Dexter's Final Cut (26 page)

The paddle dipped lazily again, turning the boat slightly sideways so there could be no doubt at all what it was: a kayak. It was the perfect boat for Patrick’s outdoorsy lifestyle. They were light and therefore very easy to steal, and it would certainly be simpler than trying to conceal a dead body on a motorcycle. A quick trip across the half mile of water, dump the body, and then paddle away just far enough to watch the fun.

And of course he would watch. Not merely to see the excitement when his project was discovered—he would also be watching to see who showed up, because Jackie had made an appearance the last time, and he would want to see her when she came to this one, too. Without even thinking about it, I knew how important that was to him: to have Jackie look, and see, and know it could have been her—that it
would
be her so very soon—and to know he was watching her and waiting to make it happen again, to her.…

But to do it like this was pure hubris. He had taken a huge chance, dumping this body in broad daylight from a small boat. And I was quite sure it was not because he was getting bolder. This kill had come too soon, right on the heels of his last, breaking the pattern and revealing the first rift in Patrick’s mountain-man armor. Because as he got closer to Jackie, as he watched the hotel through all the hours of the night, waiting for a chance—waiting for even a glimpse—his frustration had been growing, eating at him, hitting so hard that his satisfaction from the previous victim had lasted only a few pitiful days. Soon these surrogates would not be enough for him; he had to have Jackie, but he could not get to her, and so he watched and waited and the frustration grew as each day slipped past, repeating the day before, without even the smallest window of opportunity.…

Patrick was getting impatient. He was losing his ability to wait for just the right moment, and feeling the pressure of time racing unstoppably by, with nothing to show for it except a dwindling bank account. By killing the maid now he was trying to push things toward a climax, challenging us to see him so very nearby, daring us to do
something, defying us to try to stop him, keep him from doing what he was going to do.

And oddly enough, in those two or three seconds as I squinted into the glare on the water at Patrick in his kayak, following all these little insights as they raced through my brain, I found another small thought burbling up underneath and popping into daylight with the happy snap of a bright pink bubble of chewing gum, and that thought went like this:

All right, Patrick. I accept your challenge
.

For a moment I wasn’t really sure what I meant by that, and I blinked, turning away from the glare on the Bay and staring off the dock, back toward the yellow perimeter tape, where Robert stood chatting with the two uniformed cops. No sign yet of Deborah and Jackie, which was all to the good. I looked beyond the perimeter, over the growing crowd of gawkers and into the busy streets of Coconut Grove. The Grove, that happy mecca for Miami’s idle rich, with its high-priced boutiques, quaint shops, and casually posh restaurants. The Grove, where Dexter had lived for so long before his marriage, and where even now, Dexter kept his fishing boat only a mile or so from this very spot—

Oh. Fishing boat.
That
must be what I meant.

I looked at my watch; it was one forty-five, only an hour and change before the conference with Cody’s teacher. I looked back at Patrick, bobbing there so insolently on his pilfered kayak, and the sight of him tripped a switch in the sinister clockwork machinery of Dexter’s bleak brain. A wheel chunked into gear and hit a lever that tipped a metal plate over and onto a fulcrum that thumped into a shiny cold ball so it rolled down the chute and into the “out” basket, and I picked it up, held it in my hand, and heard it whisper,
There is just enough time
.

And there would be.

I
KEPT MY BOAT BEHIND A PRIVATE HOUSE ON A CANAL
,
JUST
south of the heart of Coconut Grove’s busy center. The house was on a quiet street, and the elderly couple who owned it lived in New Jersey most of the year, coming down to this house only for the coldest months of winter. They were quite happy to take the modest rental fee from me, and I was just as happy paying less than the going rate for dockage. On top of getting a bargain, I also got a relatively private place to keep my boat, which was occasionally a very good thing, considering that I sometimes put Certain Items onto my boat and carried them away to consign them to the final briny deep, and it was probably best that no one saw me doing this.

