“Uh, yes” I said, and even through the growing pounding in my head I could tell how stupid and unconvincing that sounded.

“Uh-huh. But not you, right? I mean, you didn't tie the guy up and toss in a Cohiba or something, right?”

“Look, I saw the guy drive away as the house went up” I said.

“And who was that guy, Dex? I mean, you got a name or anything?

Cuz that would really help a lot here.” It might have been that the concussion was spreading, but a terrible numbness seemed to be taking me over. Coulter suspected something, and even though I was relatively innocent in this case, any kind of investigation was bound to have uncomfortable results for Dexter. His eyes had not left my face, and he had not blinked, and I had to tell him something, but even with a minor concussion I knew that I could not give him Weiss's name. I, it —the car was registered to Kenneth Wimble” I said tentatively.

Coulter nodded. “Same guy owns the house” he said.

“Yes, that's right.”

He kept nodding mechanically as if that made sense and said, “Sure. So you figure Wimble ties up this guy —in his own house and then blows up his own house and drives away in his car, like to the summer place in North Carolina, maybe?” Again it occurred to me that there was more to this man than I had thought there was, and it was not a pleasant realization.

I thought I was dealing with SpongeBob, and he had turned out to be Columbo instead, hiding a much sharper mind than the shabby appearance seemed to allow for. I, who wore a disguise my entire life, had been fooled by a better costume, and looking at the gleam of previously hidden intelligence in Coulter's eyes, I realized that Dexter was in danger. This was going to call for a great deal of skill and cleverness, and even then I was no longer sure it would be enough.

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.