And then that melodramatic, ominous, black-robed figure
racked the shotgun one more time and turned until the smoking barrel was pointed directly at me. For just a moment, everything froze again; I looked at that dark mask and the darker gun barrel pointed, naturally enough, right at my midsection—and I wondered: Had I pissed off Somebody Up There? I mean, what had I done to be condemned to this endless smorgasbord of death? Seriously; how many different and equally horrible ends can one relatively innocent man face in one night? Is there no justice in this world? Other than the sort I specialize in, I mean?
It just went on and on—I’d been beaten and slapped and poked and tortured and menaced with knives and threatened with being eaten and stabbed and shot—and I’d had it. Enough was enough. I couldn’t even get upset about this ultimate indignity. I was all out of adrenaline; my flesh was as tenderized as it was going to get, and it would almost be a relief to have it all over with. Every worm must turn at last, and Dexter had reached the point where he could take no more.
And so I drew myself up to my full height and I stood there, filled with noble readiness to step up to the plate and meet my final destiny with true courage and manly resolve—and once again life threw me a knuckleball.
“Well,” the hooded figure said, “it looks like I’m going to have to pull your fat out of the fire one more time.”
And as he raised the gun I thought, I know that voice. I knew it, and I didn’t know whether to cheer, cry, or throw up. Before I could do any of those things, he turned around and fired at Alana, who had crawled slowly and painfully toward him, leaving a thick trail of blood. At close range the shot bounced her up off the deck and nearly cut her in half before dropping the two elegant pieces back down in a sadly untidy heap.
“Nasty bitch,” he said as he lowered the shotgun, pulled back the hood, and took off his mask. “Still, the pay was excellent, and the work suited me—I’m very good with knives.” And I was right. I did know that voice. “And really, anyone would think you would have figured it out,” my brother, Brian, said. “I gave you enough hints—the black token in the bag, everything.”
“Brian,” I said, and even though it was one of the stupidest things I had ever said, I couldn’t help adding, “You’re here.”
“Of course I’m here,” he said, with his awful fake smile, and somehow it didn’t seem quite so phony right now. “What’s family for?”
I thought about the last few days: first Deborah getting me from the trailer in the Everglades, and now this, and I shook my head. “Apparently,” I said, “family is for rescuing you from cannibals.”
“Well, then,” Brian said. “Here I am.”
And for once his awful fake smile seemed very real and welcome.
FORTY
AS EVERY CLICHÉ-LOVING HUMAN BEING KNOWS, NO cloud dumps its load upon us unless it is hiding its very own silver lining. In this case, the one small perk of being held captive by cannibals is that there are always plenty of nice sharp knives lying around, and Brian had me cut free very quickly. Pulling the duct tape off my wrists didn’t hurt quite as much the second time either, since there wasn’t much arm hair left to rip out by the roots, but it still wasn’t a great deal of fun, and I took a moment to rub my wrists. Apparently it was a moment too long.
“Perhaps you could massage yourself later, brother?” Brian said. “We really can’t linger.” He nodded at the gangway.
“I need to get Deborah,” I said.
He sighed theatrically. “What is it with you and that girl?” he said.
“She’s my sister.”
Brian shook his head. “I suppose,” he said. “But do let’s hurry, all right? The place is crawling with these people, and we would really rather avoid them, I think.”
We had to pass the mainmast to get to the cabin door and, in spite of Brian’s urgency, I paused by Samantha, taking very great care to avoid the puddle of blood that spread out to her right. I stood on her left side and looked at her carefully. Her face was incredibly pale and she was no longer swaying or moaning and for a moment I thought she was already dead. I put a hand on her neck to feel for a pulse; it was there, but very faint, and as I touched her neck her eyes fluttered open. The eyeballs themselves twitched and did not quite focus and she clearly didn’t recognize me. She half closed her eyes again and said something I could not hear and I leaned closer. “What did you say?” I said.
“Was I … good …?” she whispered hoarsely. It took me a moment, but I finally did realize what she meant.
They like to tell us that it is important to speak the truth, but it has been my experience that real happiness lies in having people tell you what you want to believe, usually not the same thing at all, and if you have to stub your toe on the truth later, so be it. For Samantha, there was not going to be any later, and that being the case, I could not really find it in myself to hold a grudge and be mean enough to speak the truth now.
So I leaned down close to her ear and told her what she wanted to hear.
“You were delicious,” I said.
She smiled and closed her eyes.
“I really don’t think we have time for sentimental scenes,” Brian said. “Not if you want to save that darn sister of yours.”
“Right,” I said. “Sorry.” I left Samantha with no real reluctance, pausing only to pick up one of Alana’s very nice knives from the table beside the barbecue.
We found Deborah behind the counter in what had once been the concession stand down in the main cabin of the old pirate ship. She and Chutsky had both been tied to a couple of large pipes that ran from a missing sink into the deck. Their hands and feet were duct-taped. Chutsky, to his credit, had almost freed one hand—his only hand, of course, but give kudos where it’s due.
“Dexter!” he said. “Christ, I’m glad to see you. She’s still breathing; we gotta get her outta here.” He saw Brian lurking behind me for the first time and frowned. “Hey—that’s the guy with the Taser.”
“It’s all right,” I said unconvincingly. “Um, actually, he’s—”