he body had been propped in the recess around the side door of the building, the one that served as an emergency exit for the combination cafeteria and auditorium of the school. One of the servers had stepped outside for a smoke and seen it, and had to be sedated, which was easy for me to understand after I took a quick look. And after a second, more careful examination, I very nearly needed a sedative myself.

Roger Deutsch had a lanyard around his neck, with a whistle hanging from it. And as before, the body cavity had been scooped out and then filled with interesting things—in this case, a Cub Scout uniform, a colorful book that said Big Bear Cub Scout Handbook on the cover, and some other gear. I could see the handle of a hand axe sticking up, and a pocketknife with the Cub Scout logo on it. And as I bent closer to look, I also saw a grainy picture, printed on regular white paper, with be prepared printed on it in large black letters. The picture showed a blurry shot, taken from some distance away, of several boys and one adult going into this same building. And although it was impossible to prove it, I knew quite well who the adult and one of the children were.

Me and Cody.

There was no mistaking the familiar curve of Cody’s back. And there was no mistaking the message, either.

It was a very odd moment, kneeling there on the pavement and looking at a blurry, indistinct picture of myself and Cody, and wondering if anybody would see me if I took it. I had never tampered with evidence before, but then again, I had never been part of it, either. And it was quite clear that this was meant for me. be prepared, and the photo. It was a warning, a challenge: ” know who you are and I know how to hurt you And here I come.

be prepared.

I was not prepared. I did not yet know where Weiss might be, and I did not know what or when his next move would be, but I did know that he had moved everything several notches ahead of me, and he had raised the stakes considerably at the same time. This was not a stolen dead body, and it was not anonymous. Weiss had killed Roger Deutsch, not just modified his body. And he had chosen this victim carefully, deliberately, in order to get at me.

It was a complex threat, too. Because the picture added another dimension—it said that I may get you, and I may get Cody, or I may simply expose you for what we both know you are. And on top of that was the sure knowledge that if I was exposed and slapped in jail, Cody would have no protection at all against whatever Weiss might do.

I looked hard at the picture, trying to decide if anyone else could tell it was me, and whether taking it was worth the risk. But before I could make any decision, the feather stroke of an invisible black wing brushed across my face and raised the hair along my neck.

The Dark Passenger had been very quiet through this whole thing so far, contenting himself with a disinterested smirk from time to time and offering no really cogent observations. But now the message was clear, and it echoed the one on the photograph: Be prepared. You are not alone. And I knew just as certainly as I possibly could that somewhere nearby something was looking at me and harboring wicked thoughts, watching me as the tiger watches its prey.

Slowly, carefully, as if I had simply forgotten something in the car, I stood up and walked back toward where we had parked. As I walked I casually scanned the parking area; not looking for anything in particular, just Dopey Dexter ambling along in a perfectly normal way, and under the nonchalant and distracted smile, the black smoke boiled and I looked for something that I knew was looking at me.

And found it.

Over there, in the nearest row of the parking lot, maybe a hundred feet away, right where it would provide the best view, a small bronze-colored sedan was parked. And through the windshield, something winked at me; sunlight off the lens of a camera.

Still so very careful and casual, even though the darkness was roaring through me with a knife edge blossoming, I took a step toward the car. Across the distance I saw the bright flash of the camera coming down, and the small pale face of a man, and the black wings rattled and crashed between us for one very long second—

—and then the car started up, backed out of the parking spot with a small squeal of rubber, and disappeared out of the lot and away into traffic. And although I sprinted forward, the most I could see of the license plate was the first half: oga and three numbers that might have been anything, although I thought the middle one was either a three or an eight.

But with the description of the car, it was enough. I would at least find the registry of the car. It would not be registered to Weiss, couldn’t be. Nobody is that stupid, not in this day of non-stop police drama in all the media. But a small hope flickered. He had left quickly, not wanting me to see him or his car, and just this once I might have some small bit of luck.

I stood there for nearly a minute, letting the wild wind inside me settle back down into a neatly coiled and steadily purring thing. My heart was pumping as it seldom did in the light of day, and I realized that it was a very good thing that Weiss had been just a little bit shy, and had taken off so readily. After all, what would I have done otherwise? Pulled him out of the car and cut him into a dozen neat pieces? Or had him arrested and flung into a squad car so he could begin to tell everyone who would listen all about Dexter?

