Dexter's Final Cut

TEN

If you are Jackie Forrest and you are staying at the Grove Isle Hotel, you do not get the kind of room service normal people must put up with, even very rich normal people. I have stayed in some very nice hotels, but it always takes somewhere between one hour and three days to get a response to a call for service. And when help finally arrives, it is usually one surly man with a bad back who only speaks Urdu and refuses to understand the simplest request unless he sees dollar bills of a large denomination.

But for Jackie, the hotel had apparently hired a team of Olympic sprinters with a pathological need to please. Within thirty seconds of Jackie’s call for a mop, a trio of young women arrived, eager and smiling. They wore hotel name tags that said NADIA, MARIA, and AMILA, and they fell on the puddle as if they were starving and it was manna rather than urine, while poor Kathy was still staggering away from the door and collapsing into a chair.

One of the maids, Amila, looked strangely familiar, and I stared longer than one really should look at a hotel maid mopping up pee. She looked up and smiled at me and then tossed her head, flinging her golden hair to one side. “I make my hair as Chackie,” she said shyly, with a very thick accent from some Central European country. “Very important star, yes?” She glanced over to the chair where Jackie was soothing Kathy’s nerves.

And sure enough, it was true. Amila had styled her hair just the way Jackie did, which explained why she had looked familiar. “It’s very nice,” I said, and Amila blushed and returned her attention to her mop. She and her business associates had our little accident cleaned up in no time. They put the Starbucks cup, keys, and the cell phone on a side table, and they vanished, still smiling and leaving behind no more than a pleasant lemon smell, before Kathy managed to say, “Oh, God,” more than two times. Amila paused at the door, briefly, and looked hungrily at Jackie. She touched her own hair, sighed, and disappeared into the hall.

Kathy said, “Oh, God,” another twenty or thirty times while Jackie cooed at her in an attempt to soothe her jangled nerves. I am sure it is very unsettling to have a gun jammed into your ear, even a gun as nice as the Glock, but after five or six minutes of monotone monosyllabic misery, I began to wonder whether Kathy might be overdoing it a bit. I hadn’t actually shot her; I’d done no more than grab her and point the pistol. But the way she carried on you would have thought I’d taken out her liver and offered her a bite.

Still, she finally calmed down enough to stop saying, “Oh, God”-and she immediately switched to staring at me and saying, “You bastard. You horrible bastard. Oh, you bastard.”

Jackie glanced at me to see if I minded the rough language, and when I shrugged she twitched me a quick smile and went back to soothing Kathy.

“Dexter is here to protect me, Kathy,” she said. “I’m really sorry; this is my fault; I should have told him you were coming.”

“Oh, God, that bastard,” Kathy said, cleverly combining both of her annoying chants.

“It’s my fault,” Jackie said. “I am so sorry.”

“My phone!” Kathy choked out. She leaped out of the chair. “My God, if you ruined my phone …!”

“I’m sure it’s all right,” Jackie said.

Kathy jumped over to the side table where Amila had put her things. “All of your appointments! The contact list-everything!” She grabbed up her phone, and Jackie followed behind and took her arm, leading her back to her chair. But Kathy refused to sit until she made sure the phone had not been ruined by exposure to her own urine.

“It works,” she said at last. “Oh, thank God, it still works.” And she glared extra hard at me, as if I was the one who had peed on it. “Bastard,” she said.

“All right, Kathy, we’re all right now; everything’s fine,” Jackie murmured.

It was several more minutes before Kathy calmed down enough to resume normal human behavior. I filled the time by reholstering my Glock, bolting the door, and sitting down on a chair on the opposite side of the room from Kathy and her tedious meltdown. But even the most irritating things must end, and eventually Kathy remembered that she was, after all, an employee-and an employee who had wet herself in front of her boss, too. She finally fluttered to her feet and began to babble apologies to Jackie, alternating them with venomous glares at me. She straightened the heap of papers she’d brought in, reminded Jackie about a couple of telephone interviews in the morning, and finally stumbled out the door and away with one final hateful glower at me.

