Dexter 4 - Dexter by Design (21 page)

She turned to look at me, and in the deadness of her face and the deep blue emptiness of her eyes, I saw an echo of her father Harry; I had seen that look before, in Harry's eyes, and out of those blue depths a memory came out and wrapped itself all around me.

Harry lay dying. It was an awkward thing for all of us, like watching Superman in the throes of kryptonite. He was supposed to be above that kind of common weakness. But for the last year and a half he had been dying, slowly, in fits and starts, and now he was very close to the finish line. Harry was dying, beyond any doubt, and as he lay there in his hospice bed his nurse had decided to help. She had been deliberately and lethally increasing the dose of his pain medicine and feeding on Harry's death, savoring his shrinking away, and he had known it and told me. Oh the joy and bliss, Harry had given me permission to make this nurse my very first real live human playmate, the first I had ever taken away with me to the Dark Playground.

And I had done so. First Nurse became the very first small drop of blood on the original glass slide in my brand new collection. It had been several hours of wonder, exploration and ecstacy, before First Nurse went the way of all flesh, and the next morning when I went to the hospice to report to Harry, the experience still filled me with brilliant darkness.

I came into Harry's room on feet that barely touched the ground, and as Harry opened his eyes and looked into mine he saw this, saw that I had changed and become the thing that he had made me, and as he watched me the deadness came into his eyes.

I sat anxiously beside him, thinking he might be at some new crisis. “Are you okay?” I said. “Should I call the doctor?” He closed his eyes and slowly, fragilely, shook his head.

“What's wrong?” I insisted, thinking that since I felt better than I ever had before, everyone else really ought to cheer up a little, too.

“Nothing wrong,” he said, in his soft, careful, dying voice. And he opened his eyes again and looked at me with that same glazed look of blue-eyed emptiness. “So you did it?” I nodded, almost blushing, feeling that talking about it was somehow embarrassing.

“And after?” he said.

“All cleaned up,” I said. I was really careful.”

“No problems?” he said.

“No,” I told him, and blurted out, “It was wonderful.” And seeing the pain on his face and thinking I could help I added, “Thank you, Dad.”

Harry closed his eyes again and turned his head away. For six or seven breaths, he stayed like that, and then, so softly I almost 229

couldn't hear him, he said, “What have I done ... Oh, Jesus, what have I done ...”

“Dad?” I said. I could not remember that he had ever spoken like this, saying bad words and sounding so very anguished and uncertain, and it was very unsettling and absolutely took the edge off my euphoria. And he just shook his head, eyes closed and would say nothing more.

“Dad ...?” I said again.

But he said nothing, just shook his head a few more painful times and then lay there quietly, for what seemed to me like a very long time, until at last he opened his eyes and looked at me, and there it was, that dead-eyed blue gaze that had moved beyond all hope and light and into the darkest place there is. “You are,” he said, “what I have made you.”

“Yes,” I said, and I would have thanked him again, but he spoke.

“It's not your fault,” he said, “it's mine,” and I did not know then what he meant by that, although these many years later I think I have begun to understand. I still wish I could have done or said something then, some small thing that would have made it easier for Harry to slide happily into the final dark; some carefully crafted sentence that made the self-doubt go away and let the sunlight back into those empty blue eyes.

But I also know, these many years later, that there is no such sentence, not in any language I know. Dexter is what Dexter must be, always and evermore, world without end, and if Harry saw that at the end and felt a final surge of horror and guilt —well, I really am sorry, but what else is there? Dying makes everyone weaker, subject to painful insight, and not always insight into any kind of special truth —it's just the approaching end that makes people want to believe they are seeing something in the line of a great revelation.

Believe me, I am very much an expert in what dying people do. If I were to catalog all the strange things that my Special Friends have said to me as I helped them over the edge it would make a very interesting book.

So, I felt bad about Harry. But as a young and awkward geek of a monster there was very little I could have said to make it easier on him.

Now, all these years later, seeing the same look in Deborah's eyes, I felt the same unhappy sense of helplessness wash over me. I could only gawk at her as she turned away and looked at the window once more.

“For Christ's sake,” she said, without looking away from the window. “Quit staring at me.” Chutsky slid into a chair on the opposite side. “She is a little cranky lately,” he said.

“Fuck you,” she said without any real emphasis, tilting her head to look around Chutsky and keep her focus on the window.

“Listen, Deborah,” he said. “Dexter knows where this guy is that hurt you.” She still didn't look, just blinked her eyes, twice. “Uh, and he was thinking that him and me might go get him actually. And we wanted to talk to you about it,” Chutsky said. “See how you feel about it.”

