Chapter 38

In short order, Dexter got what he wanted from Tanisha: his wife’s home address. He cross-referenced the address Tanisha told him with the address for his wife that he’d found in Tanisha’s little black book in her kitchen drawer. He could not afford any errors at this critical stage of his mission. But the addresses matched.

“Thank you so much for everything.” He patted her on her pretty head. Her head drooped forward, as if she were contemplating her submerged navel.

Tanisha also had mentioned that his wife had vanished yesterday. That she’d gone on the run and no one knew where she could be found. It hadn’t surprised him—after he’d killed her aunt Betty, he’d expected her to run. He would find her, in due time. He wasn’t concerned.

After he’d gotten the information out of Tanisha, he’d had to kill her, naturally. Letting her live was not an option. She would have turned him in to the cops, and though he had the power to evade police detection, it would have made his work considerably more challenging.

He might have allowed Tanisha to live longer if she hadn’t started praying. She’d begun whispering fervent prayers, pleading with God to have mercy, not only on her soul, but on Dexter’s too—as if Dexter had done something wrong. He was only fulfilling his marriage vows, promises he’d spoken before God in His church. Who was she to judge him?

Her arrogance had pissed him off. He’d silenced her for good with a series of choice cuts with the Scimitar blade.

He wiped off the blood-streaked knife with a bath towel, and then rose from his seat on the edge of the tub and left the room, leaving Tanisha to soak in the muddy red water.

Downstairs, he found her purse sitting on a small glass table beside the garage door. He dug out her car keys. He’d decided to ditch the Chevy in favor of a faster, sleeker ride. Her Mustang would do the job.

In the garage, he punched the button to open the large sectional door. The door slowly clattered upward.

A van was parked in the driveway. The vehicle had backed up to the garage door, as if to make a delivery. Or a pick up.

The van was from Infinity Delivery Services.

“What the fuck?” Dexter said, his hand going to the knife in his jacket.

The van’s rear doors swung open. A slender white man clad in a black, military-style uniform was crouched inside, aiming a rifle at Dexter. He squeezed the trigger.

Dexter started to duck, but not before he heard a soft pop. Something punctured the side of his neck. He collapsed to the concrete floor, grabbed the projectile, and tore it out of his flesh. He glanced at it, though his eyesight was rapidly dimming.

Tranquilizer dart . . . who the fuck are these people . . .

That was his last thought before the darkness took him.