t 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 smouldered 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 there when the house exploded, and I had a very strong feeling that claiming coincidence would not really get me terribly far, either.

And in all the time since I had picked myself up off the pavement and staggered over to lean on a tree and admire the way I could still move all my body parts—the whole time I was getting patched up and then waiting for Coulter to arrive—all these long minutes-into-hours, I had not managed to come up with anything that sounded even faintly believable. And with Coulter now turning to stare at me very hard indeed, I realized my time was up.

“So, what then?” he said. “You were here because why? Picking up your laundry? Part-time job delivering pizza? What?”

It was one of the biggest shocks of a very unsettling day to hear Coulter revealing a faint patina of wit. I had thought of him as an exceedingly dull and dim lump of dough, incapable of anything beyond filling out an accident report, and yet here he was making amusing remarks with a very professional deadpan delivery, and if he could do that, I had to assume he might have an outside chance of putting two and two together and coming up with me. I was truly on the spot. And so, throwing my cunning into high gear, I decided to go with the time-honored tactic of telling a big lie wrapped in a small truth.

“Look, Detective,” I said, with a painful and somewhat hesitant delivery that I was quite proud of. Then I closed my eyes and took a deep breath—all real Academy Award stuff, if you asked me. “I’m sorry, I’m still a little fuzzy. They say I sustained a minor concussion.”

“Was that before you got here, Dex?” Coulter said. “Or can you remember that far back, about why you were here?”

“I can remember,” I said reluctantly. “I just...”

“You don’t feel so good,” he said.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“I can understand that,” he said, and for one wild, irrational moment I thought he might let me go. But no: “What I can’t understand,” he went on relentlessly, “is what the fuck you were doing here when the fucking house blew the fuck up.”

“It’s not easy to say,” I said.

“I guess not,” said Coulter. “Cause you haven’t said it yet. You gonna tell me, Dex?” He popped his finger out of the bottle, took a sip, pushed the finger back in again. The bottle was more than half empty now, and it hung there like some kind of strange and embarrassing biological appendage. Coulter wiped his mouth again. “See, I kind of need to know this,” he said. “ ’Cuz they tell me there’s a body in there.”

A minor seismic event worked its way down my spine, from the top of my skull all the way down to my heels. “Body?” I said with my usual incisive wit.

“Yeah,” he said. “A body”

“That’s, you mean—dead?”

Coulter nodded, watching me with distant amusement, and I realized with a terrible shock that we had switched roles, and now I was the stupid one. “Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “ ’Cuz it was inside the house when it went ka-boom, so you would have to figure it would be dead. Also,” he said, “it couldn’t run away, being tied up like that. Who would tie a guy up when the house was gonna blow like that, do you figure?”

“It, uh... must have been the killer,” I stammered.

“Uh-huh,” said Coulter. “So you figure the killer killed him, that it?”

“Uh, yes,” I said, and even through the growing pounding in my head I could tell how stupid and unconvincing that sounded.

“Uh-huh. But not you, right? I mean, you didn’t tie the guy up and toss in a Cohiba or something, right?”

“Look, I saw the guy drive away as the house went up,” I said.

“And who was that guy, Dex? I mean, you got a name or anything? ’Cuz that would really help a lot here.”

It might have been that the concussion was spreading, but a terrible numbness seemed to be taking me over. Coulter suspected something, and even though I was relatively innocent in this case, any kind of investigation was bound to have uncomfortable results for Dexter. Coulter’s eyes had not left my face, and he had not blinked, and I had to tell him something, but even with a minor concussion I knew that I could not give him Weiss’s name. “I, it—the car was registered to Kenneth Wimble,” I said tentatively.

Coulter nodded. “Same guy owns the house,” he said.

“Yes, that’s right.”

He kept nodding mechanically as if that made sense and said, “Sure. So you figure Wimble ties up this guy—in his own house—and then blows up his own house and drives away in his car, like to the summer place in North Carolina, maybe?”

Again it came across to me that there was more to this man than I had thought there was, and it was not a pleasant realization. I thought I was dealing with SpongeBob, and he had turned out to be Columbo instead, hiding a much sharper mind than the shabby appearance seemed to allow for. I, who wore a disguise my entire life, had been fooled by a better costume, and looking at the gleam of previously hidden intelligence in Coulter’s eyes, I realized that Dexter was in danger. This was going to call for a great deal of skill and cleverness, and even then I was no longer sure it would be enough.

“I don’t know where he went,” I said, which was not a great start, but it was all I could come up with.

“ ’Course not. And you don’t know who he is, either, right? ’Cuz you’d tell me if you did.”

“Yes, I would.”

“But you don’t have any idea.”

“No.”

“So great, then why’n’t you tell me what you were doing here instead?” he said.

And there it was, full circle, back to the real question—and if I answered it right all was forgiven, and if I did not respond in a way that would make my suddenly smart friend happy, there was a very real possibility that he would follow through and derail the Dexter Express. I was waist-deep in the outhouse without a rope, and my brain was throbbing, trying to push through the fog to top form, and failing.

“It’s... it’s...” I looked down and then far away to my left, searching for the right words for a terrible and embarrassing admission. “She’s my sister,” I said at last.

“Who is?” said Coulter.