“How I feel,” she said with a flat and bitter voice, and then she turned to face us with a pain in her eyes that was so terrible even I could feel it. “Do you want to know what I really feel?” she said.

“Hey, it's okay,” said Chutsky.

“They told me I was dead on the table,” she said. I feel like I'm still dead. I feel like I don't know who I am or why or anything and I just ...” A tear rolled down her cheek and again, it was very unsettling. “I feel like he cut out all of me that matters,” she said, “and I don't know if I will ever get it back.” She looked back at the window again. I feel like crying all the time, and that's not me. I don't cry, you know that, Dex. I don't cry,” she repeated softly as another tear rolled down the track made by the first one.

“It's okay,” Chutsky said again, even though it clearly wasn't.

I feel like everything I always thought is wrong now,” she went on. “And I don't know if I can go back to being a cop if I feel like this.”

“You're gonna feel better,” Chustky said. “It just takes time.”

“Go get him,” she said, and she looked at me with a little trace of her good old anger showing now. “Get him, Dexter,” she said. “And do what you have to do.” She held my gaze for a moment, then turned back to the window.

“Dad was right,” she said.

THAT IS HOW EARLY NEXT MORNING I FOUND MYSELF standing at a small building on the outer edge of the runway at Miami International, clutching a passport in the name of David Marcey, and wearing what can only be called a leisure suit, green, with bright yellow matching belt and shoes. Next to me stood my associate director at Baptist Brethren International Ministries, the Reverend Campbell Freeney, in an equally hideous outfit and a big smile that changed the shape of his face and even seemed to hide some of the scars.

I am not truly a clothing-oriented person, but I do have some basic standards of sartorial decency, and the outfits we were wearing crushed them utterly and spat them into the dust. I had protested, of course, but Reverend Kyle had told me there was no choice. “Gotta look the part, buddy,” he said, and he brushed a hand against his red sport coat. “This is Baptist missionary clothing.”

“Couldn't we be Presbyterians?” I asked hopefully, but he shook his head.

“This is the pipeline I got,” he said, “and this is how we gotta do it. Unless you speak Hungarian?”

“Eva Gabor?” I said, but he shook his head.

“And don't try to talk about Jesus all the time, they don't do that,” he said. “Just smile a lot and be kind to everybody, and you'll be fine.” He handed me another piece of paper and said, “Here. This is your letter from Treasury to allow you to travel to Cuba for missionary work. Don't lose it.” He had been a fountain of a great deal more information in the few short hours between deciding he would take me to Havana and our dawn arrival at the airport, even remembering to tell me not to drink the water, which I thought was close to quaint.

I'd barely had time to tell Rita something almost plausible —that I had an emergency to take care of and not to worry, the uniformed cop would stay at her front door until I got back. And although she was quite smart enough to be puzzled by the idea of emergency forensics, she went along with it, reassured by the sight of the police cruiser parked in front of the house. Chutsky, too, had done his part, patting Rita on the shoulder and saying, “Don't worry, we'll take care of this for you.” Of course, this confused her even more, since she had not requested any blood spatter work, and if she had, Chutsky would not have been involved. But overall, it seemed to give her the impression that somehow vital things were being done to make her safe and everything would soon be all right, so she gave me a hug with minimal tears, and Chutsky led me away to the car.

And so we stood there together in the small building at the airport waiting for the flight to Havana, and after a short spell we were out the door and onto the runway, clutching our phony papers and our real tickets and taking our fair share of elbows from the rest of the passengers as we all scuttled onto the plane.

The airplane was an old passenger jet. The seats were worn and not quite as clean as they could have been. Chutsky —I mean Reverend Freeney —took the aisle seat, but he was big enough that he still crowded me over against the window. It would be a tight fit all the way to Havana, tight enough that I would have to wait for him to go to the restroom before I could inhale. Still, it seemed a small price to pay for bringing the Word of the Lord to the godless communists. After only a few minutes of holding my breath, the plane rattled and bumped down the runway and into the air, and we were on our way.

The flight was not long enough for me to suffer too much from oxygen deprivation, especially since Chutsky spent much of the time leaning into the aisle and talking to the flight attendant; within only about half an hour we were banking in over the green countryside of Cuba and thumping onto a runway that apparently used the same paving contractor as Miami International. Still, as far as I could tell the wheels did not actually fall off, and we rolled along up to a beautiful modern airport terminal —and rolled right past it until we finally came to a halt next to a grim old structure that looked like the bus station for a prison camp.

