“They can’t all be,” I said. “Even in Key West.”
“So then what’s up?” she said, as if it was my fault that the men looked the same.
I was about to tell her it was a strange cosmic accident, when I remembered that it was July and this was, after all, Key West. “Oh,” I said. “Hemingway Days.” They both looked at me blankly. “The men are all Hemingway look-alikes,” I told them.
Astor frowned and looked at Cody. He shook his head.
“What’s Hemingway?” Astor said.
I watched the crowd of look-alikes milling around on the sidewalk, jostling each other and slurping beer. “A man who grew a beard and drank a lot,” I said.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to look like that,” she muttered.
“Come on,” I said. “You have to brush your teeth.”
I herded them in and over to the elevator, just in time to see Rita heading out the door. She gave us a big wave and called out, “Don’t get too close— I’ll call you when I— Remember, be there at two o’clock!”
“Bye, Mom!” Astor called back, and Cody waved to her.
We rode up to our floor in silence, and trudged down the hall to our room. I put the key card into the lock on our door, pushed the door open, and held it for Cody and Astor. They hurried inside and, before I could follow them in and close the door, they stopped dead in their tracks.
“Whoa,” Astor said.
“Cool,” Cody added, and his voice seemed louder and sharper than normal.
“Dex-ter,” Astor called in a happy singsong tone. “You’d better come look.”
I pushed past them into the room for a look, and after one quick glance, looking was all I could do. My feet would not move, my mouth was dry, and all coherent thought had fled me, replaced by the single syllable “but,” which repeated itself in an endless loop as I just stared.
The foldout couch where Cody and Astor had slept was pulled out and neatly made up, with pillows fluffed and blanket turned down. And nestled snugly onto the bed was a rigid lump of something that had once been a human being. But it didn’t look like one now; where a face should have been there was a shallow, flattened crater with a smear of crusted blood around it where some large, hard object had come in contact with flesh and bones. A few stubs of gray teeth showed in the middle, and one eyeball, popped out of its socket by the force of the blow, dangled down one side of the mess.
Somebody had hit that face with appalling force, with something like a baseball bat, crushing it out of shape and probably killing it instantly, which almost seemed too bad. Because even without a shape, and in spite of the fact that I was shocked nearly thoughtless by finding it here, I recognized the cheap suit and enough of the squashed features to know who this scabby lump had once been.
It was Detective Hood.
THIRTY-ONE
; I HAD NEVER LIKED DETECTIVE HOOD, AND I LIKED HIM A LOT less now. He had been enough of an annoyance alive; turning up dead in my hotel room was much worse, violating even the most basic standards of etiquette and decency. It was just plain wrong, and I almost wished he was still alive, so I could kill him again.
But beyond this severe breach of decorum there were other implications, infinitely more troubling. And although I would like to say that my high-powered brain immediately kicked into top gear and began to compute them all, the truth is sadly otherwise. I was so busy being angry at Hood’s final offense against good taste that I did not think at all until I heard Astor say, “But, Dexter, what’s it doing here?”
And as I opened my mouth to snap some angry dismissal at her, it hit me that this was a very important question. Not why Hood was in Key West; he had clearly followed me to make sure I didn’t steal a boat and run for Cuba. I had half expected that. But someone else had followed along, too, and killed Hood in this very distinctive way, and that was far more troubling, because theoretically, it was impossible. Because unless I was willing to accept the idea that a monstrous coincidence had led a complete stranger to kill Hood for some whimsical reason, and then by miraculous happenstance chose to dump him randomly in my suite, there was only one person in the world who could have done this.
Crowley.
Of course, he was supposed to be dead, which should have kept him too busy to do anything like this. But even if he was still alive somehow … how had he found me here? How had he discovered not only that I was in Key West, but that I was here, in this hotel, in this exact room? He had known every move I was going to make before I had made it, and now even my room number. How?
Cody tried to push past and get a closer look, and I pushed him firmly back toward the door. “Stay back,” I said, and I reached for my phone. If I couldn’t figure out how Crowley had stayed ahead of me the whole time, at least I could find out if he was really dead. I dialed. There were three short rings and then a dreadfully cheerful, “Hello!”
“Brian,” I said. “Sorry if this is an odd question, but, um … did you take care of that thing you were going to do the other night?”
“Oh, yes,” he said, and even through the phone I could hear the very real happiness in his voice. “And a good time was had by nearly all.”
“You’re sure?” I said, staring at the lump that had been Hood.
“You’re right; that really is an odd question,” Brian said. “Of course I’m sure, brother; I was there.”