Jeff Lindsay - Dexter by Design

“Brandon Weiss” I said, not sure where this was going.

“That's just his name” he said. “Who the fuck is he?” I shook my head, not truly sure what he meant, and even less sure that I wanted to tell him.

“But this is the guy that, you know. Did all those fancy dead body displays that the governor was pissed off about?”

“I'm pretty sure he did” I said.

He nodded and looked at his hand, and it occurred to me that there was no Mountain Dew bottle hanging from it. The poor man must have run out.

“Be a good thing to nail this guy” he said.

“Yes, it would” I said.

“Make all kinds of people happy” he said. “Good for the career.” I suppose so” I said, wondering if perhaps I should have hit him with the chair after all.

Coulter clapped his hands. “All right” he said. “Let's go get him.” It was a wonderful idea, very decisively delivered, but I saw one small problem with it. “Go where?” I said. “Where has he taken Rita?” He blinked at me. “What? He told you” he said.

I don't think so” I said.

“Come on, you don't watch public television?” he said, sounding like I had committed some kind of crime with small animals.

“Not very much” I admitted. “The kids have outgrown Barney.”

“They been running promos for it for three weeks” he said. “The Art-stravaganza.”

“The what?”

“The Art-stravaganza, at the Convention Center” he said, starting to sound like the promo. “Over 200 cutting edge artists from across North America and the Caribbean, all under one roof.” I could feel my mouth moving in a game attempt to make words, but nothing came out. I blinked and tried again, but before I could make any sound at all, Coulter jerked his head at the door and said, “Come on. Let's go get “em.” He took one step backward. “Afterwards we can talk about why that looks like you with the guy in the tub.” This time I actually got both of my feet on the floor, together, ready to propel me up and out —but before I could take it any further my cell phone rang. Out of habit more than anything else, I answered it. “Hello” I said.

“Mr Morgan?” a tired young female voice asked.

“Yes” I said.

“This is Megan? At the after-school program? That, you know, um, with Cody? And Astor?”

“Oh, yes” I said, and a new alarm began to clatter on the main floor of my brain.

“It's like five after six?” Megan said. “And I gotta go home now?

“Cause I have my accounting class tonight? Like, at seven?”

“Yes, Megan” I said, “how can I help you?”

“Like I said? I need to go home?” she said.

“All right” I said, wishing I could reach through the telephone and fling her away to her house.

“But your kids?” she said. I mean, your wife never came for them? So they're here? And I'm not supposed to go if there are kids here?”

It seemed like a very good rule —especially since it meant that Cody and Astor were both all right, and not in Weiss's clutches. “I'll come get them” I said. “I'll be there in twenty minutes.” I snapped the telephone shut and saw Coulter looking at me expectantly. “My kids” I said. “Their mother never picked them up, and now I have to.”

“Right now?” he said.

“Yes.”

“So you're gonna go get them?”

“That's right.”

“Uh-huh” he said. “You still want to save your wife?” I think that would be best” I said.

“So you'll get the kids and come for your wife” he said. “And not, like, try to leave the country or anything.”

“Detective” I said, I want to get my wife back.” Coulter looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded. “I'll be at the Convention Center” he said, and turned around and walked out the door.

THE PARK WHERE CODY AND ASTOR WENT AFTER SCHOOL each day was only a few minutes from our house, but it was the far side of town from my office, and so it was a bit more than twenty minutes before I finally got there. Since it was rush hour traffic, I suppose you could say it was lucky that I got there at all. But I had plenty of time to reflect on what might be happening to Rita, and I found to my surprise that I actually hoped she was all right. I was just starting to get used to her. I liked having her cooking every night, and certainly I could not manage both kids on a full time basis and still have the freedom to blossom in my chosen career —not yet, not for a few more years, when they had both been trained.

So I hoped that Coulter had taken reliable back-up, and that they would have Weiss tucked away and Rita secured, perhaps sipping coffee and wrapped in a blanket, like on television.

But that brought up an interesting point, one that filled the rest of my otherwise pleasant drive through the homicidal homeward bound crowd with genuine worry. Suppose they did have Weiss all safely cuffed and mirandized? What would happen when they started to ask him questions? Things like, why did you do it? And more importantly, why did you do it to Dexter? What if he had the very poor taste to answer them truthfully? So far he had showed an appalling willingness to tell everyone all about me, and although I am not particularly shy, I would rather keep my real accomplishments hidden from the public eye.

And if Coulter added the things Weiss might blather to what he already suspected from seeing the video, things might get very unhappy in Dexterville.

It would have been a much better thing if I had been able to confront Weiss by myself —settle things amicably, mano a mano —or possibly cuchillo a cuchillo —and solve the problem of Weiss's urge to communicate by feeding my Passenger. But I'd had no real choice in the matter —Coulter had been there and heard it, and I'd had to go along. After all, I was a law-abiding citizen -1 really was, technically speaking; I mean, innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, right?

And it was looking more and more like it would come down to a court of law, starring Dexter in an orange jumpsuit and leg irons, which I could not look forward to at all —orange is a very bad color for me. Of course, being accused of murder would really be a major roadblock to my true happiness. I don't have any illusions about our legal system; I see it on the job every day, and I am quite sure that I could beat it, unless they actually catch me in the act, on film, in front of a bus filled with US senators and nuns. But even an open accusation would put me under the kind of scrutiny that would spell an end to my playtime activities, even if I was found to be completely innocent. Just look at poor OJ; once he was under suspicion, it was bound to end up badly.

But what could I do about it? My options were very limited.

I could either let Weiss talk, in which case I was in trouble, or stop him from talking —in which case, exact same result. There was no way around it. Dexter was in deep, and the tide was rising.

It was therefore a very thoughtful Dexter who finally pulled up at the community hall at the park. Good old Megan was still there, holding Cody and Astor by the hand, and hopping from one foot to the other in her anxiety to be rid of them and off into the exciting world of accounting class. They all seemed happy to see me, in their own individual ways, which was so gratifying that I forgot all about Weiss for three or four full seconds.

“Mr Morgan?” Megan said. I really gotta go.” And I was so stunned to hear her complete a sentence that was not a question, I merely nodded and pried Cody and Astor's hands from hers. She skittered away to a small beat-up Chevy and raced off into the evening traffic.

“Where's Mom?” Astor demanded.

I am sure there is a caring and sensitive and very human way to tell children that their mother is in the clutches of a homicidal monster, but I did not know what it was, so I said, “That bad guy has her. The one that crashed into your car.”