Dexter Is Dead

by Jeff Lindsay

  “It isn’t wonderful,” I said.

  “Where, goddamn it!”

  “They’re on a drug lord’s yacht.”

  Some people might have turned pale and faint at the news that their children were in the murderous clutches of a true archfiend. And others might have pounded the table and roared with impotent rage. Deborah simply narrowed her eyes, and you would have thought she was completely calm—except for the fact that the spoon she held in her hand was now bent neatly in half. “Where,” she said softly.

  “It’s anchored off Toro Key.”

  Deborah dropped the ruined spoon onto the table and flexed her fingers. “How many men will he have?” she said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But he has three less now.”

  “Three?” she snapped. “They only found two with Kraunauer.”

  “We took one alive, for questioning,” I said.

  Deborah was completely still for a moment, her eyes locked on mine. “Who is we?” she said, back to her dangerously soft voice. “And why did a drug lord take the children?” she said, still quiet, but obviously it was the very dangerous kind of quiet.

  It really is stunning how a simple question like that can knock you right over. I had been trundling along, convinced that my brain was operating at a truly high level, prepared for all the bizarre and unlikely possibilities. And I was sure I had all of them covered, too—but then one completely obvious question—“why?”—comes along, and I realized I hadn’t even thought about it. Why did a drug lord have our kids? Why, because my brother pissed him off, of course!

  …And if I said that to Deborah, the operation was over before it even began. I had to tell her something, and it had to be convincing, but all I could think of was how totally stupid I had been not to be ready for that most obvious question.

  “Why, Dexter?” Debs repeated, and there was a dangerous edge to her voice that went far behind frustrated anger.

  “It’s kind of complicated,” I said, stalling in the hope that either a brilliant idea would occur to me or, if not, the house might be hit by lightning.

  “Make it simple,” she snapped.

  “Well,” I said, still waiting, “it all starts with Kraunauer.”

  A good start: Debs nodded. “Okay,” she said.

  “One of his clients is this Mexican drug lord. Raul,” I said.

  “I don’t give a shit what his name is,” she snapped.

  “Well, ah—Raul found out that Kraunauer was representing me. And, um…” I paused, and not for dramatic effect. This was where the whole thing would fall to the ground—unless I had a sudden flash of inspiration. I waited for it. Deborah waited, too, but not quite as patiently. She began tapping the mangled spoon again, faster and faster. “Raul is very paranoid,” I said. “And, um, he felt that, you know…”

  “I don’t know, goddamn it,” she said. “And you’re not telling me, either!”

  I closed my eyes and thought once again about the relative merits of honesty. It seemed to me that the only thing you could say about it, as far as its being a good thing, was that if you didn’t tell the truth, sooner or later your made-up story would whirl around and bite you in the crotch. The only other thing I could say about honesty was that whatever else you try first, it never works and honesty ends up as your last resort anyway. And then you’re standing there with a crotch wound, and you have to tell the truth just the same, but now you have to drop it into an atmosphere of anger and resentment. Life is a rigged game; there’s really no way to win.

  Here I stood, bitten to the bone by my feeble fictions. And there was Debs, more than ready and willing to bite, too, and quite probably add a few kicks to the injured area.

  I took a very deep breath and opened my eyes. Debs was looking at me, and she was not wearing an expression of calm patience. “Well?” she said. A very large tendril of ice spread out from her voice and sent a slow and jagged spear of frigid malice across the table at me. She flung down the mangled spoon. It bounced twice on the table and then slid onto the floor. “Why, goddamn it?”

  All righty, then, I thought. Here goes nothing.

  “Do you remember my brother, Brian, Deborah?” I said, putting as much nonchalant charm into the words as possible.

  It wasn’t quite enough. Debs hissed at me and half rose out of her seat. “The psycho son of a bitch that tried to kill me?” she said. “That Brian?” There was not a single vestige of soft or quiet left in her voice. “Why isn’t he dead?”