I secured the door behind her and turned to see that Jackie was watching me with a kind of amused caution. “What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said. “Just … sorry about that. Poor Kathy really is very devoted to me. Very good at her job.”

“She must be,” I said. “If you let her pee on your floor.”

Jackie giggled, a sound that was as contagious as it was surprising, and I found that I was smiling in response. “She did pee, didn’t she,” Jackie said.

“If she didn’t,” I said, “Starbucks coffee has gone way downhill.”

Jackie giggled again, and started to sink down into the chair where Kathy had been sitting. She caught herself halfway down and jerked upright. “Oh!” she said. “That’s, um-I think I’d prefer a chair with a dry seat.”

“Good thinking,” I said, and I watched Jackie move to one end of the couch, where she sat down and relaxed into a kind of contented sprawl. She sighed, and then she glanced at the heap of papers Kathy had piled on the end table. She immediately tensed up; her shoulders went up an inch and the half smile fell off her face.

“The letters,” she said.

It may have been the strain of being called a bastard so many times, but I didn’t know what she meant. “What letters?” I said.

Jackie nodded at the papers. “From him,” she said. “The psycho. Kathy brought them for you.”

“Oh,” I said. It was very thoughtful, even though I really didn’t want them.

Jackie kept looking at the pile with an expression that was halfway between loathing and anxiety.

When nothing else happened for a full minute, I cleared my throat politely. “Well,” I said. “Should we order some dinner?”

Jackie looked at me with an expression I couldn’t read, for just a moment too long, before she finally said, “All right.”

Dinner was a somewhat somber affair. The chummy, lighthearted mood of cocktail hour had vanished, and Jackie spent most of the meal staring at her plate, picking at the food without actually eating very much of it. That was a shame, because it was really very good food. I had ordered tournedos of beef; I’d always wondered what a tournedo was, and when I saw it listed on the menu I decided there was no time like the present to find out. I knew it was some kind of beef, so it seemed like a rather low-risk gamble, and it turned out to be two very tasty chunks of beef, cooked in a wine-and-mango sauce. I was fairly sure that mango was not part of the original recipe-after all, what’s the French word for mango? — but it was a nice addition, and I had no trouble eating everything, including a large mound of garlic mashed potatoes and a helping of broccoli, steamed just right.

Jackie had stone crab, or at any rate, she had it served to her. She cracked a claw open and poked at it for a while before she nibbled at one small chunk, without even dipping it in the melted butter. She also ate one spear of grilled asparagus, and half a forkful of wild rice. Altogether, though, it was quite clear that she was having trouble with the whole idea of eating. I wondered briefly whether she would think I was rude if I offered to finish her meal for her-after all, stone crab does not grow on trees. But upon sober reflection, I decided it was not quite the thing.

That was the last chance for sober reflection of any kind that evening, since Jackie had ordered a bottle of wine for each of us-red for my tournedos and white for her crab. The shyness she exhibited toward solid food did not extend to the wine, and she had finished about three-quarters of the bottle by the time she pushed her plate away. On top of the mojito she’d had earlier, it should have made her very unsteady, but her movements seemed perfectly crisp and her speech did not slur, what little there was of it. For the first part of the meal I didn’t really notice how quiet she was, since my attention was all on my plate. But as the happy sounds of eating began to slow down, I became aware that no conversation arose to take its place, and I watched as Jackie slouched over her plate in moody silence and played with her food without eating.

Even the excellent dessert didn’t improve her mood. I had something called Decadent Lava Cake, which was very good, although the decadence escaped me. Jackie had ordered a kind of crème brûlée, but once again she didn’t really eat it. She picked a small piece of caramelized crust off the top and crunched on it, but that was all. I began to wonder whether perhaps she took vitamin shots in secret; she certainly didn’t eat enough to sustain human life.

