Dexter's Final Cut d-7

by Jeff Lindsay

  And then we waited.

  Several more months went by while the bank busily lost the papers and forgot to file forms, and then sent us threatening letters demanding outrageous fees for all kinds of things we had never done and never even heard of. But miraculously enough, Rita was persistent and firm and the bank finally ran through its entire arsenal of reptilian bureaucratic blunders, and reluctantly allowed us to close on our new house.

  Moving day was now approaching rapidly, only two weeks away, and with her customary savage efficiency Rita had been spending every free moment stuffing things into cardboard boxes, taping them shut, labeling them with Magic Markers-a different color for each room in our new house-and stacking them in well-ordered piles.

  But as I squirmed past the boxes and into the living room, where Lily Anne was sound asleep in her playpen, I discovered that tonight Rita had done a great deal more than simply fill boxes; one quick sniff was enough to fill my nostrils with the lingering aroma of roast pork, one of Rita’s signature dishes. There would almost certainly be a plate of leftovers waiting for me, and at the thought of it my mouth began to water. So I hurried through the living room and into the kitchen.

  Rita stood at the sink, pale blue rubber gloves pulled up onto both hands as she scrubbed the roasting pan. Astor slumped beside her, drying dinner plates with a sulky expression on her face. Rita looked up and frowned. “Oh, Dexter,” she said. “You’re finally home?”

  “I think so,” I said. “My car is out front.”

  “You didn’t call,” she said. “I didn’t know if-Astor, for God’s sake, can’t you go a little faster? And so I didn’t know when you’d be home,” she finished, looking at me accusingly.

  It was true. I hadn’t called, mostly because I forgot. I had been so distracted by Chase, and Jackie, and thinking about the dreadful, fascinating mess in the Dumpster, that it just slipped my mind. I suppose I took it for granted that Rita would know I was coming and save me some dinner.

  But from the way she was looking at me now, I began to think that perhaps that had been a mistake. Human relationships, especially the whole Being Married Thing, were foreign territory for me. It was clear I should have called to say I would be late-but could the consequences really be this calamitous? Was it really possible that there was no plate with Dexter’s name on it, filled with succulent roast pork and who knows what other wonderful things? A fate far worse than death-at least, worse than someone else’s death.

  “We had a really bad one today,” I said. “We got the call late in the day, after lunch.”

  “Well,” Rita said, “I do need to know when you’re coming home. That’s enough, Astor. Tell Cody to take his bath.”

  “I want a bath, too,” Astor snarled.

  “You take forever,” Rita said. “Cody will be in and out in ten minutes and then you can take all the time you want.”

  “With his gross germs all over the tub!” Astor said.

  Rita raised an arm and pointed. “Go,” she said sternly.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Rita, as Astor stalked past me, looking like Miss Preteen Rage of 2013. “Um, we just got really, uh, tied up, and-So, is there any roast pork left?”

  “It’s practically bedtime,” Rita said, slapping the roasting pan into the dish drainer. “And we were supposed to watch that new penguin movie tonight, remember?”

  As she mentioned it, I did, in fact, remember that we had talked about having some quality family time, watching a DVD together. Normally, I would have accepted it as one of those annoying tasks that I simply have to perform in order to maintain the polite fiction of my disguise: Daddy Dexter, Pillar of Family Life. But under the circumstance, it seemed to me that Rita was avoiding the only subject of any real interest-was there, in fact, some roast pork left?

  “I am sorry,” I said. “If it’s too late, maybe we could, um … Is there? Some pork left for me?”

  “Pork?” Rita said. “That isn’t-Oh, of course there’s some pork. I wouldn’t let-It’s in the fridge. But, Dexter, really, you have to be a little more …” She fluttered one hand, and then began to pull off the rubber gloves. “I’ll heat it up for you. But Cody has been wanting to-I suppose we can see the movie tomorrow night, but still …”

  She hustled over to the refrigerator and started taking out the leftovers, and a great sense of relief washed over me. In fact, as the microwave began to heat my dinner and reignite the wonderful aroma, I actually felt smug. After all, I was getting an excellent dinner without having to watch another animated movie about penguins. Life was good.

