by Jeff Lindsay
Believe it or not, this was the first time it had occurred to me that I had no place to go. That wasn’t entirely a bad thing, since I also had no way to get there. “Um,” I said. “I don’t know. Can I call you when I find another hotel?”
Revis handed me her business card. It was very nice, embossed with an FBI logo and everything. She wrote down my cell phone number, had one more quick silent chat with Blanton, and then nodded at me. “You’re free to go.”
SIXTEEN
For several minutes after the two FBI agents left, I just sat on the moldering old sofa in the hotel’s lobby, too bone-weary to do anything more demanding than blink my eyes. Only a few hours ago I had felt battered and exhausted because so much had happened—and since that time, I had found out what “so much happening” really meant. But with the bomb blast and the consequent utter destruction of my transportation, and then the savage slapping and cuffing from Anderson, I thought I could safely say, Now “so much” has really happened.
And all of it aimed at my nearly innocent head. It was almost enough to make me believe in a god—since it would have to be a petty, vengeful, mean-spirited god who spent so much time and effort picking on someone who really didn’t deserve it. That kind of god I could believe in. At least it would explain the recent history of Dexter, which was starting to seem supernaturally unpleasant.
I thought about this latest blatantly unfair incident. A bomb. In spite of what I had told the feds about coincidence, of course I was sure it wasn’t. I had too many real enemies to give coincidence a chance to break into the lineup. Which one was it this time? It was not terribly mysterious. I ruled out Debs right away; she was much too fussy about the little things, like legality and collateral damage. Anderson would certainly have done it if he could figure out which end of the bomb to hold, but I didn’t believe for a second that he had. He was having too much fun whipping me with his custom-modified legal system. And after eliminating him, there really wasn’t any doubt that it was Brian’s former playmates, Raul and associates, who had put the bomb in my car. The only question was how they’d found me.
The more I thought about that, the more important it seemed. I really and truly didn’t want them to find me again. They would almost certainly do a more thorough job next time.
More immediately, though, I had to let Brian know what had happened. It was quite possible that they would find him, too, and I thought it would be best if he knew about the possibility. After all, he was the last person who still seemed to be on my side—unless I counted Officer Poux, which was probably a little bit of a stretch.
So I reached into my pocket for my phone—and of course I didn’t have it. Somehow it had been magically replaced by a small piece of cardboard with vermilion ink on it—Kraunauer’s card, and his personal cell number, of which I could avail myself twenty-four/seven. A bomb in my car and subsequent police brutality certainly seemed like something he would want to know about, and I knew I should call him—except that I didn’t have a phone.
Come to think of it, I still didn’t even have a shirt. Both items could be had in abundant quantity if I could somehow manage to travel all those weary feet from the lobby to my room. It seemed like much farther away than it had been before, but there really wasn’t much choice.
So I dragged my exhausted, battered, punctured, and slapped self up off the ancient couch and staggered manfully out the lobby door and down the walk toward what had recently been my room. Alas, it was mine no longer. A different uniformed officer informed me politely but firmly that I could not enter until after forensics had finished, not even to retrieve my phone. I was too tired to do more than blink at him resentfully a few times, and that seemed to have no effect. You just can’t put good, hard-edged resentment into a blink.
And now what? I could think of nowhere else to go, unless I returned to the backseat of Anderson’s car, or to the dreadful little sofa in the lobby. Believe it or not, the sofa was so uncomfortable, old and repellent, that I had to think about it for a minute. But no matter how far beyond the established norms of civilized furniture it might be, at least the couch was not in any way connected to Anderson. I trudged back to it.
As I trudged, I tried to think of a way to call Brian without my phone. It seems stupid in retrospect, but it must be admitted that the cell phone, that personal ubiquitous all-encompassing nearly everything device, has become so important to every one of us that we cannot imagine life without it, and most of us cannot complete the simplest tasks unless we are holding our techno BFF in our hand. Without it we can’t write anyone, check the weather or stocks, find out where we are and how not to be there, pay bills, keep an appointment, make a flight—nothing at all. It has taken over nearly every aspect of our lives. And every now and then, when we actually want to make a phone call, our phones can even do that. They have replaced an entire suitcase full of other devices, and it is no longer possible even to think of life without one.
And so it was not until I walked all the way into the lobby and sat, allowing the ancient couch cushions to suck me down into their vile grasp, that I thought of a novel and ingenious way to get in touch with Brian. In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I did not actually think of it; the truth is, the ancient, battered landline telephone on the hotel’s front desk rang. I turned to follow the sound, saw the archaic device, and thought, Aha. I remember what those things are for.
The ancient phone rang for nearly a minute and no one answered it. The old man had disappeared, and the old woman was just visible in the back room moving back and forth much too energetically in a rocking chair. She made no move to get the phone, and so when the thing had stopped ringing, I got up and went to it.
My memory is a wonderful thing, and I was quite sure that I knew Brian’s number, so I dialed with calm confidence. It rang several times, and then a soft and husky voice I did not recognize said, “Yes?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking as quickly as I could in my current state of collapse. “Is this Atwater Brothers Carpet?”
