he park where Cody and Astor went after school each day was only a few minutes from our house, but it was the far side of town from my office, and so it was a bit more than twenty minutes before I finally got there. Since it was rush-hour traffic, I suppose you could say it was lucky that I got there at all. But I had plenty of time to reflect on what might be happening to Rita, and I found to my surprise that I actually hoped she was all right. I was just starting to get used to her. I liked having her cooking every night, and certainly I could not manage both kids on a full-time basis and still have the freedom to blossom in my chosen career—not yet, not for a few more years, when they had both been trained.

So I hoped that Coulter had taken reliable backup, and that they would have Weiss tucked away and Rita secured, perhaps sipping coffee and wrapped in a blanket, like on television.

But that brought up an interesting point, one that filled the rest of my otherwise pleasant drive through the homicidal homeward-bound crowd with genuine worry. Suppose they did have Weiss all safely cuffed and Mirandized? What would happen when they started to ask him questions? Things like, why did you do it? And more importantly, why did you do it to Dexter? What if he had the very poor taste to answer them truthfully? So far he had showed an appalling willingness to tell everyone all about me, and although I am not particularly shy, I would rather keep my real accomplishments hidden from the public eye.

And if Coulter added the things Weiss might blather to what he already suspected from seeing the video, things might get very unhappy in Dexterville.

It would have been a much better thing if I had been able to confront Weiss by myself—settle things amicably, mano a mano—or possibly cuchilla a cuchilla—and solve the problem of Weiss’s urge to communicate by feeding my Passenger. But I’d had no real choice in the matter—Coulter had been there and heard it, and I’d had to go along. After all, I was a law-abiding citizen—I really was, technically speaking; I mean, innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, right?

And it was looking more and more like it would come down to a court of law, starring Dexter in an orange jumpsuit and leg irons, which I could not look forward to at all—orange is a very bad color for me. And of course being accused of murder would really be a major roadblock to my true happiness. I don’t have any illusions about our legal system; I see it on the job every day, and I am quite sure that I could beat it, unless they actually catch me in the act, on film, in front of a bus filled with U.S. senators and nuns. But even an open accusation would put me under the kind of scrutiny that would spell an end to my playtime activities, even if I was found to be completely innocent. Just look at poor O.J.; in his last years of freedom he couldnt even play golf anymore without someone accusing him of something.

But what could I do about it? My options were very limited. I could either let Weiss talk, in which case I was in trouble, or stop him from talking—in which case, exact same result. There was no way around it. Dexter was in deep, and the tide was rising.

It was therefore a very thoughtful Dexter who finally pulled up at the community hall at the park. Good old Megan was still there, holding Cody and Astor by the hand, and hopping from one foot to the other in her anxiety to be rid of them and off into the exciting world of accounting class. They all seemed happy to see me, in their own individual ways, which was so gratifying that I forgot all about Weiss for three or four full seconds.

“Mr. Morgan?” Megan said. I really gotta go.” And I was so stunned to hear her complete a sentence that was not a question, I merely nodded and pried Cody and Astor’s hands from hers. She skittered away to a small beat-up Chevy and raced off into the evening traffic.

“Where’s Mom?” Astor demanded.

I am sure there is a caring and sensitive and very human way to tell children that their mother is in the clutches of a homicidal monster, but I did not know what it was, so I said, “That bad guy has her. The one that crashed into your car.”

“The one I got with a pencil?” Cody asked me.

“That’s right,” I said.

“I hit him in the crotch,” Astor said.

“You should have hit him harder,” I said. “He’s got your mom.”

She made a face at me that showed she was deeply disappointed in my dorkiness. “Are we going to go get her?”

“We’re going to help,” I said. “The police are there now.”

They both looked at me like I was crazy. “The police?!” Astor said. “You sent the police?!”

“I had to come get you two,” I said, surprised to find myself on the defensive all of a sudden.

“So you’re going to let this guy GO, and he’ll just go to JAIL?” she demanded.

“I had to,” I said, and suddenly I felt like I really was in court and I had already lost. “One of the cops found out, and I had to come get you.”

They exchanged one of their silent but very meaningful looks, and then Cody looked away. “Are you taking us with you now?” Astor asked.

“Uh,” I said, and it really didn’t seem fair to have first Coulter and now Astor reduce honey-tongued Dashing Dexter to monosyllabic idiocy in the same day, but there it was. Things being what they were—exceedingly unpleasant and uncertain—I had not really thought this through. But of course I could not take them with me to corner Weiss. I knew that his whole performance was aimed at me, and it would not really start until I got there, if he could help it; I could not be certain that Coulter had him cornered, and it would be far too dangerous.

As if she heard me thinking it, Astor said, “We already beat him once.”

“He wasn’t expecting anything from you then,” I said. “This time he will be.”

“This time we’ll have more than a pencil,” Astor said, and the cool ferocity she said it with absolutely warmed my heart—but it was still out of the question.