And on this bright and suddenly eventful day, it would have been worth twice what I paid for it, because this dock was only a ten-minute drive from the redolent Dumpster where Amila lay in sloppy repose.

I don’t even remember what feeble excuses I made as I hurried away from the scene and into my car. I think I said I was leaving early for my son’s teacher conference because I was worried about the traffic; not my best effort, but I was in a hurry, and no one seemed to notice that it didn’t make a great deal of sense.

In any case, once I got through the maddening snarl of traffic in the middle of the Grove, it was only ten minutes before I was on my boat and heading out the canal, quite a bit faster than the No Wake–Idle Speed that is generally required. But having made up my mind to do this and do it now, I had whipped myself into a lather of impatience, grinding my teeth at the thought that I would not be in time, that Patrick would paddle away, and I would miss my second and probably final chance to set things right in my own inimitable way.

And so I hurried out the canal, earning a wicked glare from a shirtless old man on the bank as I went past at a good ten knots, and a shout for good measure as I reached the mouth of the canal and nosed the boat up to full speed and onto a plane.

It was a straight line by water back to the far side of Dinner Key basin, where I devoutly hoped Patrick would still be waiting and watching, and I made the distance in half the time it had taken me to drive. There were several tricky patches of shallow water, but I headed straight through them at full speed, ignoring the possibility of hitting bottom and losing a propeller blade, and I would have gone even faster if I could have. I could not shake the worry that Patrick might be gone when I got there, and I gnashed my teeth impatiently the whole way.

It was only a bit more than twenty minutes from the time I had hurried off the dock to the time I nosed my boat around the first barrier island and into the boat basin, remarkably good time. But it was not the record-setting journey that put a smile in my heart and a song on my lips; it was the sight of the small yellow kayak, still bobbing in place, as I came off plane and slid down to idle speed inside the boat basin. Now that I knew he was still there, I could take my time, and I did not want to draw attention from anyone onshore—nor, heavens forfend, from the Marine Patrol, known as the AquaNazis by those of us who have been stopped and boarded by these diligent seagoing crime fighters.

And as I saw Patrick sitting there so placidly on his kayak, staring intently at all the fuss caused by his crude handiwork, it occurred to me that I had not even thought about
how
I would do this. I had hurried through the anxious hurly-burly of getting away, and then getting here, with never an idea of what to do when I got here, and
now that I actually was here I did not know what to do next, and I took a deep and centering breath and looked at the thing from several angles. It was very bright broad daylight, and the sun would shine far too clearly on the wicked as well as the just, and I could not really be sure which one I was right now, but either way I was illuminated far too well.

Anyone onshore who saw me stick a knife into Patrick would have no such doubts about my affiliation—and there was a great crowd of possible onlookers: people on their boats at the dock, more people thronging at the yellow perimeter tape, and worse, an entire flock of law enforcement personnel. Any one of them might look up at just the wrong moment and see the very visible violence of Patrick’s well-deserved demise.

I looked around. Ahead of me, on the far side of Patrick, was the last barrier island that marked the end of Dinner Key’s harbor area. Onshore on the far side of that, and therefore invisible from here, was a park—had Patrick found a quiet spot there to leave his motorcycle? It would be largely deserted right now, especially with some real excitement on the nearby docks.

Off to my right, Biscayne Bay stretched away, down to Turkey Point on one side and Elliot Key on the other. There were a few boats scattered across the vast expanse of water, but nothing close enough to see what I might do.

And what might that be? I was getting closer to Patrick all the time and I had still come up with nothing, no way to do what I truly needed to do. I looked all around for inspiration, and then I looked again at Patrick floating there so smug and happy, and it sent a trickle of sharp irritation rushing through me; this was
his
fault.
He
was putting me through all this bother, the ignorant savage. The hammer-brained unrefined knuckleheaded amateur, floating there without a care, while his betters were forced to rush madly about and
improvise
a way to clean up his slapdash all-thumbs mess. It was too much, too annoying, and I hissed out a sharp and cranky breath—

And, breathing back in, I felt the brilliant light of this sun-blighted afternoon slide its way down the spectrum to a cool and deadly violet, felt the worry and the flutters drop away and drown in the blooming shadows, and very slowly-happily felt all things workaday worrisome
slump into the trash can and all the wonderful steady readiness of the Dark Passenger’s icy calm rise up from the Dexter Deep and slither snugly into place to take control of this sun-dark day.…

And we are ready.

