Dexter by Design

TWENTY-EIGHT

Detective Coulter came around the rear end of his car and paused, looked at me, and then went back to the driver's side of his car and disappeared for a moment.

I used the time to slip the notebook under my seat, and Coulter popped right back up and again came around the tail end of the car, this time with his two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew in one hand. He leaned his backside against his car, looked at me, and took a large sip of soda. Then he wiped his mouth on the back of his arm.

“You weren't in your office” he said.

“No, I wasn't” I said. After all, here I was.

“So when the call comes on the radio, it's your wife, I look in to tell you” he said, and he shrugged. “You're not there. You're here already, right?” He didn't wait for an answer, which was just as well, since I didn't have one. Instead he took another swig from his soda bottle, wiped his mouth again, and said, “Same school where we got that Scout leader guy, too, huh?”

“That's right.”

“But you were already here when it happened?” he said, trying to look innocently surprised. “How'd that happen, anyway?” I was very sure that telling Coulter I'd had a hunch would not make him want to shake my hand and congratulate me. So, launching myself off my legendary wit once again, I heard myself saying, “I thought I'd come down and surprise Rita and the kids.” Coulter nodded as if he found that very believable. “Surprise “em” he said. “Guess somebody else beat you to it.”

“Yes” I said carefully. “It certainly looks like it.” He took another long pull on the soda bottle, but this time he didn't wipe his mouth, he just turned and stared back at the main road where the tow truck was now hauling away Weiss's car. “You got any idea who that might have been that did this to your wife and kids?” he said without looking back at me.

“No” I said. I guess I just assumed it was, you know. An accident?”

“Huh” he said, and now he was staring at me. “An accident. Jeez, I hadn't even thought of that one. “Cause, you know. It's the same school where that Cub Scout guy was killed. And also it's you here again. So, hey. An accident. Really? You think?” I, I just —why wouldn't it be?” I have practiced for a lifetime, and my expression of surprise is certainly a very good one, but Coulter didn't look terribly convinced.

“This guy Donkey wit” he said.

“Doncevic” I said.

“Whatever.” He shrugged. “Looks like he's disappeared. You know anything about that?”

“Why would I know about that?” I said, putting as much astonishment on my face as I could.

“Just skipped bail, run away from his boyfriend, and disappeared,” he said. “Why would he do that?” I really don't know” I said.

“You ever read, Dexter?” he said, and the way he used my first name worried me —it sounded like he was talking to a suspect. And of course he was, but I was still hoping he wouldn't think of me that way.

“Read?” I said. “Um, not a whole lot, no. Why?” I like to read” he said. And then apparently shifting gears he went on, “Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action.”

“Excuse me?” I said. He had lost me somewhere around “I like to read“.

“It's from Goldfinger,” he said. “Where he's telling James Bond, I come across you three times where you don't belong, it ain't a coincidence.” He sipped, wiped his mouth, and watched me sweat.

“Love that book. Must of read it like three, four times” he said.

I haven't read it” I said politely.

“So, we got you here” he went on. “And we got you at the house that blows up. And that's two times we shouldn't have you anywhere around. Am I s'posed to think that's coincidence?”

“What else would it be?” I said.

He just looked without blinking. Then he took another sip of his Mountain Dew. I don't know” he said at last. “But I know what Goldfinger would say it is if there's a third time.”

“Well, let's hope there isn't” I said, and I truly meant it this time.

“Yeah” he said. He nodded, stuck his index finger into the mouth of the soda bottle, and stood up. “Let's just hope the shit out of that” he said. He turned away, walked back around his car, got in, and drove away.

If I had been a little bit more of a fond observer of human foible, I'm sure I would have taken great joy in discovering new depths in Detective Coulter. How wonderful to find that he was a devotee of the literary arts! But the joy of this discovery was diminished by the fact that I really had no interest in what Coulter did with his time, provided he did it away from me. I had barely gotten Sergeant Doakes off perpetual Dexter watch, and now here came Coulter to take his place. It was like I was the victim of some strange and sinister Dexter-persecuting Tibetan sect —whenever the old Dexter-hating lama died, a new one was born to take his place.

But there was very little I could do about that right now. I was about to become a major work of art, and at the moment that was a far more pressing problem. I got into my car, started the engine, and drove home.

When I got to the house I had to stand outside and knock for several minutes, since Rita had decided to fasten the security chain on the inside of the door. I suppose I was lucky that she had not piled the couch and the refrigerator in front of the door as well.

