Dexter's Final Cut d-7

by Jeff Lindsay

  It took only a few moments to search around the hotel’s front door. There were a few people standing around near the door, presumably waiting for their cars. I looked them over carefully, but they seemed to be no more than my fellow hotel guests: wealthy, well-fed people, looking rather pleased with themselves, and I passed them by and stepped out into the courtyard.

  The sun was already shining brightly, and I had to blink for a moment, and then squint around me. Down at the far end of the drive, where the island’s only real road led away to the bridge, there were two cars pulled over and parked rather informally. But they were too far away to do any real harm; I was not expecting a sniper attack. So I took a quick circuit around the circular driveway. There were a couple of cars parked ostentatiously along the edge of the pavement: a Ferrari, a Bentley, and a Corniche. I didn’t think our killer would be driving anything that cost more than a new house on the water, but I looked inside anyway. They were empty.

  The valet parking attendant watched me skeptically as I came back from looking into the Corniche. “You like it?” he asked me.

  “Very nice,” I said. “Is it yours?”

  He snorted. “We just park it there. For looks,” he said.

  I nodded as if that made sense. “Right,” I said. “A design moment.” He shrugged. I went back inside.

  The doorman was enthusiastically telling Jackie about his nephew, a really good-looking kid who could really act and sang like an angel, not like these hip-hop guys nowadays but really sing, and Jackie was smiling and nodding and trying to keep her eyes from crossing with the strain of enduring the doorman’s blather without slapping him.

  I took pity on her and interrupted without waiting for the end of the story. “We’re running late, Miss Forrest,” I said, sounding as Official as I could.

  Jackie gave me a grateful smile and then nodded at the doorman. “Tell him not to give up,” she told the man. “Always follow the dream.”

  He beamed at her like she had knighted him. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll tell him; thank you, Miss Forrest.” And he leaped ahead of us and held the door as I led Jackie out to the waiting car.

  As we came out into the sunlight I heard a sort of murmur of excitement from the handful of people waiting there, and I turned to see that they were all looking at me with bright and mindless smiles on their faces. Not actually Me, of course, which became crystal clear when someone called out, “Yo, Jackie!” She smiled and waved and I led her on past the minicrowd to the waiting Town Car. I felt the eyes following us, and I wondered why that didn’t make me nervous. I checked the Dark Passenger; far from being anxious, he actually seemed to be purring. Someone in the throng yelled, “Whoo!” and I felt myself smiling with pleasure. I knew it was for Jackie-but I was with her, part of her entourage, and in a moment of truly bizarre insight, I realized I liked it. I enjoyed having idiot smiles following in my wake. It was totally unthinkable, of course; Dexter must maintain a low profile or cease to be Dexter. Still, I found that I felt larger, more handsome, certain that great wit fell from my lips every time I parted them to speak. It was invigorating, intoxicating, and I enjoyed it so much that I did not hear the rising rattle of warning from the watch-tower of Castle Dexter until I opened the car’s door.

  But then I did hear it, loud and insistent, and I put two protective arms around Jackie and turned to survey the area.

  “What?” she said, and she pushed up close against me, suddenly as edgy as I felt.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I scanned; the people at the hotel’s entrance were doing no more than beaming at us. No danger there. But I felt a sharp tickle of something, a kind of intense focus on Us, over to the right somewhere. I turned to look.

  Down at the end of the drive, a man stood beside one of the two cars pulled over and parked at the mouth of the hotel’s driveway. The man raised something up, pointed it at us-and just before I could fling Jackie to the hard uneven bricks of the driveway, I recognized it: a camera, with a large telephoto lens.

  Click. Click. Click.

  “Paparazzi,” Jackie said. “They’re everywhere.” She looked at me with a strange expression of puzzled concern. “How did you know he was there?”

  “Um, I didn’t really,” I said. The thought of describing my Passenger’s Distant Early Warning System was unthinkable. “I just, um, I saw him move out of the corner of my eye.”

  She kept looking. “Uh-huh,” she said, sounding very much unconvinced.

