Dexter's Final Cut (23 page)

—which didn’t actually make any sense, because his character was single. So had it been pure nosiness? But then, why the intensity? No—it had to be something else.

Could it be that he truly felt a sad and absurd longing for a family of his own? Of course, that’s what he’d said—but it had not been terribly convincing. And yet, there was no other explanation, unless I was willing to believe that, with his pick of all the glamorous beauties in the world, he was staring with longing at Rita. With all due respect for Rita, I found that even harder to believe.

Not his character, not Rita, not the kids; so there was no possible reason for his fascination with the picture. There was nothing else to see in the picture, except for …

Somewhere, deep in the Intelligence Analysis Section of the Department of Human Studies, University of Dexter, a tiny little bell chimed softly, announcing that a new report had just drifted into the in-box, and I paused in midponder to look it over. Actually, the report stated, there was one more thing in the family portrait: Me. Dexter himself.

But, of course, there was no conceivable reason that Robert might stare at a picture of
me
. Certainly not; he was an ultramasculine leading
man—except that he never got married, seemed to avoid beautiful women, had a perfect haircut and fabulous shoes, insisted on Robert-not-Bob, and always groomed himself very well—with Product! He has been seen, on more than one occasion, staring at Dexter with an expression of abstract longing, which caused the Passenger to issue a hesitant, uncertain, unspecified whisper of unease. The only man I knew who routinely dressed up as Carmen Miranda worshiped him. And on top of everything else Robert was, for God’s sake, an
actor
.

Dexter takes great pride in having a brain that usually works well, more or less. And so on those rare occasions when it works a little slower than I would ideally like it to, I have to pause and wonder if I should eat more fish. Because quite clearly, I had been staring at a long list of very plain hints and failing to see the obvious conclusion.

Robert was gay.

And somehow, probably because of his intense study of Dexter in all his charm and glory, Robert had developed an infatuation with his subject
—moi
.

Of course, it was completely reasonable. To know me is to love me, and I was very fond of me, too. A list of my finer qualities would easily occupy almost half the front side of a three-by-five card. Although the list does taper off rather dramatically after “good with a knife.” But such sterling traits would mean nothing to a shallow clot like Robert; he was all about surface appearances. And speaking of, I had been told on more than one occasion that I am not completely horrible to look upon, for those who like that sort of thing. It meant nothing to me, since the only purpose of good looks is to acquire sex, and I am largely uninterested. But it clearly meant something to Robert. Even with half of Hollywood to pick from, he had settled on Dexter.

He liked me. He really
liked
me.

Really, this was too much—and it confirmed my low opinion of Robert’s intelligence. Me? Really? Of course, it was flattering, but it was impossible. How was I supposed to work with him when I knew he was gazing longingly at me, mooning, and fighting back declarations of the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name?

Somehow I would have to. I had my orders, and Robert had his, and he would just have to moon on his own time—and at his own desk. I flipped the newspaper into the trash can, brushed some
mostly imaginary filth off my blotter, and set the photograph back in its place. I leaned back again to think, trying to push Robert out of my thoughts, but it was difficult. Even without this absurd devotion to me, Robert was a strange and unsettling presence, and after a week in his company I was definitely feeling that I had been pushed off center. And to be fair, it wasn’t just Robert. The whole week had been strange, and I had not really had time to reflect on it until now, and as I relaxed and let my powerful brain roam where it would, I found myself thinking about Jackie.

She was a very odd person, too, judged by my limited experience, and from my even odder perspective—in a much nicer way than Robert, of course, but still: She seemed unhappy with being a celebrity, although from what I could see she was quite good at it. She mooned over the idea of Ordinary Life—and yet, she was risking her own Extraordinary one to keep herself from falling out of the limelight, exposing herself to an attack from a slavering beast merely to preserve her role on this still hypothetical TV show. It seemed needlessly complicated to me; why not relax and enjoy the ride? I certainly was.

