Dexter's Final Cut (Dexter 7)

“Uh-huh, good,” Renny said. “Mr. Eissen wants the technical advisers there, on camera.” He winked at me. “That’s you. And that really tough lady.”

“Deborah,” I said. “Sergeant Morgan.”

“Uh-huh. Mr. Eissen says it’s like support our troops, show the cops out there laughing. And it gives the show Cop Cred, and it even shows everybody I can get along with cops when I want to. Which, to be honest …” He raised an eyebrow at me, as if I was supposed to say something about that, but I had no idea what, so I just nodded.

Renny shrugged. “Your boss gonna be there, too,” he said. “He wants to make sure you show up, with your wife.”

“Well, then,” I said. “I guess we’ll be there.”

“I’ll put you on the list for two.”

“Thank you,” I said. And because that seemed like a slightly inadequate response for being railroaded into accepting two free tickets to a show, I added, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, I would,” Renny said. He straightened up and pushed off the bench. “And that is why I am going to go find a Starbucks and not drink that poison shit you all make here.” He turned and headed for the door. “See you later, man.”

And suddenly, there I was, all alone again.

SIXTEEN

I STOOD FOR A MOMENT IN MY ABRUPTLY UNCLUTTERED WORK space and looked around fondly. It seemed like a long time since I’d been here without Robert leaning over my shoulder and solemnly mocking all my unconscious gestures, and to see the place without him and Renny in it was almost like coming home from a long and exhausting trip. I spent a few minutes tidying up, putting things where they belonged instead of where Robert had moved them because they looked better there. And then I just stood for a moment, looking around with quiet satisfaction, and wondering what to do with the rest of my morning. I had been assigned two important jobs: instructing Robert and guarding Jackie. But at the moment I couldn’t do either one; Robert and Renny were gone, and Jackie was off somewhere with Deborah.

For a moment I was at a loss; what should I do when there was nothing to do? I cast my brain back and forth, and came up with nothing more than a reminder that I was supposed to go to a meeting with Cody’s teacher at three o’clock. It was ten twenty-two right now, which left a rather large gap in the day’s activities, and in the meantime, I felt like I should do something positive, powerful, dynamic, and smart, and there was nothing of the kind immediately obvious. But Dexter is renowned for his resourcefulness, and it took no more than a few moments of deep thought for me to hit on exactly the right course of action. I strode manfully into my own little office space, and with a vibrant and masculine vitality, I sat in my chair, leaned back, and took a deep breath: in through the nose—

And very quickly out through the mouth, and with some irritation. Because in front of me on my desk, where there should have been nothing but a neat blotter, Robert had left his newspaper. I don’t like clutter, especially someone else’s, dumped into my space. I leaned forward to pick it up—and saw that, under it, lying on the blotter when it should have been standing neatly at the back of my desk, was a picture of Dexter and Family.

Last Christmas, Rita had insisted that we all visit a real photographer and pose for a real Family Portrait. It had been quite an ordeal getting everybody to dress up, comb their hair, scrub their faces, and—hardest of all—make a convincingly pleasant face for the camera. But we had done it, and here was the result: Rita and Astor on the left with Cody sitting in front of them, Dexter holding Lily Anne—and if Cody was not actually smiling, at least you couldn’t tell that he was thinking about sticking a knife into the photographer.

I had framed the picture and put it on my desk, because that’s what Humans did. And Robert had been staring at it furtively—and felt guilty enough that he’d hidden it under a newspaper. Of all the truly annoying things he’d done, this one rankled even more, and I could not say why. But I refused to let it ruin my opportunity for unspecified pondering; I polished the picture’s silver frame, rubbed imaginary thumbprints off the glass, and set it back where it belonged, at the back of my desk. And then I leaned back, took a deep breath, pushed Robert out of my mind, and pondered.

Naturally enough, my first thought was about Robert, and it was a somewhat grumpy thought. I had always assumed that actors, writers, artists, and other borderline psychotics were an odd lot—but Robert was in a league of his own, and he annoyed me far more than he should have. People don’t usually bother me very much, since they are, after all, only flesh and blood, and I know very well just how fragile and transitory that is. But there was something about Robert that cut through my customary indifference to the human species, and it went beyond his apish imitation of my unconscious behavior. Did I really pinch my nose like that when I was reading departmental memos?

