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Darkly Dreaming Dexter: A Novel

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Overview

Meet Dexter Morgan, a polite wolf in sheep's clothing. He's handsome and charming, but something in his past has made him abide by a different set of rules. He's a serial killer whose one golden rule makes him immensely likeable: he only kills bad people. And his job as a blood splatter expert for the Miami police department puts him in the perfect position to identify his victims. But when a series of brutal murders bearing a striking similarity to his own style start turning up, Dexter is caught between being flattered and being frightened-of himself or some other fiend.

Editorial Reviews

It's been years since there's been a thriller debut as original as this one by Lindsay, who takes a tired subgenre the serial-killer novel and makes it as fresh as dawn. Lindsay's premise alone is worthy: narrator Dexter Morgan, a blood-spatter specialist for the Miami cops, is also a serial killer. But all his life, Dexter has followed the rules set down by his cop foster father (who knew of Dexter's proclivities), to indulge his passion only by slaying other serial killers. What makes this novel zing, though, is the narration humorous, self-deprecating, smart and sometimes lyrical, it's a macabre fun ride ("I thought about the nice clothes that I always wore. Well of course I did. I took pride in being the best-dressed monster in Dade County"). The story opens with Dexter at play, kidnapping and killing a priest who has murdered a number of children, then moves on to the main plot, a series of gruesome killings of prostitutes by an unknown madman. Dexter's foster sister is a Miami Vice Squad cop working on the killings, so Dexter decides to help her solve the case. This puts him in conflict with a dumb but ambitious female homicide detective as well as, soon enough, the killer himself, whose approach to serial killing mirrors Dexter's own, uncomfortably so. Might Dexter himself be the culprit The answer feels a bit contrived, but will surprise most readers, and it's a minor flaw in a gripping, deliciously offbeat novel that announces the arrival of a notable new talent. Agent, Nicholas Ellison. (On sale July 27) Forecast: Strong reviews on this title will alert readers, as will clever jacket art, depicting a smiley face painted in blood. Expect healthy sales.Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.

Author Information

Bio of Jeff Lindsay

Jeff Lindsay lives in South Florida with his wife and three daughters. He is the author of Dearly Devoted Dexter, the second novel featuring Dexter Morgan.

Customer Reviews

  • 4 stars out of 5For the fan of the TV series

    Posted December 24, 2008 by Stephane Thinel, Laval, Quebec, Canada

    2 weeks ago I've finish watching the 3rd season of the showtime's Dexter series. I just love it. Now wanting to wait another year for the 4th season, I decided to try the books. This is the first I read, and yes, we are indeed in full of the Dexter's world. It is a fast read, narrated by Dexter himself. I always find the end of season's of Dexter very fast, and this is the same in this book. But it is well written and balanced. Maybe it is a witting style. Even if you didn't see the tv show you will not be deceived.

Additional Info

Imprint

Vintage

Filesize

517.29 KB

Number of Pages

304

eBook ISBN

9780307275103

Awards

  • Crime Writers' Association Awards
  • Dilys Award
  • Macavity Award

Excerpt from: Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay

MOON. GLORIOUS MOON. FULL, FAT, REDDISH moon, the night as light as day, the moonlight flooding down across the land and bringing joy, joy, joy. Bringing too the full-throated call of the tropical night, the soft and wild voice of the wind roaring through the hairs on your arm, the hollow wail of starlight, the teeth-grinding bellow of the moonlight off the water.

All calling to the Need. Oh, the symphonic shriek of the thousand hiding voices, the cry of the Need inside, the entity, the silent watcher, the cold quiet thing, the one that laughs, the Moondancer. The me that was not-me, the thing that mocked and laughed and came calling with its hunger. With the Need. And the Need was very strong now, very careful cold coiled creeping crackly cocked and ready, very strong, very much ready now-and still it waited and watched, and it made me wait and watch.

I had been waiting and watching the priest for five weeks now. The Need had been prickling and teasing and prodding at me to find one, find the next, find this priest. For three weeks I had known he was it, he was next, we belonged to the Dark Passenger, he and I together. And that three weeks I had spent fighting the pressure, the growing Need, rising in me like a great wave that roars up and over the beach and does not recede, only swells more with every tick of the bright night's clock.

But it was careful time, too, time spent making sure. Not making sure of the priest, no, I was long sure of him. Time spent to be certain that it could be done right, made neat, all the corners folded, all squared away. I could not be caught, not now. I had worked too hard, too long, to make this work for me, to protect my happy little life.

And I was having too much fun to stop now.

And so I was always careful. Always tidy. Always prepared ahead of time so it would be right. And when it was right, take extra time to be sure. It was the Harry way, God bless him, that farsighted perfect policeman, my foster father. Always be sure, be careful, be exact, he had said, and for a week now I had been sure that everything was just as Harry-right as it could be. And when I left work this night, I knew this was it. This night was the Night. This night felt different. This night it would happen, had to happen. Just as it had happened before. Just as it would happen again, and again