Jeffrey Lindsay - Dexter is delicious

"Perhaps you could massage yourself later, brother?" Brian said. "We really can't linger." He nodded at the gangway.

"I need to get Deborah," I said.

He sighed theatrically. "What is it with you and that girl?" he said.

"She's my sister."

Brian shook his head. "I suppose," he said. "But do let's hurry, all right? The place is crawling with these people, and we would really rather avoid them, I think."

We had to pass the mainmast to get to the cabin door and, in spite of Brian's urgency, I paused by Samantha, taking very great care to avoid the puddle of blood that spread out to her right. I stood on her left side and looked at her carefully. Her face was incredibly pale and she was no longer swaying or moaning and for a moment I thought she was already dead. I put a hand on her neck to feel for a pulse; it was there, but very faint, and as I touched her neck her eyes fluttered open. The eyeballs themselves twitched and did not quite focus and she clearly didn't recognize me. She half closed her eyes again and said something I could not hear and I leaned closer. "What did you say?" I said.

"Was I… good…?" she whispered hoarsely. It took me a moment, but I finally did realize what she meant.

They like to tell us that it is important to speak the truth, but it has been my experience that real happiness lies in having people tell you what you want to believe, usually not the same thing at all, and if you have to stub your toe on the truth later, so be it. For Samantha, there was not going to be any later, and that being the case, I could not really find it in myself to hold a grudge and be mean enough to speak the truth now.

So I leaned down close to her ear and told her what she wanted to hear.

"You were delicious," I said.

She smiled and closed her eyes.

"I really don't think we have time for sentimental scenes," Brian said. "Not if you want to save that darn sister of yours."

"Right," I said. "Sorry." I left Samantha with no real reluctance, pausing only to pick up one of Alana's very nice knives from the table beside the barbecue.

We found Deborah behind the counter in what had once been the concession stand down in the main cabin of the old pirate ship. She and Chutsky had both been tied to a couple of large pipes that ran from a missing sink into the deck. Their hands and feet were duct-taped. Chutsky, to his credit, had almost freed one hand — his only hand, of course, but give kudos where it's due.

"Dexter!" he said. "Christ, I'm glad to see you. She's still breathing; we gotta get her outta here." He saw Brian lurking behind me for the first time and frowned. "Hey — that's the guy with the Taser."

"It's all right," I said unconvincingly. "Um, actually, he's —"

"It was an accident," Brian said quickly, as if afraid I would actually introduce him by name. He had flipped the hood back up to mask his face. "Anyway, I rescued you, so let's just get out of here quickly, before anybody else shows up, all right?"

Chutsky shrugged. "Yeah, sure, okay, you got a knife?"

"Of course," I said. I leaned over him, and he shook his head impatiently.

"No, fuck, come on, Dex, get Deborah first," he said.

It seemed to me that a man with only one hand and one foot who is bound hand and foot, as well as tied to a pipe, is in no place to give orders in a cranky tone of voice. But I let it pass, and I knelt beside Deborah. I cut the tape off her wrists and picked up one hand. The pulse felt strong and regular. I hoped that meant she was just unconscious; she was very healthy, and very tough, and unless she had caught a really bad break I thought she would probably be all right, but I did wish she would wake up and tell me so in person.

"Come on, quit fucking around, buddy," Chutsky said in the same petulant tone, and I cut the rope that secured Deborah to the pipe, and the tape that held her ankles together.

"We do need to hurry," Brian said softly. "Do we have to bring him?"

"Very fucking funny," Chutsky said, but I knew that my brother was serious.

"I'm afraid so," I said. "Deborah would be upset if we left him behind."

"Then for goodness' sake, cut him loose and let's go," Brian said, and he went to the door of the cabin and looked out, holding the shotgun at the ready. I cut Chutsky loose and he lurched to his feet — or to be accurate, to his foot, since one of them was a prosthetic replacement, like his hand. He looked down at Deborah for a second and Brian cleared his throat impatiently.

"All right," Chutsky said. "I'll carry her. Help me out, Dex." And he nodded at Debs. Together we lifted her up and got her onto Chutsky's shoulder. He didn't seem to mind the weight; he shifted once to get her settled more comfortably, and then he moved toward the door as if he were off on a hike with a small day pack.

On deck, Chutsky paused briefly by Samantha, which made Brian hiss with impatience. "Is this the girl Debbie wanted to rescue so bad?" Chutsky said.

I looked at my brother, who was practically hopping on one foot in his eagerness to be gone. I looked back at my sister, draped across Chutsky's shoulder, and I sighed. "That's her," I said.

Chutsky shifted Deborah's weight slightly so he could reach over with his one real hand. He put it on Samantha's throat and held his fingers there for a few seconds. Then he shook his head. "Too late," he said. "She's dead. Debbie's going to be very upset."

"I'm awfully sorry," Brian said. "Can we go now?"

Chutsky looked at him and shrugged, which made Deborah slip a little bit. He caught her — fortunately not with his steel hook — readjusted her weight, and said, "Yeah, sure, let's go," and we scurried for the ramp off the boat.

Getting down the wobbly gangway was a bit tricky, especially since Chutsky was using his hand to hold on to Deborah, leaving only his hook to hold the guide rope. But we did manage, and once we were on terra firma we headed quickly for the gate.

I wondered if I should feel bad about Samantha. I didn't really think there was anything I could have done to save her — I hadn't even done a very good job of saving myself, which had a far higher priority — but it made me uncomfortable just to leave her body there. Perhaps it was because of all the blood, which always unsettles me. Or maybe it was just that I was always so tidy with my own leftovers. Certainly it was not because I thought her death was tragic or unnecessary — far from it. It was actually a small relief to have her out of the way without having to take any of the responsibility for it myself. It meant that I was in the clear; there was no piper to be paid, and my life could slip back onto its well-oiled and comfortable rails without any more worry about frivolous court proceedings. No, on the whole, it was a very good thing that Samantha got her wish, or most of it. The only thing gnawing at me was that it made me want to whistle, and that didn't seem right.

And then it hit me — I was feeling guilt! Me, Deeply Dead Dexter, King of the Unfeeling! I was wallowing in that soul-crushing, time-wasting, ultimate human self-indulgence — guilt! And all because I felt secret happiness from thinking that the untimely end of a young woman was a good thing for my selfish self-interests.

Had I finally grown a soul?

Was Pinocchio a real boy at last?

It was ludicrous, impossible, unthinkable — and yet, I was thinking it. Maybe it was true — maybe the birth of Lily Anne and my becoming Dex-Daddy and all the other impossible events of the last few weeks had finally and fatally killed the Dark Dancer I had always been. Maybe even the last few hours of mind-numbing terror under the reptile glare of Alana's dead blue eyes had helped, stirring the ashes until a seed sprouted. Maybe I was a new being now, ready to blossom into a happy, feeling human, one who could laugh and cry without pretending, and watch a TV show without secretly wondering what the actors would look like taped to a table — was it possible? Was I newborn Dexter, ready to take his place in a world of real people at last?