The waiters came and cleared away the wretched refuse of our meal, and I bolted the door behind them. Jackie still sat at the table in a kind of introspective slouch. I wondered how long it would last. I wondered if I should do something to help her snap out of it. If so, my study of daytime TV drama gave me two clear choices: either therapeutic release by getting her to talk about it, or cheerful chatter to change the subject. But it was impossible to say which one was right, and in any case, I couldn’t be sure it was actually in my job description.

And seriously: What was my real role here? Earlier this evening we had been chatting away like true pals, but I was not really a friend-she had probably just been putting me at ease. After all, she was a rich and famous person-a star, in fact-and I was no more than a modest and unassuming forensics geek with an interesting hobby. As far as I knew, this was a situation Emily Post had never covered, and I did not know how to proceed. Should I keep things formal and businesslike, because I was a technical consultant turned bodyguard? Or was I now an employee-and if so, should I follow Kathy’s lead and pee on the floor? After a mojito and most of a bottle of wine, that option was starting to look appealing, but it would almost certainly nudge the tone of the evening in an unclear direction, so I decided against it.

So I stood there uncertainly, watching Jackie stare into blank, bleak space for what seemed like a very long time. But finally her head snapped up and her eyes met mine. “What,” she said.

“Nothing,” I said. “I just wasn’t sure, um …” And I realized I wasn’t even sure what I wasn’t sure of, so I stumbled back into awkward silence.

Jackie smiled with just the right side of her mouth, a kind of rueful acknowledgment. “Yeah, I know,” she said. “Sorry.” She shook her head. “I guess I wasn’t very good company for dinner.”

“Oh, well,” I said. “That’s all right. I mean, it was a very good dinner.”

She smiled again, using both sides of her mouth this time, although she still didn’t look entirely happy. “Right,” she said. “Glad you liked it.” She got up and wandered over to the sliding glass door that led out onto the balcony, and for a moment she just stood there looking out. I was afraid we were going right back into moody silence again, and I began to wish I’d brought a good book. But apparently she saw something out on the Bay that snapped her out of it; she suddenly turned around and, with a cheerful energy that was clearly forced, she said, “Well, then! It’s too early for bed. So what should we do?”

It took me by surprise, and I blinked stupidly. “Um,” I said. “I don’t know.” I looked around the room for a clue that wasn’t there. “I don’t see any board games,” I said.

“Damn,” Jackie said. “I could really go for a good round of Monopoly.” She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head to one side. “So, what would you do if you were at home? With your wife and kids?”

“Oh, probably watch TV,” I said.

Jackie made a face. “Yuck,” she said, and I must have looked surprised, because she laughed. “I know,” she said. “But just because I make TV shows doesn’t mean I have to like them.”

“It doesn’t?” I said, and it was really sort of hard to imagine. I mean, I enjoy my job-both of them, in fact. Why else would I do them?

“No,” Jackie said. “I mean, there’s some good stuff now and then. But mostly, I’d rather stare at the wall. In fact, I usually can’t tell the difference.” She shrugged. “It’s the business. You do an awful lot of crap, just to get into a position where you get a chance at something worth doing. But then you get a reputation as somebody who’s really good at doing crap, and the good stuff never comes along, and the money is too good to turn down.… Eh,” she said, spreading her hands in a what-the-hell gesture. “It’s a good life. No complaints.” She frowned and was silent for a moment, and then she shook herself and said, “Hey, look at me. Sliding back into the dumps again.” She clapped her hands together. “Fuck it. How about a nightcap?” And without waiting for an answer she disappeared into her bedroom.

I stood uncertainly for a moment, wondering whether I was supposed to follow her. Before I could decide, she came back out, holding a bottle in her hands. “Get a couple of glasses,” she said, nodding at the sideboard. “You know, tumblers.”

