by Jeff Lindsay
In any case, it was clear to me that this was not a subtle brain, searching for visceral poetry. This was a very direct, rather dull and ordinary sick and twisted killer. He was psychotic, yes, and capable of almost any kind of perverted violence, but he lacked all refinement, and altogether seemed to be without a single subtle or interesting thought on what was, after all, a very important subject.
Disappointing, but at least it meant he should be quite easy to find, once I put my own sharp and wonderful mind to it and began to track him to his lair and then …
… and then nothing at all, because my mind would not be tracking anything right now; my mind was firmly locked in place inside my skull, riding high atop my body as it performed its chores as Jackie’s protector. I could not step out into the bright and welcoming moonlight and slide through the shadows to find Patrick in what would certainly be a terribly obvious little hidey-hole, could not take him and tape him and end things the right way, my way … because I would be spending those precious dark hours hovering over Jackie with vigilance and cunning, and perhaps a little more dark rum.
I became aware that conversation had stopped in Deborah’s little office, and I looked up from the letters to see Jackie and my sister both staring at me. “What,” I said.
Jackie smiled encouragingly. “We were waiting for you to close your eyes and, you know,” she said, waving one hand vaguely. “Do that thing where you go inside his head.”
“I’m afraid I won’t fit,” I said, trying not to sound too smug. “This is a small and very ordinary mind.”
Deborah snorted and Jackie said, “Ordinary?! My God, after what he’s done—and you call him ordinary?!”
“That’s right,” I said. “Ordinary, garden-variety, demented, psychotic killer.” I shrugged. “Very predictable.”
“Then predict him,” Deborah said.
“Easy,” I told her. “He’s going to come after Jackie.” And I nodded at Jackie with a reassuring smile.
For some reason, that didn’t seem to reassure Jackie very much. She threw up her hands with an expression of sarcastic relief. “Well, shit, that’s good to know,” she said, shaking her head. “I mean, come after me, that’s great—but didn’t we already know that?”
Deborah, at least, wasn’t quite so far gone that she had to resort to sarcasm. Of course, Patrick wasn’t after her. “How will he do it?” Deborah said.
“Very directly,” I told them. “Nothing subtle, nothing too clever. He’s a hammer, not a scalpel.”
“Well, goddamn it,” Jackie said, “a hammer can sure as hell cave in my skull just the same.”
“Not with me there,” I said, and although I admit it sounded rather boastful, not at all my usual style of modest self-effacement, I really did believe it. “Really, Jackie, this guy is not capable of any real surprises.”
“He surprised the shit out of those three other girls,” she said darkly.
“They didn’t know what he was. And,” I said, trying very hard to sound quietly, modestly confident, “they didn’t have me.”
She looked at me long and hard, her eyes scanning my face for some sign that I had secret superpowers. I don’t think she saw any such sign, but she did seem to relax a little bit. “Well,” she said, and she looked over to Deborah. “I mean, so, um … what?”
“Nothing has changed,” Debs told her. “I got you in daylight; Dexter has you covered all night.”
“Oh, covered,” Jackie said. And she opened her mouth to say more, then closed it again, looked at me, and, for some reason, she blushed.
“I mean …” She trickled off and looked away from me quickly, and for a moment she seemed so flustered that even her masterful use of sarcasm fled her. “Then, okay, so, right.” She nodded a few times and cleared her throat. “All right,” she said at last. “If you’re both so … confident?”
I simply stood there and, since I had no idea what had just gone through Jackie’s mind, I tried to look relaxed and overwhelmingly confident, leaving it to my sister to say, “Yeah, I think so. Dexter is usually right about this stuff.” And then she cocked her head and looked at Jackie thoughtfully. “You want to hire somebody else?” she said.
“Oh, no,” Jackie blurted quickly. “I mean, no. Dexter is very …” She cleared her throat and looked at me, and then looked away. “I trust you. Both of you,” she said.
