Chapter 7: The Blood Slide Collector
POV: Dexter
The kill room existed in the liminal space between art and atrocity, walls draped in plastic sheeting that caught fluorescent light like captured moonbeams. Dexter had spent three hours preparing this space, every detail calibrated for efficiency and containment. Surgical instruments arranged with hospital precision. Drop cloths positioned to catch evidence. The man on the table—Thomas Briggs, convicted child predator who'd slipped through legal loopholes on a technicality—secured with restraints that allowed no movement but maintained circulation.
David Chen entered carrying a duffel bag of industrial cleaning supplies, his footsteps steady on the concrete floor. Most civilians would have recoiled at the scene—the smell of bleach and fear, the sterile intimacy of premeditated death. David surveyed the arrangement with the detached interest of an inspector reviewing a laboratory setup.
"Impressive preparation," David said, setting down his bag. "How long does the complete process typically require?"
The clinical tone intrigued Dexter more than emotional responses might have. Fear was common. Disgust was expected. Professional curiosity was rare and valuable.
"Depends on the subject's cooperation and the disposal requirements." Dexter picked up his favorite knife, testing the edge against his thumb. "This one provided evidence of his crimes through your reconnaissance. The Code is satisfied."
"The Code?"
"Harry's Code. My father's guidelines for selection and execution." Dexter began his work with practiced precision, each cut deliberate and necessary. "Only kill those who deserve it. Never get caught. Have a compelling cover story."
David watched without flinching as Dexter dismembered the body with surgical efficiency. Most people would have vomited or fled by now. This man asked technical questions.
"How do you dispose of bone fragments? Cremation would leave traces in the facility's filtration system."
"Weighted bags in deep ocean currents. Gulf Stream carries everything beyond the continental shelf."
"And DNA contamination in drain systems?"
"Hydrofluoric acid removes organic traces. Followed by industrial bleach and phosphoric acid wash."
David nodded, absorbing the information with the focused attention of a student taking notes. When Dexter finished the dismemberment and began collecting his trophy—a single drop of blood preserved on a microscope slide—David's expression shifted to something approaching curiosity.
"You keep trophies?"
Dexter labeled the slide with careful lettering: Thomas Briggs, Child Predator, January 15, 2008. He held it up to the light, watching the crimson droplet catch fluorescent illumination like a captured star.
"Proof I did something. That I matter." He slipped the slide into a protective case alongside dozens of others. "Each slide represents justice served when the system failed."
David's expression remained unreadable, but something in his posture suggested understanding rather than judgment. Most people saw the trophies as evidence of sickness. This man seemed to recognize them as documentation of purpose.
"He doesn't recoil from the ritual. Doesn't judge the necessity. Either he's very good at hiding revulsion, or he's encountered similar darkness before."
"The disposal site," David said. "How deep are the waters typically?"
"Minimum two hundred feet. Strong currents. Marine scavengers eliminate soft tissue within days."
David helped load the body bags into Dexter's boat without complaint or hesitation. His movements were efficient, methodical, the actions of someone accustomed to unpleasant necessities. As they worked in the pre-dawn darkness, Dexter found himself reassessing his new ally.
David Chen was either exactly what he claimed to be—a problem solver for people operating outside legal boundaries—or he was something far more dangerous wearing a convincing mask.
Either way, the Dark Passenger approved.
POV: Elijah
The boat cut through dark water toward the Gulf Stream, diesel engine rumbling beneath their feet like a mechanical heartbeat. Dawn painted the eastern horizon in shades of amber and rose, beautiful enough to make Elijah forget they were dumping a dismembered child predator into international waters.
The irony wasn't lost on him. Three weeks ago, his biggest moral dilemma had been whether to report a coworker for padding expense accounts. Now he was actively participating in corpse disposal after watching a serial killer perform surgical dismemberment with the focused intensity of a master craftsman.
"The Entity's game has turned me into an accessory to murder. But Thomas Briggs hurt children, and the legal system failed to stop him. Is this justice or just expedient cruelty?"
He activated his power as they approached the drop zone.
Probability Assessment: Will these bodies ever surface?
Calculating variables: ocean depth, current velocity, marine scavenger populations, decomposition rates in saltwater environment.
8% probability of discovery. Bodies will be consumed by marine life within 72 hours. Skeletal remains will disperse across 200+ square miles of ocean floor.
Cost: $900.
"Your method is statistically sound," Elijah told Dexter as they heaved the weighted bags overboard. "Less than ten percent chance of discovery."
Dexter raised an eyebrow. "You talk like a computer."
Elijah's speech curse nearly activated when he tried to explain his analytical nature. The words twisted in his throat like live snakes. "I just... really love spreadsheets!"
The absurd statement hung in the salt air for a moment before Dexter laughed—a genuine sound, surprised and amused. It was the first truly human moment between them, built on the foundation of shared dark work and inexplicable humor.
"Spreadsheets," Dexter repeated, still chuckling. "I've never heard anyone describe efficiency quite that way."
They stood at the boat's stern, watching the last bubbles from the body bags fade into the dark water. The sun climbed higher, transforming the ocean from black to deep blue, and Elijah felt something approaching peace. Not because he'd helped dispose of a corpse, but because he'd found stability in the most unlikely place.
Dexter's proximity had stopped the fading symptoms completely. His timeline anchor was secure, at least temporarily.
Back at the marina, Dexter helped Elijah load the cleaning supplies into his rental car. The morning was warming quickly, Miami's subtropical climate asserting itself as early commuters began their migration toward downtown glass towers.
"Why help me?" Dexter asked suddenly. "What's your angle?"
The direct question hit harder than Elijah had expected. He couldn't explain about cosmic entities and narrative anchors without triggering the speech curse, but he needed to provide an answer that would satisfy Dexter's analytical mind.
He pulled out his phone and typed: I need allies in dangerous spaces. You provide solutions I can't. Symbiosis.
Dexter read the message, considered it, and nodded. "Transactional relationships. I understand those."
"Next time, I'll need you to track someone. Can you do that?"
Elijah nodded without hesitation. The Omniscient Locator could find anyone from either timeline, and providing that service would cement his value to Dexter's operations.
As Dexter drove away, Elijah stood in the marina parking lot watching pelicans dive for fish in the harbor. The birds moved with predatory efficiency, identifying targets and striking with lethal precision. Not unlike Dexter himself.
"I'm becoming his accessory to murder. Each collaboration makes me more complicit in his brand of justice. The Entity's game is transforming me into a monster by proximity, one calculated choice at a time."
The transformation felt inexorable, like watching himself become someone else in slow motion. Elijah Chen had been a man with ethical boundaries and moral certainties. Marcus Reid was becoming something more flexible, more pragmatic, more willing to compromise fundamental principles for survival.
The flight back to Albuquerque passed in a blur of cloud formations and moral calculations. Elijah's hands still smelled like bleach despite repeated scrubbing, a chemical reminder of choices that couldn't be undone.
His phone buzzed as the plane began its descent: Walt texting about tomorrow's meeting with Tuco. Bring your 'good luck'.
Elijah laughed bitterly, startling the businessman in the adjacent seat. Good luck. If Walt only knew that his consultant's "luck" consisted of supernatural powers purchased with money that vanished into cosmic rent payments, and that those powers had just been used to help a serial killer dispose of evidence.
He wasn't lucky. He was cursed to see futures and secrets and probabilities, condemned to survival through complicity in other people's darkness.
But he was still breathing, still existing, still anchored to both timelines that kept him from fading into nonexistence.
For now, that would have to be enough.
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