But for me, it would all end, and soon. Did that make it different? Perhaps it all got cloying if it was permanent—“Death is the mother of beauty,” as someone once said. I had always taken that to mean something a little different, but I could see how it might apply here. It was quite likely that I enjoyed Jackie’s lifestyle because I knew very well that even the most thrilling roller coaster runs out of track sooner or later, and no one had offered me any kind of permanent exemption from this basic law of nature. My vacation in Valhalla would end soon, and I would be flung from Paradise back into the Pit where I belonged. Unfair and unwanted, but unavoidable. Of course, I could probably run off with Robert, but the idea was not quite as appealing. I would just have to accept that my beautiful interlude would come to an end.

Ah, well. Some very great poet whose name escapes me had put it best when he said, “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” For the next few days I could still gather me rosebuds, and I might as well enjoy it. And because Computer Dexter is nothing if not thorough, a tiny wheel turned over with a muffled click and called up the end of the
rosebud poem: a quaint reminder that today’s rosebud
something something
“tomorrow will be dying.” Ah, Death: a lovely sentiment, and it reminded me that I was collecting rosebuds in the first place because I was being paid to keep Jackie from dying at the hands of a dull and brutal psycho.

A shame; I could enjoy the flower gathering a great deal more if I didn’t have to worry about that. If only I had a few lazy hours to stroll out of my workaday rags and into the slithery skin of Dexter the Devil, I could set this whole thing right and concentrate on admiring the view from Jackie’s balcony. It wouldn’t take long—I had more than enough proof of Patrick’s guilt to satisfy the Harry Code. I would simply have to find him and let Dark Nature take its course. And I did not think it would be terribly hard to find a blunt object like Patrick Bergmann. If only I had the time …

Somewhere far away, deep inside the high-walled Fortress of Dexter Keep, a tiny little figure stepped up into the tower and rang a delicate silver bell, and as its dulcet note rang out through the thin and bitter air, I sat up straight in my chair and thought, Aha. I know it sounds pretentious, even melodramatic, but there it is: I really did think, Aha. Because I had just recalled that I did, in fact, have the time. I actually had a small window of perhaps three hours to work my magic—until my afternoon appointment with Cody’s teacher.

But would three hours be enough? I do hate to rush these things, and there was a very minor obstacle in my way—I didn’t know where Patrick was. Even if I did find him quickly, I would have very little time to dispatch him and dispose of the leftovers. It would be best, in fact, if I simply stuck the knife in and dumped the body in the handiest hidey-hole with no lingering over the good parts.

And oddly enough, the thought of that made me shudder. I had never done anything quite so cold before, and I wasn’t sure I could do it now. It just didn’t seem
right
. What I normally do—if “normal” is the right word—is far more deliberate, even contemplative. It proceeds from a standard start and winds through its unhurried course according to a long-standing set of rules dictated by a great deal of practice and, of course, the Harry Code. And when I finished, I had satisfied all of them, and therefore myself, Harry, and the Muse. It had to be done Just That Way, or it would not feel
right
.

And there was that awful un-Dexter word: “feel.” I am not ruled by what I feel, because for the most part I do not. I am a well-adjusted, nonfeeling Monster, and quite happy to be one, and feelings were something I gave to my Playtime Friends—sharp and immediate feelings. If I could not give them to Patrick it would be incomplete, unfulfilling, Dexter Interruptus.

But, of course, that did not matter. I was not really doing this for me, aside from the fact that I would gain a few days of worry-free lounging in the lap of luxury. No, I was doing this for Jackie—and in a way, for the human race as a whole. I was removing a terrible blemish on the pockmarked face of humanity, a threat to one and all—why, this was really a good deed! Perhaps I could convince Cody’s Cub Scout troop to give me a merit badge in Altruistic Homicide. And if I had to hurry things along more than I would like—well, too bad. This was not playtime. It was a job to be done, and I was just the fiend to do it.

All righty then: There would be no time for any kind of sport with Patrick Bergmann. I would simply find him, finish him, and fling him away, decisively and rapidly—and once more I faltered at the thought. To rush through it like that, and in broad daylight? Distasteful, even dirty; it seemed a little bit too much like … well, like murder.

