Excerpt provided by Syndetics
<anon I1="BLANK" I2="BLANK">CHAPTER 1 It's that moon again, slung so fat and low in the tropical night, calling out across a curdled sky and into the quivering ears of that dear old voice in the shadows, the Dark Passenger, nestled snug in the backseat of the Dodge K-car of Dexter's hypothetical soul. That rascal moon, that loudmouthed leering Lucifer, calling down across the empty sky to the dark hearts of the night monsters below, calling them away to their joyful playgrounds. Calling, in fact, to that monster right there, behind the oleander, tiger-striped with moonlight through the leaves, his senses all on high as he waits for just the right moment to leap from the shadows. It is Dexter in the dark, listening to the terrible whispered suggestions that come pouring down breathlessly into my shadowed hiding place. My dear dark other self urges me to pounce-now-sink my moonlit fangs into the oh-so-vulnerable flesh on the far side of the hedge. But the time is not right and so I wait, watching cautiously as my unsuspecting victim creeps past, eyes wide, knowing that something is watching but not knowing that I am here , only three steely feet away in the hedge. I could so easily slide out like the knife blade I am, and work my wonderful magic-but I wait, suspected but unseen. One long stealthy moment tiptoes into another and still I wait for just the right time; the leap, the outstretched hand, the cold glee as I see the terror spread across the face of my victim- But no. Something is not right. And now it is Dexter's turn to feel the queasy prickling of eyes on his back, the flutter of fear as I become more certain that something is now hunting me . Some other night stalker is feeling the sharp interior drool as he watches me from somewhere nearby-and I do not like this thought. And like a small clap of thunder the gleeful hand comes down out of nowhere and onto me blindingly fast, and I glimpse the gleaming teeth of a nine-year-old neighbor boy. "Gotcha! One, two, three on Dexter!" And with the savage speed of the very young the rest of them are there, giggling wildly and shouting at me as I stand in the bushes humiliated. It is over. Six-year-old Cody stares at me, disappointed, as though Dexter the Night God has let down his high priest. Astor, his nine-year-old sister, joins in the hooting of the kids before they skitter off into the dark once more, to new and more complicated hiding places, leaving me so very alone in my shame. Dexter did not kick the can. And now Dexter is It . Again. You may wonder, how can this be? How can Dexter's night hunt be reduced to this? Always before there has been some frightful twisted predator awaiting the special attention of frightful twisted Dexter-and here I am, stalking an empty Chef Boyardee ravioli can that is guilty of nothing worse than bland sauce. Here I am, frittering away precious time losing a game I have not played since I was ten. Even worse, I am IT. "One. Two. Three-" I call out, ever the fair and honest gamesman. How can this be? How can Dexter the Demon feel the weight of that moon and not be off among the entrails, slicing the life from someone who needs very badly to feel the edge of Dexter's keen judgment? How is it possible on this kind of night for the Cold Avenger to refuse to take the Dark Passenger out for a spin? "Four. Five. Six." Harry, my wise foster father, had taught me the careful balance of Need and Knife. He had taken a boy in whom he saw the unstoppable need to kill-no changing that-and Harry had molded him into a man who only killed the killers; Dexter the no-bloodhound, who hid behind a human-seeming face and tracked down the truly naughty serial killers who killed without code. And I would have been one of them, if not for the Harry Plan. There are plenty of people who deserve it, Dexter , my wonderful foster-cop-father had said. "Seven. Eight. Nine." He had taught me how to find these special playmates, how to be sure they deserved a social call from me and my Dark Passenger. And even better, he taught me how to get away with it, as only a cop could teach. He had helped me to build a plausible hidey-hole of a life, and drummed into me that I must fit in, always, be relentlessly normal in all things. And so I had learned how to dress neatly and smile and brush my teeth. I had become a perfect fake human, saying the stupid and pointless things that humans say to each other all day long. No one suspected what crouched behind my perfect imitation smile. No one except my foster sister, Deborah, of course, but she was coming to accept the real me. After all, I could have been much worse. I could have been a vicious raving monster who killed and killed and left towers of rotting flesh in my wake. Instead, here I was on the side of truth, justice, and the American way. Still a monster, of course, but I cleaned up nicely afterward, and I was OUR monster, dressed in red, white, and blue 100 percent synthetic virtue. And on