  “Sit down, Debs, please,” I said.

  She stayed in her half crouch a second longer, glaring and panting with rage, and then she lowered herself back down into her seat. “You miserable shit,” she grated at me through a still-locked jaw. “You hooked up with him?”

  “I needed help, Deborah,” I said. “There was no one else.”

  I hadn’t really intended that as any sort of shot against Deborah, but she clearly took it that way. She turned bright red and lowered her voice to a dangerous rasp. “You needed help because you expected me to put my entire fucking life and career in the dumper for you! And you’re nothing but a fucking psychopath who finally got what he deserves—and your brother is even worse!”

  It really was a shame that Deborah chose to retreat into saying the same hurtful things, just when we’d been on the verge of getting along again, and the mere fact that they were mostly true things did not take away the sting. Mostly true—after all, what fair-minded person could possibly call me “nothing but” a psychopath? I’m very good at board games, too.

  “He helped me, Deborah,” I said. “When I was all alone with no hope left, he helped me.” I spread my hands. “He didn’t have to, but…I’m not saying he’s Mother Teresa. But he helped me. And he hired Kraunauer to defend me.”

  “He’s a psycho fucking killer,” she said in a voice that could grind granite.

  “Of course he is,” I said, a little peevishly. “But he’s my brother. And he helped me.”

  She glared. I could see her jaw moving in a half circle and I thought I could even hear her teeth grinding away. “What does he have to do with this?” she said. “With this Raul taking my kids?”

  “Brian thought Raul was dead,” I said. “He took a large chunk of money and ran with it.”

  “And Raul wasn’t dead.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” I said. “And he came after Brian.”

  “And Kraunauer put Raul onto you?”

  I nodded. The story still had a few holes in it, but I hoped we were done; it already sounded bad enough. “And so Brian and I lured Raul’s shooters into a trap and captured one, so we could learn where the kids are,” I said. “And now we know.”

  I watched Deborah work her jaw again. It might be that I was seeing only what I hoped to see, but she looked like she was actually thinking it over and deciding to accept things as they were. In any case, she didn’t seem to be grinding quite as hard.

  “Deborah,” I said. “We need to get going.” She looked up at me and there was still anger in her face, but not as much—and it was mixed with something else, too—determination? Acceptance? I didn’t know, but I pushed it anyway. “Whatever you think of Brian is beside the point,” I said. “What matters is that we need him.” Debs opened her mouth and began to rise up from her seat again, but I overrode her with, “The kids need him, Deborah.”

  She goggled for a second, her mouth half-open, and then she thumped back onto the seat. “What the fuck does that mean?” she hissed.

  “Do the math, Debs,” I said. “We have no idea how many guns will be against us when we get on that boat—but I promise it’s more than two. Maybe as many as a dozen.” I leaned forward and tapped the table for emphasis, a dramatic technique I’d seen used effectively many times on TV. “We need everybody we can get,” I said.

  “Even your fucking psycho killer so-called brother,” she snarled.

  I shook my head impatiently. “Debs, come on. We’re not going out there to arrest these p
eople.”

  “I’m still a cop! I can’t just let you—”

  “You can—you have to,” I insisted. “You don’t want blood on your hands, fine, that’s your choice—but we can’t leave Raul alive.”

  “For shit’s sake, Dexter—you want to execute him!”

  “Oh, grow up!” I snapped. “He’s a drug lord—and as long as he’s alive we’re not safe—the kids are not safe!”

  “Goddamn it…”

  “Deborah, you know it’s true. We need Brian for this,” I said. “Any of your buddies on the force likely to help us? Want to ask one of the other detectives? Maybe Captain Matthews? Think they’ll want to tag along for a completely illegal raid and firefight, followed by an execution? And we have to execute him, Debs.” And then I pointed my finger right at her, another technique culled from TV, and I said very forcibly, “If Raul lives—the kids die.”

