Dexter by Design (Dexter 4)

But I still felt invisible fingers tickling at my neck when I parked the car, across the street and halfway down the block from Wimble’s house. And so for several long minutes I did nothing more than sit in the car and look up the street at the house.

The bronze-colored car was parked in the street right in front of the house. There was no sign of life, and no large heap of body parts dragged to the curb to wait for pickup. Nothing at all but a quiet house in an ordinary Miami neighborhood, baking in the midday sun.

And the longer I sat there in the car with the motor off, the more I realized that I was baking, too, and if I stayed in the car a few more minutes, I would be watching a crisp dark crust form on my skin. Whatever faint tremors of doubt I felt, I had to do something while there was still breathable air in the car.

I got out and stood blinking in the heat and light for several seconds, and then moved off down the street, away from Wimble’s house. Moving slowly and casually, I walked around the block one time, looking at the house from the rear. There was not much to see; a row of hedges growing up through a chain-link fence blocked any view of the house from the next block over. I continued around the block, crossed the street, and walked on back to my car.

And stood there again, blinking in the brightness, feeling the sweat roll down my spine, across my forehead, into my eyes. I knew that I could not stand there a great deal longer without drawing attention. I had to do something—either approach the house, or get back into my car, drive home, and wait to see myself on the evening news. But with that nasty, annoying little voice still squeaking in my brain that something was just not right, I stood there a little longer, until some small and brittle thing inside snapped, and I finally said, Fine. Let it come, whatever it might be. Anything is better than standing here counting the droplets of sweat as they fall.

I remembered something helpful for a change, and opened the trunk of my car. I had thrown a clipboard in there; it had been very useful for several past investigations into the lifestyles of the wicked and infamous, and there was a clip-on tie as well. It has been my experience that you can go anywhere, day or night, and no one will question you if you wear a clip-on tie and carry a clipboard. Luckily today I was wearing a shirt that actually buttoned at the neck, and I hung the tie on my collar, picked up the clipboard and a ballpoint pen, and walked up the street to Wimble’s house. Just another semi-important official somebody or other, here to check on something.

I glanced up the street; it was lined with trees, and several of the houses had visible fruit trees in their yard. Fine: today I was Inspector Dexter, from the State Board of Tree Inspection. This would allow me to move close to the house with a semilogical activity to cloak me.

And then what? Could I really get inside and take Weiss by surprise, in broad daylight? The hot glare of the sun made it seem vastly unlikely somehow. There was no comforting darkness, no shadows to hold me and hide my approach. I was as completely visible and obvious as could be, and if Weiss glanced out the window and recognized me, the game was up before it properly began.

But what choice did I have? It was him or me, and if I did nothing at all, he would most likely do a great deal of something, starting with exposing me and moving down the list to hurting Cody or Astor, or who knows what. I had to head him off and stop him, now.

And as I straightened up to do so, a most unwelcome thought shoved its way in: Was this the way Deborah thought of me? Did she see me as a sort of wild obscenity, slashing its way across the landscape with random ferocity? Was that why she had been so unhappy with me? Because she had formed an image of me as a ravening monster? It was such a painful notion that for a moment I could do nothing but blink away the drops of sweat rolling down my forehead. It was unfair, totally unjustified; of course I was a monster—but not that kind. I was neat, focused, polite, and very careful not to cause the tourists any inconvenience with random body parts scattered about. How could she fail to see that? How could I make her see the well-ordered beauty of the way Harry had set me up?

And the first answer was, I could not—not if Weiss stayed alive and at liberty. Because once my face was on the news, my life was over and Deborah would have no more choice than I would; no more choice than I had right now. Sunlight or not, I had to do this, and I had to do it quickly and well.

I took a deep breath and moved up the street to the house next to Wimble’s, looking intently at the trees along the drive and scribbling on the clipboard. I moved slowly up the driveway. No one leaped out at me with a machete in their teeth, so I walked back down the driveway, paused in front of the house, and then went on to Wimble’s.

