Dexter Is Dead (24 page)

The car’s window exploded from my shots and Mr. Mustache pitched sideways into the driver. I reached in through the shattered glass and opened the car’s door. The driver gaped at me in horror, and then began to scrabble at the seat beside him for a pistol. I leaned in and shoved the barrel of my Ruger roughly into his ear hole. “Don’t,” I said.

Very obligingly, the driver froze. “Hands on the wheel,” I told him. He hesitated, and I twisted the pistol vigorously in his ear.

“Ayah!” he said.

“Manos,”
I told him, nodding at the wheel.
“¡Los dos!”

He put his hands on the wheel, and a moment later Brian opened the back door of the car. I heard a heavy thud as the gunman on Brian’s side fell out onto the pavement. “Oops,” Brian said, followed by, “Oh, Ee-bahng! Is it really you?” He leaned in and patted the driver on the head. “That’s how he says his name, ‘Ivan,’ ” Brian said. “Cuban pronunciation.
Ee
-bahng is Cuban.”

“Wonderful,” I said.

“Ee-bahng is Raul’s mad bomber,” Brian said happily, ruffling Ivan’s hair playfully. “I bet he brought some toys!”

“I’m sure he did,” I said. “Can we get moving, please?”

“One more second,” Brian said. He leaned in and looked into the back. “Thought so!” he said, and came up with a heavy canvas gym bag. “I’ve always wanted to play with these,” he said. “And it might come in handy.”

He put the bag down gingerly and then yanked open the driver’s door of the SUV, shoving his pistol in Ivan’s face, smushing the man’s nose roughly to one side. “Ee-bahng!
¡Afuera!
” and for emphasis he rapped Ivan on the forehead with the barrel of his pistol.
“¡Ahora!”

Ivan hissed in pain. A small rill of blood started down his face from where Brian had hit him, and he fumbled himself out of the seat, stumbled out of the car and into Brian’s grasp.

I heard a door slam, and glanced toward the restaurant. Frank Kraunauer was hurrying across the lot toward us. I hissed, “Brian!” and ducked reflexively back into darkness. My brother glanced up, and he actually smiled, very close to a believable smile, too. “How perfect,” Brian said. He slid down to a crouch directly behind Ivan and jammed his pistol into the base of the bomber’s spine.
“Sonrisa,”
he hissed.
“No dice nada, ¿comprendes?” Smile. Say nothing.
Ivan nodded numbly.

And then Kraunauer was there, moving quickly around to face Ivan. “Is it done?” he said. “Where’s the—Urk!” He jumped back as Brian straightened and faced him and then, as I stepped out of the shadows and came into view, too, Kraunauer stumbled back one more step. “How—” he said. And then, just as I was preparing a sharp, withering riposte that would settle Frank Kraunauer’s hash once and for all with great wit as well as with perfect justice, he moved his hand—moved it so fast that I didn’t really see the gun he was holding until a half second later, when Brian’s gun went off: once, twice, three shots.

Frank Kraunauer took a jerky half step back with each shot. And then, for a long moment, he stood there looking surprised. He frowned at the little pistol in his hand, as if it was all the weapon’s fault. And then he took a last slow step backward and collapsed as if his leg bones had been removed.

Brian watched him fall, still smiling, and then looked at me. “Oh,” he said. His smile vanished. “I’m sorry, brother. I’m afraid you’re going to need a new attorney.”

I was sorry, too, but I was more concerned with getting out of here before someone else came running out and saw us.

“I’ll find somebody online later,” I said, glancing around us anxiously. “We need to go. Sooner or later somebody will report that they heard shots.”

“Even in Miami,” Brian agreed.

In a few more seconds we got Ivan into the backseat of Brian’s Jeep, which was waiting for us in the nearby alley. I got in back next to the bomber, but he kept his eyes fixed on my brother the whole time. From the look on his face, he knew very well who Brian was and what he might do, and he was ready to do anything at all to keep Brian from doing it. He was so fixated on Brian he made no resistance at all as I secured him with a roll of duct tape I’d brought along. Brian drove away down the alley and out onto 6th Street as I taped Ivan’s hands, feet, and mouth. No matter what I did to him, though, Ivan kept his eyes on Brian.

“Well,” Brian said at last, “I thought that went quite well, on the whole.”