  It was a wonderful point, forceful and logical at the same time, and Debs knew it. She bit down on her lips and hissed and growled, but she didn’t say anything else, so I said again, “We need Brian, Debs.”

  I glanced significantly at my watch. “And we need to do this now.”

  She glared at me, but it was a slightly more human glare. Then she looked away, swallowed visibly, and finally looked back at me. She nodded once, very briskly. “All right,” she said. “For the kids.” She leaned over the table toward me as far as she could go. “But when we get this done—”

  “If we get it done, Debs,” I said, suddenly weary of wading through so much of what Harry had always called Bullshit Soup. “It’s still a very long shot. But if we do it…Shit. We’ll worry about it then.”

  She looked at me, then nodded. “Where is he?” she said.

  “He’s parked out front,” I said.

  She bit down hard, took a deep breath, and said, “Get him.”

  “Your word, Deborah—”

  “For fuck’s sake, get him!” she snarled. “We’re in a hurry, remember?” I looked at her for a second longer, and she glared back, but she nodded one time. “Get him,” she said. “I’ll behave.”

  It was as good as I was going to get, and better than I’d really expected. I pushed back from her rickety table and headed out the front door.

  Brian was waiting where I’d left him, which was a relief. His engine was still running, of course, but he’d stayed, which was wonderful. I’d half expected to find him gone, racing away in a lather of panic. And when I opened the door, he certainly looked at me with something very close to alarm. I heard the engine rev one time as his foot stomped down reflexively, but he didn’t put it in gear.

  “All is well,” I said as soothingly as possible. “The Maginot Line is secured, the truce is agreed, and I have her promise not to invade Poland.”

  Brian blinked at me with owl-large eyes. “That’s even worse than de Tocqueville,” he said. “Sometimes, brother, you try too hard.”

  I was quite sure that his snappishness was no more than jealousy; he hadn’t managed anything clever for hours. But the important thing was that he took me at my word, turned off the ignition, and climbed out of his car. He walked around and stood uncertainly beside me for a moment. Then he shook himself, squared his shoulders, and said, “ ’Twere best done quickly.” He gave me a glance to make sure I’d noticed the Shakespeare, and then he stepped through the gate onto Deborah’s front walk.

  I followed along right behind, but even so Brian was quicker. Perhaps he really did want to get it over with. By the time I got back inside, he and Debs were standing face-to-face in the kitchen, only a few feet apart. Deborah wore her working scowl, but at least her clenched fists were empty of weapons. Brian just gazed at her neutrally, arms crossed. Under the circumstances, and considering why we were joining together, it would have been wildly inappropriate to call it a Mexican Standoff. But it did look like they were each waiting for the other to attack with a knife so they could open fire with an Uzi. Still, it was probably the best family get-together I could hope for.

  It was also quite clear that it was up to me to keep things moving at a lively pace, and along the way try to prevent these two from killing each other, so I made a modest and optimistic start. “Deborah, Brian. Brian, Deborah. Okay? Now,” I said, dragging out one of the rickety kitchen chairs and sitting. “I think you’ll both agree that we should get there quickly, and try to take them in the dark, by surprise?”

  “Surprise,” Debs said bitterly, still staring at Brian. “He’s got our kids, and he knows you two are killing his men. How will this be a surprise?”

  “He doesn’t know we’re coming,” I said. “He doesn’t even know that we found out where he is.”

  “People don’t usually come after him,” Brian said helpfully, still watching Deborah. “I really don’t think he’ll expect it.”

  “And what if he guesses?” she demanded. “Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?”

  “We could stay here and have coffee instead,” Brian said.

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Deborah’s glare got meaner and angrier. She opened her mouth to say something back, and I’m sure it would have been a real doozy.

  But I was actually more interested in preventing doozies and promoting an atmosphere of willing cooperation. So I jumped in before she could say something that might collapse our alliance before it even started. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We still have to try, right? Now, what can you tell us about this yacht, Brian?”