those nights when the moon is loudest I find the others, those who prey on the innocent and do not play by the rules, and I make them go away in small, carefully wrapped pieces. This elegant formula had worked well through years of happy inhumanity. In between playdates I maintained my perfectly average lifestyle from a persistently ordinary apartment. I was never late to work, I made the right jokes with coworkers, and I was useful and unobtrusive in all things, just as Harry had taught me. My life as an android was neat, balanced, and had real redeeming social value. Until now. Somehow, here I was on a just-right night playing kick the can with a flock of children, instead of playing Slice the Slasher with a carefully chosen friend. And in a little while, when the game was over, I would take Cody and Astor into their mother, Rita's, house, and she would bring me a can of beer, tuck the kids into bed, and sit beside me on the couch. How could this be? Was the Dark Passenger slipping into early retirement? Had Dexter mellowed? Had I somehow turned the corner of the long dark hall and come out on the wrong end as Dexter Domestic? Would I ever again place that one drop of blood on the neat glass slide, as I always did-my trophy from the hunt? "Ten! Ready or not, here I come!" Yes, indeed. Here I came. But to what? It started, of course, with Sergeant Doakes. Every superhero must have an archenemy, and he was mine. I had done absolutely nothing to him, and yet he had chosen to hound me, harry me from my good work. Me and my shadow. And the irony of it: me, a hardworking blood-spatter-pattern analyst for the very same police force that employed him-we were on the same team. Was it fair for him to pursue me like this, merely because every now and then I did a little bit of moonlighting? I knew Sergeant Doakes far better than I really wanted to, much more than just from our professional connection. I had made it my business to find out about him for one simple reason: he had never liked me, in spite of the fact that I take great pride in being charming and cheerful on a world-class level. But it almost seemed like Doakes could tell it was all fake; all my handmade heartiness bounced off him like June bugs off a windshield. This naturally made me curious. I mean, really; what kind of person could possibly dislike me? And so I had studied him just a little, and I found out. The kind of person who could possibly dislike Debonair Dexter was forty-eight, African American, and held the department's record for the bench press. According to the casual gossip I had picked up, he was an army vet, and since coming to the department had been involved in several fatal shootings, all of which Internal Affairs had judged to be righteous. But more important than all this, I had discovered firsthand that somewhere behind the deep anger that always burned in his eyes there lurked an echo of a chuckle from my own Dark Passenger. It was just a tiny little chime of a very small bell, but I was sure. Doakes was sharing space with something, just like I was. Not the same thing, but something very similar, a panther to my tiger. Doakes was a cop, but he was also a cold killer. I had no real proof of this, but I was as sure as I could be without seeing him crush a jaywalker's larynx. A reasonable being might think that he and I could find some common ground; have a cup of coffee and compare our Passengers, exchange trade talk and chitchat about dismemberment techniques. But no: Doakes wanted me dead. And I found it difficult to share his point of view. Doakes had been working with Detective LaGuerta at the time of her somewhat suspicious death, and since then his feelings toward me had grown to be a bit more active than simple loathing. Doakes was convinced that I'd had something to do with LaGuerta's death. This was totally untrue and completely unfair. All I had done was watch-where's the harm in that? Of course I had helped the real killer escape, but what could you expect? What kind of person would turn in his own brother? Especially when he did such neat work. Well, live and let live, I always say. Or quite often, anyway. Sergeant Doakes could think what he wanted to think, and that was fine with me. There are still very few laws against thinking, although I'm sure they're working hard on that in Washington. No, whatever suspicions the good sergeant had about me, he was welcome to them. But now that he had decided to act on his impure thoughts my life was a shambles. Dexter Derailed was fast becoming Dexter Demented. And why? How had this whole nasty mess begun? All I had done was try to be myself. Excerpted from Dearly Devoted Dexter: A Novel by Jeff Lindsay All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.</anon>
Reviews provided by Syndetics
Library Journal Review
