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Something was just not right. But now I had several really good clues, and a small dim memory told me that there were things I liked to do with clues. I liked to add them up. So I closed the eye and did the math. My face was close to a carpet. My hands and legs seemed to be held together by something so I could not move. My head hurt in a way that made me want to scream—except that even the thought of any loud noise made it hurt even more.
I was pretty sure I wouldn’t do all this to myself. Something unusual had happened to me. That must mean somebody else had made all this happen. Head, hands, legs, New House—all these things were connected. They added up and meant something, and if I could just push the pain aside for a moment, I would remember what they meant.
I heard a voice in another room—Astor’s voice, rising up in a tone of blame and scorn. And I remembered:
I had heard that voice, that same tone, at the exact moment all these unusual things began to happen.
For a long while I just drifted with the pain, remembering small pieces. I remembered the thump on my skull that put me here, and I remembered Astor’s voice as I pitched forward, and very slowly, I began to remember why I was here.
I had come here to tie up Robert. It hadn’t worked. He had tied me up instead.
And slowly at first, and then with a flood of bitter memory and lizard-brain rage, it all came back to me.
Robert had killed Jackie, and by doing that he had killed my new and wonderful life. And he had taken Astor, taken her from me, and he had done all these things right under my very own night-sniffing nose, making me into a bungler, a booby, a complete clown: Dorky Dexter, Royal Fool at the Court of Shadows. Dress him in motley and turn him loose with his funny little knife. Watch while he stabs himself and falls down, tripping over his giant floppy shoes. Dexter the Dupe, looking right at Robert and smiling because he sees only harmless, brainless, self-centered stupidity. And still looking and smiling while the dim-witted clot outthinks him, outflanks him, and caves in his head.
For several long and bright seconds the anger took me over and I shook with it, grinding my teeth and pulling against the ropes that held me. I rolled over once, twice, and yanked my limbs furiously, and of course, nothing at all happened, except that I was now three feet away from where I had been, and my head was throbbing even worse.
All right then, brute force was not the answer. And clearly thinking was not our strong suit. That left prayer, which is really just Talking to Yourself, and Myself had not been very helpful lately. Was there anything else left?
And strangely, happily, just in time, it turned out that there was one last thing: pure, stupid, unearned Luck.
And Luck came slithering into the room where I lay.
“Dexter!” a soft voice whispered, and I turned my head to the door with great and painful effort.
Astor stood there in bright silhouette, the light from the next room behind her. She was wearing what looked like a white silk negligee, with a pale blue bow holding it closed below her throat. She tiptoed in and squatted down beside me.
“You moved,” Astor whispered. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I said. “My head hurts and I’m tied up.”
Astor ignored that. “He hit you really hard,” she said, still speaking very softly. “With a baseball bat. He hit Mom hard, too. She hasn’t moved for a while.” She put a hand on my forehead, then took it away and nodded. “I didn’t know he would do that,” she said. “I thought you might be dead.”
“I will be,” I said, “and you will be, too, if you don’t untie me.”
“He won’t kill me,” she said, and there was a bizarre, alien smugness in her voice. “Robert loves me.”
“Astor, Robert doesn’t love anybody but himself. And he’s killed a couple of people.”
“He did it for me,” she said. “So we could be together.” She smiled, a little proud, a little pleased with herself, and a bizarre and unexpected thought popped into my throbbing head: She was actually considering leaving me tied up, for Robert’s sake. Unthinkable—but she was thinking about it.
“Astor,” I said, and unfortunately, a little bit of Disapproving Dad crept into my voice. It was the worst possible tone to use on Astor, and she shook her head and frowned again.
“It’s true,” she said. “He killed them because he really loves me.”
“He killed Jackie,” I said.
“I know. Sorry,” she said, and she patted my arm. “He kind of had to. She came busting into his trailer, yelling at him, and we were … together,” she said, looking smug and a little shy. “She was yelling about how the computer says he killed Kathy, whoever that is. But she sees us there, you know. I let him … kiss me, and … and she sort of, whoa, just stopped there. And Robert jumps up and he’s totally, ‘No, no, wait a minute; I can explain.’ And she looks at him, and says something like, ‘Okay, you can explain it to Sergeant Morgan.’ ” She grinned briefly. “Aunt Deborah,” she told me.
“Yes, I know,” I said.
“So anyway, Robert jumps up and says to me, ‘Stay here,’ and he’s gone out the door, chasing Jackie.” She shrugged. “I didn’t want to miss anything. I followed and I see them go into Jackie’s trailer, and by the time I get there he’s running out again, carrying this really nice MacBook Air.” She nodded. “He says I can have it,” she said. “When we get away someplace safe.”
“Astor, there isn’t anyplace safe,” I said. “He’s killed two people. They’re going to find him, and they’re going to put him in prison for a long time.”
Astor bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she said.
“I do know,” I said. “There is nowhere he can go where they won’t find him.”