  I held the back door of the car open for her. “Shall we go?” I said.

  She finally nodded, turned away, and climbed into the car, and I turned to look at our audience one last time. The photographer clicked a few more shots, and as I turned away, I heard the sound of a motorcycle starting up.

  Around the hotel’s front door, the people were still smiling. Even the doorman was still watching and waving as I put Jackie into the backseat, but to be fair, everybody else in the area was watching her, too, watching with a kind of lustful adoration, as if Jackie was a cross between a pinup and the pope. They did not actually applaud as she slid onto the seat and I closed the door, but I got the idea that they would have if this wasn’t such a classy hotel.

  I got in on the other side, feeling another surge of that strange satisfaction at being the center of attention. I pushed it away halfheartedly, but it didn’t want to go, and I was still feeling beautiful and important as the car started down the drive, across the bridge, and into the happy mayhem of morning traffic in Miami.

  I tried to lean back and enjoy the ride, but I found it a very odd experience to creep through the havoc in the backseat of the Town Car. For the first time I was a spectator instead of a participant, and although the horns blared and the middle fingers went up just as much as ever, it was almost like it was happening in another time and place as I watched it all go by in a movie.

  Jackie looked out the window and, when she felt me looking at her, turned and smiled.

  “The traffic is pretty bad this morning,” I said.

  She raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “This?” she said. “You call this traffic?” She shook her head. “Don’t ever drive in Los Angeles. It makes this look like a sunny day in the park.”

  “Really,” I said.

  “Really,” she told me. And she gave me a condescending smile and said, “You get used to it.”

  I’ve noticed before that people from New York and L.A. tend to have an attitude about their cities, a kind of survivor’s confidence that says, I’m from Real Life, and if you live in this hick town, you’re not even in the game. Always before I’d found this kind of amusing; Miami natives, after all, are just as rude and aggressive as New Yorkers, and just as sun-drenched and vacuous as Angelenos, and the combination is a unique and lethal challenge every time you drive. But something about the way Jackie said it made me feel a little bit provincial, and I wanted to say something to defend the ferocity of Miami traffic.

  Happily for my city’s reputation, I didn’t need to say a thing. As we finally made it up onto the Dolphin Expressway and came to a stop in the bumper-to-bumper snarl, a large and shiny Cadillac Escalade went rocketing by us on the shoulder. It was going at least fifty miles per hour, and there was no more than two inches of room between it and the line of cars it hurtled past. Jackie flinched away from it and watched it go by with her mouth slightly open in surprise, and I felt a small warm glow of pride.

  This was my city; these were my people.

  “Oh,” she said. “Does that sort of thing happen a lot?”

  “Almost constantly,” I said. And because I can be just as condescending as any Angeleno, I added, “You get used to it.”

  Jackie stared at me, and then smiled, shaking her head. “Point for the home team,” she said. But before I could do a victory dance, her cell phone began to chirp. “Shit,” she said. “My first interview, and I can’t remember who it is.” She fumbled out her phone and tossed it to me. “Please?” she said. “Just find out who it is so I d
on’t look like a dope?”

  It seemed like a reasonable request. I took the phone and answered. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Sarah Tessorro, Reel Magic magazine; can I speak to Jacqueline Forrest, please?”

  I covered the mouthpiece. “Sarah Tessorro, Reel Magic,” I said to Jackie, and she nodded. I handed her the phone.

  “Sarah!” Jackie said enthusiastically. “How are you?” And then the two of them were off into a five-minute chat in which Jackie talked about the new show, her character, how wonderful the script was, and how great it was to work with a wonderful pro like Robert. I listened to that part with real surprise, and not merely because she overused the word “wonderful,” which was not her style at all. But I had watched Jackie with Robert for a week now, and I didn’t need to read the script to know they detested each other. Still, Jackie said it very convincingly, and my estimation of her acting talent went up several notches.