  It was even better when I finally sat at the kitchen table with my plate and began to ply my fork. There were fried plátanos as well as roast pork, and tortellini in a garlic sauce, instead of the more traditional rice and beans. But I lost no time bemoaning the fall of an institution. I set to with a will, and in only a few happy minutes I was sated, and already sliding into the dopey half-asleep state that follows when you add a good meal to a clean conscience. Somehow, I managed to make it onto my feet and stagger to the couch, where I sloshed onto the cushions and began to digest my meal and think profound Friday-night thoughts.

  Because I was in such a deep state of contentment, I pushed away all the nagging disagreeable trivia of the week and concentrated on more pleasant things. I thought about the body in the Dumpster, and it occurred to me that a Dumpster was an odd place to dump a body that had been so thoroughly and distinctively whittled away-especially a Dumpster right there on the edge of the campus, a few blocks from the busiest part of downtown Miami. As I know very well, it is incredibly easy to put a body where it will never be found-especially here in the tropical splendor that I call home. Practically right outside my front door was a delightful aquatic graveyard that was nearly bottomless. And then there was the Everglades, with its lovely gator holes, and the scrublands so full of sinkholes-South Florida was truly a corpse disposer’s Paradise.

  There were so many wonderful options for dumping bodies, even for someone with the most limited imagination. And so, in my experience, when the leftovers are placed where they must be discovered, it is usually because discovery is an important part of the entire artistic statement. Look what I did; can’t you see why I had to do it?

  I did not see, not yet-but just the thought of that word, “see,” reminded me of the most disturbing detail: the semen in the eye socket. There was no mystery about how it got there, but the why of it was clearly the most important piece of the puzzle. It was the consummation, the literal climax to the whole event, and understanding what made it necessary was the key to knowing who had done it.

  And as I pondered this in my pork-induced demi-doze, a soft and sibilant voice that had not been fed and so was not at all sleepy whispered one sly question in my inner ear: Was she still alive when he did it?

  The shock of that thought brought me upright. Had she been alive at the end, when he ripped out one eye? Had she been watching with the other eye as he began his ultimate violation? I tried to picture it from her point of view: the unbearable pain, the shattering knowledge that Things had been done that could never be repaired, the slow and brutal approach of that final ocular indignity-Deep in the shadows of Castle Dexter I felt the Passenger jerk upright and hiss an uncomfortable objection. What, after all, was I doing? There was absolutely no point to such a meaningless act of imagination, and I was in very grave danger of trying to feel empathy, a completely human flaw of which I had only academic knowledge. And I knew nothing about being a mutilated, helpless victim, either. On the whole, I had to believe that was a good thing.

  No: It was the predator’s perspective that was important for understanding this-an angle that was far more natural for me. I sent a silent apology to the Passenger, and changed my mental point of view.

  All right: The basics of stalking, capture, bondage, all the other bits of foreplay were standard, uninteresting. Then the real work begins, and I leaned back on the couch and tried to see how it had happened. Around m
e in our little house I could hear the clamor of bath, brushing, bedtime, and I closed my eyes and tried to shut it out while I concentrated.

  Breathe in, out, focus; I picture the damage to the body, see how it must have happened, each wild bite and slash. The girl thrashes, terrified, eyes bulging, not knowing what will happen next but knowing it will be beyond horror, and in my imagination I raise up the knife-and I realize there is something atypical here, a first significant variation. Because it was My Imagination, I had pictured a knife going up-it is, after all, how I do it. It is a wonderful moment: to see the eyes widen, the muscles knot against the duct tape, the breath hiss laboriously in for a scream that will never get past the gag. I always use knives and other hardware, with never an exception. It is not merely an aesthetic choice, a pride in making neat and clean cuts; the thought of getting any vile body fluids on my hands is repulsive, unspeakable, a dreadful corruption.