“No,” I said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Cody muttered, “Promise,” and Astor rolled her eyes in an epic fashion and blew out a matching breath. “You keep saying we can’t do anything,” she said. “Not until you teach us. And we say go ahead and teach us, and we don’t do anything. And now when we have a chance to really learn something real, you say it’s too dangerous.”

“It IS too dangerous,” I said.

“Then what are we supposed to do while you go doing something dangerous?” she demanded. “And what if you don’t save Mom and you both never come back?”

I looked at her, and then at Cody. She was glaring at me with her lower lip quivering, while he settled for a stony-faced expression of contempt, and once again the best I could manage was to open my mouth soundlessly a few times.

And that is how I ended up driving to the Convention Center, going slightly faster than the speed limit, with two very excited children in the back seat. We got off I-95 at Eighth Street and headed over to the Convention Center on Brickell. There was a lot of traffic and no place to park—apparently, a lot of other people had been watching public television and were aware of the Art-stravaganza. Under the circumstances, it seemed a little silly to waste time looking for a parking spot, and just as I decided to park on the sidewalk police-style, I saw what had to be Coulter’s motor-pool car, and I pulled up onto the walk beside it and slapped my department placard on the dashboard and turned to face Cody and Astor.

“Stay with me,” I said, “and don’t do anything without asking me first.”

“Unless it’s an emergency,” Astor said.

I thought about how they’d done so far in emergencies; pretty good, in fact. Besides, it was almost certainly all over by now. “All right,” I said. “If it’s an emergency.” I opened the car door. “Come on,” I said.

They didn’t budge. “What?” I said.

“Knife,” Cody said softly.

“He wants a knife,” Astor said.

“I’m not giving you a knife,” I said.

“But what if there IS an emergency?” Astor demanded. “You said we could do something if there’s an emergency but then you won’t let us have anything to DO it with!”

“You can’t wander around in public holding a knife,” I said.

“We can’t go totally defenseless,” Astor insisted.

I blew out a long breath. I was reasonably sure that Rita would be safe until I got there, but at this rate, Weiss would die of old age before I found him. So I opened the glove compartment and took out a Phillips-head screwdriver and handed it to Cody. After all, life is all about compromise. “Here,” I said. “That’s the best I can do.”

Cody looked at the screwdriver and then looked at me.

“It’s better than a pencil,” I said. He looked at his sister, and then he nodded. “Good,” I said, reaching once again to open the door. “Let’s go.”

This time they followed me, up across the sidewalk and to the main entrance of the big hall. But before we got there Astor stopped dead.

“What is it?” I asked her.

“I have to pee,” she said.

“Astor,” I said. “We have to get moving here.”

“I have to pee really bad,” she said.

“Can’t it wait five minutes?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head vigorously. I gotta go now.”

I took a very deep breath and wondered if Batman ever had this problem with Robin. “All right,” I said. “Hurry.”

We found the restroom over to one side of the lobby and Astor hurried in. Cody and I just stood and waited. He changed his grip on the screwdriver a few times, and finally settled for the more natural blade-forward position. He looked at me for approval, and I nodded, just as Astor came out again.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go.” She breezed past us toward the door to the main hall and we followed. A doughy man with large glasses wanted to collect fifteen dollars from each of us to let us enter, but I showed him my police credentials. “What about the kids?” he demanded.

Cody started to raise his screwdriver, but I motioned him back. “They’re witnesses,” I said.

The man looked like he wanted to argue, but when he saw the way Cody was holding the screwdriver, he just shook his head. “All right,” he said with a very large sigh.

“Do you know where the other officers went?” I asked him.

He just kept shaking his head. “There’s only one officer that I know of,” he said, “and I am QUITE sure I would know if there were more, since they all think they can just parade past me without paying.” He smiled to show that he really did mean it as an insult, and beckoned us forward into the hall. “Enjoy the show.”

We went into the hall. There were actually several booths showing things that were recognizable as art—sculpture, paintings, and so on. But there were many more that really seemed to be working a little too hard at stretching the boundaries of the human experience into new frontiers of perception. One of the very first we saw was nothing more than a pile of leaves and twigs with a faded beer can lying beside it. Two more featured multiple TV monitors; one showed a fat man sitting on a toilet, the other an airplane flying into a building. But there was no sign of Weiss, Rita, or Coulter.

We walked down to the far end of the hall and turned, glancing up each aisle as we passed. There were many more interesting and horizon-expanding displays, but none of them involved Rita. I began to wonder if I had been wrong to think Coulter was secretly smart. I had blindly accepted his statement that Weiss would be here—but what if he was wrong? What if Weiss was somewhere else, happily carving up Rita, while I looked at art that merely added depth and understanding to a soul that I really didn’t have?

And then Cody stopped in his tracks and slowly came up on point. I turned to see what he was looking at, and I came to a point, too.

“Mom,” he said.

And it was.