  By the time the Town Car pulled up in front of the headquarters building, she’d said it with equal conviction in two more interviews. It must have been hard work, and I decided that being a star was a little more difficult than I’d thought. Clearly, it wasn’t all mojitos and sunsets; sometimes you had to repeat terrible lies in a very convincing way. Of course, that seemed like something I could be very good at-I’d had so much practice, after all-and I began to wonder again whether I was too old to switch careers.

  We got out right at the front door and I took Jackie upstairs and delivered her to Deborah, who was already hard at work at her desk. She looked up at us as we came in with an expression I could not read; it was partly her Standard Cop Face, but with one eyebrow raised in cynical disbelief.

  “How’d it go?” she asked us.

  “No problem,” I said.

  “Except when he tried to shoot my assistant,” Jackie said sweetly. But before I could add even a syllable in defense of my honor, she pulled the stack of psychotic fan letters from her bag and dumped them on Deborah’s desk. “She brought these,” she said. “The letters.”

  Deborah snatched them up eagerly. “Great,” she said, and began to read them with ferocious concentration. Jackie watched her, then looked up at me. “Um,” she said.

  “You’ll be fine with Debs,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

  “All right,” she said, and I turned away and headed out the door. I would much rather have stayed with Jackie and my sister, especially since I was joining Robert instead. But my duty was clear, so I left them and trudged away down the hall to my cubicle.

  TWELVE

  I wasn’t really stalling to avoid Robert, but I took my time, sauntering down the hall and savoring the memories of last night’s golden extravaganza. The food, the dark rum, the company-sheer perfection. And I had another evening just like it to look forward to at the end of today’s painful grind. It didn’t seem quite right that someone like me should have it so good, but happily, that didn’t stop me from enjoying it.

  I stopped briefly for a cup of coffee and tried to savor that, too, but it proved to be beyond my abilities. The brew smelled like old pencil shavings mixed with burned toast, nothing at all like the ambrosial nectar I’d been sipping only an hour ago. Still, it would probably meet the narrowest legal definition of coffee, and life isn’t perfect-at least, not during the workday. I filled a cup and trudged off to fulfill my Duty.

  Robert was waiting for me behind my desk again, but to his very great credit he had brought doughnuts-including a couple of Boston creams this time, and if you give one of these to Dexter, you will find that he is suddenly in a mood to forgive a great deal. We ate doughnuts and sipped the truly awful coffee, and I listened to Robert tell a long and no doubt fascinating story about a crazy British stuntman on a movie he had made many years ago. The point of the story seemed to escape us both, but might have had something to do with Robert facing him down over some obscure point of honor. Whatever it was, Robert enjoyed telling it, and luckily, he was so distracted by his own eloquence that I managed to sneak the second Boston cream out of the box and into my mouth before he noticed.

  After the doughnuts were gone, we spent several hours playing with the microscope and learning how to prepare the slides properly. Oddly enough, in spite of the revulsion to blood he’d shown so far, he seemed fascinated with it in its microscopic state. “Wow,” he said. “This is actually very cool.” He looked up at me with a smile. “It’s not that bad when it’s dry and on a slide,” he said. “I mean, I could actually get to like this.”

  I could have told him that I felt just the same, that I liked blood in its dried state so much that I had a rosewood box at home with fifty-seven drops of dried blood, each on its own slide, every one a small memento of a very special friend, now departed. But I have never quite believed in this newfangled notion of sharing your thoughts and feelings, especially on such a personal subject, so I just smiled and nodded and handed him a few more sample slides to play with. He went at them eagerly, and we whiled away the happy hours.

  Just when I was thinking I should look in the doughnut box to see whether I had missed anything, the phone rang, and I grabbed it.

  “Morgan,” I said.

  “We got an ID on Jackie’s pervert,” my sister said. “Come on up.”

  I looked at Robert, who was happily twiddling the fine-focus knob on my microscope. I could not very well take him along to hear about a stalker he wasn’t supposed to know about. “What about my associate?” I asked.

  “Think of something,” she said, and hung up.