No, it was just as well that he had escaped. I would find him, and we would meet on my terms, in the suitable dark of a night that could not come soon enough for me.

I took a deep breath, plastered my best phony working smile back onto my face, and walked back to the pile of decorative meat that had been Cody’s scoutmaster.

Vince Masuoka was squatting by the body when I got there, but instead of doing something useful, he was simply staring at the stuff shoved into the cavity and frowning. He looked up as I approached, and said, “What do you think it means?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” I said. “I just do blood spatter. They pay detectives to figure out what it means.”

Vince cocked his head and looked at me as if I had told him we were supposed to eat the body. “Did you know that Detective Coulter is in charge of the investigation?” he said.

“Maybe they pay him for something else,” I said, and I felt a small surge of hope. I had forgotten this detail, but it was worth remembering. With Coulter in charge, I could confess to the murder, hand him videos of me performing it, and he would still find a way not to prove it.

So it was with something approaching good cheer that I went back to work—tempered with very real impatience to get it finished and get back to my computer to track down Weiss. Happily, there was very little blood spatter on site—Weiss appeared to be the kind of neatnik I admired—and therefore there was almost nothing for me to do. I finished up shortly and begged a ride back to headquarters with one of the squad cars. The driver, a large white-haired guy named Stewart, talked about the Dolphins all the way back, apparently not really caring if I responded.

By the time we got back to headquarters I had learned some wonderful things about the approaching football season and what we should have done during the off-season but had somehow, inexplicably, managed to bungle once again, which would certainly lead to another season of ineptitude and shameful losses. I thanked Stewart for the ride and the vital information and fled for my computer.

The database for automobile registration is one of the most basic tools of police work, both in reality and in fiction, and it was with a slight sense of shame that I went to it now. It really seemed just too easy, straight out of a rather simpleminded television drama. Of course, if it led to finding Weiss, I would somehow overcome the feeling that this was almost like cheating, but for the time being I really kind of wished for a clue that would call for something a little more clever. Still, we work with the tools we are given, and hope that someone asks us later for constructive criticism.

After only fifteen minutes I had combed the entire Florida state database, and found three small bronze-colored vehicles with the letters OGA on their license tag. One of them was registered in Kissimmee, which seemed like a bit of a commute. Another was a 1963 Rambler, and I was reasonably sure that I would have noticed something that distinctive.

That left number three, a 1995 Honda, registered to a Kenneth A. Wimble on Northwest Ninety-eighth Street in Miami Shores. The address was in an area of modest homes, and it was relatively close to the place in the Design District where Deborah had been stabbed. It really wouldn’t even be a terribly long walk—so that, for example, if the police came to your little nest on Northeast Fortieth, you could easily hop out the back door and amble a few blocks over until you found an unattended car.

But then what? If you are Weiss, where do you take this car? It seemed to me that you would take it far away from wherever you stole it. So probably the very last place on earth that he would be was the house on Northwest Ninety-eighth Street.

Unless there was some connection between Weiss and Wimble. It would be perfectly natural to borrow a friend’s car; just some casual butchery, buddy—back in a couple of hours.

Of course, for some bizarre reason, we don’t have a National Registry of Who Your Friends Are. One would have thought that they would have made that a vital part of the Patriot Act, and rammed it through Congress. It would certainly make my work easier now. But no such luck; if Weiss and Wimble were indeed chums, I would have to find out the hard way, by a personal visit. It was merely due diligence in any case. But first I would see if I could uncover anything at all about Kenneth A. Wimble.

A quick check of the database showed that he had no criminal record, at least not under that name. His utilities were paid, although payment on his propane bill had been late several times. Digging a little deeper, going into the tax records, I discovered that Wimble was self-employed, and his occupation was listed as video editor.