We trooped down off the plane on a rolling stairway, and crossed the tarmac into the squat grey building, and the inside was not a great deal more welcoming. Some very serious-looking uniformed men with mustaches stood around inside clutching automatic weapons and glaring at everyone. As a bizarre contrast, several television sets hung down from the ceiling, all playing what seemed to be a Cuban sitcom, complete with a hysterical laughter track that made its US counterpart sound bored. Every few minutes one of the actors would shout something I couldn't decipher, and a blast of music would rise up over the laughter.

We stood in a line that moved slowly toward a booth. I could see nothing at all on the far side of the booth and for all I knew they could be sorting us into cattle cars to take us away to a gulag, but Chutsky didn't seem terribly worried, so it would have been poor sportsmanship for me to complain.

The line inched ahead and soon, without saying a word to me, Chutsky stepped up to the window, and shoved his passport in through a hole at the bottom. I could not see or hear what was said, but there were no wild shouts and no gunfire and after a moment he collected his papers and vanished on the far side of the booth, and it was my turn.

Behind the thick glass sat a man who could have been the twin of the nearest gun-toting soldier. He took my passport without comment and opened it, looked inside, looked up at me, and then pushed it back to me without a word. I had expected some kind of interrogation -1 suppose I'd thought he might rise up and smite me for being either a capitalist running dog, or possibly a paper tiger and I was so startled at his complete lack of response that I stood there for a moment before the man behind the glass jerked his head at me to go, and I did, heading around a corner the way Chutsky had gone and into the baggage claim area.

“Hey buddy,” Chutsky said as I approached the spot he had staked out by the unmoving belt that would soon, I hoped, bring our bags out. “You weren't scared, were you?” I guess I thought it would be a little more difficult than that,” I said. I mean, aren't they kind of mad at us or something?” Chutsky laughed. I think you're gonna find out that they like you,” he said. “It's just your government they can't stand.” I shook my head. “Can they really separate them like that?”

“Sure,” he said. “It's simple Cuban logic” As nonsensical as that seemed, I had grown up in Miami and knew perfectly well what that was; Cuban logic was a running joke in the Cuban community, placed right before being Cubanaso in the emotional spectrum. The best explanation I'd ever had was from a professor in college. I'd taken a poetry course in the vain hope of learning to see into the human soul, since I don't have one. And the professor had been reading aloud from Walt Whitman —I still remembered the line, since it is so utterly human. “Do I contradict myself? Well then —I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes.” And the professor had looked up from the book and said, “Perfect Cuban logic,” waited for the laughter to die down, and then gone back to reading the poem.

So, if the Cuban people disliked America and liked Americans, it involved no more mental gymnastics than I had seen and heard nearly every day of my life. In any case, there was a clatter, a buzzer blasted a loud note, and our baggage began to come out on the belt.

We didn't have a lot, just one small bag each —just a change of socks and a dozen bibles —and we wrestled the bags out past a female customs agent who seemed more interested in talking to the guard beside her than in catching us smuggling in weapons or stock portfolios.

She merely glanced at the bags and waved us through, without losing a syllable of her rapid-fire monologue. And then we were free, walking improbably out the door and into the sunshine outside. Chutsky whistled up a taxi, a grey Mercedes, and a man stepped out in grey livery and matching cap and grabbed our bags.

Chutsky said, “Hotel Nacional,” to the driver, he threw our bags in the trunk, and we all climbed in.

The highway into Havana was badly pock-marked, but it was very close to deserted. We saw only a few other cabs, a couple of motorcycles, and some army trucks moving slowly along, and that was it —all the way into the city. Then the streets suddenly exploded into life, with ancient cars, bicycles, crowds of people flowing over the sidewalks, and some very strange-looking buses that were pulled by diesel trucks. They were twice as long as an American bus, and shaped something like the letter “M” with the two ends going up like wings and then sloping down to a flat-roofed low spot in the middle.

They were all packed so full of people that it seemed impossible for anyone else to get on, but as I watched one of them stopped and sure enough, another clump of people crowded in.

“Camels” Chutsky said, and I stared at him curiously.

“Excuse me?” I said.

He jerked his head at one of the strange buses. “They're called camels” he said. “They'll tell you it's because of the shape, but my guess is it has to do with the smell inside at rush hour.” He shook his head. “You get 400 people inside there, coming home from work, no air conditioning and the windows don't open. Unbelievable.” It was a fascinating tidbit of information, or at least Chutsky apparently thought so, because he had nothing more profound to offer, even though we were moving through a city I had never seen before. But his impulse to be a tour guide was apparently dead, and we slid through traffic and onto a wide boulevard that ran along the water. High up on a cliff on the other side of the harbor I could see an old lighthouse and some battlements, and beyond that a black smudge of smoke climbing into the sky. Between us and the water there was a broad sidewalk and a sea wall. Waves broke on the wall, sending spray up into the air, but nobody seemed to mind getting a little wet. There were throngs of people of all ages sitting, standing, walking, fishing, lying and kissing on the sea wall. We passed some strange contorted sculpture, thumped over a rough patch of pavement, and turned left up a short hill. And then there it was, the Hotel Nacional, complete with its facade that would soon feature the smirking face of Dexter, unless we could find Weiss first.