Possibly that was only because she needed to use the couch; she was huddled on it with the two children clutched tightly to her, one on each side, and after letting me in —somewhat reluctantly —she resumed her position, throwing a protective arm around each child.

Cody and Astor had almost identical looks of annoyed boredom on their faces. Apparently, cringing in terror in the living room was not the sort of quality bonding time they truly appreciated.

“You took so long” Rita said as she slid the chain back on the door.

I had to talk to a detective” I said.

“Well, but” she said, sliding back onto the couch between the children. I mean, we were worried.”

“We weren't worried” Astor said, rolling her eyes at her mother.

“Because I mean, that man could be anywhere right now” Rita said. “He could be right outside, right now.” And even though none of us really believed that —not even Rita —all four of us swivelled our heads to the door for a look. Happily for us, he wasn't there, at least not as far as we could tell by trying to look through a closed and locked door. “Please, Dexter” Rita said, and the edge of fear was so sharp in her voice I could smell it. “Please, this is —what is ... why is this happening? I can't...” She made several large but incomplete motions with her hands and then dropped them into her lap. “This has to stop” she said. “Make it stop.” In all honesty, I could only think of a few things I would rather do than make it stop —and several of those things could easily be part of making it stop, just as soon as I caught Weiss. But before I could really concentrate on making happy plans, the doorbell rang.

Rita responded by lurching up into the air and then settling back down again with one child pulled in tight on each side of her. “Oh God” she said. “Who could that be?” I was pretty sure it was not a Mormon youth ministry, but I just said, “I'll get it” and went to the door. Just to be safe, I peaked through the little spy hole —Mormons can be so persistent —and what I saw was even scarier.

Sergeant Doakes stood on my doorstep.

He was clutching the little silver computer that now spoke for him, and at his elbow was a clean-cut middle-aged woman in a grey suit, and even though she was not wearing a fedora I was reasonably sure she was the fed I had been threatened with.

Looking at the two of them and thinking of all the trouble they might represent, I actually considered leaving the door bolted and pretending we weren't home. But it was an idle thought; I have found that the faster you run from trouble, the quicker it catches you, and I was quite sure that if I did not let in Doakes and his new friend they would be right back with a warrant, and probably Coulter and Salguero as well. So, thinking unhappy thoughts and trying to settle my face into the right mixture of surprise and weary shock, I opened the door.

“Move. It. Motherfucker!” Doakes's cheerful artificial baritone voice called out as he stabbed his claw three times at the keyboard of his little silver box.

The fed put a restraining hand on him, and then glanced back at me. “Mr Morgan?” she said. “Can we come in?” She held up her credentials patiently while I looked at them; apparently, she was Special Agent Brenda Recht of the FBI. “Sergeant Doakes offered to bring me down here to talk to you” she said, and I thought about what a nice thing that was for Doakes to do.

“Of course you can come in” I said, and then I had one of those happy inspirations that sometimes come at just the right time and I added, “But the children have had such a shock —and Sergeant Doakes kind of scares them. Can he wait out here?”

“Motherfucker!” Doakes said, sounding like he was happily calling out, “Howdy, neighbor!”

“Also, his language is a bit rough for the kids” I added.

Special Agent Recht glanced at Doakes. As an FBI agent, she could not admit that anything scared her, even Doakes the cyborg, but she looked like she thought that was a very good idea. “Sure” she said. “Why don't you wait out here, Sergeant?” Doakes glared at me for a very long moment, and in the dark distance I could almost hear the angry scream of his Passenger. But all he did was raise one silver claw, glance at his keyboard, and punch one of his pre-recorded sentences. I am still watching you, motherfucker” the cheerful voice assured me.

“That's fine” I said. “But watch me through the door, all right?” I motioned Recht inside, and as she brushed past Doakes and came in I closed the door behind her, leaving an unblinking Doakes to glare at the outside of the door.

“He doesn't seem to like you” Special Agent Recht observed, and I was impressed with her keen eye for detail.

“No” I said. “I think he blames me for what happened to him” which was at least partly true, even though he had disliked me well before he lost his hands, feet and tongue.

“Uh-huh” she said, and although I could see she was thinking about that, she didn't say anything more on the subject. Instead, she moved on over to the couch, where Rita still sat clutching Cody and Astor. “Mrs Morgan?” she said, holding up her credentials again.

