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 whyn'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.

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?” I said.

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. Mister 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 fire-fighters.

Well. The mention of Doakes was the perfect end to an absolutely enchanting conversation. I 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 walk 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 far deeper than I had known —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?

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.

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.