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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 4 из 160“Be good,” I said,“and you will live longer.”
He took a deep breath. I could hear the air rip at his throat. He coughed and breathed again. But he sat still and did not try to escape.
This was very good.
We drove. Father Donovan followed my directions, no tricks, no hesitations. We drove south through Florida City and took the Card Sound Road. I could tell that road made him nervous, but he did not object. He did not try to speak to me. He kept both hands on the wheel, pale and knotted tight, so the knuckles stood up. That was very good, too.
We drove south for another five minutes with no sound but the song of the tires and the wind and the great moon above making its mighty music in my veins, and the careful watcher laughing quietly in the rush of the night's hard pulse.
“Turn here,” I said at last.
The priest's eyes flew to mine in the mirror. The panic was trying to claw out of his eyes, down his face, into his mouth to speak, but-
“Turn!” I said, and he turned. Slumped like he had been expecting this all along, waiting for it forever, and he turned.
The small dirt road was barely visible. You almost had to know it was there. But I knew. I had been there before. The road ran for two and a half miles, twisting three times, through the saw grass, through the trees, alongside a small canal, deep into the swamp and into a clearing.
Fifty years ago somebody had built a house. Most of it was still there. It was large for what it was. Three rooms, half a roof still left, the place completely abandoned now for many years.
Except the old vegetable garden out in the side yard. There were signs that somebody had been digging there fairly recently.
“Stop the car,” I said as the headlights picked up the crumbling house.
Father Donovan lurched to obey. Fear had sealed him into his body now, his limbs and thoughts all rigid.
“Turn off the motor,” I told him, and he did.
It was suddenly very quiet.
Some small something chittered in a tree. The wind rattled the grass. And then more quiet, silence so deep it almost drowned out the roar of the night music that pounded away in my secret self.
“Get out,” I said.
Father Donovan did not move. His eyes were on the vegetable garden.
Seven small mounds of earth were visible there. The heaped soil looked very dark in the moonlight. It must have looked even darker to Father Donovan. And still he did not move.
He took a deep breath. I could hear the air rip at his throat. He coughed and breathed again. But he sat still and did not try to escape.
This was very good.
We drove. Father Donovan followed my directions, no tricks, no hesitations. We drove south through Florida City and took the Card Sound Road. I could tell that road made him nervous, but he did not object. He did not try to speak to me. He kept both hands on the wheel, pale and knotted tight, so the knuckles stood up. That was very good, too.
We drove south for another five minutes with no sound but the song of the tires and the wind and the great moon above making its mighty music in my veins, and the careful watcher laughing quietly in the rush of the night's hard pulse.
“Turn here,” I said at last.
The priest's eyes flew to mine in the mirror. The panic was trying to claw out of his eyes, down his face, into his mouth to speak, but-
“Turn!” I said, and he turned. Slumped like he had been expecting this all along, waiting for it forever, and he turned.
The small dirt road was barely visible. You almost had to know it was there. But I knew. I had been there before. The road ran for two and a half miles, twisting three times, through the saw grass, through the trees, alongside a small canal, deep into the swamp and into a clearing.
Fifty years ago somebody had built a house. Most of it was still there. It was large for what it was. Three rooms, half a roof still left, the place completely abandoned now for many years.
Except the old vegetable garden out in the side yard. There were signs that somebody had been digging there fairly recently.
“Stop the car,” I said as the headlights picked up the crumbling house.
Father Donovan lurched to obey. Fear had sealed him into his body now, his limbs and thoughts all rigid.
“Turn off the motor,” I told him, and he did.
It was suddenly very quiet.
Some small something chittered in a tree. The wind rattled the grass. And then more quiet, silence so deep it almost drowned out the roar of the night music that pounded away in my secret self.
“Get out,” I said.
Father Donovan did not move. His eyes were on the vegetable garden.
Seven small mounds of earth were visible there. The heaped soil looked very dark in the moonlight. It must have looked even darker to Father Donovan. And still he did not move.