“Special Agent Recht, FBI. Can I ask you a few questions about what happened this afternoon?”

“FBI?” Rita said, as guiltily as if she was sitting on stolen bearer bonds. “But that's —why would —yes, of course.”

“Do you have a gun?” Astor said.

Recht looked at her with a sort of wary fondness. “Yes, I do” she said.

“Do you get to shoot people with it?”

“Only if I have to” Recht said. She glanced around and found the nearby easy chair. “Can I sit down and ask you a few questions?”

“Oh” Rita said. “I'm so sorry. I was only —yes, please sit down.”

Recht settled herself onto the edge of the chair and looked at me before addressing Rita. “Tell me what happened” she said, and when Rita hesitated she went on, “You had the kids in the car, you pulled out onto US-1 ...”

“He just, he came out of nowhere” Rita said.

“Boom” Cody added softly, and I looked at him with surprise.

He was smiling just a little, which was equally alarming. Rita looked at him with dismay, and then went on.

“He hit us” she said. “And while I was still —before I could —he just, he was there at the door, grabbing at the children.” I punched him in the crotch” Astor said. “And Cody stabbed him with a pencil.”

Cody frowned at her. I stabbed first,” he said.

“Whatever” Astor said.

Recht looked at the two of them with mild astonishment. “Good for you both” she said.

“And then the policeman came over and he ran away” Astor said, and Rita nodded.

“And how did you come to be there, Mr Morgan?” she said, swinging her head toward me with no warning.

I had known that she would ask this, of course, but I had still not come up with any really socko answer. My claim to Coulter that I had wanted to surprise Rita had fallen very, very flat, and Special Agent Recht seemed to be considerably sharper —and she was looking at me expectantly as the seconds ticked by, waiting for a sane and logical reply that I did not have. I had to say something, and soon; but what?

“Um” I mumbled, I don't know if you heard I had a concussion ...?”

The interview with Special Agent Brenda Recht of the FBI will never appear on any highlight reel that wants my endorsement. She did not seem to believe that I had gone home early because I felt bad, stopping at the school because it was that time of day —and I can't really say I blamed her. It sounded remarkably feeble, but since it was all I could come up with, I had to stick with it.

She also seemed to have trouble accepting my statement that whoever had attacked Rita and the children was a random maniac, the product of road rage, Miami traffic, and too much Cuban coffee.

She did, however, finally accept that she was not going to get any other answer. She stood up at last, looking at me with an expression that might best be called thoughtful. “All right, Mr Morgan” she said. “Something doesn't quite add up here, but I guess you're not going to tell me what it is.”

“There's really nothing to tell” I said, perhaps too modestly.

“These things happen all the time in Miami.”

“Uh-huh” she said. “The problem is, they seem to be happening around you an awful lot.” Somehow, I stopped myself from saying, “If you only knew ...” and I ushered her to the front door.

“We'll keep a cop posted here for a couple of days, for safety's sake” she said, which was not really welcome news, and with unfortunate timing, as she said it I swung open the door to reveal Sergeant Doakes in almost the exact position we had left him, staring malevolently at the door. I said my fond goodbyes to them both, and as I closed the door the last thing I saw was Doakes's unblinking glare, for all the world like the Cheshire Cat's evil twin.

The FBI's interest had done very little to make Rita feel better, however. She still clutched at the children and spoke in jangled half sentences. So I reassured her the best I could, and for a while we all sat there together on the couch, until finally the squirming of Cody and Astor made it too difficult to sit all together like that. Rita gave up and put on a DVD for them to watch and went into the kitchen, where she began her alternative comfort therapy by rattling pots and pans, and I went down the hall to the small extra room she called “Dexter's Office” to look at Weiss's sketch book again and think dark thoughts.

The list of people who could not be considered friendly was certainly growing: Doakes, Coulter, Salguero, and now the FBI.

And of course, Weiss himself. He was still out there, and he still wanted to get at me to get his revenge. Would he come after the children again, limping out of the shadows to grab them, perhaps wearing Kevlar pants and a groin protector this time? If so, I would have to stay with the kids until it was over, which was not the best way to catch him —especially not if he tried something different.

And if he wanted to kill me, staying with Cody and Astor endangered them; judging by his exploding house trick, he clearly didn't worry about collateral damage.

