Jeff Lindsay - Dexter's Final Cut

I refilled her cup. She drank this one a lot slower, and about halfway through it her face began to shrink back to its normal shape, and then she opened her eyes. They were violet again, and most of the red was gone from them. She finished the cup, refilled it herself this time, and sipped slowly.

“Sorry,” she said after a few minutes. Her voice was still a bit raspy, and she cleared her throat. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” she said, and she sounded nearly human again. “So I had a few shots of dark rum.” She shrugged. “Okay, more than a few. Anyway, it didn’t work. So I took a couple of sleeping pills.” Jackie closed her eyes and shook her head slowly. “Boy, oh, boy, did that work,” she said. “I think I almost pulled a Marilyn.”

“A what?” I said.

“Monroe,” she said with a very small smile. “You know, screen goddess takes fatal overdose. Oh, my head.”

“Do you want some aspirin?”

“I took four or five,” she said. “They’ll kick in in a minute.” She pursed her lips and sighed heavily. “It’s this guy. The stalker. Patrick Whatsit.”

“Bergmann,” I said helpfully.

“Yeah,” she said. “I just kept thinking, He’s out there, probably watching me right now, maybe sneaking into the hotel and picking the lock on my door.…”

For half a moment, I toyed with the idea of telling her that Patrick was not sneaking into anything except possibly decomposition. And in a rational world, why wouldn’t I? What reasonable person could object to the removal of a brutal killer who did appalling things to human beings and liked doing them? But on sober reflection, it occurred to me that if I told her, Jackie might realize that this was an apt description for me, too, so it might not be a good idea to tell her. And after all, rotting flesh was hardly a suitable topic of conversation for the breakfast table. So I settled for more pedestrian reassurance. “There’s a chain on the door,” I said. “And a heavily armed and deadly Dexter on the couch.”

She cleared her throat again. “I know, but this is last night, in the dark. Everything is bigger and meaner in the dark.”

Of course, she was right about that, but instead of telling her so I just nodded, and she went on.

“And then I started thinking about what you had said, about how he might drop down from the roof on a clothesline, and I swear I could hear him scrabbling at the window. I’d jump up and look, and …” She shook her head and smiled sadly at her last-night self. “Pretty dumb, right?”

“Well,” I said.

“Yeah, thanks, you don’t have to agree with me.” She sighed, and then eyed the large platter on the table with its silver cover. “Is that breakfast?”

“Your usual,” I said.

Jackie lifted the silver lid and stared at the meager scraps of food on the plate underneath. She closed her eyes, dropped the cover, and leaned away from it. “I think I need something a little bit more substantial this morning,” she said, and she stood up. “I’ll call down for some eggs.”

“The bacon is very good, too,” I said.

Jackie’s breakfast arrived so quickly they might have cooked it in the hall outside our room, and she tore into it like she hadn’t eaten for a week-which she hadn’t, as far as I could tell. The few miserable morsels of stuff she usually nibbled at didn’t really count, in my opinion, and it was a strange kind of relief to see her eating something that actually qualified as food. Even better, she left two strips of bacon on her plate. They looked terribly lonely, so I quickly gave them a good home.

And since the waiter had left us a fresh pot of coffee, we both filled our cups, and then, almost in unison, we sipped and sat back.

“Better,” Jackie said. “Much, much better.”

And it was; she looked almost superhuman again. Color and shape had come back into her face. Her cheekbones had emerged from the haze, and her eyes looked clear and bright and very violet once more.

For a minute or two we just slurped our coffee in comfortable silence. I didn’t feel any pressure to say clever and interesting things, and apparently neither did Jackie. Our reverie was finally shattered by the sound of the house phone, clamoring for attention. She jerked up to her feet, muttered, “Shit,” and stepped back in through the sliding glass door to answer it.

She came back a moment later, frowning. “Kathy,” she said. “They want to see me in wardrobe. She’s going to meet us over there.”

“But it’s Saturday,” I said. “I mean, don’t people take the day off?”

Jackie shook her head with a smile that said I had a lot to learn. “We start shooting Monday morning, Dexter,” she said. “The wardrobe and makeup people have tons of last-minute things to do, and they need us there to do them.”

“Oh,” I said, and with an effort I put on my bodyguard hat. “Will the Town Car be here to take us over?”

She nodded and sat down, reaching for her cup. “It’ll be in front in ten minutes,” she said. She drained the cup, put it on the table, and said, “I better get ready.” But before she could stand up, her cell phone chimed. She shook her head and said, “It never ends.” But when she picked it up and looked at the screen, she said, “Oh,” with surprise. “It’s your sister.” She touched the screen and held the phone up to her ear.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” she said. “No, I’ve already had breakfast.” She glanced at me with amusement. “Of course. He even finished mine.… I know, he must have a high metabolism, because …”

It’s always nice to know people are talking about you, but from the smirks Jackie sent my way, it might not have been the most flattering conversation. But short of snarling and ripping the phone from Jackie’s hand, there was nothing I could do but endure, so I did, and the talk apparently changed to some other topic right after.

“Really,” Jackie said. “On your day off? … I know; that’s why I’ve tried to avoid it.… No … No, I have to go for a fitting.… A costume fitting. For the show … You did know we start shooting Monday? … Oh, good, because …”

She glanced at me again, this time with something else in her eyes-challenge? Speculation? I couldn’t be sure. Her tongue poked out between her lips, and her mouth twitched as if she was trying to fight off a mischievous impulse and not succeeding. “Sure, why not?” she said. “It’s a great idea; they’ll love it.… Well, I don’t mind.… No, she’s a little bit of a witch, but I think it’s okay.… I’ll make sure it’s okay.… Sure, that will be great. Bye.” She touched the screen again and put the phone down. “Your sister,” she said, quite unnecessarily.

“I know,” I said. “How am I?”

But Jackie was already on her feet and rushing away. “I have to get ready,” she called over one shoulder, and then she was gone, wafting herself away into the murky mysteries of makeup, hair, and whatever else it is that women do when they Get Ready.

Ten minutes later the doorman called on the house phone to tell me the car was here, and only two or three minutes after that, we were in the elevator and heading down to the lobby. Benny, the doorman, had finally taken a day off, and his replacement waited by the door for us, staring at Jackie with visible tension, mixed with awe.

Even though there was no actual need for it, I went through my routine of stepping outside and looking around. Everything seemed fine. There was no sign of soaking-wet, barnacle-encrusted stalker anywhere. The Corniche still looked expensive.

The driver in the Town Car was the same man, which seemed a little surprising. I opened the front door and stuck my head in. “Don’t you get weekends off?”