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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 152 из 160” His voice here was grating, horrible; he said that awful word, blood , just the way I would have said it,with contemptuous and utter loathing. “According to the police reports, there were several men here, too. Probably three or four. One or more of them may well have been our father. Of course, the chain saw made identification very difficult. But they are fairly sure there was only one woman. Our dear old mother. You were three years old. I was four.”
“But,” I said. Nothing else came out.
“Quite true,” Brian told me. “And you were very hard to find, too. They are so fussy with adoption records in this state. But I did find you, little brother. I did, didn't I?” Once again he patted my hand, a strange gesture I had never seen from anyone in my life. Of course, I had never before seen a flesh-and-blood sibling, either. Perhaps hand-patting was something I should practice with my brother, or with Deborah-and I realized with a small flutter of concern that I had forgotten all about Deborah.
I looked over at her, some six feet away, all neatly taped into place.
“She's fine,” my brother said. “I didn't want to begin without you.”
It may seem a very strange thing for my first coherent question, but I asked him, “How did you know I would want to?” Which perhaps made it sound as though I truly did want to-and of course I didn't really want to explore Deborah. Certainly not. And yet-here was my big brother, wanting to play, surely a rare enough opportunity. More than our ties of mutual parent, far more, was the fact that he was like me. “You couldn't really know,” I said, sounding far more uncertain than I would have thought possible.
“I didn't know,” he said. “But I thought there was a very good chance. The same thing happened to both of us.” His smile broadened and he lifted a forefinger into the air. “The Traumatic Event-you know that term? Have you done any reading on monsters like us?”
“Yes,” I said. “And Harry-my foster father-but he would never say exactly what had happened.”
Brian waved a hand around at the interior of the little box. “This happened, little brother. The chain saw, the flying body parts, the… blood -” With that same fearful emphasis again. “Two and a half days of sitting in the stuff. A wonder we survived at all, isn't it? Almost enough to make you believe in God.” His eyes glittered and, for some reason or other, Deborah squirmed and made a muffled noise. He ignored her. “They thought you were young enough to recover. I was just a bit over the age limit. But we both suffered a classic Traumatic Event. All the literature agrees.
“But,” I said. Nothing else came out.
“Quite true,” Brian told me. “And you were very hard to find, too. They are so fussy with adoption records in this state. But I did find you, little brother. I did, didn't I?” Once again he patted my hand, a strange gesture I had never seen from anyone in my life. Of course, I had never before seen a flesh-and-blood sibling, either. Perhaps hand-patting was something I should practice with my brother, or with Deborah-and I realized with a small flutter of concern that I had forgotten all about Deborah.
I looked over at her, some six feet away, all neatly taped into place.
“She's fine,” my brother said. “I didn't want to begin without you.”
It may seem a very strange thing for my first coherent question, but I asked him, “How did you know I would want to?” Which perhaps made it sound as though I truly did want to-and of course I didn't really want to explore Deborah. Certainly not. And yet-here was my big brother, wanting to play, surely a rare enough opportunity. More than our ties of mutual parent, far more, was the fact that he was like me. “You couldn't really know,” I said, sounding far more uncertain than I would have thought possible.
“I didn't know,” he said. “But I thought there was a very good chance. The same thing happened to both of us.” His smile broadened and he lifted a forefinger into the air. “The Traumatic Event-you know that term? Have you done any reading on monsters like us?”
“Yes,” I said. “And Harry-my foster father-but he would never say exactly what had happened.”
Brian waved a hand around at the interior of the little box. “This happened, little brother. The chain saw, the flying body parts, the… blood -” With that same fearful emphasis again. “Two and a half days of sitting in the stuff. A wonder we survived at all, isn't it? Almost enough to make you believe in God.” His eyes glittered and, for some reason or other, Deborah squirmed and made a muffled noise. He ignored her. “They thought you were young enough to recover. I was just a bit over the age limit. But we both suffered a classic Traumatic Event. All the literature agrees.