Fiction's most lovable serial killer returns in a hilarious follow-up to Lindsay's popular first novel, Darkly Dreaming Dexter. Dexter Morgan, a Miami P.D. blood splatter analyst and ethical serial killer, is in a funk: his police department arch-nemesis, Captain Doakes, who rightly believes that Dexter is guilty of illegal behavior, is shadowing him. Unable to satisfy his hunger for killing, Dexter must resort to playing the role of a normal human, spending countless hours with girlfriend Rita and her children. So when a new serial killer with Doakes on his list arrives in Miami, Dexter is excited. Not only does he get to hunt a fellow hunter, but he also sees the opportunity to be rid of Doakes. The only thing worrying him is the involvement of his sister, since she's the only person for whom Dexter has feelings. Everything works in this one, especially the scenes depicting Dexter and his not-quite domestic bliss. There's plenty of graphic violence and dark humor, but Lindsay manages to retain a light edge. Recommended for all public libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 3/1/05.]-Craig Shufelt, Lane P.L., Oxford, OH (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Publishers Weekly Review
Forensic blood-spatter analyst Dexter Morgan is a nice guy who enjoys his job, but what he'd rather be doing is killing people. In this follow-up to 2001's Darkly Dreaming Dexter, Dexter is kept from his games of "slice the slasher" (he kills only murderers and pedophiles) by a suspicious Sergeant Doakes. Luckily for listeners, Dexter still finds a way to engage in his grim specialty when a fiendish "doctor" comes to town and leaves his victims brutally butchered, yet alive and crippled. Landrum, who is also an accomplished songwriter, hits all the right notes in this superb audio production, flawlessly matching the sarcastic and sinister tones of the novel. At times lighthearted and good-natured, Landrum's first-person narration of Dexter truly makes the character come alive. His transitions between character voices are perfectly consistent-he handles cocky men, grizzled veterans, tough female cops and demure women with equal flair, including a wonderfully quirky and disturbing voice for the novel's villain. Dexter is the most darkly charming and compelling serial killer since Hannibal Lecter, and this production is a sure-fire candidate for audiobook of the year. Simultaneous release with the Doubleday hardcover (Reviews, May 23). (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Dexter, your friendly neighborhood serial killer, is a police department blood-spatter expert who, in his spare time, kills people. Not just anyone, you understand--he only kills other killers, people whom he believes deserve it. Is this because Dexter really has a heart of gold? No, he's a monster (he is the first to admit it), but at least he tries to steer his evil into productive channels. In the second of Lindsay's alliteratively titled thrillers (following last year's Darkly Dreaming Dexter), Dexter's nemesis, Sergeant Doakes, is getting a little too close for comfort, and there is also the matter of a psychopath on the loose. When Dexter's two problems eventually link up . . . well, what's a well-meaning homicidal maniac to do? Dexter, the cheerfully sociopathic crime fighter, is one of mystery fiction's most original, compelling, and oddly endearing heroes. Lindsay digs a little deeper under Dexter's surface this time, showing us a little more about what makes him tick, but readers shouldn't worry. There are volumes still to be written about this gruesomely fascinating character. --David Pitt Copyright 2005 Booklist
Kirkus Book Review
A second outing for Dexter Morgan, the sociopathic blood-spatter analyst who helps the Miami Police Department catch bad guys when he's not busy killing them himself (Darkly Dreaming Dexter, 2004). Someone took his time with Salvadoran importer Manuel Borges, maybe four to six weeks. By the time the Miami cops discovered his torso--shorn of hair, tongue, lips and limbs, incapable of speech or thought but not dead--some of his earlier do-it-yourself surgeries had actually healed. Fastidious Dexter, who admits that "I do not like blood" even though he makes a living from it, would like nothing better than to clear the case so he can get on with his current project: murdering Steve Reiker, the pedophile children's photographer whose homicidal accomplice Dexter's already executed. But the breaks don't go Dexter's way. First, the case is snatched from the Miami cops by mysterious Beltway heavy-hitter Kyle Chutsky, a former Special Forces colleague of Dexter's nemesis, Sgt. Albert Doakes; then Chutsky himself is snatched and his finger sent to Dexter's sister, Sgt. Deborah Morgan, who's gone sweet on the lug; and Dexter realizes that he's up against nothing less than a serial killer. When will he get his own chance to shine? Not, sad to say, till the very last pages, though he does do yeoman's sleuthing work on the uncompelling mystery. While he's waiting to kill, however, Dexter is never less than brainy, witty and macabre. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.