Dexter 3 - Dexter in the Dark by Jeff Lindsay Read Free Book Online

head had been carefully
placed at the top of each torso.
    This is exactly the kind of loving touch that always brings some type
of comment from the Dark Passenger-generally speaking, an amused whisper, a
small chuckle, even a twinge of jealousy. But this time, as Dexter said to
himself, Aha, a bull's head! What do we think about that?, the Passenger
responded immediately and forcefully with-
    Nothing?
    Not a whisper, not a sigh?
    I sent an irritated demand for answers, and got no more than a worried
scuttling, as if the Passenger were ducking down behind anything that might
provide cover, and hoping to ride out the storm without being noticed.
    I opened my eyes, as much from startlement as anything else. I could
not remember any time when the Passenger had nothing to say on some example of
our favorite subject, and yet here he was, not merely subdued but hiding.
    I looked back at the two charred bodies with new respect. I had no clue
as to what this might mean, but since it had never happened before, it seemed like
a good idea to find out.
    Angel Batista-no-relation was on his hands and knees on the far side of
the path, very carefully examining things I couldn't see and didn't really care
about. “Did you find it yet?” I asked him.
    He didn't look up. “Find what?” he said.
    “I don't have any idea,” I said. “But
it must be here somewhere.”
    He reached out with a pair of tweezers and plucked a single blade of
grass, staring hard at it and then stuffing it into a plastic baggie as he
spoke. “Why,” he said, “would somebody put a ceramic bull
head?”
    “Because chocolate would melt,” I said.
    He nodded without looking up. “Your sister thinks
it's a Santeria thing.”
    “Really,” I said.
That possibility had not occurred to me, and I felt a little miffed that it
hadn't. After all,
     
    this was Miami; anytime we encountered something that
looked like a ritual and involved animal heads, Santeria should have been the
first thing all of us thought. An Afro-Cuban religion that combined Yoruba
animism with Catholicism, Santeria was widespread in Miami. Animal sacrifice
and symbolism were common for its devotees, which would explain the bull heads.
And although a relatively small number of people actually practiced Santeria,
most homes in the city had one or two small saint candles or cowrie-shell
necklaces bought at a botanica. The prevailing attitude around town was that
even if you didn't believe in it, it didn't hurt to pay it some respect.
    As I said, it should have occurred to me at once. But my foster sister,
now a full sergeant in homicide, had thought of it first, even though I was
supposed to be the clever one.
    I had been relieved to learn that Deborah was assigned to the case,
since it meant that there would be a minimum of bone-numbing stupidity. It
would also, I hoped, give her something better to do with her time than she had
appeared to have lately. She had been spending all hours of the day and night
hovering around her damaged boyfriend, Kyle Chutsky, who had lost one or two
minor limbs in his recent encounter with a deranged freelance surgeon who
specialized in turning human beings into squealing potatoes-the same villain
who had artfully trimmed away so many unnecessary parts from Sergeant Doakes.
He had not had the time to finish with Kyle, but Debs had taken the whole thing
rather personally and, after fatally shooting the good doctor, she had devoted
herself to nursing Chutsky back to vigorous manhood.
    I'm sure she had racked up numberless points on the
ethical scoreboard, no matter who was keeping track, but in truth all the time
off had done her no good with the department, and even worse, poor lonely
Dexter had felt keenly the uncalled-for neglect from his only living relative.
    So it was very good news all around to have Deborah assigned to the
case, and on the far side of the path she was talking to her boss, Captain
Matthews, no doubt giving him a little ammunition for his