Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

But this, the other, the utter rejection of our entire jointly led life, the complete denial of family ties, stretching back through the years to Mom and the house in the Grove and even including Saint Harry and His Plan—to take thirty-some years of actual existence and fling it away like roadkill—

—and then to throw it in my face, not once but twice, in a cold, uncompromising, and, it must be said, a cruel manner…this I could not understand. This went so far beyond mere self-preservation, so deeply into the surreal realm of Human Emotional Wickedness, a kingdom that was forever closed to someone like me—the Emotion part, I mean—that I could not begin to fathom it. I could not even imagine a set of circumstances that would lead me to deny Deborah in such a complete, absolute, and unbending way. It was unthinkable, no matter how I thought of it.

You were never really my brother.

That sentence of death still rang in my ears at lights-out that night.

—

It was still there the next morning at four-thirty when my loud, bright, and unnecessary wake-up call sounded. I did not need to be awakened. I had not slept. I had not performed any other higher functions of any kind, either. I had, in fact, done no more than lie on my bunk and listen to the endlessly repeating loop of Deborah’s voice casting me out of my entire life and into eternal all-alone darkness.

Breakfast came, delivered with cheerful invisible competence through the slot in my door. I am almost sure I ate it, since the tray was empty when I put it back through the slot. But I could not say what I had eaten. It might have been anything: baked frog vomit, deep-fried possum nostrils, human fingers, anything at all. I would not have noticed.

But things change. No matter how hard we fight it, nothing stays as it is. All things, as you may have noticed, must change, and even end. At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in its own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky. Eventually, other little thoughts began to trickle into the Pit of Despair where I lay and, it must be said, where I wallowed. It was this very act of wallowing, of starting to enjoy my suffering a little too much, that finally brought me back to something resembling awareness. I became aware that I had started my own repeating loop, in perfect harmony to Deborah’s hard words. It was a simple melody, a sprightly version of the well-known old tune “Pity Me.” And when I was at last alert to the fact that I was doing that, I became self-conscious and, from there, conscious.

And so at last, just before a delightful lunch of Strange Brown Meat Sandwich was delivered, Dexter arose from the dead. I sat up, stood, and performed a few stretching motions. Then, still aware of the utterly miserable and friendless wretch that I was, I began to think. My justly famous brain was the very last asset I had; using it to play back one small cruel song over and over was not really the optimum function of this rare and valuable piece of machinery.

So I thought. Very well, I thought, I am in jail. Anderson has schemed to keep me here without due process. Deborah has abandoned me. My court-appointed attorney appears to be an overworked underengaged Twinkie. But is all that really the end of the world? Certainly not! I still have Me, and there is a great deal one can do with a finely tuned resource like that. And thinking that, I felt a little better—even though I did not, in fact, think of any specific things Me might accomplish that would help Me get out of TGK. But I would think on that, too, and sooner or later I would arrive at some fiendishly clever course of action.

I did not, however, arrive at any such destination for the next few days, no matter how much I put my cerebral racehorse through its paces. If I could only get hold of the forensic evidence from the assorted killings I was charged with, I knew I could assemble a compelling case for my innocence. A significant part of my job had been testifying in court, and hard experience had taught me how to make dry facts come to life for a judge and jury. It was usually fun, since it was in truth no more than dramatizing things a bit. Over the years I had become quite good at taking an array of somewhat gooey facts and teaching them to sing and dance in a courtroom. Of course, it was probable that Anderson had been sticking his huge and grimy fingers into the forensic evidence, too. But it was just as likely that he had missed something important—or left such huge fingerprints on everything that I could hoist him with the petard of his own evidence tampering. Whatever the case, I was absolutely certain I could find something to work with—if I could just get back to my lab….

That is, if it was even mine anymore. It was another thing I hadn’t thought about yet. Was I fired, suspended, provisionally forgotten, or what? I didn’t know, and that might make a big difference.

But then there was Vince Masuoka, the closest thing I had to a friend. He would still be there on the job—and he would surely help me, wouldn’t he? I thought over what I knew about him, which was surprisingly little, considering we had worked together in perfect amity for so many years. I knew where he lived—he had thrown me my bachelor party at his little house. I knew he wore a Carmen Miranda costume on Halloween. I knew he liked to go clubbing, and he had invited me to join him more than once. I had always begged off, pleading family obligations. And I knew his laugh was as completely fake as mine, though not nearly as convincing. It was one of the things that made me comfortable with Vince: He was quite obviously just as unclear about how to fit in with the rest of the world as I was.

