except a puzzled and cautious flutter of wings.
And when I was about ten feet away the driver’s window slithered down and I stopped in my tracks. For a long moment nothing happened, and then a face came out the window, a familiar face, wearing a bright fake smile.
“Wasn’t that fun?” the face said. “When were you going to tell me I’m an uncle?”
It was my brother, Brian.
NINE
I HAD NOT SEEN MY BROTHER SINCE THAT MEMORABLE evening several years earlier when we had met, for the first time as adults, in a storage container at Port of Miami, and he had offered me a knife so I could assist him in the vivisection of his chosen playmate. As it had happened, I had not been able to bring myself to do so, odd as it sounds. That may be because he had chosen Deborah, and Harry’s long-dead hand had squeezed my hypothetical soul so strongly I was unable to hurt her—even though she was not my blood relation, and Brian was.
In fact, he was my only biological relative, as far as I knew, although considering the little I had uncovered about our round-heeled mother, anything was possible. For all I knew, I could have a dozen half brothers and sisters living in a trailer park in Immokalee. At any rate, far more important than the bond of blood we shared was—well, another kind of bond of blood altogether. Because Brian had been forged in the selfsame fire that had turned me into Dexter the Dark, and it had also given him an inarguable need to slice and dice. Unfortunately, he had grown to maturity without the restraints of Harry’s guiding Code, and he was very happy to practice his art on anyone, provided they were youngish and female. He had been working his way through a string of Miami prostitutes when our paths had first crossed.
The last time I had seen him, he had been staggering off into the night with a bullet in his side, the only head start I could give him, considering that Deborah was there and somewhat anxious to speak with him in an official capacity. Apparently he’d found medical attention, because he looked quite healthy now; a little older, of course, but he still looked a lot like me. He was very close to my height and build, and even his features looked like a crude and battered imitation of my own, and the bright empty mockery I remembered was in his eyes as he looked up at me from his little red car.
“Did you get my flowers?” he asked, and I nodded, moving forward.
“Brian,” I said, leaning onto the car. “You look good.”
“As do you, dear brother,” he said, still smiling. He reached out and patted my stomach. “I believe you’ve put on a little weight—your wife must be a good cook.”