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left me, and now my sister and my wits had apparently fled, too. All the rats were swimming away as the good
ship Dexter slid slowly under the waves.
I took a deep breath and tried to organize the crew to bail out a little. Deborah was the only person on earth
who knew what I really was, and even though she was still getting used to the idea, I had thought she
understood the very careful boundaries set up by Harry, and understood, too, that I would never cross them.
Apparently I was wrong. "Deborah," I said. "Why would I-"
"Cut the crap," she snapped. "We both know you could have done it. You were here at the right time. And you
have a pretty good motive, to get out of paying him like fifty grand. It's either that or I believe some guy in jail
did it."
Because I am an artificial human, I am also extremely clearheaded most of the time, uncluttered by emotions.
But I felt as if I was trying to see through quicksand. On the one hand, I was surprised and a little disappointed
that she thought I might have done something this sloppy. On the other hand, I wanted to reassure her that I
hadn't. And I wanted to say that if I had done this, she would never have found out about it, but that didn't seem
quite diplomatic. So I took another deep breath and settled for, "I promise."
My sister looked at me long and hard. "Really," I said.
She finally nodded. "All right," she said. "You better be telling me the truth."
"I am," I said. "I didn't do this."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Then who did?"
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It really isn't fair, is it? I mean, this whole life thing. Here I was, still defending myself from an accusation of
murder-from my own foster flesh and blood!-and at the same time being asked to solve the crime. I had to
admire the mental agility that allowed Deborah to perform that kind of cerebral tumbling act, but I also had to
wish she would direct her creative thinking at somebody else.
"I don't know who did this," I said. "And I don't-I'm not getting any, um, ideas about it."
She stared at me very hard indeed. "Why should I believe that, either?" she said.
"Deborah," I said, and I hesitated. Was this the time to tell her about the Dark Passenger and its present
absence? There was a very uncomfortable series of sensations sloshing through me, somewhat like the onset of
the flu. Could these be emotions, pounding at the defenseless coastline of Dexter, like huge tidal waves of toxic
sludge? If so, it was no wonder humans were such miserable creatures. This was an awful experience.
"Listen, Deborah," I said again, trying to think of a way to start.
"I am listening, for Christ's sake," she said. "But you're not saying anything."
"It's hard to say," I said. "I've never said it before."
"This would be a great time to start."
"I, uh-I have this thing inside me," I said, aware that I sounded like a complete idiot and feeling a strange heat
rising into my cheeks.
"What do you mean," she demanded. "You've got cancer?"
"No, no, it's-I hear, um-It tells me things," I said. For some reason I had to look away from Deborah. There was
a photograph of a naked man's torso on the wall; I looked back to Deborah.
"Jesus," she said. "You mean you hear voices? Jesus Christ, Dex."
"No," I said. "It's not like hearing voices. Not exactly."
"Well then what the fuck?" she said.
I had to look at the naked torso again, and then blow out a large breath before I could look back at Deborah.
"When I get one of my hunches about, you know. At a crime scene," I said. "It's because this& thing is telling
me." Deborah's face was frozen over, completely immobile, as if she was listening to a confession of terrible
deeds; which she was, of course.
"So it tells you, what?" she said. "Hey, somebody who thinks he's Batman did this."
"Kind of," I said. "Just, you know. The little hints I used to get."
"Used to get," she said.
I really had to look away again. "It's gone, Deborah," I said. "Something about all this Moloch stuff scared it
away. That's never happened before."
She didn't say anything for a long time, and I saw no reason to say it for her.
"Did you ever tell Dad about this voice?" she said at last.
"I didn't have to," I said. "He already knew."
"And now your voices are gone," she said.
"Just one voice."
"And that's why you're not telling me anything about all this."
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"Yes."
Deborah ground her teeth together loud enough for me to hear them. Then she released a large breath without
unlocking her jaw. "Either you're lying to me because you did this," she hissed at me, "or you're telling the truth
and you're a fucking psycho."
"Debs-"
"Which one do you think I want to believe, Dexter? Huh? Which one?"
I don't believe I have felt real anger since I was an adolescent, and it may be that even then I was not able to feel
the real thing. But with the Dark Passenger gone and me slipping down the slope into genuine humanity, all the
old barriers between me and normal life were fading, and I felt something now that must have been very close to
the real thing. "Deborah," I said, "if you don't trust me and you want to think I did this, then I don't give a rat's
ass which one you believe."
She glared at me, and for the very first time, I glared back.
Finally she spoke. "I still have to report this," she said. "Officially, you can't come anywhere near this for now."
"Nothing would make me happier," I said. She stared at me for a moment longer, then made her mouth very
small and returned to Camilla Figg. I watched her back for a moment, and then headed for the door.
There was really no point in hanging around, especially since I had been told, officially and unofficially, that I
was not welcome. It would be nice to say that my feelings were hurt, but surprisingly, I was still too angry to
feel miffed. And in truth, I have always been so shocked that anyone could really like me that it was almost a
relief to see Deborah taking a sensible attitude for once.
It was all good all the time for Dexter, but for some reason, it didn't really feel like a very large victory as I
headed for the door and exile.
I was waiting for the elevator to arrive when I was blindsided by a hoarse shout of "Hey!"
I turned and saw a grim, very angry old man racing at me wearing sandals and black socks that came up almost
to his knobby old knees. He also wore baggy shorts and a silk shirt and an expression of completely righteous
wrath. "Are you the police?" he demanded.
"Not all of them," I said.
"What about my goddamn paper?" he said.
Elevators are so slow, aren't they? But I do try to be polite when it is unavoidable, so I smiled reassuringly at the
old lunatic. "You didn't like your paper?" I asked.
"I didn't get my goddamn paper!" he shouted at me, turning a light purple from the effort. "I called and I told
you people and the colored girl on the phone said to call the newspaper! I watch the kid steal it, and she hangs
up on me!"
"A kid stole your newspaper," I said.
"What the hell did I just say?" he said, and he was getting a little bit shrill now, which did nothing to make
waiting for the elevator any more enjoyable. "Why the hell do I pay my taxes, to hear her say that? And she
laughs at me, goddamn it!"
"You could get another paper," I said soothingly.
It didn't seem to soothe him. "What the hell is that, get another paper? Saturday morning, in my pajamas, and I
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