I followed her nod to the large silver tray that stood on the table beneath a mirror. It held a silver ice bucket with silver tongs, four wineglasses, and four tumblers. I took two tumblers and joined Jackie on the couch. She set the bottle reverently on the coffee table and I looked at it as I sat. It was a very nice bottle, with a large wooden stopper on top and a palm tree etched onto the front, and it was filled with a brown liquid.

“What is it?” I asked politely.

Jackie smiled. “Panamonte,” she said. “The best dark rum I ever tasted.”

“Oh,” I said. “Should I get some ice?”

Jackie gave me a look of mock horror. “Oh, my God, no,” she said. “Putting ice in this stuff is a capital crime.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t know much about rum. Except the kind you mix with Coke.”

Jackie shook her head vigorously. “This ain’t it,” she said. “Mixing this with anything is like drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa.” She pulled the cork out of the bottle and poured a little rum into each tumbler. “Try it,” she said. She picked up both glasses, passing me one and raising the other in front of her face. “Sláinte,” she said.

“Salud,” I told her.

I sipped. It was not at all what I’d expected. I have never been a real Drinker, but there are times when Social Custom demands that you drink, and so I have from time to time, and I usually don’t like it. And I have found that most brown liquors that are served after dinner are smoky, with a sharp taste that I don’t like, no matter how much someone insists that it is very rare and the best ever, and I have never been a real fan of such things. But this was like nothing I’d ever tried before. It was sweet but not cloying, dark and rich and crisp, and probably the smoothest thing I’d ever tasted. “Wow,” I said. It seemed like the only appropriate thing to say.

Jackie sipped from her glass and nodded. “Yup,” she said, and for several minutes we just sat and sipped.

The rum seemed to take the dark edge off things for Jackie. She visibly relaxed as the level in her glass went down. To my surprise, I did, too. I suppose it was only natural; as I said, I am not a drinker, and I’d already had a mojito and several glasses of wine this evening. I probably should have been worried that all the alcohol would make me too dopey to be really effective as a bodyguard. But I didn’t feel drunk, and it would have been a shame to spoil the experience of sitting on a couch and drinking rare dark rum with a celebrity. So I didn’t: I sat; I enjoyed; I drank the rum slowly, savoring each sip.

Jackie finished hers first and reached for the bottle. “More?” she said, holding it toward me.

“I probably shouldn’t,” I said. She shrugged and poured a splash into her glass. “But it’s very good,” I said. “I’ll have to get a bottle.”

She laughed. “Good luck,” she said. “You won’t find it at the corner store.”

“Oh,” I said. “Where do you get it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “This was a gift.” She lifted her glass in a half toast and sipped. She rolled it around in her mouth for a moment and then put the glass back down. “Those letters,” she blurted. “They scare the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I mean, why?” she said, hunched over and staring down into the glass. “What did I do to make him hate me?”

“He doesn’t hate you,” I said.

Jackie looked up. “He’s trying to kill me,” she said.

“That’s not hate,” I said. “In his own way, he actually loves you.”

“Jesus fuck,” she said. She looked back down at the glass. “I think I’d rather have hate next time.” She picked up the glass and sipped, and then swung her eyes to me. “How come you understand this rotten psycho bastard so good?” she said.

I suppose it was a fair question, but it was an awkward one, too. If I told her the truth-I understood him because I was a rotten psycho bastard, too-it would seriously undermine our relationship, which would have been a shame. So I shrugged and said, “Oh, you know.” I took a small sip from my glass. “It’s like you were saying before. It’s kind of like acting.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. She didn’t sound convinced, and she didn’t look away from me. “Thing is, in acting, you find a piece of the character inside your own self. You expand it, you shape it a little, but it has to be in there or you don’t get the job done.” She took a small sip, still looking at me over the rim of the tumbler. “So what you’re really saying is, there’s something inside you”-she tipped the glass at me-“that is like this crazy asshole.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “So? Is there?” She sipped. “You got a killer in there, Dexter?”

