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Zusatztext "'D' words by the dozens have been used to describe Jeff Lindsay's delightful Dexter novels — the inspiration for the Showtime hit Dexter — and now Dexter Is Delicious ...Lindsay never fails to come up with uniquely weird mysteries for Dexter to solve and serves them up with a huge and satisfying dose of Dexter's inner turmoil."-- USA Today "Ghoulish fun for like-minded souls." -- Kirkus "Lindsay's fifth thriller featuring Dexter Morgan (after Dexter by Design ) brilliantly combines suspense and gallows humor....Readers will look forward to seeing the further impact of fatherhood on Lindsay's highly original protagonist in the next installment." -- Publishers Weekly (starred) Informationen zum Autor JEFF LINDSAY is the New York Times bestselling author of Darkly Dreaming Dexter ! Dearly Devoted Dexter ! Dexter in the Dark ! and Dexter by Design . He lives in South Florida with his wife and three daughters. His novels are the subject of the hit Showtime and CBS series Dexter . Klappentext America's most-read! most-watched! and most-beloved serial killer--Dexter Morgan--is back. Family bliss is cut short when Dexter is summoned to investigate the disappearance of a 17-year-old girl who has been running with a bizarre group of goths who fancy themselves to be vampires! but more resemble cannibals. ONE This part of the hospital seems like foreign country to me. There is no sense of the battlefield here, no surgical teams in gore-stained scrubs trading witty remarks about missing body parts, no steely-eyed administrators with their clipboards, no herds of old drunks in wheelchairs, and above all, no flocks of wide-eyed sheep huddled together in fear at what might come out of the double steel doors. There is no stench of blood, antiseptic, and terror; the smells here are kinder, homier. Even the colors are different: softer, more pastel, without the drab, battleship utilitarianism of the walls in other parts of the building. There are, in fact, none of the sights and sounds and dreadful smells I have come to associate with hospitals, none at all. There is only the crowd of moon-eyed men standing at the big window, and to my infinite surprise, I am one of them. We stand together, happily pressed up to the glass and cheerfully making space for any newcomer. White, black, brown; Latin, African-American, Asian-American, Creole--it doesn't matter. We are all brothers. No one sneers or frowns; no one seems to care about getting an accidental nudge in the ribs now and again, and no one, wonder of all, seems to harbor any violent thoughts about any of the others. Not even me. Instead, we all cluster at the glass, looking at the miraculous commonplace in the next room. Are these human beings? Can this really be the Miami I have always lived in? Or has some strange physics experiment in an underground supercollider sent us all to live in Bizarro World, where everyone is kind and tolerant and happy all the time? Where is the joyfully homicidal crowd of yesteryear? Where are the well-armed, juiced-up, half-crazed, ready-to-kill friends of my youth? Has all this changed, vanished, washed away forever in the light from yonder window? What fantastic vision beyond the glass has taken a hallway filled with normal, wicked, face-breaking, neck-snapping humans and turned them into a clot of bland and drooling happy-wappys? Unbelieving, I look again, and there it is. There it still is. Four neat rows of pink and brown, tiny wiggling creatures, so small and prunish and useless--and yet it is they who have turned this crowd of healthy, kill-crazy humans into a half-melted splotch of dribbling helplessness. And beyond this mighty feat of magic, even more absurd and dramatic and unbelievable, one of those tiny pink lumps has taken our Dark Dabbler,...
