Dexter's Final Cut (Dexter 7)

—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?”