Of all the odd thoughts I could have, that might seem the oddest, but there it was. Dexter was in a dither over doing what he does best, merely because it would be a rush job. Was my new life of luxury rotting away the hard and happy core of the monster that is me? Turning me into an old maid incapable of the simplest and most well-justified endings? Was I really so straitlaced?

I gave myself a stern lecture, told myself to buck up, play the man, be a mensch, do what must be done, and after several similar clichés I began to believe I could do it, but the thought of it still tickled at me.

Squeamish?
Moi?

No matter; it must be done, and so it would. And today was my one real shot at doing it, and I would not dither it away. I looked up at the clock: ten twenty-eight. I would need to leave at around two fifteen to make it down to Cody’s school for a three-o’clock meeting—and I would have to show up at the meeting for the sake of duty,
propriety, and an ironclad alibi. But if I went to lunch a little early, say twelve thirty, that would give me two hours before the meeting, assuming I could bring myself to rush the actual
lunch
part of lunch. It seemed like a terrible sacrifice—but I told myself I was doing it for a noble purpose, and I could always order something extra-nice from room service tonight when it was all over.

So be it. I would swallow my silly objections, and do the thing as it must be done. I turned to my computer to begin my search.

Out of nothing more than habit, I checked my in-box and found the usual odd assortment of absurdity, improbability, and immorality. But there was also an official Memo from the Office of Captain Matthews, informing me that my presence would be required on Saturday night at the Gusman, and I was further ordered to bring my wife, dress nicely, and laugh when the camera pointed at me. I found that I was pinching my nose, and stopped with some irritation.

So Renny had told the truth when he said the captain wanted me there—to further the positive image of the department, no doubt. Well, it was just one more minor burden in this endless life of pain, and somehow I would bear it and survive. In the meantime, I would try to make sure that Patrick did not.

I do have some modest competence in the area of finding things with a computer, and I also have resources available to me that most people do not, courtesy of my job with Miami’s Finest. In just a few minutes I had confirmed that Bergmann, Patrick M., of Laramie, Tennessee, was the proud owner of a red Kawasaki Ninja 650. So I had been right about the motorcycle following us. It was not another aha moment. The only real news was the model and color, and neither told me where he might be right now. But again, this was not a complicated person. If I could not find him in an hour or so, I would simply have to resign from the International Order of Modest Genius. I didn’t know where he was staying: fine. Work backward from where I knew he
was
.

He had been following us for several days, biding his time while he learned our routine. He had patience, the patience of a deer hunter, and for him this was a lot like hunting deer: Learn their habits, learn how they think, and the rest is easy.

He would know our routine by now, know that from nine to five
Jackie was either here in headquarters, inaccessible, or out at a crime scene with armed officers all around her. Even a dolt like Patrick would know he had little chance of getting to Jackie when she was surrounded by cops. So he would watch, learn the rituals, and look for the times of maximum vulnerability.

And of course, it was obvious when those vulnerable intervals were. The only two times I had seen him had been at the hotel, in the morning. I had not seen him arrive at night—but he was there waiting in the morning. Sometime between sixish, when Jackie and I returned to the hotel, and seven thirty a.m., when we left, he took up his post at the end of the hotel’s driveway and waited.

And how patient would he really be? Probably not terribly—this was important to him, more important than anything else in his life. So important, in fact, that he had abandoned everything else in his life in order to do it. He had been following Jackie for quite some time now, which can often have a negative effect on one’s earning power.

Savings? Enough for a year or more on the road? I did not think that Laramie, Tennessee, was a hotbed of billionaires, and I was certain that Patrick Bergmann’s resources were limited. He would not be staying at the Setai in South Beach, nor even the Sonesta in the Grove. In fact, it was probably safe to assume that he could not even afford an ordinary downscale Miami fleabag hotel—not if he had been on the road pursuing Jackie for so long. Even so, he had to sleep, eat, and so forth. When Jackie was untouchably surrounded by armed cops, did he trundle off to his hidey-hole for a peanut butter sandwich and a nap? He would have to do these things, but where would he go that he could do them on the cheap?