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I took a deep breath and tried to remind myself that I was a good girl and I
didn't do those things. But I knewhe did them, and I truly wanted to go out
with him. Please, Harry?
Because far beyond simply doing some interesting things with a new friend, I
needed to find this killer.I had to see him, talk to him,prove to myself that
he was real and that
That what?
That he wasn't me?
That I was not the one doing such terrible, interesting things?
Why would I think that? It was beyond stupid; it was completely unworthy of
the attention of my once-proud brain. Except now that the idea was actually
rattling around in there, I couldn't get the thought to sit down and behave.
What if it really was me? What if I had somehow done these things without
knowing it? Impossible, of course, absolutely impossible, but
I wake up at the sink, washing blood off my hands after a  dream in which I
carefully and gleefully got blood all over my hands doing things I ordinarily
only dream about doing. Somehow I know things about the whole string of
murders, things I couldn't possibly know unless
Unless nothing.Take a tranquilizer, Dexter. Start again. Breathe, you silly
creature; in with the good air, out with the bad. It was nothing but one more
symptom of my recent feeble-mindedness. I was merely going prematurely senile
from the strain of all my clean living. Granted I had experienced one or two
moments of human stupidity in the last few weeks. So what? It didn't
necessarily prove that I was human. Or that I had been creative in my sleep.
No, of course not.Quite right; it meant nothing of the kind. So, um what did
it mean?
I had assumed I was simply going crazy, dropping several handfuls of marbles
into the recycle bin. Very comforting but if I was ready to assume that, why
not admit that it was possible I had committed a series of delightful little
pranks without remembering them, except as fragmented dreams? Was insanity
really easier to accept than unconsciousness? After all, it was just a
heightened form of sleepwalking.  Sleep murder. Probably very common. Why not?
I already gave away the driver's seat of my consciousness on a regular basis
when the Dark Passenger went joyriding. It really wasn't such a great leap to
accept that the same thing was happening here, now, in a slightly different
form. The Dark Passenger was simply borrowing the car while I slept.
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How else to explain it? That I wasastrally projecting while I slept and just
happened to tune my vibrations to the killer's aura because of our connection
in a past life? Sure, that might make sense if this was southernCalifornia .
InMiami , it seemed a bit thin. And so if I went into this half building and
happened to see three bodies arranged in a way that seemed to be speaking to
me, I would have to consider the possibility that I had written the message.
Didn't that make more sense than believing I was on some kind of subconscious
party line?
I had come to the outside stairwell of the building. I stopped there for a
moment and closed my eyes, leaning against the bare concrete block of the
wall. It was slightly cooler than the air, and rough. I ground my cheek
against it, somewhere between pleasure and pain. No matter how much I wanted
to go upstairs and see what there was to see, I wanted just as much not to see
it at all.
Talk to me, I whispered to the Dark Passenger.Tell me what you have done .
But of course there was no answer, beyond the usual cool, distant chuckle.
And that was no actual help. I felt a little sick, slightly dizzy, uncertain,
and I did not like this feeling of having feelings. I took three long breaths,
straightened up and opened my eyes.
SergeantDoakes stared at me from three feet away, just inside the stairwell,
one foot on the first step. His face was a dark carved mask of curious
hostility, like arottweiler that wants to rip your arms off but is mildly
interested in knowing first what flavor you might be. And there was something
in his expression that I had never seen on anybody's face before, except in
the mirror. It was a deep and abiding emptiness that had seen through the
comic-strip charade of human life and read the bottom line.
 Who are youtalkin ' to? he asked me with his bright hungry teeth showing.
 You got somebody else in there with you?
His words and the knowing way he said them cut right through me and turned my
insides to jelly. Why choose those words? What did he mean by  in there with
me ? Could he possibly know about the Dark Passenger? Impossible! Unless . . .
Doakesknew me for what I was.
Just as I had known Last Nurse.
The Thing Inside calls out across the emptiness when it sees its own kind. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]