Double Dexter (46 page)

In any case, I really wanted to do this. I wanted Crowley dead, and I wanted to do it myself, and nothing else was quite as important as that. If that meant a long vacation behind bars, so be it. I probably deserved it.

I looked at my watch. The boat should arrive in about half an hour. I couldn’t lurk here in the shadows the whole time without somebody wondering what I was doing. So I continued on through the gateway and walked into the fort.

It seemed even bigger on the inside. The walls folded around a huge green lawn speckled with trees and crossed by a few pathways that led away to the far side, which seemed to be very far away. There were a few buildings, probably where the park rangers lived. To the right was a sign that read, V
ISITOR
C
ENTER
, and beyond it on the top of the wall a black lighthouse stuck up into the bright blue sky.

The top story of the high brick wall gaped in an endless chain of large openings, a series of huge doorways with no doors. The bottom floor echoed this pattern, with smaller, squatter doorways leading into blank darkness inside the walls. It was a vast arena of dark and secluded spots, so many of them over such a huge area that the 10
^th
Mountain Division could not have covered it all, let alone a small handful of park rangers, and I could see why Crowley had chosen it. It was the perfect setting for a recreational murder, followed by a haunting.

I went to the right, past the doorway into the Visitor Center and along the wall, peering into dark and empty rooms. Underneath the lighthouse I found a stairway leading up to the top of the wall, and I climbed it, coming out on top into the bright sunlight again. I squinted and looked around, and the intensity of the light hurt my eyes. I wished I’d brought sunglasses. But I also wished I’d brought a bazooka, or at least a baseball bat, so the glasses seemed a little bit trivial.

I went to the edge of the wall and looked down. Below me the moat came right up to the wall, and beyond that there was a sandy roadway between the fort and the beach. A fat man in a tiny bathing suit walked by on the sand, following a large black dog. Beyond him was a sliver of beach and several large boats moored just a few yards out from the sand. Someone on the deck of one of the yachts yelled something, and there was a brief blare of music.

I turned to my left, walking along the top of the wall in the direction the ferry would be coming from, picking my way through sand and tufts of grass, past a big black cannon where three kids were playing pirate. Beyond them I saw a chunk of loose brick lying in the sand. It had split in three pieces and fallen out of its slot in the wall. I glanced around me casually; the pirates were on the far side of their cannon, and there was no one else in sight. I stooped and picked up a piece of the brick and slid it into my pocket. It wasn’t quite a bazooka, but it was better than nothing.

It was a five-minute walk across the top of the wall to the far side of the fort. When I finally got there I was soaked in sweat and I had a slight headache from the sun’s sharp glare. I stood there and looked back toward Key West, squinting through the reflected gleam of light off the water. I waited for ten minutes or so, doing no more than scanning the horizon. Three more people walked past me, two middle-aged women chattering away in deep harsh voices, and one old man with a bandage on the side of his head. And then a small white speck appeared in the distance, even brighter than the blaze of
sunlight off the water, and I watched as it grew bigger and brighter, and in only a few minutes it was big enough to be sure. It was the ferry, bringing me Cody and Astor and an end to the threat of Crowley. They were almost here, and it was time.

I hurried back to the staircase and went down to the gateway to wait.

I
STOOD IN THE SHADOWS INSIDE THE FORT’S GATEWAY, HALF-HIDDEN
behind the stone arch, and I watched as the large catamaran slid up to the dock and tied off. Many times in my sad short life I have waited in ambush and cuddled my wicked thoughts, but this was different. This was no deliciously private rendezvous on a carefully chosen night of silvery moonlight. This was a public execution in a crowd of strangers, a perversion forced on me by necessity, and it seemed like I was doing everything for the very first time. I felt stiff, clumsy, amateurish. I did not hear the sweet wing-rustle and whisper of encouragement from the Dark Passenger, and I did not hear the music of the Dance Macabre, and there was no delicious cool rush of power and certainty flowing out through my fingertips. My mouth was dry and my still-swollen hands were sweaty and I could hear my heart pounding rapidly in my ears and this was not wonderful wicked me lying in wait in complete control, not at all, and it made me fidgety and unhappy in a way that was almost painful.

