Dearly Devoted Dexter (Dexter, #2)

by Jeff Lindsay

And the hideous inhuman monsters in question retired to the south of France, while the rest of the world boycotted restaurants for mistreating chickens.

There is a natural human reluctance to abandon an entire life and start over somewhere else.

“I didn't notice that,” Deborah said with a frown. “You were busy blushing,” I said. She blushed again, which I thought was a little redundant.

Your heart is pretty much in the right place, Dex,” he said, and with that he collapsed into a truly epic fit of coughing.

It was clear that neither logic nor completely justified irritation was going to do any good, so I opened the door and got out, but I couldn't resist a parting shot. I leaned in Deborah's window and said, “I hope I live to regret this.” And very obligingly, the thunder rumbled again nearby.

He looked natural and unrushed, and had obviously had a lot of experience at either chicanery or skulduggery, depending on which word was better suited for describing officially sanctioned mischief.

“He's engaged,” Deborah said before I could speak. Vince looked at her like she had said I was pregnant.

“Ten-four,” Doakes said, and Deborah glanced at me. “I didn't say anything,” I said. “You thought the hell out of it,” she said.

In any case, I had no time to waste on deciphering human behavior. “Thank you very much,” I said as I tried to undrape Camilla without causing any serious injuries to either of us. She had locked her hands around my neck and I pried at them, but she clung like a barnacle.

“Is that really a good idea?” I asked. He tilted his head at Vince's conga line, which was collapsing in a heap of spastic hilarity. “Is that?” he said. And of course he had a point, although in terms of sheer lethal pain and terror a conga line on the floor couldn't really compete with Dr. Danco. Still, I suppose one has to consider human dignity, if it truly exists somewhere.

I thought about getting out and looking for some kind of clue, until I realized how silly that was. Did I think I was Tonto, faithful Indian guide? I couldn't look at a bent twig and tell how many white men had been past in the last hour.

His hair had not grown back in the last hour, but he had at least changed out of the orange coverall and into a white terry-cloth robe and he was lying there in the middle of the bed shaved, shaking, and sweating heavily with a half-empty bottle of Skyy Vodka lying beside him. Deborah didn't even slow down at the door. She charged right over to the bed and sat beside him, taking his only hand in her only hand. Love among the ruins.

In two nights I would turn loose the Passenger at last, slide into my true self, and fling the sweat-stained costume of Dearly Devoted Dexter into the garbage heap.

“The gods of the forest have smiled upon us,” I said. “Cream-filled or raspberry jelly?”