Deborah continued to regard her with one eyebrow raised, and then at last she started to shake her head. “Well, shit, who’da thunk it,” she said softly, but before she could complete what must have been a very interesting thought, her desk phone buzzed loudly, and she turned away to grab it up. “Morgan,” she said into the receiver. She looked over at me, and then said, “Yeah, I just saw him. I’ll send him right down.” She hung up the phone and gave me a mean little smile. “Robert,” she said. “He’s lonely.” She jerked her head toward the hall door. “Git,” she said.
It didn’t seem quite right that babysitting a somewhat spoiled actor should take my time when there was a killer to catch—especially when it was a killer whose vulgar, pedestrian efforts were giving the craft a bad name—but life in the workforce seldom actually makes sense for the foot soldiers, and my nonsense job was to be with Robert. I gitted.
Robert was right where I’d left him, in the lab. But he was no longer alone. Standing beside him was a pudgy African American man in his mid-thirties, with a shaved head and large horn-rimmed glasses. He had five or six gold and diamond piercings in his left ear, and he wore a worn black T-shirt that said METALLICA in ornate letters, and a pair of baggy, faded madras shorts that hung down much too low. I looked at him, and he looked back blankly. Robert saved us all from what might have been a very awkward social situation by shouting out, “Hey! Jesus, that must have been the dump from hell, huh?”
I am known far and wide for my sophisticated poise and ready banter, but I had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and on top of the difficulty of having a stranger in my space, I’m afraid it had me momentarily at a loss. I just stared at Robert and muttered something like, “Oh, well, you know,” before I remembered that my excuse for leaving him had been gastric difficulty. “Actually,” I amended, “I got kind of sidetracked.”
“Yeah, I figured,” Robert said. “Just kidding. Hey! Look who’s here!” And he nudged the other man forward a step.
“Oh,” I said. “Um, who?”
The African American man rolled his eyes, but Robert said, “He’s just kidding, Renny. Dexter Morgan, this is Renny Boudreaux!”
He pronounced it “boo-drow,” and since I am a man of the world and recognize a French name when I hear one, I nodded to him and said, “Enchanté, m’sieu.”
Boudreaux stared at me and then, with a look of wonder on his face, he said, “Is that French?! Goddamn, you are smooth. I like that. French, that’s— Tell me, Dexter, you ever fuck a black man?”
I really wanted to believe I had misheard him, but he’d said it so loud and clear that there could be no mistake. So I just shook my head and said, “Not yet, no. But the day is young.”
Robert shouted with laughter, but Renny just nodded as if we were having a real conversation, and said, “Uh-huh. Well, you ain’t gonna start with me, motherfucker. So you put your goddamn French back up your ass where it belongs.” He shook his head, eyeing me warily, and said, “French. Shit.”
I have always felt that the Art of Conversation is best served when all the parties involved have some vague idea of what they are talking about, and in this case, I had been left out of the loop. I was beginning to feel like I had wandered into some kind of Surrealist Performance piece—maybe one of those that tries to provoke the audience to some extreme reaction. But at least Robert seemed to be having a good time. He laughed again, a loud and brassy laugh that didn’t sound quite sane, and he pushed Renny toward me one more time.
“Renny is playing Aaron Crait, my forensics sidekick,” Robert said. “You know, in the show.” He winked and added, “Kinda l
ike you and Vince, right?”
I had never thought of myself as having a sidekick at all, and if I did it would certainly not be someone like Vince, and suddenly to think of him in that role took me even further aback. But Robert gave me no time to ponder that uncomfortable relationship; he plowed right on cheerfully.
“Renny hit town this morning and I told him to swing by, ’cause I thought you wouldn’t mind giving him a crash course in forensics, right?” Possibly my mouth was still hanging open, because Robert suddenly looked a little uncomfortable, even a little anxious. “Um, you don’t mind, do you, Dexter?” he said. “Because it’s, you know, I thought it was important. That, you know, we’re all on the same page … So we get it right.” He lowered his voice and spoke confidentially, almost pleadingly. “Just a couple of hours, this afternoon …?”
“Well, I suppose,” I said. I was, after all, required to be at the beck and call of Big Ticket Network in general and Robert in person, and a few hours spent instructing Renny probably wouldn’t hurt.