I looked at her with astonishment, and deep in Dexter’s Dungeon I could feel the Passenger squirming with discomfort. I have lived my life among cops, people who spend every waking hour hunting down predators like me. I have worked among them for years, for my entire professional life, and not a single one of them had ever had the faintest misgiving about Dexter’s snow-white character. Only one of them, in fact-Dear Sergeant Doakes-had ever suspected that I am what I am. And yet, here was Jackie-a TV actress, of all things! — asking me point-blank if there was a Wicked Other inside me, behind Dexter’s carefully crafted smile.

I was too amazed to speak, and no amount of sipping could cover the growing, horribly awkward silence as I groped for something to say. Short of admitting she was right, or denying everything and calling for a lawyer, nothing occurred to me.

“Cat got your tongue?” she said.

“Oh,” I said. “Just … just … more like rum got my tongue.” I lifted the glass. “I’m not used to this stuff,” I said, sounding rather lame even to myself.

“Uh-huh,” Jackie said. “But you’re not answering my question, either.”

She was very insistent for someone who should have been a mental lightweight, and I began to wonder whether I had been too quick to decide I liked her. She was clearly not going to accept any cautiously phrased evasions, and that left Dexter somewhat on the ropes. But I am renowned for my conversational quick feet, and seldom at a loss. In this case, I decided that the best defense really was an all-out cavalry charge, so I put down my glass and turned fully toward her.

“Close your eyes,” I ordered.

Jackie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Acting exercise. Close your eyes.”

“Uh-okay …” She put her glass down, settled back into the couch, and closed her eyes. “All right.”

“Now,” I said. “It’s night. You’re all alone, in a dark alley.”

She took a deep, controlled breath. “Okay …”

“There’s someone behind you,” I said. “He’s getting closer, closer.…”

“Oh,” she said softly, and several emotions flicked rapidly across her face.

“You turn around,” I said. “And it’s him.”

Jackie breathed out sharply.

“He’s holding a knife and smiling at you. It’s a terrible smile. And he speaks.” I leaned close and whispered, “ ‘Hello, bitch.’ ”

Jackie flinched.

“But you have a gun,” I said.

Her hand went up and she pulled an imaginary trigger. “Pow,” she said, and her eyes fluttered open.

“Just like that?” I said.

“Damn straight.”

“Did you kill him?” I said.

“Shit, yeah. I hope so.”

“How do you feel?”

She took another deep breath and then let it out. “Relieved,” she said.

I nodded. “QED,” I said. She blinked at me. “I think it’s Latin,” I explained. “It means, ‘I have proved it.’ ”

“Proved what?”

“There’s a killer in everybody,” I said.

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she picked up her glass and took a sip. “Maybe,” she said. “But you seem pretty comfy with the one in you.”

And I was, of course. But I was not at all comfy with having her guess it, so I was relieved that the subject seemed to be closed for now when Jackie put her empty glass on the table and stood up.

“Bedtime,” she said. She stretched and yawned, looking like some kind of golden cat. She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Where do guard dogs sleep?” she said. “At the foot of the bed?”

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” I said. “That way I can watch the door and the balcony.”

She blinked. “The balcony?”

“Anyone can get in from the roof,” I said. “All you need is twenty feet of nylon rope and a screwdriver.”

Jackie looked a little bit stunned. “You mean he might- What’s the screwdriver for?”

“I don’t know if he might,” I said. “I know he could. Anybody could: just drop down from the roof, with the rope. The screwdriver is to jimmy open the sliding glass door. A ten-year-old could do it.”

“Jesus,” she said. She stared at me, but she wasn’t actually seeing me. “I really fucking hate this,” she said. And then she shook herself slightly, focused on me for a moment, and said again, “Hate it …” She stood very still, looking at me, breathing in, then out, watching me for some sign that I didn’t know how to give her, and then she shook her head, turned away, and went slowly off to bed.