But there was no choice, no way out, no direction but forward, and so I waited and watched as the ferry’s steel ramp slammed down onto the dock, and the crowd of gawkers surged off the boat and onto
Dry Tortugas National Park, home of Fort Jefferson and Dexter’s Last Stand.

There were about sixty people on the boat, and most of them had come down the ramp and begun to amble around the outside of the fort before I saw Astor’s unmistakable blond head through a gap in the parade. A moment later the crowd parted again and there they were, all three of them. Cody and Astor held hands and Crowley walked very close behind them, herding them forward off the dock and onto the brick path toward the fort.

I tensed and slid deeper into the shadow of the stone gate. I flexed my fingers. They felt cramped and stupid, incapable of anything but knotting up. I made and unmade a fist several times, and when my hands felt as lively as they were going to get I reached into my pocket and took out my chunk of brick. It didn’t make me feel much better.

I waited. My throat was so dry that swallowing hurt, but I swallowed anyway and took a deep breath and tried to force icy calm into my veins. It didn’t work. My hands were shaky and the brick felt slippery in my grip. I took half a peek around the stone arch and for a few frozen seconds I didn’t see them anywhere. I eased out of the shadows a little more; there they were, standing stupidly in front of the sign, staring around them. I could see Astor’s mouth moving in what was clearly a tirade of irritation, and Cody’s small face was set in a scowl. Crowley had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and he wore an idiotic mask of pleasant anticipation, as if he really was on an enchanted holiday with two wonderful children.

But they didn’t move away from the sign. I wondered what Crowley had told them to keep them docile. It must have been good. They had no reason to distrust him if he had a plausible enough lie, but these were not ordinary, well-behaved children. Behind their pleasant and youthful features, throbbing inside their delightful tousled heads, dark and wicked flowers were blooming. Crowley could not possibly suspect it, but these were Dexters-in-Training, and they were, in every sense of the word, little Monsters. I felt a surge of affection for the two of them.

A clump of tourists stomped onto the drawbridge and came between me and Crowley. I stepped all the way back inside and pretended to be examining the stonework, but they didn’t even see me
as they sauntered on through the gateway, chattering in Spanish and vanishing out the far side into the interior of the fort. When they were out of sight I eased my head around the arch and peeked out at the sign again.

They were gone.

Panic ripped through me and for a moment I couldn’t think anything at all. I just stared at the spot where they had been and squeezed my brick until my fingers hurt. Where could they be? And if they had to go somewhere, why weren’t they at least strolling over the drawbridge and into my ambush?

I leaned out farther and looked left; I saw nothing. I came a full step out of the archway and looked right—there they were, sauntering away on the sandy path to the far side of the island, toward the campground and away from my trap. Irritation boiled up inside me; what pointless stupidity were they performing? Why wasn’t Crowley bringing his fat head into the gateway and under my brick like he was supposed to do?

I watched as they ambled by a line of picnic tables and then past a clump of stunted trees that grew just before the beach, and then they were hidden by the branches and I couldn’t see them anymore.

I heard a hissing sound and realized it was me, blowing angry breath out between my teeth, and that was even more annoying. If that was the best I could do, I might as well go home now. I pried my fingers open and put the brick chunk back in my pocket, and, thinking very dark thoughts, I stepped into the sunlight and followed.

A family of five sat at one of the picnic tables. They were eating lunch, and they looked so happy I wanted to use the brick to bash in their heads. But I left them to their sandwiches and stalked down the path to the back side of the grove of scrub trees.

I paused for a moment, uncertain. The foliage screened me from Crowley, but it also hid him from me. He could very well be lurking just beyond the branches, watching his back trail for any Dexters that might be sniffing along behind him. Elementary predator’s caution would tell him to be sure no one was following. So, deciding that safe was very much better than sorry, I moved to my left, skirting along the back side of the tree line through even more picnic tables and ducking under a clothesline until I came to a break in the trees. I
moved carefully around one last picnic table and into scrub. I pushed through the sand and the branches and stopped behind the last tree and slowly parted the leaves with my hand.