But other than that, what did I really know about Vince Masuoka? It didn’t seem like much when I trotted it out and lined it all up like that, a few little factoids that I might as well have read somewhere, and yet he was my closest friend. Is it like this for humans, too? Does anybody ever really know anybody else, no matter how well they “know” them? It seemed impossible.

It also seemed like a stupid distraction. It didn’t matter how well I knew Vince. It only mattered that he would help me. He had to. He was all I had left. He was, officially, my friend—and when family leaves you so dramatically in the lurch, friends are all you have. My friend Vince would help me.

And so my next gigantic mental public works project became trying to think of how I could get a message to him. I had to assume that Anderson was keeping a tight lid on any attempts I might make to communicate with anyone. So I could not come right out and tell Vince what I needed him to do. Anderson would just quash it, and if he didn’t, he would in any case know what I was trying to do, and prevent it. Among his many charms, Anderson was a bully, and he would certainly lean on Vince, and lean a lot harder and heavier than poor little Vince could tolerate. So I had to find a way to let Vince know I needed help, and yet keep Anderson off the scent.

I really don’t like to boast, but I have so much supporting testimony that I would be less than truthful if I did not admit that I am fiendishly clever. I take no credit for it; I was born this way. Something as basic as a message that Vince would understand and Anderson wouldn’t should have been absolute simplicity for me. I pondered it with confidence, certa

in that some bright and devious ploy would pop into my busy brain. It should have been the work of a few comfortable minutes.

And yet a day later I was still pondering. It may be that the TGK diet, however nutritious and wholesome, did not contain enough fish to keep my brain functioning at the highest levels. But I had thought of nothing, and I was still empty of inspiration when once again, a little while after my delightful midday meal, I heard the gears clicking in my door. Once again it swung open, and Lazlo beckoned, saying, “Your lawyer’s here.” It was almost certainly my imagination, but he seemed to put a bit more respect into those words than he had done previously.

I trudged out of my cell and over to the large, thick window to face once more Bernie and his fabulous flying documents—and I stopped dead only halfway there. Because Bernie was nowhere to be seen. Instead, another man sat in his place in the chair on the far side of the glass. He was a man unlike any I have ever seen, outside of the movies. Everything about him seemed to radiate calm assurance, power, and money. He was tanned where Bernie was pale, relaxed and confident instead of hassled, harried, and exhausted, and he was dressed in a suit that was so unlike the poor ill-fitting grubby thing Bernie wore that it cannot really be thought of as the same kind of garment.

This man’s suit has a life of its own. It sparkles with vitality and wit, and seems to glow with the same perfect health as the man wearing it. This suit is the kind of thing ambitious tailors dream of making when they hear that royalty is in town.

I feel Lazlo’s hand on my shoulder, and I turn to look at him quizzically. He just nods and pushes me toward the window.

And so I sit, quite certain that some large and comical mistake is unfolding, but willing to play it through, if only because it breaks the tedium. I look at the man through the glass; he nods and gives me a brief, professional smile. He is holding a beautiful Italian-leather folder filled with neatly aligned papers. With his other hand he picks up the phone, holds it for me to see, and raises an eyebrow at me.

I pick up the phone on my side.

“Mr. Morgan,” he says briskly—and without even looking at the papers. Perhaps he didn’t want to soil the leather folder.

“Yes. I mean, that’s me, but…?”

He nods again, and gives me a smile that seems friendly, but I can tell it is every bit as cold and phony as my own. “I am Frank Kraunauer.”

I blink. This is a name I have only read in the papers. It is a name that is spoken, if at all, only in reverent whispers. Celebrity lawyer Frank Kraunauer springs another horribly guilty client while sipping champagne on his yacht. Of course the inhuman fiend was guilty, but he had Frank Kraunauer defending him. Killers and cartel kingpins rejoice in his presence, for Kraunauer has but to speak and the chains of their bondage wither and die. He is the Home Run King of our courts; every swing sends another felon over the walls.

And he is now, for some reason, here to see little old me?

Kraunauer gives me several seconds to absorb the incredible cachet of his name, and then he goes on. “I have been retained to represent you. Of course, if you prefer to keep your present court-appointed attorney, Mr. Feldman…?” He lets his smile widen as he says it, clearly amused at the thought that anyone would be naive enough to prefer Bernie to Himself.