Coincidence is always possible. Strange and improbable things happen every day, and we accept them and simply scratch our heads like rubes in the big city, and say, “Gollee, ain’t that somethin’.” But this seemed to be stretching coincidence past the breaking point. I had been following a writer who had left a video trail, and now the trail had led me to a video professional. And since there comes a time and place when the seasoned investigator must accept the fact that he has stumbled on something that is probably NOT coincidence, I murmured, “Aha,” very quietly to myself. I thought I sounded quite professional saying it, too.

Wimble was in on this in some way, tied up with Weiss in making and sending the videos, and therefore, presumably in arranging the bodies and finally in killing Roger Deutsch. So when Deborah had come knocking at the door, Weiss fled to his other partner, Wimble. A place to hide, a small bronze-colored car to borrow, and on with the show.

All right then, Dexter. Mount up and move out. We know where he is, and now is the time to go get him—before he decides to put my name and picture on the front page of the Miami Herald. Up and away. Let’s go.

Dexter? Are you there, buddy?

I was there. But I suddenly found, oddly enough, that I really missed Deborah. This was exactly the kind of thing I should be doing with her—after all, it was bright daylight out there, and that was not truly Dexter’s Dominion. Dexter needs darkness to blossom into the real life-of-the-party that he is deep inside. Sunlight and hunting do not mix. With Deborah’s badge I could have stayed hidden in plain sight, but without it... I was not actually nervous, of course, but I was a little bit uneasy.

But there was no choice at all. Deborah was lying in a hospital bed, Weiss and his dear friend Wimble were giggling at me in a house on Ninety-eighth Street, and Dexter was dithering about daylight. And that would not do, not at all.

So stand, breathe, stretch. Once more into the breach, dear Dexter. Get up and be gone. And I did, and I headed out the door to my car, but I could not shake the strange feeling of unease.

The feeling lasted all the way over to Northwest Ninety-eighth Street, even through the soothing homicidal rhythm of the traffic. Something was wrong somewhere and Dexter was headed into it somehow. But since there was nothing more definite than that, I kept going, and wondering what was really chewing at the bottom corner of my brain. Was it really just fear of daylight? Or was my subconscious telling me that I had missed something important, something that was getting ready to rear up and bite me? I went over it all in my head, again and again, and it all added up the same way, and the only thing that really stuck out was the thought that it was all very simple, perfectly connected, coherent and logical and right, and I had no choice but to act as quickly as I could, and why should that be bothersome? When did Dexter ever have any choice anyway? When does anyone really have a choice of any kind, beyond occasionally being able to say—on those very few good days we get—I choose ice cream instead of pie?

But I still felt invisible fingers tickling at my neck when I parked the car, across the street and halfway down the block from Wimble’s house. And so for several long minutes I did nothing more than sit in the car and look up the street at the house.

The bronze-colored car was parked in the street right in front of the house. There was no sign of life, and no large heap of body parts dragged to the curb to wait for pickup. Nothing at all but a quiet house in an ordinary Miami neighborhood, baking in the midday sun.

And the longer I sat there in the car with the motor off, the more I realized that I was baking, too, and if I stayed in the car a few more minutes I would be watching a crisp dark crust form on my skin. Whatever faint tremors of doubt I felt, I had to do something while there was still breathable air in the car.

I got out and stood blinking in the heat and light for several seconds, and then moved off down the street, away from Wimble’s house. Moving slowly and casually, I walked around the block one time, looking at the house from the rear. There was not much to see; a row of hedges growing up through a chain-link fence blocked any view of the house from the next block over. I continued around the block, crossed the street, and walked on back to my car.

And I stood there again, blinking in the brightness, feeling the sweat roll down my spine, across my forehead, into my eyes. I knew that I could not stand there a great deal longer without drawing attention. I had to do something—either approach the house, or get back into my car, drive home, and wait to see myself on the evening news. But with that nasty, annoying little voice still squeaking in my brain that something was just not right, I stood there a little longer, until some small and brittle thing inside snapped, and I finally said, Fine. Let it come, whatever it might be. Anything is better than standing here counting the droplets of sweat as they fall.

I remembered something helpful for a change, and opened the trunk of my car. I had thrown a clipboard in there; it had been very useful for several past investigations into the lifestyles of the wicked and infamous, and there was a clip-on tie as well. It has been my experience that you can go anywhere, day or night, and no one will question you if you wear a clip-on tie and carry a clipboard. Luckily today I was wearing a shirt that actually buttoned at the neck, and I hung the tie on my collar, picked up the clipboard and a ballpoint pen, and walked up the street to Wimble’s house. Just another semi-important official somebody or other, here to check on something.

