Dexter's Final Cut d-7

by Jeff Lindsay

  It was with no reluctance at all that I yielded my spot in front of the camera. I stood and stretched and tried to get a little bit of feeling back into my leg as Jackie conferred with Victor. By the time I could walk again without looking like Long John Silver, they were already setting up for a series of close-ups of Jackie as she reacted to things that weren’t really happening. As fascinating as this kind of self-induced psychosis usually is, I’d had enough after about five minutes, and so I bade a fond farewell to the hypnotic lure of the cameras and headed back to the trailer to change clothes and relax.

  I could hear my phone ringing as I climbed the three steps to the trailer’s door, and it did not take a rocket scientist to figure out that it was Rita calling again. I trudged through the living-dining room and in to the dresser, stepping carefully around the box of Kathy’s stuff this time, and glanced down at the screen: Yes, indeed. It was Rita-and she had called seven more times while I lay dead in the street. Really, the woman was obsessed with me, and I wasn’t even a star yet.

  I put the phone down and started toward the kitchenette for a soda-and I paused. Nineteen phone calls seemed excessive, even for Rita, unless she was calling about something very important. The only real question was, important to whom? At first I had suspected that Deborah had told Rita everything in a fit of Dexter Hatred, and Rita was calling to screech clichés at me about my utter depravity. This was a conversation she could have quite well without me, and I preferred that she would.

  And if Rita had won the lottery, wonderful; it would cushion the blow as she started her new and Dexter-less existence.

  But if, on the other hand, she was calling to report a calamity of some kind …

  It could not be something drastic enough to require an ambulance or police intervention, or I would have heard about it from one of the cops here on the set, or from Vince, or perhaps even from Deborah. And that left—

  What?

  It is true that I am not actually human, and I do not have the reckless illogical feelings of that wild, windblown race. But I do, unfortunately, share one or two human failings, and one of the deadliest of these is curiosity. Nineteen phone calls to report something that was incredibly significant, but neither too good nor too bad; it was a true riddle, and I do not like riddles. They are an affront to my hard-won and well-polished self-esteem, and the more impossible they seem the more I hate them-and yet, I still feel compelled to find the answer.

  And so finally, after several minutes of fruitless conjecture, when I had reached the teeth-grinding stage, I surrendered, picked up my phone, and called Rita.

  “Oh, Dexter, thank God,” she said, instead of a more traditional “Hello,” and her voice told me right away that I could safely rule out the Winning-the-Lottery option. “I have been calling and calling and-Oh, my God, where have you been? I don’t know what to do, because-Why didn’t you answer?”

  In the present case, I didn’t answer because I could not squeeze a single syllable into the spaces between Rita’s words. But that wasn’t really the question. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’m working with the movie people this week.”

  “Television,” she said irritably. “Dexter, it’s just a pilot-and you don’t call, and you don’t answer-and I am going right out of my mind!”

  It didn’t seem like that would be a long trip, but I wanted to know what was wrong, so I just said, “Well, I am sorry, but we’ve been working long days-and I have a speaking part now, Rita. I mean, as an actor.”

  “Yes, I know, Astor said you-But that’s just it!”

  “What is?”

  “Astor!” she wailed. “I don’t know where she-she hasn’t even-Oh God, I should have let her have her own phone.”

  I knew Rita and her conversational patterns well enough to know that, at last, we were approaching the answer. Our problem had something to do with Astor-but could it really be about Astor not having a phone? “Rita, calm down,” I said. “What about Astor?”

  “Calm down?!” she said. “When I have searched high and low and called you two dozen times and-Dexter, I don’t have any idea where she went!”

  “She’s missing?” I guessed. “Astor is missing?”

  “Yes, of course, that’s what I’ve been-Dexter, what do we do?”

  “Did she stay after school?” I asked hopefully.

  “She didn’t go to school!” Rita bellowed, sounding like she was tired of telling me the same thing. “She never even got there this morning! And then the school called to say she was absent and it was just that awful recorded message and I couldn’t get through to anybody in the main office and she hasn’t gone anywhere that I can find because none of her friends know oh Dexter, she’s gone!” It was a remarkable sentence, delivered at high speed and top volume without a single breath, and I spent a moment marveling before the actual words sank in.

  “Rita, are you saying she’s been gone since this morning?”

  “And I caught her last night; she snuck out of the house! And didn’t even come home until-I heard the door, or I wouldn’t even know-and now she’s completely gone!”

  “Last night?” I said, trying to grab onto some small chunk of floating logic. “She snuck out last night, but she came back and went to school this morning?”

  “I dropped her off in front of the school like always, and Cody, and then I took Lily Anne to day care. And by the time I got to work, the school is calling and-Dexter I’m going out of my mind; I don’t know what to do!” she yowled, which I took for a yes. “Please, you have to-I don’t know what to do!”

  “All right,” I said, and because there was really nothing else I could possibly do, I added, “I’m on my way.”

  “Hurry!” she said, and I disconnected.