After only a slight hesitation, the answer came—but in a completely different voice. “Brother,” Brian said. “I didn’t recognize the number. Where are you calling from?”
“Hotel lobby,” I said. “My phone is being examined by forensics at the moment.”
“Really,” he said. “May one ask why?”
I told him in short and simple terms. He hissed out a long breath. “I was afraid of this,” he said.
For a moment I was speechless. Afraid of it? Meaning he thought it might happen and had decided not to warn me? “Were you?” I said at last.
“Remember I called?” he said, and of course there was not even a tiny trace of guilt in his voice. “I meant to tell you, but you pleaded fatigue.”
It was just barely true, but even so I was so upset that I didn’t even correct him for saying pleaded instead of pled. “All right,” I said wearily. “What did you mean to tell me?”
“I received a warning,” he said, “that a certain associate of Raul’s had arrived in town.”
“An associate,” I said. I thought back on what Brian had told me of the epic struggle between Raul and his rival, Santo. “Would this perhaps be the associate who blew up the Red Saint?”
“The very same,” he said, sounding quite happy that I had remembered.
“And when were you going to tell me this exciting news?”
“In truth, I thought it would keep until breakfast,” Brian said. “I assumed that I was the target.”
“Apparently you were wrong,” I said.
“So it seems,” he said with great and completely unwarranted good cheer.
For just a moment I stood with my eyes closed, letting the waves of fatigue wash over me. “I need to get out of here,” I said. “And my car is not going anywhere. Can you come get me?”
“Weeeeeell,” he said. “That might not be the wisest course right now. I have to believe they’re watching you and hoping I do just th
at.”
It was true; no matter how selfish I thought it was, and how very contrary to all that was Decent for Dexter, I could not deny that it would be just a tiny bit stupid for him to come get me. Raul’s men were almost certainly watching. “I suppose you’re right,” I said.
“Yes,” Brian said. “But this is troubling. Somehow they found you first. Any idea how?”
“Brian,” I said. “I have just been bombed, perforated with glass slivers, slapped—and I was already exhausted. I’m not having ideas right now.”
“Of course not, you poor thing,” he said, oozing fake sympathy that still sounded much too happy. “Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” And he disconnected without waiting for me to say good-bye. Possibly he thought I would want to say a few other things first, of a more personal and antagonistic nature. After all, any reasonable person would have to say that this was all his fault. And possibly I would have said more—but he hung up, and even that small comfort was denied me.
I replaced the old phone in its antiquated cradle, marveling at how well it fit. Say what you will about modern technology; people back then knew how to build things that worked. And then, still looking at the phone, I thought, Kraunauer. I pulled his card from my pocket, carefully smoothing a small wrinkle. I picked up the phone again and dialed.
Kraunauer answered on the second ring, which was nice. But the way he answered took me by surprise. “¿Se hace?” he said in his wonderful Mexican-Spanish accent.
For just a second I wondered if this old telephone had made some kind of mistake and given him the wrong caller ID. But then I remembered that it was, after all, an antique—and Brian, too, had not known who was calling. “It’s Dexter Morgan,” I said. “I’m calling from a hotel lobby.”
For a moment he was speechless, which was a first in my dealings with him. “Oh, that’s…ah,” he said at last. “Well, then, I—And are you all right?”
“I’m a little rumpled,” I said. “Someone put a very large bomb in my car.”
“What?!” he said. “I take it you were not actually in the car when it went off?”
“I was not,” I said. “Or I would be considerably more rumpled.”
“Of course you would,” he said. For some reason he did not seem to be showing his usual eloquence. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour. “Well, then, um, the police are there?”
“They are,” I told him. “And the FBI. Um—the police are represented by Detective Anderson?”
“Ah,” he said. “That’s the same officer who has been troubling you?”
“It is,” I said. “He accused me of bombing my own car, and he slapped me. Kind of hard, too.”
“Was there a witness?” he said, and his voice seemed suddenly sharper, more alert.
“Another cop,” I said. “A uniform. Officer Poux—Melanie Poux.”
“Well, crap,” he said. “We’ll never get her to testify against another cop.”
“She might,” I said. “She let the feds drag it out of her.”
“Did she!” he exclaimed. He sounded delighted. “Well, then. We may have something here. An FBI agent’s testimony is as good as it gets. We just might have something. Oh—they don’t think you blew up your own rental car, do they?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
Kraunauer chuckled. “Good, good,” he said. “Well, believe it or not, this is actually a real break.”
“It doesn’t seem like it at the moment,” I said.
“No, but it will,” he said. “The bomb story will be all over the news tomorrow, and when they find out that you are the intended victim—no, no, this is excellent. We can use it to get some sympathy going—it could be a real turning point.”
“Really,” I said.
“Absolutely. Don’t kid yourself, Mr. Morgan. Nine out of ten cases are won in the media before you even meet the judge. And if we roll into it with something like this—I hate to repeat myself, but this really is a big break.”
“Oh, well, good,” I said. And in spite of being well aware that I needed to maintain my sense of awe when speaking with Kraunauer, I was suddenly overcome with fatigue—and I yawned. “Excuse me,” I said.