  I put the phone down and looked at Robert. In spite of being very annoying, he was not really all that stupid, and I had to tell him something plausible. Happily for me, my stomach gurgled, providing a perfect excuse. “That coffee has gone right through me,” I said.

  “Yeah, it was pretty bad,” he said without looking up.

  “I may be a while,” I said, and he waved a hand at me to indicate that my intestinal issues were none of his concern and he would be fine. I slipped out and hurried away to answer my sister’s summons.

  “Patrick Bergmann,” Deborah said when I stepped into her office a few minutes later. It seemed like an odd greeting, but I had to assume she meant that was our stalker’s name.

  “That was fast,” I said. “How’d you do it?”

  Deborah made a face and shook her head. “The letters,” she said. “He signed them. Even put his address.”

  “That’s practically cheating,” I said. “So the real question is, why did it take you so long?”

  “He lives in some shit-hole place in Tennessee,” Deborah said. “I couldn’t get anybody local to go check, see if he was still there.”

  Jackie beamed at me. “So I checked Facebook,” she said. She gave Deborah a fondly amused glance. “Your sister didn’t know anything about it.”

  “I heard of it,” Deborah said defensively. She shook her head with disbelief. “But shit. It’s fucking nutso. People put any fucking thing on there.”

  Jackie nodded at Debs. “I showed her how it works, and we found him. Patrick Bergmann, Laramie, Tennessee. With pictures, and postings about where he is.” The smile dropped off her face. “Um,” she said slowly, “he’s here. In Miami.”

  “Well,” I said, “but we already knew that.”

  Jackie shrugged and seemed to pull herself into a smaller shape, abruptly making herself look like a lost little girl. “I know,” she said. “But it kind of … I mean, I know this is stupid, but-to see it on Facebook? That kind of makes it more real.”

  I’m sure that Jackie was actually making sense-just not to me. Facebook made it more real? More real than the tattered body of the young woman in the Dumpster? Of course, I am not, and never will be, a fan of Facebook. It can be a very helpful way to track people I am interested in interviewing in connection with my hobby, but the idea of a Dexter page seems a little bit counterintuitive. Attended University of Miami. Friends: None, really. Interests: Human vivisection. I’m sure I would get plenty
of friend requests, especially locally, but …

  Still, I suppose the important point was that it was, in fact, more real for Jackie. It was hard work to guard somebody from a determined psychotic killer, and if the guardee didn’t believe in the reality of the threat, it was even harder.

  So for once, Facebook proved to be practical. Better, it also gave us a photo of our new friend Patrick. Like I said, it was practically cheating.

  “Could I see his picture?” I said.

  Deborah’s mouth twitched into a slight smile, and she handed me a sheet of paper from her desk. It was a printout of a picture from Facebook and it showed a guy in his twenties, squatting down beside a deer. The deer looked very, very dead, and the guy looked just a little too happy about it. I have seen enough Hunting Trophy pictures to know what they are supposed to look like: Noble Beast settling into Eternal Rest while the Mighty Hunter stands beside it, clutching his rifle and looking solemnly proud.

  This picture was nothing like that. To begin with, the deer was not merely dead; it was eviscerated. The body cavity had been opened up and emptied out, and the Mighty Hunter’s arms were covered with its blood almost up to his shoulders. He held up what looked like a bowie knife and smirked at the camera, a coil of intestines at his feet.

  I tried to focus on his face, and as I studied his features the Passenger muttered sibilant encouragement. Patrick Bergmann was not an awful-looking person-wiry, athletic build, dirty-blond hair in a shaggy cut, regular features-but something about him was not quite right. Beyond his obvious enjoyment of the horrible blood-soaked mess he wallowed in, his eyes were open just a little too wide, and his smirk had an unsettling feeling to it, as if he was posing naked for the first time and liking it. His face was saying, just as clearly as possible, that this was a portrait of the real Him, his Secret Self. This was who he was, somebody who lived to feel the blood run down his blade and crouch in the viscera piled at his feet. I did not need to hear the Passenger chanting, One of Us, One of Us, to know what he was.