I stepped out of the car and tried to open the back door. It was jammed shut, dented in from impact with Rita’s car. So I knelt on the front seat and leaned over, grabbing the notebook and pulling it out. A siren wailed nearby, and I stepped away from Weiss’s car and moved over next to Rita, clutching the book to my chest.
“What is it?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s have a look.”
And thinking only innocent thoughts, I removed the rubber band. A loose page fluttered to the ground and Astor pounced on it. “Dexter,” she said. “This looks just like you.”
“That’s not possible,” I said, taking the page from her hand.
But it was possible. It was a nice drawing, very well done, showing a man from the waist up, in a kind of mock-heroic Rambo-esque pose, holding a large knife that dripped blood, and there was no doubt about it.
It was me.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I ONLY HAD A FEW SECONDS TO ADMIRE THE SPLENDID likeness of myself. And then, in rapid succession, Cody said, “Cool,” Rita said, “Let me see,” and—happiest of all—the ambulance arrived. In the confusion that followed I managed to slip the portrait back into the notebook and usher my little family over to talk to the medical techs for a brief but thorough examination. And although they were reluctant to admit it, they could find no severed limbs, missing skulls, or mangled internal organs at all and so, eventually, they were forced to allow Rita and the kids to go, with dire warnings about what to watch out for just in case.
The damage to Rita’s car was mostly cosmetic—one headlight was broken and the fender was pushed in—so I bundled the three of them into the car. Normally, Rita would drop them at an after-school program and go back to work, but there is an unwritten law granting you the rest of the day off when you and your children are attacked by a maniac, so she decided to take them all home to recover from the trauma. And since Weiss was still out there somewhere, we decided that I had better do the same, and come home to protect them. So I waved them away into traffic and started the long and weary walk back to where I had parked my car.
My ankle was throbbing and the sweat that ran down my back irritated the ant bites, so in order to take my mind off the pain I flipped open Weiss’s notebook and paged through it as I walked. The shock of that picture of me was past, and I needed to find out what it meant—and where it might be leading Weiss. I was reasonably sure it was not a mere doodle, something he had absent-mindedly scratched out while talking on the telephone. After all, who did he have left to talk to? His lover Doncevic was dead, and he had killed his dear pal Wimble himself. Besides, everything he had done so far had been pointed at a very specific purpose, and without exception it had been a purpose that I could do without quite happily.
So I studied the drawing of me again. It was idealized, I suppose—I could not remember noticing that I had such clearly defined washboard abs when last I looked. And the overall impression of a vast and happy menace was, while perhaps accurate, something I tried very hard not to show. But I had to admit he had captured something here, possibly even suitable for framing.
I went through the other pages. It was quite interesting stuff, and the drawings were good, especially the ones that featured me. I was sure I didn’t look that noble, happy, and savage, but perhaps that was what artistic license is all about. And as I looked at the other drawings and began to get an idea of what it was all leading up to, I was also quite sure that I didn’t like it, no matter how flattering. Not at all.
Many of the drawings showed ideas for ways to decorate anonymous bodies in the spirit of what Weiss had already done. There was one that featured a woman with six breasts; where the extras would come from was not mentioned. She was wearing a flamboyant feathered hat and a thong, the kind of costume we had seen at the Moulin Rouge in Paris. It hid almost nothing, but made everything seem so glamorous, and the effect of the sequined bras that barely covered all six breasts was absolutely riveting.
The next page had a letter-size piece of paper wedged into the binding. I took it out and unfolded it. It was an airline schedule from Cubana de Aviación, printed from a computer and listing its flights from Havana to Mexico. It was tucked in with a drawing that depicted a man wearing a straw hat and holding an oar. A line had been drawn through it and next to it in bold and neat block letters was written REFUGEE! I shoved the Aviación printout back in and flipped the page. The next page showed a man with an opened body cavity stuffed with what appeared to be cigars and rum bottles. He was propped up in a vintage convertible car with the top down.
But by far the more interesting drawings—at least to me—were the series featuring one strong central image of Dauntless Dimpled Dexter. It may not say a great deal about me that I found these pictures of myself so much more compelling than the ones that featured butchered strangers, but there is something endlessly fascinating about looking at drawings of yourself you’ve discovered in a homicidal psychopath’s notebook. In any case, it was this final series that took my breath away. And if Weiss actually created this, it would take my breath away literally and forever.
Because these, done in much more detail, were taken from the film loop that showed me working on Doncevic. They were accurately copied, showing almost exactly what I remembered from seeing that video so many times; almost. In several of the frames, Weiss had sketched in a slight change of angle so that the face showed.
My face.
Attached to the body doing all the chopping.
And just to underscore the threat, Weiss had written in photoshop underneath these pictures, underlining it. I am not really current on video technology, but I can put two and two together as well as anyone else. Photoshop is a program for manipulating film images, and you could use it to alter the images, put in things that didn’t belong. I had to assume it could be done just as easily with video. And I knew Weiss had enough video to last for several wicked lifetimes—video of me, and Cody, and gawkers at crime scenes, and Dark Passenger knows what else.
So he was clearly going to modify the clip of me working on Doncevic so that my face showed. As well as I was coming to know Weiss, or at least his handiwork, I knew this would not be a make-work project. He was going to use this to make some lovely piece of decoration that would destroy me. And all because of an hour’s frolic with his sweetheart, Doncevic.