I should have seen them to my right, no more than thirty feet away. I didn’t. I pushed the branches farther apart, and there they were, standing stupidly on the sand and staring at the swimming area. If I slipped carefully back through the trees and came out behind them— But no. Crowley put one hand on each small shoulder and urged them back the way they had come, and the little trio slowly turned and trudged back into the scrub trees and headed toward the dock. It was obvious that he was scouting, making sure everything was just the way he wanted it to be, before he went to his special place to wait for me, the place where he would surprise me.

But, of course, I was already here, and I was going to surprise him first, if I could just stay close behind and watch for my chance—but how? There was very little cover between the trees and the dock, no more than one white metal building close to where the ferries tied up. Other than that, nothing but the fort, the water, and the thin sandy path leading around the tall redbrick walls. If I stepped out from the trees and followed I would be extremely visible. But I couldn’t let them just ramble away.

I looked in front of me on the beach. There were about half a dozen towels thrown around, with flip-flops and beach bags stacked beside them. The nearest towel was bright orange, and right beyond it there was a big white one. The towels’ owners were apparently all in the water.

At the far end of the beach, a large middle-aged woman sat in a fold-up canvas chair, watching a group of very loud children splashing around in the shallows. No one else was in sight, except for the people swimming farther out, toward the buoys marking the edge of the swimming area. I looked right again, and saw that Crowley and the kids were still strolling away around the fort.

A small idea popped into my head, and before I could think about how lame it was, I acted. Looking as casual as possible, I stepped out onto the beach, grabbed the white towel, and then strolled back into the cover of the trees. I took off my shirt and tied it around my waist, and then I draped the towel over my head like a bedouin headdress,
clutching my half brick in one corner of the towel. I left the trees and walked through the picnic area.
Look at me; I have been swimming and I have wet hair which I am now drying, and I am perfectly normal and not Dexter at all
.

They were walking toward the far side of the fort now, past the dock and onto the sandy access road, and I followed. Suddenly, Cody stopped and turned around. He looked back toward the dock, then turned and looked at the fort, and then he frowned. I could see his lips move briefly, and he pointed at the drawbridge. Crowley shook his head and once more put a hand on his shoulder to urge him on, but Cody jerked away and pointed stubbornly at the drawbridge. Crowley shook his head and reached for Cody, who jumped away from him, and Astor stepped in between them and started talking.

I took advantage of their halt to get closer. I had no clear idea of how I was going to do this, but if I could get within half a brick length of Crowley I was ready to cave in his head and take my chances. Closer—and when I was only ten feet away I distinctly heard Astor say that this was all a bunch of bullcrap, and where was Dexter anyway? I raised my hands up and began to towel my head vigorously. I was actually within four big steps of them when Astor broke off her tirade, stared right at me, and said, “Dexter! You’re really here!”

I froze in place: stupid, I know, but I really was not my abnormal self. Crowley didn’t have that problem, and he wasted no time trying to see under the towel to confirm my identity. He dropped his duffel bag, yanked Astor off her feet, tucked her under one arm, and ran for the dock. She immediately began to wiggle frantically and yell at the top of her lungs, but without even slowing, Crowley punched her on the side of the head, hard, and she went limp.

I dropped the towel and jumped after them, paused for one second, and looked at Cody. “Go inside the fort,” I said. “Find the park rangers and tell them you’re lost.” And without waiting to see whether he would obey, I turned and sprinted after Crowley.

He had a good head start, but he was slower because he was carrying Astor, and I was closing fast when he pounded out to the end of the dock. A forty-five-foot sportfishing boat was backing in to tie up, and Crowley jumped onto the deck, where a woman in a bikini stood gaping at him and clutching the stern line. Crowley shoved her
hard, and she went backward into the water, still holding the rope. An elderly man on the flybridge yelled, “Hey!” in a hoarse voice as Crowley dropped Astor to the deck. She slid up against a cooler and lay motionless, and Crowley lunged up the ladder to the flybridge. The old man yelled, “Help!” in a strangled self-conscious way, and then Crowley punched him in the gut and took the controls. The old man bent over and fell to his knees and the boat began to move away from the dock.