Dexter's Final Cut (Dexter 7)

“Well, then, um,” she said. She looked imploringly at Debs. “Where do I go?”

“You can’t stay with me,” Deborah said. She shrugged. “Sorry. I won’t put Nicholas at risk.” Nicholas was her son, born a few months after the father had disappeared in a fit of noble sacrifice. He was a very nice baby, only a few months younger than my daughter, Lily Anne, and Deborah doted on him.

“I could hire a bodyguard, but they’re always so …” She sighed again. “Some muscle-bound retired SEAL with a pistol and an attitude. And if the Taliban are after me, I’d be safe. But this? I mean, a homicidal psychopath? I need somebody who really understands that.” She looked directly at me as she said it, which I suppose was only fair, but it was still a bit unsettling. “Not just somebody who can shoot.” She looked back at Debs. “Of course, it’s nice if they can shoot, too, but …” She looked back at me and blinked, her eyes huge and moist. “I need somebody I can really trust,” she said. “Like I trust you guys.” She shook her head.

She kept looking at me, and if I was really as smart as I like to think I am, I would have known where this was going—but for some reason, I didn’t. “Dexter,” she said. “I know this is a huge thing, but … is there any way that, you know.”

I must have looked like I didn’t know, because she stepped toward me and put a hand on my arm. “It’s just for a few days,” she said. “And I’ll pay you whatever you ask, but … could you?”

I was certainly ready to agree in theory, but I still didn’t know what she was asking me. I understood that she wanted me to help, but I didn’t really see how I could help her find a safe place to stay. All I got was a mental picture of Jackie sleeping on my couch, with Cody and Astor tiptoeing around her to get to school, and the image was so unlikely I couldn’t even respond, except to say, “Uh—”

“Please …?” she said, in a voice that was suddenly soft and a little hoarse and a lot more intim

ate than a kiss. And even though I still didn’t know what she was asking me to do, I wanted very badly to do it.

“Well, um,” I said, trying to sound very willing, which can be difficult when you don’t know what you’re agreeing to.

“It’s not a bad idea,” Deborah said helpfully. “I can help you square it with Rita.” She nodded at Jackie. “He can actually shoot, too,” she said. She reached into her bottom desk drawer and brought out a Glock 9mm pistol in a clip-on belt holster. “You can use my backup piece.”

I looked at the Glock, and I looked at Jackie’s pleading face, and the light began to dawn at last. “You mean …” I said. “I mean, you … That’s, that’s …” And although in normal times Eloquence is Dexter’s middle name, nothing would come out that was even intelligible.

“Please?” Jackie said again, and the look she gave me would have melted a marble statue.

Dexter, of course, is made of sterner stuff than any mere mortal, and imploring looks from a beautiful woman have never had any power over Our Wicked Warrior. And it was an absurd idea, something far too strange even to contemplate—me, a bodyguard? It was out of the question.

And yet somehow, when the workday ended that evening and all good wage slaves trotted dutifully away to hearth and home, I found myself on the balcony of a suite at the Grove Isle Hotel, sipping a mojito and watching as a spectacular sunset blew up the sky behind us, reflecting orange and red and pink onto the water of Biscayne Bay. There was a tray of cheese and fresh fruit on the table beside me, and the Glock was an uncomfortable lump in my side, and I was filled with wonder at the unavoidable notion that Life makes no sense at all, especially when things have taken a sudden and extravagant turn into surreal and unearned luxury. Terror, pain, and nausea I can understand, but this? I could only assume I was being set up for something even worse. Still, the mojito was very good, and one of the cheeses had a very nice bite to it.

I wondered if anyone ever really got used to living like this. It didn’t seem possible; weren’t we all made to sweat and suffer and endure painful hardship as we toiled endlessly in the vile cesspit of life on earth? How did sharp cheese, fresh strawberries, and utter luxury fit in with that?

I looked at Jackie. She didn’t look like she had ever set foot in the vile cesspit. She still looked fresh, composed, and perfectly at home in this opulent setting, like a demigoddess lounging around Olympus. It was a very sharp contrast to the scene that had greeted me at my house a little earlier.

I had left Jackie at headquarters with Deborah and gone home to get a toothbrush and a change of clothes. After all, even bodyguards should practice good hygiene. I went to my bedroom and pulled out a blue nylon gym bag. I put some socks and underwear in; funny—the last time I had used the bag, I had filled it with duct tape and a few casual blades and gone for an evening of light merriment with a brand-new friend, a charming man who lured young women out on his boat and somehow always came back alone. I had helped him learn that it wasn’t nice to treat others as disposable toys—learn it by helping him become disposable himself. It had been a real pleasure to work with him, a thoroughly enjoyable evening. Had that really been three whole months ago?

My fond reverie was shattered by a great crashing sound from the front door, followed immediately by a shrill nasal howling, an inhuman sound that could only be Astor in full preteen snit. Rita’s voice rose up to meet it, the door slammed even louder, and then there was a flurry of foot stomping, shouting, and another, closer door slam.

Rita came into the bedroom with Lily Anne under her arm, the baby’s day-care bag over one shoulder and her own purse on the other. Her face was red, shiny with sweat, and the frown lines around her mouth looked like they had suddenly become permanent. And it hit me that she no longer looked like the picture of her I had been carrying around in my head. She had aged, and for some reason I was seeing it for the first time.

“Oh, Dexter, you’re home early,” she said, thrusting Lily Anne at me. “Can you change her, please? Astor is absolutely— I don’t know what to do.”

Lily Anne burbled at me happily and called out, “Dadoo!” and I carried her over to the changing table as Rita threw the bags on the bed.

“Oh,” Rita said. I glanced over at her; she was holding up my gym bag. “But this is— I mean, you can’t—”

“Wonderful news,” I said, taking a very wet diaper off Lily Anne. “I have a chance to make a lot of money—enough to pay for a new pool cage at the new house.”

“But that’s— Do you know how much they cost?” She shook her head, and a drop of sweat flew off her face and hit my gym bag.

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. I threw the wet diaper away and reached for the baby wipes. “I will make that much and more.”

“Doing what?”

I hesitated—not just because Jackie’s need for a bodyguard was confidential, but also because it suddenly seemed like a good idea not to tell Rita I would be cooped up with a beautiful movie star for several nights. “It’s confidential,” I said. I wiped Lily Anne thoroughly and reached for a fresh diaper.

Rita was silent. I looked up at her. She was frowning, and the lines in her forehead looked very deep. A limp, damp strand of hair fell down across the lines. She pushed it back. “Well, but …” she said. “I mean, is it legal? Because …” She shook her head again.

“Perfectly legal,” I said. “And very well paid.” I fastened the new diaper and picked up the baby. “Deborah said she would call and talk to you about it.”

“Oh, well,” she said. “If Deborah is— But can’t you tell me what it is?”