  Brian sat in an equally flimsy chair, without taking his eyes off Deborah. “I have seen it,” he said. “I’ve even been on board once.” He glanced at me, then quickly back to Debs. “The Nuestra Señorita. It’s a very nice boat,” he said. “Very nice.”

  Deborah snorted. “Nice. Thanks, that’s really helpful.”

  As I said, it was all up to me. “Could you sketch out a floor plan, Brian?” I said. “Debs, maybe you could get paper and pencil?”

  She clearly didn’t want to look at anything but Brian, but she took a step back and turned quickly to a drawer in the counter behind her. Brian tensed as she reached into the drawer, but Debs turned back around holding only a notebook and a badly chewed ballpoint pen. Still watching Brian, she dropped them on the table in front of him and then, at last, she sat down right across from him.

  “Good, thank you,” I said in my best bright and cheerful Mr. Rogers voice. “Brian?”

  My brother picked up the pen, flipped open the notebook, and then, slowly and reluctantly, dropped his eyes from Debs and onto the paper. “Well,” he said, beginning to sketch quick lines, “as I said, it was only once. But what I remember is this.” The lines became the back end of a large boat, superstructure looming above. “The rear end…” He looked up at me. “The stern,” he said happily. He made a few quick lines. “Like this. I think they call it stepped?” He glanced up for confirmation. I nodded. “You know,” he said, turning to Debs, “it’s much lower to the water than the sides. So you can get on and off to go swimming. And onto the launch—there’s a beautiful launch that hangs on these hooks on the back.” He tapped the drawing with the pen. “That’s the easy way to get on board.”

  “No good,” Debs said, spitting the words like they tasted bad. “If there are guards, that’s where they’ll be.”

  “Oh, there are guards,” Brian said, just a little too cheerfully. “Lots of them.”

  “About how many, do you think, Brian?” I said.

  “Why, I don’t really know,” he said.

  “Terrific,” Deborah muttered.

  “But I think we can count on ten or twelve,” he said. “Plus Raul, his captain, probably a few mujeres from his harem.” He smiled again, and it was inappropriate as well as being poorly executed. “Raul is really quite the ladies’ man.”

  “They won’t all be on deck,” I said. “Not if we get there before first light.”

  “Mmm, nooo,” Brian said thoughtfully. “I’m sure most of them will be asleep. I mean,
I hope so.”

  “Great,” Deborah snapped. “You can’t tell us how many or where they are or anything except that we should hope they’re taking a siesta?”

  “I would guess two on deck, probably at the back,” I said, as if we were having a reasonable chat. “And maybe one up on the bridge. What do you think, Debs?”

  She looked at me and chewed on her lower lip for a second. Then she nodded. “That makes sense,” she said. “That’s how I’d do it.”

  “Of course, technically,” Brian said thoughtfully, “you aren’t actually a Mexican drug lord.”

  I suppose Brian wanted to prove he could snark, too, and it worked. Debs whipped back around to face him, and once again I had to leap in and keep things moving in a positive direction.

  “How high off the water is the bow, Brian?” I said.

  “Oh, well, I don’t really know, much higher than the stern,” Brian said. “But I was mostly downstairs.”

  “Okay,” I said, and nodded at the pen and paper. “Give us an idea of what that’s like.”

  “Hmm,” he said, picking up the pen and frowning. “I seem to remember…a really big lounge area, like a living room.” He flipped to a new page and drew a wide space, with sofalike benches along the sides. “A big flat-screen TV. Wet bar, kitchenette—just for snacks. The main kitchen is downstairs.” He smiled at me conspiratorially. “The galley.”

  “What else?” I prompted.

  Brian tapped the paper thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “at the far end, toward the front of the boat…” I waited for the terrible smile and the word bow, but apparently he didn’t think of it, and I was spared. “The stairs go down to the cabins,” he said.

  “How many stairs?” Deborah snapped.