“Perfectly all right, you must be exhausted,” he said briskly. “You go get some sleep, and we’ll talk in the morning. Ah…” His voice slowed down and he sounded suddenly very casual. “Where are you staying?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said. “I’ll find another hotel somewhere.”
“Of course. All right,” he said, all business again. “Get some sleep, and call me tomorrow.”
“All right,” I said.
“Good night,” he said cheerfully, and broke the connection.
I thought about his excellent advice: sleep. The whole concept was starting to take on mythical proportions. It had begun to seem like something only epic heroes could do; I certainly couldn’t manage it. I wasn’t yet so tired that I would take the risk of sleeping here, in the lobby, surrounded by Anderson and mad bombers and horrible tattered curtains.
Mere rest was no longer enough, and I didn’t think I could face the couch again anyway. So I did the only thing I could, the last pitiful choice left to me in this world of pain and dwindling options. I left the lobby and stood outside beside what had once been my room, standing in a miserable bovine stupor until forensics finally finished. Then I went in and put on a shirt, grabbed my few sad belongings, and used my phone to call a cab.
SEVENTEEN
By the time my cab arrived I had used my phone to find another hotel, only a few miles from this one. But at the last second, just as I opened my mouth to give the address to the driver, one final tendril of consciousness waved the little red flag of caution and instead I told him to take me to the airport. It would mean an extra hour or more of being painfully awake, but it might also make it a little harder for the bad guys to find me.
At the airport I decided to play the game a little longer. I went in and wandered for a few minutes, and failed to spot anybody following me. I rode the Skytrain around the whole circuit twice, getting off and on suddenly and randomly, until I was quite sure I wasn’t being tailed. I picked up a shuttle to a hotel in Coral Gables, got another cab there, and ended up at a small hotel in Homestead with barely enough strength left to stagger up to my third-floor room and flop onto the bed, still fully dressed.
I remember thinking that this bed, at last, seemed very firm, and then I was blinking at the bedside clock that told me it was eleven-fifty-three. That didn’t seem possible. It had been well after midnight when I fell onto the bed. How could it be seven minutes before now? I closed my eyes again and tried to think, which was even harder than it had been lately. For just a moment I thought I must have slept backward through time, finally arriving here in bed before I actually got here. I spent a few pleasant moments thinking of what I should say to myself when I saw me walk in the door. But then I opened my eyes again, and noticed a bright edge of light showing around the bottom of the heavy curtains, and I thought, Aha. It’s daytime. I slept through the night, and lo! The sun has riz. That explains everything. Still, a little disappointing. I’d been hoping for a really interesting conversation with someone I knew to be a brilliant conversationalist—Me.
I rolled over and sat up. Everything hurt. My entire body was as sore as if I had just gone ten rounds with the heavyweight champ. Or one of them, anyway—there seemed to be quite a few lately. Perhaps they’d taken turns working me over. On top of all that, each one of the two dozen perforations from the glass splinters was stinging, my head throbbed, my jaw ached where Anderson had hit me, and I had a cramp in the arch of my left foot. I tried very hard for some positive spin: I was alive! It was the best I could do, but at the moment that didn’t seem like any real cause for celebration.
I looked at the clock again: eleven-fifty-seven. At least time was behaving properly and moving forward. I got slowly and gingerly off the bed. It was such a painful experience that I just stood there
for a minute, hoping that returning circulation would begin to take away a few of the aches and pains. My left foot gradually felt a little better, but that was about it.
Still, I was, in fact, alive, and that had taken some doing. I thought about patting myself on the back, but decided I was too sore. I looked around the room, wondering what other miracle I could perform next. There was a small one-cup coffeemaker on the desk. That seemed like a good place to start.
The coffee began to brew, and as the first tendril of fresh coffee aroma steamed up and tickled my nose, it must have jump-started a synapse or two, because I remembered what Kraunauer had said: The bomb story will be all over the news. I looked at the clock again. It was now twelve-oh-one. Miami is blessed—or cursed, depending on your attitude—with several very active TV news departments that broadcast a News at Noon program. I clicked on the TV that sat next to the coffeemaker and turned to the station whose reporters had the best hair.
The last person to occupy this room was clearly hard of hearing, because the TV began to blast at a life-threatening volume. I hurriedly turned it down, just in time to hear the breathy blonde at the desk saying,
“…that authorities are now calling a deliberate attempt to murder this man—”
A terribly unflattering picture of Me appeared behind the blonde.
“Dexter Morgan,” she said, “who was recently arrested for multiple murder and molesting his stepdaughter.” And of course she had to say it in a rather accusing tone of voice, since pedophilia was involved. Even so, it was a wonderfully surreal moment to see Me on TV like that, in spite of the fact that I was really not at my best in that picture. But if you don’t love yourself, no one else will, so I admired my features for just a moment, and missed what was being said, until I tuned back in at, “…well-known criminal attorney Frank Kraunauer, who told our Matt Laredo his client was completely innocent and still being harassed by the police.”