“Thanks, that’s great, right, Renny?” He winked again, and added, “You’ve probably seen Renny on Leno or something.”
“I don’t watch Leno,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I don’t blame you,” Robert said. “Anyway, Renny does stand-up comedy when he’s not acting.”
“Motherfucker, I told you twice!” Renny said, glaring at Robert, and I couldn’t tell whether he was actually angry. “I don’t do comedy—I do Social Commentary!” He shook his head and looked back at me. “God made this man so pretty ’cause he’s so fucking dumb,” he told me.
“Oh, I thought I was the only one who noticed,” I said, and Robert gave another of his awful shouts of laughter.
“Which part you notice, the dumb?” Renny said. “Or just the pretty—he hit on you yet, Dexter?”
“Not yet,” I said. “Is he likely to?”
“I ain’t sayin’,” Renny said. “But if he ask you to take a shower—”
“Take a rain check?” I said.
“No, dummy. Don’t drop the soap,” Renny said.
“Ha!” Robert cawed. “This is great; I knew you two would hit it off,” he said. And since I now knew that Renny and I were hitting it off, I knew exactly the right thing to do in the situation. I stepped forward and took his hand.
“Anyway—very pleased to meet you, Renny,” I said.
Renny stared for a moment, and then took my hand, and as he did he met my eyes, and time faltered into a slow and shadowed crawl—
—and for just a second I thought I saw something behind the veil of his eyes, something dark and wicked, and it was looking back at me and baring its fangs. I couldn’t be absolutely sure; it was just a brief flash, just enough to make the Dark Passenger hiss and unwind one small coil. But it startled me; I dropped Renny’s hand and took a step back, looking for some confirmation in his face. There was none; he just looked at me, and then turned away to Robert. “So what the fuck, isn’t it lunchtime yet? Your lover Dexter know someplace to eat where they got real food? Or is it all Cuban honky shit?” He looked back at me and added, “You ain’t gonna take me for no French food, are you, faggot?”
“Well,” I said, and I admit I was pleased by my quick and smooth recovery from what had so far been a very disconcerting encounter. But I gave him my best fake smile. “If you can’t eat Cuban honky, and you don’t like French faggot, there’s always Chinese.”
Renny stared at me, and then slowly nodded his head. “First smart thing you said,” he told me.
FOURTEEN
THE AFTERNOON PASSED PLEASANTLY ENOUGH, CONSIDERING I spent it with a shallow, self-involved twit and a very loud comic who might possibly be carrying a Dark Passenger. Renny was apparently well known, in spite of the fact that I’d never heard of him, and at lunch both he and Robert were besieged by simpering well-wishers seeking autographs, pictures, and some small glimmer of reflected glow from my two famous pupils. They both took it all in stride, although Renny harangued his fans with loud and profane insults. They seemed to like it, and it certainly kept Robert amused.
And once again, as I had with Jackie, I found that I got a strange sense of enjoyment out of being an Insider, one of the Few, at the center of attention for all mere mortals who saw us. I began to wonder whether I had slipped a gear somewhere; surely there was some mistake. This was not appropriate for Our Dark Scout: gloating at the attention, smirking at the mob from inside the coveted Inner Circle, and soaking up reflected glow as if it were some kind of tonic. To be constantly gazed upon, to have every eye follow my every move, and worse, to like it—this was an impossible fantasy for the Thing that was Me. It was a lifestyle that would utterly shatter everything I was, everything I stood for. It was unthinkable. But apparently I liked it. I really liked it.
I thought about this as I watched Renny; he certainly enjoyed the attention—and yet I had seen what I had seen. Hadn’t I? If so, he had clearly found a way to live in the spotlight and still feed the beast. Could I do that, too? I thought about following Jackie around the world, every now and then slipping away for some quiet relaxation. And I had to wonder: Did they have duct tape in Cannes?