But I did —I had to. I was worried about the children, and protecting them was a top priority. It was a very strange epiphany, to realize that I was concerned with their safety as much as with protecting my secret identity. It did not fit with how I thought of myself, how I had built up my careful self-image. Of course, I had always taken special delight in tracking down predators who preyed on children, but I had never really thought about why that was. And certainly I planned to do my duty to Cody and Astor, both as their stepfather and, far more importantly, as their guide onto the Harry Path. But to see myself spinning in mother-hen circles at the thought of someone trying to hurt them was new and somewhat unsettling.

So, stopping Weiss was important in a brand new way. I was Daddy Dexter now, and I had to do it for the children, as well as for myself, and I was experiencing a surge of something dangerously close to emotion at the thought of any attempt to harm them.

All right; then I clearly had to figure out Weiss's next move and try to stop him before he could pull it off. I picked up his notebook and flipped through the drawings one more time, perhaps unconsciously hoping I had missed something before —an address where I could find Weiss, perhaps, or even a suicide note. But the pages were still the same, and truthfully the novelty had worn off and I took no real joy in looking at the pictures of me. I have never been all that interested in looking at me, and looking at me in a series of pictures intended to depict me as I really am to the world at large took any possible vestigial joy out of it.

On top of all the other unfairness, it did not really seem to add up to very much at all —certainly not enough to justify all the trouble it was causing me. I suppose I would have objected even if it was the Mona Lisa, if it had my face. And this was very far from being the Mona Lisa. It seemed to have been sketched out idly and then, on the last page, thrown together without any real soul searching.

Of course, the point was to expose me, not to create a great work of art —or was it? I paused and studied several of the detail drawings, the ones depicting the other elements of the display. It may sound self-centered for me to say so since they were competing for space with the pictures of me, but they were really not very interesting. You could probably call them clever, but no more.

They lacked any real originality and seemed rather lifeless —even for dead bodies.

And to be brutally honest, even the pictures of me were something any talented high school kid might have done. They might be projected in huge scale on the front of the Breakers Hotel, but they were not in the same class as anything I had seen so recently in Paris —not even the stuff in the small galleries. Of course, there was that last piece, “Jennifer's Leg'. It had used amateurish videos, too but there the whole point had been the audience's reaction and not the ...

For a moment there was absolute silence in Dexter's brain, a silence so thick it obscured everything else. And then it rolled away to reveal a jabbering little monkey of a thought.

Audience reaction.

If you were interested in the reaction then the quality of the work is not so important, as long as it provokes shock. You would arrange to capture that reaction —for example, on videotape. And perhaps you would use the services of a video professional —someone like, just for example, Kenneth Wimble, whose house Weiss had blown up. It made much more sense to think of Wimble as one of them, rather than a random victim.

And when Weiss had made the jump to full-scale murder, instead of stealing bodies to play with, Wimble had probably gotten squeamish, and Weiss had blown him up in his own house at the same time that he tried to take out irreplaceable me.

But Weiss was still videoing, even without his expert. Because that was what this was about for him. He wanted pictures of people seeing what he had done. More and more he wanted to do it, too with the Scout leader and with Wimble and the attempt on me. But the video, that was what mattered. And he would happily kill to get it.

No wonder the Dark Passenger had been bemused. Ours was very much a hands-on kind of art, and the results were extremely private. Weiss was different. He might want his revenge on me, but he would happily take it indirectly, something the Passenger and I would never consider. To Weiss, the art still mattered. He needed his pictures.

I looked at the last large, full-color rendering of me projected onto the Breakers Hotel. The picture was clearly drawn and you could easily see the basic architecture of the place. The front was U-shaped, with the front door in the center and a wing sticking forward on each side. There was a long mall leading up to the front door, with its rows of royal palm trees, a perfect place for a crowd to gather and gape in horror. Weiss would be there somewhere in the crowd with his camera, getting pictures of the faces.

But as I looked at the picture I realized that even before that, he would want to get a room in one of the wings overlooking the front where the projection was displayed, and he would set up a camera there, something like one of the remote cameras he had used already but this time with a really good lens, to capture the faces of the people watching.

The whole trick would be to stop him before he set things up stop him when he arrived at the hotel. And to do that all I had to do was find out when he checked in. That would be very simple if only I had access to the hotel's records —which I didn't —or knew a way to force my way into them —which I didn't. But as I thought about it, I realized something.

I knew somebody who did.