“We’re alive; they’re not,” I said. “And we have a new playmate, too.”

“Oh, yes, and I just
know
he’s going to be a real chatterbox for us,” Brian said. “Life is so good.”

Brian drove straight back to the MacArthur, which I thought was wise. On surface streets, too many things can happen that might result in an awkward conversation with an overdiligent officer of the law. Sometimes the nosy cops want to know trivial things, things that are clearly none of their business—like, “Why is your friend all bound up with duct tape?” In expressway situations, you are much safer from that kind of meddlesome interference, as long as you keep to the speed limit and don’t have an accident.

But once we were over the causeway and onto the mainland, Brian turned north on I-95. It shouldn’t really have surprised me, since I hadn’t thought at all about where we would go if we were triumphant. Clearly my brother had given it some reflection, but he had so far failed to share his thoughts with me. “Where are we going?” I asked him.

“A little place I rented, a storage locker,” he said. “Up near Opa-locka airport.” He caught my eye in the rearview mirror and showed a few teeth. “A modest retreat. It has come in handy in the past.”

“A very good choice,” I said, and it was. Opa-locka airport is a truly strange place, a kind of neutral zone in time and space and, more important, in law enforcement, too. So many different spies and spooks and smugglers and transients of uncertain origin and loyalty go in and out that over the years an unspoken agreement has evolved: Law enforcement, at every level, stays away. It is much simpler that way; it avoids the awkwardness of arresting a vile, drooling, tattooed monster who is clearly smuggling heroin, as well as every sort of weapon from pistols to Titan missiles—and then finding out that he is, in fact, a fully sanctioned, ex-Marine, former Eagle Scout, crew-cut and shoe-shined-in-his-heart federal agent working in deep cover on a project so secret it doesn’t even exist.

So the area around the Opa-locka airport is mostly unpoliced, which has many small side advantages—such as making it a perfect place for Brian and me to relax, unwind, and have a leisurely conversation with Ee-bahng. I looked fondly at my brand-new friend on the seat beside me, and I thought of all the fun that lay ahead. It had been far too long since I’d had a chance to relax, kick back, and encourage someone to really open up. And this nice man, quivering so quietly next to me, was an absolutely perfect candidate for some leisurely exploration. He had certainly earned some very careful attention; bombs are such nasty things, aren’t they? It would be pleasant to make him understand that society at large disapproves of blowing things up, especially when there are people inside. I thought we might find a way to show him the error of his ways. And oh, yes, as Brian had said, Ee-bahng would be a real chatterbox, no doubt about that. I just hoped he wouldn’t start talking
too
soon and cut short the fun.

So I was feeling quite chipper as we drove north, and really looking forward to having a chat with Ivan—and having Brian beside me, chatting with him at the same time. I’d been looking forward to that for a good long time. We both had; we had so much to learn from each other, so many technical and procedural techniques to compare and demonstrate. This could well be a truly exemplary combination of recreation, education, and sibling bonding, and I was happy as can be about what was just ahead.

Ivan…? Not so much. He had not taken his eyes off Brian, and he’d begun to shiver, though it was a very warm evening. His color was not good, either, and his teeth were audibly clicking together. I began to worry that he might have some awful medical condition that would kill him before we had our talk. That would be a very distressing development. Aside from the real disappointment of losing a new friend before I really got to know him, we would also lose our best shot at finding out where the kids were being held.

And so, because showing kindness to a stranger puts a little plus mark by your name in the karmic registry, I leaned over and patted his cheek. He jerked upright like he’d been slapped, and for the first time his eyes left Brian and snapped over to me.

“Are you all right, Ivan?” I asked with gentle faux concern. He said nothing, just stared at me with bulging, bloodshot eyes.

“¿Estás bien, Ee-bahng?”
I repeated in Spanish.

Ivan blinked three times, but made no attempt to answer. Of course, his mouth was fastened shut with duct tape, but still, he might have tried to mime a reply, or waggle his eyebrows affirmatively. He did not; he just stared, and when he was done blinking, he looked back at Brian again, as if afraid my brother would punish him for looking away.

I shook my head sadly, thinking that he must be a very good bomb maker. Clearly he would never get a job based on conversational skills.