The driver stopped his car in front of a grand marble staircase, a doorman dressed like an Italian admiral stepped up and clapped his hands, and a uniformed bellboy came running out to grab our bags.

“Here we are” said Chutsky, somewhat unnecessarily. The admiral opened the door and Chutsky climbed out. I was allowed to open my own door, since I was on the side away from the marble stairs. I did so, and climbed out into a forest of helpful smiles.

Chutsky paid the driver, and we followed the bellboy up the stairs and into the hotel.

The lobby looked like it had been carved out of the same block of marble as the stairs. It was somewhat narrow, but it stretched away past the front desk and vanished in the misty distance. The bellboy led us right up to the desk, past a cluster of plush chairs and a velvet rope, and the clerk at the desk seemed very glad to see us.

“Senor Freeney” he said, bowing his head happily. “So very good to see you again.” He raised an eyebrow. “Surely, you are not here for the art festival?” His accent was less than many I had heard in Miami, and Chutsky seemed very pleased to see him, too.

Chutsky reached across the counter and shook his hand. “How are you, Rogelio?” he said. “Nice to see you, too. I'm here to break in a new guy” He put his hand on my shoulder and nudged me forward, as if I was a sullen boy being forced to kiss Granny on the cheek. “This is David Marcey, one of our rising stars” he said. “Does a hell of a sermon.”

Rogelio shook my hand. I am very pleased to meet you, Senor Marcey.”

“Thank you” I said. “You have a very nice place here.” He gave a half-bow again and began to tap on a computer keyboard. I hope you will enjoy your stay” he said. “If Senor Freeney does not object, I will put you on the executive floor? That way you are closer to the breakfast.”

“That sounds very nice” I said.

“One room or two?” he said.

“I think just one this time, Rogelio” Chutsky said. “Gotta watch the old expense account this trip.”

“Of course” Rogelio said. He tapped out a few more quick key strokes and then, with a grand flourish, slid two keys across the desk. “Here you go” he said.

Chutsky put his hand on the keys and leaned in a little closer.

“One more thing, Rogelio” he said, lowering his voice. “We have a friend coming in from Canada” he said. “Name of Brandon Weiss.” He pulled the keys toward himself over the counter, and a twenty dollar bill lay on the counter where they had been. “We'd like to surprise him” he said. “It's his birthday” Rogelio flicked out a hand and the twenty dollar bill disappeared like a fly grabbed by a lizard. “Of course” he said. I will let you know immediately”

“Thanks, Rogelio” Chutsky said, and he turned away, motioning me to follow. I trailed along behind him and the bellboy with our bags, to the far end of the lobby, where a bank of elevators stood ready to whisk us up to the executive floor. A crowd of people dressed in very nice resort-wear stood waiting, and it may have been only my feverish imagination, but I thought they glared in horror at our missionary clothing. Still, there was nothing for it but to follow the script, and I smiled at them and managed to avoid blurting out something religious, possibly from Revelations.

The door slid open and the crowd surged into the elevator. The bellboy smiled and said, “Go ahead, sir, I follow in two minute” and the Right Reverend Freeney and I climbed in.

The doors closed. I caught a few more anxious glances at my shoes, but no one had anything to say, and neither did I. But I did wonder why we had to share a room. I hadn't had a roommate since college, and that hadn't really worked out very well. And I knew full well that Chutsky snored.

The doors slid open and we stepped out. I followed Chutsky to the left, to another reception area, where a waiter stood beside a glass cart. He bowed and handed us each a tall glass.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Cuban Gatorade” Chutsky said. “Cheers.” He drained his glass and put the empty down on the cart, so I allowed myself to be shamed into doing the same. The drink tasted mild, sweet, slightly minty, and I found that it did, indeed, seem to be kind of refreshing in the way that Gatorade is on a hot day. I put the empty down next to Chutsky's. He picked up another one, so I did, too. “Salad,” he said. We clinked glasses and I drank. It really did taste good, and since I'd had almost nothing to eat or drink in the scramble of getting to the airport, I let myself enjoy it.