  From my professional experience, though, I knew very well that many fellow hobbyists prefer the hands-on approach, even require it for fulfillment. Picturing direct contact with pulsing wet leaking flesh gave me a feeling of creeping disgust, but I could at least understand it, and even accept it. After all, we must all try to be tolerant of others. Some of us want to get our hands, feet, and teeth into the work; some of us prefer the more civilized approach of working at a distance with cold steel. There is room for all; different strokes for different folks.

  But this time it was something else. This time the killer had used a combination of techniques. The victim had been slashed and stabbed with some kind of blade, but the more meaningful damage, the real signature work, had been done with teeth, fists, fingernails, and other, more intimate body parts. It was an unusual approach, and it almost certainly meant something very important.

  But what? I knew very well what knife work was about; it was the perfect way to take control, to cause neat and permanent damage. And then the biting-a desire for contact, for the most intimate possible interface with agony? Except that what had been done to the eye socket was far more than a twisted cuddle. It was a declaration of total power, a statement that I own you and I can do anything I want to you. And it was a commanding bellow of, Look at me! More: it was a punishment, a way to say that Your eyes did me wrong; you should have paid attention and seen me but you did not and now I will teach you and I will do this.

  Down the hall the bathroom door slammed with cataclysmic force and my eyes jerked open. I listened for a few moments as Astor’s voice rose from whining to threatening and all the way up into shrill fury above Rita’s calm and commanding words, finally subsiding into a muted grumble of general discontent. The door slammed again; Lily Anne began to cry, and Rita’s voice turned soothing, and a minute later peace was restored, and I returned to my happy pastime of imagining intimate carnage.

  The killer wanted to be noticed-by all of us, of course, which was why the body had been displayed so publicly. But far more important, he had wanted the victim to pay attention to him, truly and completely see him, appreciate his significance. I thought about that for a minute, and it felt right. You should have noticed me, but you didn’t. You ignored me and now your eye will pay for what your eyes failed to do.

  I closed my eyes again and tried once more to see it, picture the way it would be: to make her feel Me and understand how stupid she was not to know that I was there and seeing her and needing her to see Me and she does not and so I take her and I teach her and I work her through the terror, the pain, the passion of carnage, and I feel the slow approach to fulfillment until at last she understands and she is ready and so am I and I see that beautiful battered head with its golden hair and my arousal grows and I am ready for the finale-It must have been the roast pork. Combined with the extra-long workday, and the added stress of having Robert follow me around all week, the roast pork had simply worn me out. In any case, I fell asleep. But I did not fall into the timeless, dreamless darkness that usually rewards me when I close my eyes at night. Instead, the visions continued: I stand there above the still-living body and look down at what I have done, and I feel such a sweet rising pitch of bliss and fulfillment and I kneel beside the body and grab a fistful of beautiful golden hair and yank the head around so it must look at me. And the face turns slowly to me and I hold my breath as the features become clear and it is a perfect face, unmarked and filled with longing for me, for what I am going to do, and as I look down into the bottomless violet eyes I realize that this is Jackie Forrest, and what I am going to do suddenly begins to change.

  And I put down my knife and look at her, look at the perfect curve of her lips and the spray of freckles across her nose and those deep improbable eyes and somehow her clothes are gone and I lean closer to her face and it leans up toward me and there is an endless moment of almost touching, almost completing something that is just barely out of reachI opened my eyes. I was still on the couch, and the house had grown dark and quiet around me, but the image of Jackie Forrest’s face was still with me.

  Why had I thought of her? I’d been having a very nice daydream about perfectly normal vivisection, and she had shouldered her way in and ruined it with her demands that I put down the knife and try something more human. I didn’t want to have her kind of fantasy; this was not me, not Dexter the Destroyer. She was forcing me to become some new and freakish being, a creature that rushed into passionate seduction and reveled in actual human feelings and a longing for something that was as far beyond the reach of the real me as if it was on Mars.