  And having said that I was on my way, I realized that I was; I had to be; I could really do nothing else. Even though I had mentally cut myself away from Rita and her brood, and in spite of the fact that I do not ever really feel obligated to perform any of the painful tasks of human fatherhood, I really did not see what else I could do. I told myself that I just wanted to make sure my breakaway was unencumbered by guilt, accusations, recriminations, and anything else that might clutter up a clean escape, and to some extent that was true. But I also found myself wondering what Jackie would think of me if I ignored this kind of duty.

  And finally, if I was perfectly honest, and I seldom am, I had to admit that I still felt a certain amount of … ownership for Astor. If she was missing, the odds were good that some predator had corralled her, and if that was true, he had taken her from me-not merely a fellow predator, and one who was much higher up on the food chain, but me. For someone to come onto my turf and take one of my things-it was intolerable, and I felt myself growing cold and angry and anxious for a few quiet words with this noxious creature. To prey on children-my children-was not just beneath contempt; it was a personal affront. They had taken something of mine; I would get it back and help them see the error of their ways.

  So I didn’t think about it a whole lot longer. I stuck my phone in my pocket and headed back out to where Jackie was shooting her pickups.

  Luckily for me, Jackie had just finished when I got there, and she was heading back toward her trailer for a break. “Hey!” she called when she saw me. “I thought you’d be buried in a cup of coffee and a Danish.”

  “Something’s come up,” I said. “Astor is missing.”

  “Astor?” she said. “Your little girl?”

  “Rita’s girl,” I said. For some reason it seemed like an important distinction. “I have to go find her.”

  “Oh, my God, of course you do,” she said.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said, although I wasn’t sure at all.

  “Go,” she said. And then she frowned and plucked at my shirt. “But maybe you should change first?”

  I looked down and saw that I was still wearing my bloody Ben Webster shirt. It probably would be better not to wander around on a rescue looking like I was the v
ictim. “Oh,” I said. “I think you’re right.”

  I went back to the trailer with Jackie and began to change into my own clothes. Jackie settled onto the couch and watched me. “Do you have another scene to shoot?” I asked her.

  “Not for a while,” she said. “And then it’s the big scene. The ultimate horror.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, pulling up my pants. “I already died-what could be worse?”

  She made a truly appalled face, and she actually shuddered. “A love scene with Robert,” she said.

  “Oh,” I said. I sat beside her to put on my shoes. “Can you do it?”

  “Somehow,” she said, and she shuddered again. “But he wants to run the lines with me, and … I probably should; it’s a big scene.” She sighed, and then shook her head. “Or I could go through Kathy’s stuff, like I promised Detective Anderson,” she said. “I’ve been putting it off and putting it off, and I really don’t want to think about Kathy being …” She looked away from me, into the bedroom, where the box was crouching beside the bed. “Suddenly the thought of having to kiss Robert makes it bearable.”

  “Well, then,” I said, and I stood up. “That’s what you should do.”

  “Yeah,” Jackie said, still looking at the box. And then she shook herself and stood up. “Look at me, such an actress, totally self-centered,” she said. She put her arms around me. “Your little girl is missing,” she said, and she hugged me with her head on my chest, and then looked up at me, those wonderful violet eyes turning suddenly moist. “Go find her, Dexter,” she said. “And quickly. And …” She gave me a long and searching look, and quite clearly there was something else she wanted to say, but after a long moment she simply buried her head in my chest. “And then come back to me,” she said.

  I started to say that of course I would, but then she raised her head and her lips covered mine and it didn’t seem all that important to say anything. And far too quickly, Jackie pushed herself away from me. “Go,” she said. “Before I drag you into the other room.” She leaned in and pecked at my cheek, and then strode in and lifted the laptop out of the big box of Kathy’s stuff, and began to plug it in beside the bed. “Shit,” I heard her murmur. “I hate this.…”

  I wasn’t too happy with things at the moment, either, but I headed out the door. And as I was almost out of earshot I heard the trailer door slam open, and Jackie’s voice yell, “Robert!” and then, softer, “Son of a bitch …” She had clearly decided that she would rather run lines with Robert than sort through Kathy’s stuff. It was a tough program either way, but I had some hard time ahead of me, too.

  I headed for the perimeter.

  I had left my car in the parking lot at work, since I’d been riding with Jackie in the Town Car. But I found a cop who was headed that way and hitched a ride. He had an AM radio playing a conservative talk show. The host was making some very interesting statements about the president. I don’t usually pay much attention to politics, but from what the man said, I had to believe that sometime in the recent past the laws regarding sedition must have changed.

  The cop who was driving, however, was nodding his head and muttering agreement, so I just rode along, grateful that I didn’t have to make conversation, and in a mere twelve minutes I was getting into my car and headed for home.

  THIRTY-ONE

  At this time of day, a midweek afternoon, it was an easy drive to my quiet South Miami neighborhood. The traffic was light, and I went quickly up onto I-95 and then straight down Dixie Highway with no problem, and in only about twenty minutes I pulled up in front of my house-my ex-house-and parked my car. I sat for a moment, looking at the place. It had been my home for several years, and it was still home to several things I cared about. My special private rosewood box, for instance: the carefully concealed reliquary for my ever-growing collection of memento mori. Each and every one of my Playmates was there, represented by a single drop of dried blood on a small glass slide. Not Patrick, of course, and that was too bad, but he had been rather a rush job. But all those other fond memories, fifty-seven of them, still lived here in my box. Would it come with me? It had to, of course-leaving it here was unthinkable, and so was getting rid of it. But could my beautiful and unique collection make the transition to life in the fast lane? Could I find a new and safe place for it in my new and unknown life?