I glanced up the street; it was lined with trees, and several of the houses had fruit trees in the yard. Fine: today I was Inspector Dexter from the State Board of Tree Inspection. This would allow me to move close to the house with a semilogical activity to cloak me.

And then what? Could I really get inside and take Weiss by surprise, in broad daylight? The hot glare of the sun made it seem vastly unlikely somehow. There was no comforting darkness, no shadows to hold me and hide my approach. I was as completely visible and obvious as could be, and if Weiss glanced out the window and recognized me, the game was up before it properly began.

But what choice did I have? It was him or me, and if I did nothing at all, he would most likely do a great deal of something, starting with exposing me and moving down the list to hurting Cody or Astor, or who knows what. I had to head him off and stop him now.

And as I straightened up to do so, a most unwelcome thought shoved its way in: Was this the way Deborah thought of me? Did she see me as a sort of wild obscenity, slashing its way across the landscape with random ferocity? Was that why she had been so unhappy with me? Because she had formed an image of me as a ravening monster? It was such a painful notion that for a moment I could do nothing but blink away the drops of sweat rolling down my forehead. It was unfair, totally unjustified; of course, I was a monster—but not that kind. I was neat, focused, polite, and very careful not to cause the tourists any inconvenience with random body parts scattered about. How could she fail to see that? How could I make her see the well-ordered beauty of the way Harry had set me up?

The first answer was, I could not—not if Weiss stayed alive and at liberty Because once my face was on the news, my life was over and Deborah would have no more choice than I would; no more choice than I had right now. Sunlight or not, I had to do this, and I had to do it quickly and well.

I took a deep breath and moved up the street to the house next to Wimble’s, looking intently at the trees along the drive and scribbling on the clipboard. I moved slowly up the driveway. No one leapt out at me with a machete in their teeth, so I walked back down the driveway, paused in front of the house, and then went on to Wimble’s.

There were suspicious trees to examine there, too, and I looked up at them, made notes, and moved a bit further up the driveway. There was no sight nor sound of life from the house. Even though I did not know what I hoped to see, I moved closer, looking for it, and not just in the trees. I looked carefully at the house, noting that all the windows seemed to have shades drawn down. Nothing could see in or out. I got far enough up the driveway to notice that there was a back door, located at the top of two concrete steps. I moved toward it very casually, listening for any small rustling or whispering or shouts of, “Look out! He’s here!” Still nothing. I pretended to notice a tree in the backyard, close to a propane tank and only about twenty feet from the door, and I went over to it.

Still nothing. I scribbled. There was a window in the top half of the door, with no shade pulled down. I walked over to it, mounted the two steps, and peeked inside. I was looking into a darkened hallway, lined with a washing machine and dryer, and a few brooms and mops held in clamps on the wall. I put a hand on the door knob and turned very slowly and quietly. It was unlocked. I took a deep breath—

—and very nearly fell out of my skin as a horrible, shattering scream came from inside. It was the sound of anguish and horror and such a clear call for help that even Disinterested Dexter moved reflexively forward, and I had one foot actually inside the house when a tiny little question mark scuttled across the floor of my brain and I thought, I’ve heard that scream before. As my second foot moved forward, further into the house, I thought, Really? Where? The answer came quite quickly, which was comforting: it was the same scream that was on the “New Miami” videos that Weiss had made.

—which meant that it was a recorded scream.

—which meant it was intended to lure me inside.

—which meant that Weiss was ready and waiting for me.

It is not terribly flattering to my own special self, but the truth is that I actually paused for a split second to admire the speed and clarity of my mental process. And then, happily for me, I obeyed the shrill interior voice that was screaming, Run, Dexter, Run! and bolted out of the house and down the driveway, just in time to see the bronze-colored car screech away down the street.

And then a huge hand rose up behind me and slammed me to the ground, a hot wind blew past, and Wimble’s house was gone in a cloud of flame and showering rubble.