  I know it was totally illogical, but I found myself vastly annoyed with Jackie, as if she had butted in on purpose. But to my much greater surprise, I found that I was still aroused in reality, and not just in my imagination. Was it from thinking of the victim-or from thinking about Jackie Forrest? I didn’t know, and that was even more annoying.

  There was just something about her that I found intriguing, even compelling. It was not that she was a famous actress-I’d had no idea who she was, had to be told that she was, in fact, a star. Celebrity had never interested me before, and I was quite sure it didn’t now. And I was certainly far too set in my wicked ways to be interested in any kind of dalliance that was merely sexual. When Dexter has a fling, his partner’s afterglow lasts forever.

  And yet there was Jackie, crowding the screen in my private internal television, tossing her mane of perfect hair and smiling just for me with a gleam of intelligent amusement in her eyes, and for some maddening reason I liked it and I wanted to—

  Wanted to what? Touch her, kiss her, whisper sweet nothings in her perfect shell-like ear? It was absurd, a cartoon picture, Dexter in Lust. Such things did not happen to our Dreadful Dark Scout. I was beyond the reach of mere mortal desire. I did not feel it, couldn’t feel it; I never had, didn’t want to-and whatever the thought of Jackie Forrest might be doing to me, I never would. This was no more than a Method-actor moment, a fleeting identification with the killer, a confusion of roles, almost certainly brought on because the process of digesting pork had taken all the blood away from my brain.

  Whatever it really was, it didn’t matter. I was tired, and my poor undernourished brain was running away from me, down a path I didn’t like and could never walk. I could sit here grinding my teeth and worrying about it, or I could go to bed and hope that a good night’s sleep would send these disturbing, absurd thoughts back into the dark jungle where they belonged. Tomorrow was another day, and it was Saturday, a day for doing nothing, which was known to be a sovereign cure for what ails you.

  I stood up and went to bed.

  FIVE

  I woke the next morning to the clatter of pans, and the smell of coffee and bacon floating down the hall from the kitchen. I started to lurch up out of bed, and then I remembered that it was Saturday, so I took a few extra lazy moments to loll in bed and enjoy the thought that I had nowhere to go and nothing to do and Rita was making me a wonderful breakfast anyway. I could just lie here snug and smug, secure in the knowledge that all was r
ight with the world and this morning there were no dragons to slay. I had an entire day to devote to doing nothing-and even better, doing it without anyone following me around and taking notes on how I did it.

  I lay in a partial doze, drifting on the pleasant stream of breakfast aromas and letting my mind wander willy-nilly, which was fine until it wandered back to the brief dream I’d had last night on the couch, and as the memory of Jackie Forrest’s face barged in again I jerked upright in bed, irritated. Why couldn’t she leave me alone?

  All peace was gone; I got up, trudged into the bathroom, showered, dressed, and went to the kitchen table, hoping that breakfast would set me right again. Lily Anne was in her high chair, attacking some applesauce, and as I came in she kicked her feet and yelled out, “Dadoo!” which was her new name for me.

  I stood beside her chair and tickled under her chin. “Lily-Willy,” I said, and she gurgled. I wiped the applesauce from my finger and sat at the table.

  Rita turned around at the stove and smiled. “Dexter,” she said. “There’s coffee. Would you like some breakfast?”

  “More than life itself,” I said, and seconds later I was staring down at a steaming mug of coffee and a stack of Rita’s French toast. I don’t know what she puts into it, but it tastes better than any other I’ve ever had, and after four pieces of the French toast, a slice of perfect, ripe cantaloupe, and three crisp strips of bacon, I pushed back from the table and poured a second cup of coffee, feeling like there might be some point to this short and painful existence after all.

  I was halfway through my third cup before Cody and Astor made their appearance. They came in together, both of them grumpy and tousled from sleep. Cody wore Transformers pajamas, and Astor had on an overlarge T-shirt bearing a picture of what appeared to be a platypus, and they collapsed onto their chairs as if somebody had stolen all their bones. Cody tore into the French toast without a word, apparently still half asleep, but Astor stared at her plate as if it was loaded with grub worms.