There were suspicious trees to examine there, too, and I looked up at them, made notes, and moved a bit farther up the driveway. There was no sight nor sound of life from the house. Even though I did not know what I hoped to see, I moved closer, looking for it, and not just in the trees. I looked carefully at the house, noting that all the windows seemed to have shades drawn down. Nothing could see in or out. I got far enough up the driveway to notice that there was a back door, located at the top of two concrete steps. I moved toward it very casually, listening for any small rustling or whispering or shouts of “Look out! He’s here!” Still nothing; I pretended to notice a tree in the backyard, close to a propane tank and only about twenty feet from the door, and I went over to it.

Still nothing. I scribbled. There was a window in the top half of the door, with no shade pulled down. I walked over to it, mounted the two steps, and peeked inside. I was looking into a darkened hallway, lined with a washing machine and dryer, and a few brooms and mops held in clamps on the wall. I put a hand on the doorknob and turned very slowly and quietly. It was unlocked. I took a deep breath—

—and very nearly fell out of my skin as a horrible, shattering scream came from inside. It was the sound of anguish and horror and such a clear call for help that even Disinterested Dexter moved reflexively forward, and I had one foot actually inside the house when a tiny little question mark scuttled across the floor of my brain and I thought, I’ve heard that scream before. And as my second foot moved forward, farther into the house, I th

ought, Really? Where? The answer came quite quickly, which was comforting: it was the same scream that was on the “New Miami” videos that Weiss had made.

—which meant that it was a recorded scream.

—which meant it was intended to lure me inside.

—which meant that Weiss was ready and waiting for me.

It is not terribly flattering to my own special self, but the truth is that I actually paused for a split second to admire the speed and clarity of my mental process. And then, happily for me, I obeyed the shrill interior voice that was screaming Run, Dexter, Run! and bolted out of the house and down the driveway, just in time to see the bronze-colored car screech away down the street.

And then a huge hand rose up behind me and slammed me to the ground, a hot wind blew past, and Wimble’s house was gone in a cloud of flame and showering rubble.

TWENTY-TWO

“IT WAS THE PROPANE,” DETECTIVE COULTER TOLD ME. I leaned against the side of the EMS truck holding an ice pack to my head. My wounds were very minor, considering, but because they were on me they seemed more important, and I was not enjoying them, nor the attention I was getting. Across the street the rubble of Wimble’s house smoldered and the firefighters still poked and squirted at steaming piles of junk. The house was not totally destroyed, but a large chunk of the middle of it from roof to foundation was gone and it had certainly lost a great deal of market value, dropping instantly into the category of Very Airy Fixer-Upper.

“So,” Coulter said. “He lets the gas out from the wall heater in that soundproof room, tosses in something to set it off, we don’t know what yet, and he’s out the door and away before it all goes boom.” Coulter paused and took a long swig from the large plastic bottle of Mountain Dew he carried. I watched his Adam’s apple bob under two thick rolls of grimy flab. He finished drinking, poked his index finger into the mouth of the bottle, and wiped his mouth on his forearm, staring at me as if I was keeping him from using a napkin.

“Why would he have a soundproof room, you think?” he said.

I shook my head very briefly and stopped because it hurt. “He was a video editor,” I said. “He probably needed it for recording.”

“Recording,” said Coulter. “Not chopping people up.”

“That’s right,” I said.

Coulter shook his head. Apparently it didn’t hurt him at all, because he did it for several seconds, looking over at the smoking house. “So, and you were here, because why?” he said. “I’m not real clear on that part, Dex.”

Of course he was not real clear on that part. I had done everything I could to avoid answering any questions about that part, clutching my head and blinking and gasping as if in terrible pain every time someone approached the subject. Of course I knew that sooner or later I would have to provide a satisfactory answer, and the sticky part was that “satisfactory” thing. Certainly I could claim I’d been visiting my ailing granny, but the problem with giving such answers to cops is that they tend to check them, and alas, Dexter had no ailing granny, nor any other plausible reason to be here when the house exploded, and I had a very strong feeling that claiming coincidence would not really get me terribly far, either.