A trio of beaming, giggling fans interrupted; Renny insulted them while Robert signed autographs, and then Renny signed, too, and the three fans went away with their feet hardly touching the floor. I had just managed to contain my hurt feelings that they had barely looked at me, when I became aware that Robert was arguing that Renny’s Character on the Show, Crait, should have an ambivalent sexuality.
“Why you want me gay, mofo?” Renny said. “You looking for a date?”
“Not gay,” Robert insisted. “Ambivalent.”
“Ambi, shit,” Renny said. “So you want me to swing both ways? What the fuck for?”
“No, no, ambi, just—it’s like, we never really know—is he straight? Is he gay?” Robert said. “I mean, maybe we see him with some really hot chick.”
“More like it,” Renny said, nodding.
“And then there’s a party, and he shows up dressed as Carmen Miranda.” He glanced at me, frowned, then looked back at Renny. “Or, you know,” he added. “Diana Ross.”
“The fuck you say.”
“It’s so authentic, it’s— Don’t you see how powerful that could be?”
With the word “authentic,” coming on top of the Carmen Miranda reference, I suddenly realized what Robert was doing. When he’d said that he and Renny were just like me and Vince Masuoka, he hadn’t simply been making conversation. He had been stating a basic aesthetic principle. Just like he had learned to copy all my unconscious mannerisms, he wanted Renny to become Vince for the TV show. So that Art, if that’s what it was, literally did imitate Life.
I shook my head and tuned them out; so much for the Act of Creation.
After lunch we went back to the lab and I gave Renny his quickie forensics course, while Robert hopped around behind me and interrupted constantly to show how much he already knew. In all fairness, Renny seemed much brighter than Robert; he concentrated, asked very intelligent questions, and quickly picked up enough of the basics to fool the finest TV camera. Even so, I couldn’t quite shake the feeling of unease I got from wondering if I really had seen That Something behind Renny’s eyes, and if so, what he might do with it.
By quitting time, I was more than ready to escape into luxurious vigilance once more, and it was with a ludicrous sense of anticipation that I skipped away to Deborah’s lair to collect Jackie. I heard their voices before I saw them, but when I popped in with a cheery hello, they both fell abruptly silent and looked at me very seriously.
“I didn’t mean to be quite such a buzz-kill,” I said.
“No buzz here,” Deborah said, and Jackie shook her head.
“Well, then, what,” I said. “Did you give Anderson Patrick Bergmann’s name and photo?”
“Nope!” Jackie said happily.
“What? Why not?”
“Captain Matthews’s order
s,” Debs said solemnly.
I blinked, and I admit that was the only thing I could think of, except to say “but,” so I did that, too. “But,” I said.
“I know, right?” Jackie said, still with what seemed to be far too much lighthearted levity.
“Um, okay,” I said. “Any particular reason?”
“Anderson totally blew off Detective Echeverria,” Debs said. “So his captain called Matthews and demanded an explanation, and now I am in the shit house.”
“You?” I said. “For what?”
“For interfering with Anderson’s investigation,” Debs said. “Which he doesn’t actually have.”
“And for luring Echeverria down here from New York,” Jackie said. “Apparently, it breaks the unwritten code.”
“Somebody should write that down,” I said.
“And so now,” Deborah said, with an ironic wave of her hands, “we have a free hand and we will catch this sick cocksucker and fuck ’em all.” She shrugged. “While I am being punished.”
“Bread and water in the stockade?” I said.
“Worse,” she said. “I have been officially notified to stay away from Anderson’s investigation—”
“Which includes,” Jackie butted in, very bubbly, “not giving him any more leads, tips, or conjectures that might interfere with his casework.”
“Well, then,” I said. “That’s a perfect punishment.”
“And,” Deborah said, making a face, “I have to stay on as technical adviser to Jackie’s show during the whole shoot.” She gave me an ironic smile. “So do you.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering how I could possibly survive being around Robert for so long. I guess my face showed what I was thinking, because Jackie made a snorting noise.
“Guys,” Jackie said. “It’s not that bad. I mean, there’s really great food on the set, and it’s all free.”
“Great,” Deborah said. “I can eat doughnuts while the bodies pile up around Anderson.”
