Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

“Doing what, Vince?” I said sweetly. “Saving your own life?”

“I can’t…I, uh,” he said. He sighed. “I can bring it home with me tonight. After work.”

I nodded. But if there is a wicked thought to be had, we must assume that Dexter will have it first. So I said, “Can I suggest that you leave work early?”

“What? No,” he said. “I have a ton of work—I mean, we are shorthanded, you know.” He looked at me like it was my fault—and of course it was, in a way.

“Yes, I do know,” I said mildly. “But if you stay late, you’re giving Anderson a shot at you. And even if you leave on time, he’ll be expecting it, and…” I turned my hands palm up and shook my head. “We don’t know what he might do. Or when.”

“Oh…” he said, very faint and looking shocked again.

“So the best move is to do the unexpected, right?”

“Yes. Uh-huh, of course, okay,” he said, staring down at the table and clearly thinking very hard. He snapped his head up and looked at me, clear-eyed and determined. “I can leave at around three-thirty, dentist appointment or something,” he said.

“Perfect. Where should I meet you?”

He blinked. “Um,” he said. “My house? Like, a little after four?”

I tried to think of a reason that would be a bad idea. I didn’t come up with anything. No one would look for him to be at his house at four o’clock on a workday, and it would make him feel more secure, so I nodded. “All right,” I said. “I’ll come by to collect it a little after four.”

He looked away, staring out the front window of the restaurant as if he could see his childhood out there in the parking lot. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he said again.

THIRTEEN

Vince managed to get all the way back to his car without collapsing into a puddle of warm and spineless goo, and I got into my little rental vehicle with a full stomach and the added satisfaction of a job well done. Of course, there were still several hours before Vince actually brought the file home, and after seeing his performance at lunch I was sure he would spend the whole time in a cold sweat, changing his mind, wringing his hands, hopping nervously on one foot, and flinching at shadows. But in the end, he would see that this really was the only way, and I had every confidence that he would come through and bring the file. Well, perhaps not every confidence.

I started my car to get the air-conditioning going, and thought about my next move. It was nearly one-thirty, plenty of time left in the day for absolutely everything I needed to do—which, on sober reflection, was not really a great deal. Getting Vince to help had been my Main Event for the day, and everything else that remained was somewhat vague—important, yes, but still vague. The most imperative remaining item was keeping me alive, and although I do not minimize its importance, its parameters were, as I said, somewhat unformed. For no reason at all a synonym for unformed popped into my head: inchoate. I don’t know why I thought of that word right now. I didn’t need a synonym. What I needed was a sea change, a paradigm shift, an evolution in the zeitgeist, something to make the entire world get off my back and pick on somebody else for a while.

But if that happened as I sat in my car in a strip mall parking lot in North Bay Village, I saw no sign of it: No young man in bellhop’s uniform came to the car window with a telegram on a tray bearing a full pardon from the pope, there was no spontaneous parade in my honor, and no suddenly appearing billboards or mysterious skywriting with a simple but clear message, like, You Win, Dexter. Nothing but the traffic, and the sun, and the afternoon heat that somehow worked its way through the car’s air-conditioning and made the back of my shirt stick to the seat.

I sighed. This would have to be done the hard way, if it got done at all. By the sweat of my brow shall I something-something. I couldn’t remember the rest. I was pretty sure it was from the Bible. If it had be

en Shakespeare I would have remembered it better. But the meaning was both clear and relevant. Dexter had work to do, a lot of it, and as always, nobody else was going to do it for him.

My eyes fell on the custody agreement, and I thought, All right: First, let’s clear away the trivia. I picked up my phone and called Deborah again. Once again, she let it go unanswered. This time I left a message. “Very thoughtful of you not to answer. I don’t think I could stand to hear your voice now that I am free, dear sister,” I said, just to show that I could play the game, too. “However, I have the custody form for you. I will drop it at your house this evening, shall we say seven-thirty? If you’re not home, you can come get it from me tomorrow.”

I broke the connection and felt I had been too snarky and yet at the same time not nearly cutting enough. Are relationships with family members always so complex?

Next I called Frank Kraunauer’s office. I got through two layers merely by saying that I was a client. The third person I was transferred to was clearly the Ice Goddess at the massive desk who guarded the Inner Sanctum. I told her I had something important for Mr. Kraunauer and she said, in a voice filled with polite scorn and skepticism, “I’ll see if he’s available.” There was a small and refined click and soothing music filled my ear. After only a few minutes, the music stopped abruptly and Kraunauer himself came on the line. “This is Frank Kraunauer,” he said, quite unnecessarily.

“This is Dexter Morgan,” I said, and I realized I had unconsciously copied his stentorian tone. I cleared my throat to show that I didn’t know I’d done it, and said, “I have some very important information to give you,” I said. “Um, about my case.”

“Yes, that would have been my first guess,” he said dryly. “What sort of information?”

“Ah, actually, it’s in the form of a file,” I said. “On paper?”

“I see,” he said. “Where did this file come from?”

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’d rather not say on the phone.”

Kraunauer chuckled. “I can assure you the NSA is not monitoring my calls,” he said. “They wouldn’t dare.”

“Even so,” I said. “It’s a little bit, um…sensitive?”

He was silent for a few seconds, and I heard a rhythmic clacking sound—drumming his fingers on the desk, no doubt. “Mr. Morgan,” he said, “you haven’t been doing any amateur sleuthing, have you?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” I said. After all, Vince had done all the legwork.