Dexter Is Dead (Dexter 8)

“Oh, no, far from a friend,” Brian said. “In fact, we had a few very bitter differences.” He looked at me with a somewhat shy smile and said, “So I was kind of looking forward to getting him to a quiet place for a little chat.”

“Next time,” I said. And again I wished I could pray, just a little. Because there was no guarantee of a next time.

And without it, my kids were as good as dead.

TWENTY-TWO

Brian drove us to a coffee shop over in Coconut Grove. It was full dark when we got out of the car and went inside to a booth at the back. Neither of us had a great deal to say. Brian fiddled absentmindedly with the laminated menu, and I was trying to think of a logical next step, now that plan A had flushed itself away. Even more immediately, I was quite sure that Deborah would be sitting at home chewing through the furniture until I called, and I did not want to jeopardize our still-fragile reconciliation by keeping her hanging too long. And because My Plan had resulted in what Harry would have called a Total FUBAR, I also had to fi

nd some truly magical combination of words to explain things to her.

And Debs would unquestionably have heard about Anderson, and she could put things together as well as anybody. The short math here would quite clearly add up to Dexter Did It. Whatever else Debs was willing to do at this point, authorizing a hit on a cop—even a dirty cop—was not in the picture. Add that to her panicked worry over the kids, and she would no doubt be on the verge of insanity at this point. I was so certain of that I hadn’t even switched my phone back on.

Coffee arrived, in chipped porcelain mugs, and it was hot and very welcome. Brian ordered strawberry pie, and I settled on a tuna melt. Time was lurching past at a ridiculous pace. I even thought I could hear my watch ticking, and I still didn’t have any wonderful speech for Deborah. But I didn’t see how I could put it off any longer, so I pulled out my phone and turned it on.

Almost immediately it began to ping with missed calls, and all of them were from Debs. I waited another minute, but no inspiration came. I called her anyway.

“Where the hell have you been,” she said in a voice halfway between grating and snarling. “What the fuck is—Did you find the kids? And, Jesus, Anderson? Was that you? Because—”

“Deborah,” I said, much louder than I liked, and Brian cocked an eyebrow at me. But it got her attention, and with only a few more muttered bad words—none of them terribly original—she slid back down to a less hysterical grumpiness.

“Jesus fuck, Dexter,” she said. “You go trotting away with a pistol and Anderson turns up shot dead and…How does that get our kids back? Can you tell me that?”

“Not while you’re talking, I can’t,” I said, and I could hear her teeth click shut—but at least she was quiet, which allowed me to lower my voice. “As sad as it seems to me, I didn’t shoot Anderson,” I said softly. And at that moment, happily for me, I thought of the perfect explanation to let me off the hook. “But, Deborah—Anderson shot the men who could tell us where the kids are.”

Deborah made a remarkable sound, a moan that seemed to be hissed out through clenched teeth. “Fuck,” she said. “Oh, fuck.”

“But there are more of them,” I said.

“More of the kidnappers?” she said. “Can you get to them?”

“I…think so,” I said carefully, because it was an obvious question and I didn’t have an answer yet.

Debs was silent, and then suddenly blurted out, “I have to come with you this time. I have to, Dex.”

“No, Debs, not yet,” I said.

“I have to, goddamn it!” she said. “I can’t just fucking sit here and do nothing while you fuck around and my kids are still…where, Dexter? Where the fuck are my kids?!”

“I’ll find them, Debs,” I said.

“Goddamn it, I want to find them with you!”

“I’ll find them,” I said again. “And I’ll call you later.”

“Dexter, you miserable piece of shit!”

I already knew I was a miserable piece of shit, so I hung up.

“Well,” Brian said with his brightest smile, “and how is your sister?”

“As well as can be expected,” I said. “Brian, do you think we can work the same trick again?”

“You mean getting Raul’s men to come after you?” he said, and I nodded. He frowned thoughtfully. “Weeellllll…If I know Raul, he’s somewhere close by. He’ll have your children with him. But they aren’t bringing you to him on your knees, and he’s missed twice. So I’m quite sure he’s starting to get just a teeny bit, um—upset? Angry, frustrated, perhaps even approaching apoplectic.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “The man simply has no self-control. And he absolutely hates not to get what he wants, when he wants it.”

“I suppose that goes with being a drug lord,” I said. “Will he take it out on the kids?”

“Mmmm, noooo,” Brian said, not very convincingly. “Not just yet…”