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Darkly dreaming Dexter :: Lindsay Jeffry P.
Страница: 63 из 160I know who youare and where you are, and all you know about me is that I am watching. I see you.
That felt right. Why didn't it make me feel better?
Further, how much of this should I tell poor dear Deborah? This was becoming so intensely personal that it was a struggle to remember that there was a public side to it, a side that was important to my sister and her career. I could not begin to tell her-or anyone-that I thought the killer was trying to tell me something, if I had the wit to hear and reply. But the rest-was there something I needed to tell her, and did I actually want to?
It was too much. I needed sleep before I could sort all this out.
I did not quite whimper as I crawled into my bed, but it was a very near thing. I allowed sleep to roll over me quickly, just letting go into the darkness. And I got nearly two and a half full hours of sleep before the telephone rang.
“It's me,” said the voice on the other end.
“Of course it is,” I said. “Deborah, wasn't it?” And of course it was.
“I found the refrigerated truck.”
“Well, congratulations, Deb. That's very good news.”
There was a rather long silence on the other end.
“Deb?” I said finally. “That is good news, isn't it?”
“No,” she said.
“Oh.” I felt the need for sleep thumping my head like carpet beaters on a prayer rug, but I tried to concentrate. “Um, Deb-what did you… what happened?”
“I made the match,” she said. “Made absolutely certain. Pictures and part numbers and everything. So I told LaGuerta like a good scout.”
“And she didn't believe you?” I asked incredulously.
“She probably did.”
I tried to blink, but my eyes wanted to stick shut so I gave it up. “I'm sorry, Deb, one of us isn't making much sense. Is it me?”
“I tried to explain it to her,” Deborah said in a very small, very tired voice that gave me a terrible feeling of sinking under the waves without a bailing bucket. “I gave her the whole thing. I was even polite.”
“That's very good,” I said. “What did she say?”
“Nothing,” Deb said.
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing at all,” Deb repeated. “Except she just says thanks, in a kind of way like you'd say it to the valet parking attendant. And she gives me this funny little smile and turns away.”
“Well, but Deb,” I said, “you can't really expect her to-”
“And then I found out why she smiled like that,” Deb said.
That felt right. Why didn't it make me feel better?
Further, how much of this should I tell poor dear Deborah? This was becoming so intensely personal that it was a struggle to remember that there was a public side to it, a side that was important to my sister and her career. I could not begin to tell her-or anyone-that I thought the killer was trying to tell me something, if I had the wit to hear and reply. But the rest-was there something I needed to tell her, and did I actually want to?
It was too much. I needed sleep before I could sort all this out.
I did not quite whimper as I crawled into my bed, but it was a very near thing. I allowed sleep to roll over me quickly, just letting go into the darkness. And I got nearly two and a half full hours of sleep before the telephone rang.
“It's me,” said the voice on the other end.
“Of course it is,” I said. “Deborah, wasn't it?” And of course it was.
“I found the refrigerated truck.”
“Well, congratulations, Deb. That's very good news.”
There was a rather long silence on the other end.
“Deb?” I said finally. “That is good news, isn't it?”
“No,” she said.
“Oh.” I felt the need for sleep thumping my head like carpet beaters on a prayer rug, but I tried to concentrate. “Um, Deb-what did you… what happened?”
“I made the match,” she said. “Made absolutely certain. Pictures and part numbers and everything. So I told LaGuerta like a good scout.”
“And she didn't believe you?” I asked incredulously.
“She probably did.”
I tried to blink, but my eyes wanted to stick shut so I gave it up. “I'm sorry, Deb, one of us isn't making much sense. Is it me?”
“I tried to explain it to her,” Deborah said in a very small, very tired voice that gave me a terrible feeling of sinking under the waves without a bailing bucket. “I gave her the whole thing. I was even polite.”
“That's very good,” I said. “What did she say?”
“Nothing,” Deb said.
“Nothing at all?”
“Nothing at all,” Deb repeated. “Except she just says thanks, in a kind of way like you'd say it to the valet parking attendant. And she gives me this funny little smile and turns away.”
“Well, but Deb,” I said, “you can't really expect her to-”
“And then I found out why she smiled like that,” Deb said.