I had done it, of course, and rather enjoyed it, too. But this seemed like cheating—it was unfair to put my face in after the fact, wasn’t it? Especially since, added afterward or not, it would be more than enough to start a series of very awkward questions coming my way.
The final drawing was the most terrifying of all. It showed a giant and wickedly smiling Dexter from the film loop raising up the power saw, projected onto the facade of a large building, while below him on the ground crouched what appeared to be a half-dozen or so ornamental corpses, all adorned with the sort of accessories that Weiss had used on his other bodies so far. The whole thing was framed by a double row of royal-palm trees, and it was such a beautiful picture of tropical and artistic splendor that it might have brought a tear to my eye if modesty hadn’t interfered.
It all made perfect sense in a Weiss-y sort of way. Use the film he already had, subtly changed to feature moi in a starring role, and project it onto a very public building so there could be no doubt at all that we were seeing Decapitating Dexter at work. Throw me to the sharks and at the same time create a large communal artwork for all to admire. A perfect solution.
I arrived at my car and sat in the driver’s seat, looking through the notebook one more time. Of course it was possible that these were just sketches, a paper-and-pencil fantasy that would never see the light of day. But this had all started with Weiss and Doncevic making public displays out of bodies, and the only difference here was one of scale—that and the fact that at some point in the last few days Dexter had become Weiss’s art-fair project. The Mona Dexter.
And now Weiss planned to make me a great
public-works project, too. Dexter the Magnificent, who doth bestride the world like a Colossus, many lovely corpses at his feet, brought to you in living color just in time for the evening news. Oh, Mama, who is that large and handsome man with the bloody saw? Why, that’s Dexter Morgan, dear, the horrible man they arrested a little while ago. But Mama, why is he smiling? He likes his work, dear. Let that be a lesson to you—always find a worthy job that keeps you happy.
I had learned enough in college to appreciate the fact that a civilization is judged by its art. It was humbling to think that, if Weiss is successful, future generations would look back on the twenty-first century and weigh its accomplishments with my image. This kind of immortality was a very tempting idea—but there were a few drawbacks to this particular invitation to eternal fame. First of all, I am far too modest, and second—well, there was the whole thing about people discovering what I really am. People like Coulter and Salguero, for example. Which they certainly would, if this video of my image was projected onto a large public building with a pile of corpses at its feet. Really a lovely thought, but unfortunately it would lead these people to ask certain questions, make a few connections, and before long the meal of the day would be Cream of Dexter Soup, lovingly cooked on Old Sparky and served up to you on the front page of the Herald.
No, this was very flattering, but I was not really prepared to become a living icon of twenty-first-century art. With all possible reluctance, I would have to extend my regrets and decline the honor.
And how?
It was a fair question, after all. The pictures told me what Weiss wanted to do—but they told me nothing about how far along his plans were, or when he wanted to do it, or even where—
But wait a minute: they did tell me where. I turned to the last picture again, the one that showed the whole lunatic project in brightly colored detail. The drawing of the building that served as a projection screen was very specific and looked familiar—and the two rows of royal palms I had seen somewhere before, I was quite sure. Someplace I had actually been, too; but where and when? I stared at the picture and let my giant brain whirl. I had been there in the not-too-distant past. Perhaps only a year or so before I got married?
And with that one word, married, I remembered. It had been just about a year and a half ago. Rita’s friend from work, Anna, had gotten married. It had been a lavish and remarkably expensive wedding, owing to the bride’s family’s wealth, and Rita and I had attended the reception at a ridiculously posh old hotel called The Breakers in Palm Beach. The building pictured here was unmistakably the front of The Breakers.
Wonderful; now I knew exactly where Weiss planned to set up this noble Dexter-ama. So what did I do with that knowledge? I couldn’t very well stake out the hotel night and day for the next three months and wait for Weiss to show up with the first load of bodies. But I also couldn’t afford to do nothing. Sooner or later he would either set it up or—or was it possible that this was another trap of some kind, intended only to draw me away to Palm Beach while Weiss did something else down here in Dade County?
But that was silly; he hadn’t planned to limp away over the horizon with a pencil in his leg and the imprint of a small fist in his crotch, leaving his drawings behind. This was his plan, for better or worse—and I had to believe it was for worse, at least as far as my reputation was concerned. So the only remaining question was: When did he plan to do it? The only answer I could come up with was “soon,” and that really didn’t seem specific enough.
There was really no other way—I would have to take some time off from work and wait at the hotel. That meant leaving Rita and the kids alone and I didn’t like that, but I could not see anything else to do. Weiss had been moving very fast, from one idea to the next, and I thought he would most likely concentrate on this one project and act quickly. It was a huge gamble, but it was certainly worth it if I could stop him from projecting a giant image of me onto the front of The Breakers.
All right; I would do it. When Weiss began in Palm Beach, I would be there waiting for him. And with that settled, I flipped open the notebook for one last look at handsome Comic-Book Dexter. But before I could really sink into a self-admiring trance, a car pulled up next to mine and a man get out.
It was Coulter.
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 dangling from the end of his index finger. 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 a lifetime, and my expression of surprise was certainly a very good one, but Coulter didn’t look terribly convinced.
“This guy Donkeywit,” 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 back 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.