JК
Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
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I thought of the neatly stacked body parts, the variety of the cuts, the wonderful total lack of blood. “Not too soon,” I said.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“I said, I don't think it will be too soon. The killer is extremely clever, and the detective in charge of the case is more interested in playing politics than in solving murders.”
She looked at me to see if I was kidding. Then she sat quietly for a while as we drove south on U.S. 1. She didn't speak until South Miami. “I can never get used to seeing… I don't know. The underside? The way things really are? The way you see it,” she finally said.
She took me by surprise. I had been using the silence to think about the nicely stacked body parts we had just left. My mind had been hungrily circling the clean dry chopped-up limbs like an eagle looking for a chunk of meat to rip out. Rita's observation was so unexpected I couldn't even stutter for a minute. “What do you mean?” I managed to say at last.
She frowned. “I-I'm not sure. Just- We all assume that… things … really are a certain way. The way they're supposed to be? And then they never are, they're always more… I don't know. Darker? More human. Like this. I'm thinking, of course the detective wants to catch the killer, isn't that what detectives do? And it never occurred to me before that there could be anything at all political about murder.”
“Practically everything,” I said. I turned onto her street and slowed down in front of her neat and unremarkable house.
“But you,” she said. She didn't seem to notice where we were or what I had said. “That's where you start. Most people would never really think it through that far.”
“I'm not all that deep, Rita,” I said. I nudged the car into park.
“It's like, everything really is two ways, the way we all pretend it is and the way it really is. And you already know that and it's like a game for you.”
I had no idea what she was trying to say. In truth, I had given up trying to figure it out and, as she spoke, I'd let my mind wander back to the newest murder; the cleanness of the flesh, the improvisational quality of the cuts, the complete dry spotless immaculate lack of blood-
“Dexter-” Rita said. She put a hand on my arm.
I kissed her.
I don't know which one of us was more surprised. It really wasn't something I had thought about doing ahead of time. And it certainly wasn't her perfume. But I mashed my lips against hers and held them there for a long moment.
She pushed away.
“No,” she said. “I- No, Dexter.
I thought of the neatly stacked body parts, the variety of the cuts, the wonderful total lack of blood. “Not too soon,” I said.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“I said, I don't think it will be too soon. The killer is extremely clever, and the detective in charge of the case is more interested in playing politics than in solving murders.”
She looked at me to see if I was kidding. Then she sat quietly for a while as we drove south on U.S. 1. She didn't speak until South Miami. “I can never get used to seeing… I don't know. The underside? The way things really are? The way you see it,” she finally said.
She took me by surprise. I had been using the silence to think about the nicely stacked body parts we had just left. My mind had been hungrily circling the clean dry chopped-up limbs like an eagle looking for a chunk of meat to rip out. Rita's observation was so unexpected I couldn't even stutter for a minute. “What do you mean?” I managed to say at last.
She frowned. “I-I'm not sure. Just- We all assume that… things … really are a certain way. The way they're supposed to be? And then they never are, they're always more… I don't know. Darker? More human. Like this. I'm thinking, of course the detective wants to catch the killer, isn't that what detectives do? And it never occurred to me before that there could be anything at all political about murder.”
“Practically everything,” I said. I turned onto her street and slowed down in front of her neat and unremarkable house.
“But you,” she said. She didn't seem to notice where we were or what I had said. “That's where you start. Most people would never really think it through that far.”
“I'm not all that deep, Rita,” I said. I nudged the car into park.
“It's like, everything really is two ways, the way we all pretend it is and the way it really is. And you already know that and it's like a game for you.”
I had no idea what she was trying to say. In truth, I had given up trying to figure it out and, as she spoke, I'd let my mind wander back to the newest murder; the cleanness of the flesh, the improvisational quality of the cuts, the complete dry spotless immaculate lack of blood-
“Dexter-” Rita said. She put a hand on my arm.
I kissed her.
I don't know which one of us was more surprised. It really wasn't something I had thought about doing ahead of time. And it certainly wasn't her perfume. But I mashed my lips against hers and held them there for a long moment.
She pushed away.
“No,” she said. “I- No, Dexter.