  That box and its slides were important to me-but under the circumstances it was a truly stupid thing to worry about. I had to find Astor, wherever she was, and if she had been snatched by some predator, as I suspected, then there would soon be a new slide in the box.

  The front door of the house banged open and Rita came chuffing out to my car as I got out. “Oh, Dexter, thank God you’re here; let’s go, quick!” she said, reaching for the handle of the passenger door.

  “Go where?” I said.

  Rita jerked her hand back from my car as if it had burned her. “Oh!” she said, “I don’t have-I don’t know, it just seems-I mean, I thought if we could-Oh, no …” she said, and she came around the car and clamped onto me, putting her head down onto my chest and snuffling, right where Jackie had so recently pressed her face.

  I pried Rita away from me and gave her a gentle shake. “Rita,” I said. “Is there someplace to go? Have you heard from Astor?”

  “No, of course not, no, but, Dexter,” she said, “what do we do?”

  “First,” I said, “we calm down.” I didn’t think Rita would accept this suggestion with any enthusiasm, and she didn’t. She sniffled again, and moaned, hopping up and down, for all the world like a child who has to go to the bathroom. “All right,” I said, taking her elbow. “Let’s go inside.” And over her incoherent protests I led her into the house and sat her down on the couch.

  “Now then,” I said. “When is the last time you heard from her?”

  “Oh, God, Dexter, you sound just like a-I mean, it’s Astor, for God’s sake, and you’re just-”

  “Yes, I am,” I interrupted. “We won’t find her by being hysterical.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I suppose you’re right, but …”

  “When,” I said very deliberately. “When did you hear from her?”

  “I didn’t,” Rita said. “Just … like I said, this morning I dropped her at school? In the same place as always, and then they called to say …”

  “All right,” I said. “But you left her in front of her school.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And then I–I mean, Cody was being so grouchy, and Lily Anne needed a change, so I just … I drove away.”

  It took only a moment’s thought for me to realize what that meant. In a strange way, it was disappointing. I had raised my Other Self up on point, ready to seek and destroy whatever nervy pervert had grabbed Astor, and as always, I felt a little diminished when I had to let all that icy glee drain away. “She wasn’t snatched,” I said. “She left on her own.”

  “What!?” Rita said, sounding horrified. “Dexter, but that’s stupid! She would never-”

  “She did,” I said firmly. “There’s a cop there at the school in the morning, and hundreds of parents, and bus drivers and teachers-all watching very carefully. Nobody could grab her there without being seen. So they didn’t. She walked away.”

  Rita stared at me with big round eyes and a mouth stretched open in almost the same shape. “But … why?” she said. “Where would she go?”

  “Almost anywhere,” I said. “Walk up to Metrorail-it’s not far-and then … did she have any money?”

  “Her allowance,” Rita said. “And …” She bit her lip. “I think she took some money from my purse. Forty dollars.”

  “Well, we can rule out Singapore,” I said. Forty dollars and Astor’s allowance-maybe another ten or twenty dollars, if she’d saved up-would not get her far. “Has she said anything? Like a new friend, or somebody online? Any hint at all?”

  “Oh, no,” Rita said. “I would never let her-You know what she’s like. She doesn’t make friends very easily, and-She d
idn’t say anything.”

  “Okay,” I said, and I stood up. “I’m going to look in her room.”

  “What?” Rita said. “Dexter, she’s not there; I’m sure I would have-Oh! You mean look for something.…”

  “Yes,” I said, and I stepped around her and down the hall to the room Astor shared with her brother. It was a small room, too small for two growing kids of different genders, which was one of the main reasons we had bought the new and larger house, where they would each have their own room. One side of the room was taken up by the bunk bed-Cody on top-and the other side was carefully divided between His space and Hers.

  The room was cluttered with all the junk you would expect a couple of ordinary kids to collect-but there were differences, because these, after all, were not ordinary kids. Their Bio Dad’s violence, and probably his DNA, had set their feet on the Dark Path, and they would never ever walk in the happy-face light of Normal.

  And so a few odd touches stood out to the eye of any trained observer, especially if he was also a Monster like me. For example, Cody had a number of action figures-he got very cranky if you called them dolls-as any boy his age might. But every one of them had been neatly and lovingly beheaded. The tiny plastic heads were lined up in a careful row on the top tier of his toy shelf, aligned exactly, perfectly, not a single one out of place.

  The entire Cody side of the little room, in fact, was alarmingly neat. His shoes were lined up, toes together, his books stacked with the spines aligned, and even his dirty clothes lay neatly in a blue plastic laundry basket, looking like they had been folded first. Preteen boys are never that neat, but since I had been the same way myself, I didn’t worry. Something in a Monster just likes things tidy. Since Cody shared my other, Darker tastes, I just assumed that his Neatness was simply part of the package.