Chapter 5: The Code and the Chemist
POV: Dexter
The warehouse district at midnight felt like the abandoned skeleton of industrial ambition. Dexter had chosen this location precisely for its isolation—no foot traffic, no security cameras, no witnesses to whatever conversation was about to unfold. His kill tools waited in the Crown Victoria's trunk, as familiar and comforting as old friends.
David Chen's rental car pulled into the empty lot exactly on time. Punctuality was a virtue Dexter appreciated, though it could indicate either professionalism or obsessive-compulsive tendencies. In his experience, both traits appeared frequently in people who shared his particular appetites.
David emerged from his car alone, hands visible, no weapon apparent. He stood perfectly still in the sodium light, waiting. Most people fidgeted when nervous. This man had the stillness of a predator or prey that had learned perfect camouflage.
Dexter approached in a slow circle, studying body language, micro-expressions, the subtle tells that revealed intent. David's pulse was elevated but controlled. His breathing steady. Eyes tracking Dexter's movement without apparent fear.
"Explain how you know."
David pulled out a tablet—expensive, new model—and typed with practiced efficiency. He turned the screen toward Dexter.
I track patterns. Your kill sites match missing persons who were criminals. The Ice Truck Killer's body was found in your vicinity. I'm not a threat—I need your skills. Evidence cleanup, alibi consultation. In exchange, I provide intel on targets, resources, and I never speak of this to anyone.
Dexter read the message twice, analyzing each word for deception or manipulation. The offer was logical. Too logical. Most people who discovered his nature reacted with horror or tried to use the knowledge for blackmail. This man proposed symbiosis.
"What do you get out of this?"
David typed again: Survival.
The single word carried weight that intrigued Dexter more than any elaborate explanation might have. Survival suggested David understood something about necessity, about doing whatever required doing to continue breathing. It was an answer the Dark Passenger could respect.
"You're not law enforcement."
David shook his head, typed: Private sector. I solve problems for people who can't go to police.
"And my problem is?"
Evidence trails. Witness management. Target identification. I provide reconnaissance and cleanup consultation. You provide the specialized solution.
Dexter studied the man's face as he read. David's expression remained neutral, but his eyes carried something Dexter recognized—the exhaustion of someone carrying secrets too heavy for one person to bear alone.
The Dark Passenger whispered approval. This David Chen understood the weight of necessary darkness. More importantly, he was offering to share that weight instead of exploiting it.
Dexter extended his hand. "We'll try this arrangement. Temporarily."
David's handshake was firm, controlled, the grip of someone accustomed to measuring pressure precisely. As their hands separated, Dexter noticed the slight tremor in David's fingers—not fear, but something deeper. Exhaustion, perhaps. Or the kind of bone-deep weariness that came from living too many lies.
"This man is running from something. The question is whether he's running toward me or away from something worse."
"I'll contact you when I have work," Dexter said.
David nodded, typed a final message: Bring plastic sheeting. Industrial grade. And hydrofluoric acid if you can source it safely.
The specific recommendations confirmed Dexter's assessment. This wasn't theoretical knowledge. David had experience with cleanup procedures that suggested either professional training or personal necessity.
As David drove away, Dexter remained in the empty lot, processing the encounter. The Dark Passenger had approved of their new ally, but something about the man nagged at Dexter's analytical mind. The precision was too perfect, the knowledge too comprehensive.
David Chen was either exactly what he claimed to be, or he was something far more dangerous wearing a very convincing mask.
POV: Elijah
The red-eye flight from Miami to Albuquerque was a cramped metal tube filled with business travelers and insomniacs. Elijah spent the five hours staring out the window at clouds that looked like scattered bones against the darkness, his mind churning through the implications of his agreement with Dexter.
"I just negotiated an alliance with a serial killer. I'm now officially an accessory to future murders."
But the alternative was fading into nonexistence, and compared to that fate, complicity in Dexter's brand of justice seemed almost reasonable. Almost.
He landed at 6 AM with gritty eyes and coffee breath, rented another anonymous sedan, and drove directly to the desert coordinates where Walter and Jesse conducted their chemical symphony.
The RV squatted in the morning heat like a beige monument to American entrepreneurship. Walter stood outside, arms crossed, face dark with the particular fury reserved for unreliable partners.
"You're late."
Elijah's speech curse activated the moment he tried to explain Miami. "Sorry, I was... feeding a dolphin!"
Jesse's snicker echoed from inside the RV. "Yo, Mr. White, I think Marcus might be having a stroke or something."
Walter's stare could have melted glass. "You flew somewhere. I can smell jet fuel on your clothes."