“Deborah,” I said. “Your partner. Deborah Morgan. She’s in the ICU because of this guy, and I...” I trailed off very convincingly and waited to see if he could fill in the blanks, or if the cute remarks had been a coincidence.

“I knew that,” he admitted. He took another sip of soda and then jammed his finger tip back into the mouth of the bottle and let it dangle again. “So you find this guy how?”

“At the elementary school this morning,” I said. “He was shooting video from his car, and I got the tag. I traced it to here.”

Coulter nodded. “Uh-huh,” he said. “And instead of telling me, or the lieutenant, or even a school crossing guard, you figure to take him on by yourself.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Because she’s your sister.”

“I wanted to, you know,” I said.

“Kill him?” he said, and the words hit me with an icy shock.

“No,” I said. “Just, just—”

“Read him his rights?” said Coulter. “Handcuff him? Ask him some tough questions? Blow up his house?”

“I guess, um,” I said, as if reluctantly letting out the ugly truth. “I wanted to, you know. Rough him up a little.”

“Uh-huh,” said Coulter. “And then what?”

I shrugged, feeling somewhat like a teenage boy caught with a condom. “Then bring him in,” I said.

“Not kill him?” Coulter said, raising one badly trimmed eyebrow.

“No,” I said. “How could I, um...?”

“Not stick a knife in him and say, This is for what you did to my sister?”

“Come on, Detective. Me?” And I didn’t quite bat my eyes at him, but I did my best to look like the charter member of the Geek Patrol that I was in my secret identity.

And Coulter simply stared at me for a long and very uncomfortable minute. Then he shook his head again. “I dunno, Dex,” he said. “Doesn’t really add up.”

I gave him a look of pained confusion, which wasn’t entirely acting. “What do you mean?”

He took another swig of soda. “You always play by the rules,” he said. “Your sister’s a cop. Your dad was a cop. You never get in any kind of trouble, ever. Mr. Boy Scout. And now you decide you’re Rambo?” He made a face as if somebody had put garlic in his Mountain Dew. “Am I missing something? You know, something that makes sense?”

“She’s my sister,” I said, and it sounded incredibly feeble, even to me.

“Yeah, I got that already,” he said. “You got nothing else?”

I felt trapped in slow motion while large and ponderous things whizzed past me. My head throbbed and my tongue was too thick, and all my legendary cleverness had deserted me. Coulter watched me as I numbly and painfully shook my head, and I thought, This is a very dangerous man. But out loud, all I could manage was, “I’m sorry.”

He looked at me for just a moment longer, then turned away. “I think maybe Doakes was right about you,” he said, and then he walked across the street to talk to the firefighters.

Well. The mention of Doakes was the perfect end to an absolutely enchanting conversation. I just barely stopped myself from shaking my head again, but the temptation was strong, because it seemed to me that what had been a sane and well-ordered universe just a few days ago was suddenly beginning to spin wildly out of control. First I walked into a trap and nearly turn into the Inhuman Torch, and then a man I had regarded as a foot soldier in the war against intelligence turned out to be a covert general—and to top it off, he was apparently in league with the last few living pieces of my nemesis, Sergeant Doakes, and he seemed very likely to take up where Doakes had left off, in the pursuit of poor persecuted Dexter. Where would this end?

And if this was not bad enough—which, frankly, I thought it was—I was still in terrible danger from Weiss and whatever his plan of attack might be.

All in all, it occurred to me that this would be a very good time to be somebody else. Unfortunately, that was a trick I had so far failed to master. With nothing else to do except ponder the almost certain doom headed toward me at such terrible speed from so many different directions, I walked down the block to my car. And of course, because apparently I had not suffered nearly enough, a slim and ghostly figure came off the curb and glided into step beside me.

“You were here when this happened,” said Israel Salguero.

“Yes,” I said, wondering if next a satellite would fall from orbit and onto my head.

He was silent for a moment and then he stopped walking, and I turned to face him. “You know I am not investigating you,” he said.

I thought that was very nice to hear, but considering how things had gone the last few hours, I thought it would be best just to nod, so I did.

“But apparently what happened here is connected to the incident involving your sister, and that I am investigating,” he said, and I was glad I hadn’t said anything. So glad, in fact, that I decided that silence would be a good policy to continue.

“You know that one of the most important things I am charged to uncover is any kind of vigilante activity on the part of any of our officers,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. Only one word, after all.

He nodded. He still had not taken his eyes off my face.

“Your sister has a very promising career ahead of her,” he said. “It would be a very great shame if something like this hurt her.”

“She’s still unconscious,” I said. “She hasn’t done anything.”

“No, she hasn’t done anything,” he said. “What about you?”

“I just tried to find the guy who stabbed her,” I said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Of course,” he said. He waited for me to say something else, but I didn’t, and so after what seemed like several weeks, he smiled and patted my arm and walked away across the street to where Coulter was standing and swigging from his Mountain Dew bottle. I watched as the two of them spoke, turned to face me, and then turned away again to look at the smouldering house. And thinking that this afternoon couldn’t possibly get any better, I turned and trudged to my car.

The windshield was cracked from a flying piece of house.

I managed not to burst into tears. I got in and drove home, peering through the cracked glass and listening to my head throb.