Jeff Lindsay - Dexter's Final Cut

And there was that awful un-Dexter word: “feel.” I am not ruled by what I feel, because for the most part I do not. I am a well-adjusted, nonfeeling Monster, and quite happy to be one, and feelings were something I gave to my Playtime Friends-sharp and immediate feelings. If I could not give them to Patrick it would be incomplete, unfulfilling, Dexter Interruptus.

But, of course, that did not matter. I was not really doing this for me, aside from the fact that I would gain a few days of worry-free lounging in the lap of luxury. No, I was doing this for Jackie-and in a way, for the human race as a whole. I was removing a terrible blemish on the pockmarked face of humanity, a threat to one and all-why, this was really a good deed! Perhaps I could convince Cody’s Cub Scout troop to give me a merit badge in Altruistic Homicide. And if I had to hurry things along more than I would like-well, too bad. This was not playtime. It was a job to be done, and I was just the fiend to do it.

All righty then: There would be no time for any kind of sport with Patrick Bergmann. I would simply find him, finish him, and fling him away, decisively and rapidly-and once more I faltered at the thought. To rush through it like that, and in broad daylight? Distasteful, even dirty; it seemed a little bit too much like … well, like murder.

Of all the odd thoughts I could have, that might seem the oddest, but there it was. Dexter was in a dither over doing what he does best, merely because it would be a rush job. Was my new life of luxury rotting away the hard and happy core of the monster that is me? Turning me into an old maid incapable of the simplest and most well-justified endings? Was I really so straitlaced?

I gave myself a stern lecture, told myself to buck up, play the man, be a mensch, do what must be done, and after several similar clichés I began to believe I could do it, but the thought of it still tickled at me.

Squeamish? Moi?

No matter; it must be done, and so it would. And today was my one real shot at doing it, and I would not dither it away. I looked up at the clock: ten twenty-eight. I would need to leave at around two fifteen to make it down to Cody’s school for a three-o’clock meeting-and I would have to show up at the meeting for the sake of duty, propriety, and an ironclad alibi. But if I went to lunch a little early, say twelve thirty, that would give me two hours before the meeting, assuming I could bring myself to rush the actual lunch part of lunch. It seemed like a terrible sacrifice-but I told myself I was doing it for a noble purpose, and I could always order something extra-nice from room service tonight when it was all over.

So be it. I would swallow my silly objections, and do the thing as it must be done. I turned to my computer to begin my search.

Out of nothing more than habit, I checked my in-box and found the usual odd assortment of absurdity, improbability, and immorality. But there was also an official Memo from the Office of Captain Matthews, informing me that my presence would be required on Saturday night at the Gusman, and I was further ordered to bring my wife, dress nicely, and laugh when the camera pointed at me. I found that I was pinching my nose, and stopped with some irritation.

So Renny had told the truth when he said the captain wanted me there-to further the positive image of the department, no doubt. Well, it was just one more minor burden in this endless life of pain, and somehow I would bear it and survive. In the meantime, I would try to make sure that Patrick did not.

I do have some modest competence in the area of finding things with a computer, and I also have resources available to me that most people do not, courtesy of my job with Miami’s Finest. In just a few minutes I had confirmed that Bergmann, Patrick M., of Laramie, Tennessee, was the proud owner of a red Kawasaki Ninja 650. So I had been right about the motorcycle following us. It was not another aha moment. The only real news was the model and color, and neither told me where he might be right now. But again, this was not a complicated person. If I could not find him in an hour or so, I would simply have to resign from the International Order of Modest Genius. I didn’t know where he was staying: fine. Work backward from where I knew he was .

He had been following us for several days, biding his time while he learned our routine. He had patience, the patience of a deer hunter, and for him this was a lot like hunting deer: Learn their habits, learn how they think, and the rest is easy.

He would know our routine by now, know that from nine to five Jackie was either here in headquarters, inaccessible, or out at a crime scene with armed officers all around her. Even a dolt like Patrick would know he had little chance of getting to Jackie when she was surrounded by cops. So he would watch, learn the rituals, and look for the times of maximum vulnerability.

And of course, it was obvious when those vulnerable intervals were. The only two times I had seen him had been at the hotel, in the morning. I had not seen him arrive at night-but he was there waiting in the morning. Sometime between sixish, when Jackie and I returned to the hotel, and seven thirty a.m., when we left, he took up his post at the end of the hotel’s driveway and waited.

And how patient would he really be? Probably not terribly-this was important to him, more important than anything else in his life. So important, in fact, that he had abandoned everything else in his life in order to do it. He had been following Jackie for quite some time now, which can often have a negative effect on one’s earning power.

Savings? Enough for a year or more on the road? I did not think that Laramie, Tennessee, was a hotbed of billionaires, and I was certain that Patrick Bergmann’s resources were limited. He would not be staying at the Setai in South Beach, nor even the Sonesta in the Grove. In fact, it was probably safe to assume that he could not even afford an ordinary downscale Miami fleabag hotel-not if he had been on the road pursuing Jackie for so long. Even so, he had to sleep, eat, and so forth. When Jackie was untouchably surrounded by armed cops, did he trundle off to his hidey-hole for a peanut butter sandwich and a nap? He would have to do these things, but where would he go that he could do them on the cheap?

Patrick’s Facebook page had shown that he was an outdoorsy type. Would he try to camp out? He could not know ahead of time that the opportunities for sleeping under the stars are somewhat limited within the city of Miami. There are no campgrounds in Miami, other than a few RV parks. So would he sleep on a park bench? Not likely-in a city that depends so heavily on tourism, such things were vigorously discouraged. But the idea of camping seemed right-it was cheap and anonymous, and it fit what I knew of him. So how would he do it?

Hoping for no more than some small visual confirmation, I clicked onto the Web and went once more to his Facebook page. And there, lo and behold …

As I have mentioned, I am not a fan of Facebook. It seems to me like a kind of quiet and subtle virus that worms its way into every aspect of the living tissue of daily existence, until it is impossible to think about cereal without finding an ad for Raisin Bran in your in-box. I am sure the endless intrusive connections can be a great deal of fun for some people, but it really doesn’t make sense for Dexter.

It would make no more sense for Patrick, but he had made himself a second home there anyway, so I flipped to his page for a look-and spent a full half minute staring in disbelief.

As we have observed earlier, people really do put some surprising things on their Facebook pages, almost as if they are trying to make it easier for the thing to take control of their lives. Still, there really ought to be limits, don’t you think? Especially if one is on a killing spree-shouldn’t one maintain a certain discreet silence, assuming one has all one’s mental facilities? I mean, seriously, could anyone really be this stupid?