And in any case, why should it bother me if I did, and Robert copied me? If all my tics and twitches made it to the little silver screen, wasn’t that a form of immortality—even better for me, anonymous immortality? But even that thought did not make me warm to him, and I wondered whether my dislike for the man was rooted in aesthetics. I had been taught to value originality in art, and when you came right down to it, Robert was trying to make an art out of mere imitation. Art History 102, spring semester at University of Miami, had taught me that this could not be done. Art was creating something new, not mimicking something already in existence. What Robert was trying to do so intently was, in fact, no more than craft. He did no more than copy my tics and twitches—even to the point of staring at my family portrait, a very personal part of my disguise, for his character research—

—which didn’t actually make any sense, because his character was single. So had it been pure nosiness? But then, why the intensity? No—it had to be something else.

Could it be that he truly felt a sad and absurd longing for a family of his own? Of course, that’s what he’d said—but it had not been terribly convincing. And yet, there was no other explanation, unless I was willing to believe that, with his pick of all the glamorous beauties in the world, he was staring with longing at Rita. With all due respect for Rita, I found that even harder to believe.

Not his character, not Rita, not the kids; so there was no possible reason for his fascination with the picture. There was nothing else to see in the picture, except for …

Somewhere, deep in the Intelligence Analysis Section of the Department of Human Studies, University of Dexter, a tiny little bell chimed softly, announcing that a new report had just drifted into the in-box, and I paused in midponder to look it over. Actually, the report stated, there was one more thing in the family portrait: Me. Dexter himself.

But, of course, there was no conceivable reason that Robert might stare at a picture of me. Certainly not; he was an ultramasculine leading man—except that he never got married, seemed to avoid beautiful women, had a perfect haircut and fabulous shoes, insisted on Robert-not-Bob, and always groomed himself very well—with Product! He has been seen, on more than one occasion, staring at Dexter with an expression of abstract longing, which caused the Passenger to issue a hesitant, uncertain, unspecified whisper of unease. The only man I knew who routinely dressed up as Carmen Miranda worshiped him. And on top of everything else Robert was, for God’s sake, an actor.

Dexter takes great pride in having a brain that usually works well, more or less. And so on those rare occasions when it works a little slower than I would ideally like it to, I have to pause and wonder if I should eat more fish. Because quite clearly, I had been staring at a long list of very plain hints and failing to see the obvious conclusion.

Robert was gay.

And somehow, probably because of his intense study of Dexter in all his charm and glory, Robert had developed an infatuation with his subject—moi.

Of course, it was completely reasonable. To know me is to love me, and I was very fond of me, too. A list of my finer qualities would easily occupy almost half the front side of a three-by-five card. Although the list does taper off rather dramatically after “good with a knife.” But such sterling traits would mean nothing to a shallow clot like Robert; he was all about surface appearances. And speaking of, I had been told on more than one occasion that I am not completely horrible to look upon, for those who like that sort of thing. It meant nothing to me, since the only purpose of good looks is to acquire sex, and I am largely uninterested. But it clearly meant something to Robert. Even with half of Hollywood to pick from, he had settled on Dexter.

He liked me. He really liked me.

Really, this was too much—and it confirmed my low opinion of Robert’s intelligence. Me? Really? Of course, it was flattering, but it was impossible. How was I supposed to work with him when I knew he was gazing longingly at me, mooning, and fighting back declarations of the Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name?

Somehow I would have to. I had my orders, and Robert had his, and he would just have to moon on his own time—and at his own desk. I flipped the newspaper into the trash can, brushed some mostly imaginary filth off my blotter, and set the photograph back in its place. I leaned back again to think, trying to push Robert out of my thoughts, but it was difficult. Even without this absurd devotion to me, Robert was a strange and unsettling presence, and after a week in his company I was definitely feeling that I had been pushed off center. And to be fair, it wasn’t just Robert. The whole week had been strange, and I had not really had time to reflect on it until now, and as I relaxed and let my powerful brain roam where it would, I found myself thinking about Jackie.

She was a very odd person, too, judged by my limited experience, and from my even odder perspective—in a much nicer way than Robert, of course, but still: She seemed unhappy with being a celebrity, although from what I could see she was quite good at it. She mooned over the idea of Ordinary Life—and yet, she was risking her own Extraordinary one to keep herself from falling out of the limelight, exposing herself to an attack from a slavering beast merely to preserve her role on this s