And we know what to do, and how to do it, and we know that somehow it will work.

And so we begin to do it.

We move slowly toward the drooling dolt in the kayak, one hand on the throttle, feeling the purr of ready power there, and the answering rumble of the much greater power idling just below the surface of the happy boater’s smile we have tacked onto our face.
Closer
 …

Not close enough, not yet. He does not notice us yet, does not look up, does not look away. He does nothing but lounge there, leaning back in his yellow plastic boat, staring intently in toward the dock as if this is all there is to the world and there could not possibly be some deadly slithering Something sliding toward him with such icy glee.

He stares unaware, watching only the dock, where a buzz of joy floats out at us across the water—a joy that should not be there in the presence of that clumsy horror in the Dumpster, a joy that should only be our quiet reward in this sunny midnight, and one small flicker of a glance tells us that Jackie has arrived and the crowd has forgotten all about why they have gathered and can think only about her golden presence, and my unsuspecting playmate is no different, no more aware than his kayak that we are only a handful of heartbeats from uncoiling onto his slack-jawed doze and taking him far away out of the bright warm sunshine and into the deep cold dark forever—

Closer
 …

And he looks up at last; some small tick or whir of the engine alerts him that we are oh so very near, and he turns to gape at us, and there is the face from Facebook, with its secret smirk of look-what-I-done, and he stares without seeing for only a moment, and then he turns away to focus again on the golden-haired woman on the dock, thinking once more his hungry thoughts and having no tiny flicker of a clue that Something much hungrier is here to gobble him up.

Closer
 …

And he looks at us again, and this time we are a little too close to be just casual passing traffic, and a frown creases his face, a frown
that turns slowly, delightfully, into alarm—does he recognize this face we wear? Does he know us and realize at last that we have come for him, come to stop his clumsy fun and end his lethal bumbling and finish him altogether?

Perhaps he does; he lurches upright, clutching at his paddle as if it can save him from what is coming, what will soon happen, what
must
happen to him, and he digs the blades of the paddle into the water very hard—left, left, left, and right, as he spins the boat away in a growing panic that is very rewarding to watch. What does he imagine is coming for him? Arrest? Imprisonment? The mighty Hand of Justice? A steely handcuff and a stern reading of his rights, and then a long slow wait in a series of small and smelly rooms with iron bars on doors and windows?

Would he paddle away any faster if he knew that there was no iron-barred room, no handcuffs, and no arrest churning happily along in his wake? That the only justice for him will be the final kind, from the High Court of Pain, and his rights are limited to only one: He has the right to shuffle off his mortal coil and spin away into the Dark Forever, and there is no appeal, no parole, and no way out at all.

Because we are on him, no matter how rapidly he paddles. We are right there with him, quite content to take our time and watch him splash his paddles in and out of the water so very earnestly. Left, right, left, right—faster and faster. For him it is a sprint, a race to safety at truly dizzying speed, very fast indeed—for a kayak.

Not for our motorboat.

To us, with our hand on the throttle, it is an amusement, a toying with the mouse before our claws come out, and we stay with him, ever so slightly easing up closer and closer—

He is really moving very well now, digging the paddle blades into the water with a good and rapid rhythm, and glancing back to see us smiling calmly, happily slipping only a tiny bit closer, and closer, and he tries, he really does try hard, to make his little yellow boat into a wonder of speed; jaw clamped tight, veins bulging in his face and arms, he tries so hard, so valiantly, as if mere sincere effort can outrun the laws of nature, and we are so very impressed at his labors that we nearly pause and applaud.