My brother had just as little to say, but the trip was short and uneventful, and soon we were at the gate of a sprawling storage facility a half mile south of the Opa-locka airport. Brian punched in a code, the gate lifted, and we rolled in. The area was illuminated by a battery of those ugly so-called anticrime lights, but I was not terribly worried that they would prevent anything. Naturally enough, storage lockers near a neutral zone like the Opa-locka airport are routinely used by the assorted spooks and spies that use the airport, and so they are also exempt from unwanted police scrutiny. And if there were any neighbors in a nearby locker, they would almost certainly avoid asking questions about the unusual noises Ivan was about to make. Many of them, in fact, would be far too busy creating similar sounds of their own.

A good storage unit is a wonderfully flexible space. It has lights, power, and even air-conditioning if desired. The walls and floor are generally of industrial strength and utilitarian design, so there is no need to fret about scratching the paint or leaving unsightly bloodstains on the floor. In truth, a unit is such a terrific place for mischief that it’s a real wonder that anyone ever uses them to store things.

Brian parked right in front of a large unit, with Ivan’s side of the car facing the heavy steel entrance. “All righty, then,” he said. He turned and beamed at Ivan. “It’s playtime!” He said it quite happily, and even Ivan could tell that his happiness was very real, and the knowledge of
why
Brian was happy made the poor nervous bomber tremble in all his limbs.

But when Brian opened the car door and reached in to help Ivan get out, the poor fellow began to buck and twist frantically, enough so that even when I tried to hold him steady, he jerked away. It was a true waste of time and energy, since his only way out of the car was through the door Brian held open, but he seemed quite committed to his display—until Brian leaned in and said, “Stop it, Ivan.” He said it quietly, even gently, but the effect on Ivan was electric. The bomber froze completely—and then he slumped forward, began to shake all over, and, to my amazement, started to sob and snivel. It’s never an attractive routine, even in the best of times. But when your hands and mouth are secured with duct tape it’s even more distasteful, and Ivan began to dribble moisture and mucus from every opening but his ears.

Still, at least it was much easier to get him out of the car than when he’d been bucking. We did, and I held him as Brian rolled up the door of the storage unit, turned back to us, and bowed us in.

Ivan walked as if he had no tendons in his lower body; his legs hung loose from his hips and his feet flopped forward with each step, which made it necessary for me to keep a strong grip on his arms from behind. And since I was busy with that, I didn’t really get a good look at Brian’s little playground until he had rolled down the steel door and flipped on a strip of fluorescent lights that hung from the ceiling. But when Brian came and guided Ivan from my grasp and over to a waiting chair, I looked around me—and what I saw was enough to bring a full portion of quiet joy to my heart, if only I’d had a heart.

Brian had decorated the space in an understated but very tasteful style that I can only call Industrial Nazi Dentist. On the walls in neat and careful clamped rows was a full range of saws, drills, and other interesting power tools whose use I could only guess at—at least, their use in this context. I know very well how trees are trimmed, and I have seen commercial grinding equipment before. But seeing these things here was a pleasant surprise, and I had to give my brother new props for a creativity I hadn’t known he possessed.

I watched as Brian led Ivan to a dental chair, which was bolted to the floor and apparently complete with the hydraulic lifting function. It had also been slightly modified with a set of metal-mesh restraints for hands, feet, chest, and head, and these my brother fastened carefully onto our guest, whistling tunelessly the while, not quite loud enough to cover the sound of Ivan’s nasty wet whimpering.

I stepped over beside the chair, where a large rolling toolbox stood just behind Brian. “May I peek?” I asked him.

Brian looked up briefly and smiled. “Of course, brother,” he said. “Perhaps you could even ponder a few opening gambits?”

“With pleasure,” I said, and I turned to open up the top tray of the toolbox. I lifted the lid, and although I did not actually gasp with pleasure, I did pause for several seconds, speechless with delight. And then I leaned into it eagerly and began to open all the drawers, bubbling over with the joy of discovery.

I have always been very neat and well organized. It makes everything proceed a little smoother in this messy chaos we call life. My workspace at the lab and my little office at home were always clean, well ordered, and logical. But because of the dual nature of my life until recently, I had never been able to be as thorough as I would have liked with acquiring and organizing tools I might have used for my hobby. My space and my privacy were so very limited that my choice of apparatus, too, was far more constrained than I would have liked. Nearly every day I would see some intriguing item intended for a more pedestrian use, and think to myself that it had some wonderful untried possibilities.