Quick thinking had become a survival skill. "Tech conference in Vegas. New distribution technologies." Elijah pulled out his phone, showed them his prepared contact list. "You want me to sell product or answer geography questions?"
Walter studied the list with the intensity of a scholar examining ancient texts. Names, numbers, estimated volumes, risk assessments. Everything calculated to suggest legitimate research and professional networking.
"These contacts are verified?"
"Clean as Sunday school," Elijah lied smoothly. "You focus on cooking. I'll focus on moving."
Jesse emerged from the RV carrying equipment with the careful precision of someone who'd learned that carelessness could be explosive. "How'd you find all these dudes so fast?"
The honest answer involved supernatural powers purchased with money that disappeared into cosmic rent payments. The practical answer was simpler.
"I read Yelp reviews... for criminals?"
Walter actually laughed—a short, sharp sound like breaking glass. "That's either the stupidest thing I've ever heard or the smartest."
"Let's find out," Elijah said.
Four hours later, the cook was complete. Four pounds of blue crystal that caught sunlight like fragments of frozen sky. Walter and Jesse moved with the practiced efficiency of a surgical team, each understanding their role in the chemical ballet.
Elijah activated his power while they cleaned equipment.
Probability Assessment: Potential buyers for 4 pounds blue methamphetamine.
Twelve names flooded his consciousness along with their success probabilities:
Street dealers: 67% success, 45% police risk. Club owners: 71% success, 23% police risk. Truckers: 83% success, 12% police risk. Casino employees: 89% success, 8% police risk. Defense attorneys: 95% success, 3% police risk. Criminal lawyers: 98% success, 1% police risk.
One name stood out like a neon sign: Saul Goodman, criminal defense attorney, specializing in drug cases and money laundering.
Cost: $2,400.
"I need to make a phone call," Elijah announced.
"Saul Goodman, attorney at law. Better call Saul!"
The voice on the phone was nasal, energetic, with the practiced enthusiasm of a used car salesman who'd found his true calling in legal gray areas.
"Mr. Goodman, I have a business proposition that requires discretion and professional expertise."
"Discretion's my middle name. Well, actually it's McGill, but discretion sounds more professional. What can I do for you?"
"I represent parties interested in establishing reliable distribution channels for pharmaceutical products. We need legal consultation regarding regulatory compliance."
A pause. "Pharmaceutical products. Uh-huh. And these products are... FDA approved?"
"The approval process is... ongoing."
"I see. And the volume we're discussing?"
"Significant enough to justify a consultation fee."
"My office, tomorrow, 2 PM. And bring cash. Consultation fees are strictly cash only."
Elijah hung up and turned to find Walter and Jesse staring at him.
"Yo, how'd you find this guy?" Jesse asked.
The truth involved probability calculations that cost more than most people's monthly rent. The lie required creativity.
"I read Yelp reviews... for criminals?"
This time both Walter and Jesse laughed. The absurdity of the statement was perfect cover for its impossibility. Sometimes the best lies were too ridiculous to question.
Walter clapped him on the shoulder—first physical contact that wasn't a handshake. "You're either insane or brilliant. Possibly both."
"In my experience, there's significant overlap between those categories."
Jesse grinned. "Dude, you're alright. Weird as hell, but alright."
That night, Elijah collapsed onto his motel bed with the bone-deep exhaustion of someone living multiple lives simultaneously. His phone showed two messages:
Walter: Good work today. Saul meeting could change everything.
Dexter: Your next visit, bring cleaning solvents. I have a project.
He'd successfully embedded himself in both timelines, becoming indispensable through a combination of supernatural knowledge and careful deception. But the financial cost was staggering. His bank balance had dropped to $22,000, and he was spending money faster than Walter's operation could generate it.
"I need additional income streams. The Entity's rent is bleeding me dry."
The Leverage Finder could identify secrets worth blackmailing, but that required getting close to wealthy targets. The Probability Assessment could guide investment decisions, but he lacked sufficient capital for meaningful returns. The Omniscient Locator could track high-value individuals, but turning that into profit meant becoming a different kind of criminal entirely.
Elijah stared at the water-stained ceiling and considered his options. In the space of a week, he'd become a methamphetamine distributor and a serial killer's consultant. The ethical boundaries of his previous life seemed quaint compared to the survival mathematics of his current existence.
Outside his window, Albuquerque sprawled under desert stars, unaware that a dead man named Elijah Chen was calculating the price of staying alive in someone else's story.
He closed his eyes and dreamed of the Curator's laughter echoing through empty spaces between worlds.
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