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“Hurry!” she said, and I disconnected.
And having said that I was on my way, I realized that I was; I had to be; I could really do nothing else. Even though I had mentally cut myself away from Rita and her brood, and in spite of the fact that I do not ever really feel obligated to perform any of the painful tasks of human fatherhood, I really did not see what else I could do. I told myself that I just wanted to make sure my breakaway was unencumbered by guilt, accusations, recriminations, and anything else that might clutter up a clean escape, and to some extent that was true. But I also found myself wondering what Jackie would think of me if I ignored this kind of duty.
And finally, if I was perfectly honest, and I seldom am, I had to admit that I still felt a certain amount of … ownership for Astor. If she was missing, the odds were good that some predator had corralled her, and if that was true, he had taken her from me—not merely a fellow predator, and one who was much higher up on the food chain, but me. For someone to come onto my turf and take one of my things—it was intolerable, and I felt myself growing cold and angry and anxious for a few quiet words with this noxious creature. To prey on children—my children—was not just beneath contempt; it was a personal affront. They had taken something of mine; I would get it back and help them see the error of their ways.
So I didn’t think about it a whole lot longer. I stuck my phone in my pocket and headed back out to where Jackie was shooting her pickups.
Luckily for me, Jackie had just finished when I got there, and she was heading back toward her trailer for a break. “Hey!” she called when she saw me. “I thought you’d be buried in a cup of coffee and a Danish.”
“Something’s come up,” I said. “Astor is missing.”
“Astor?” she said. “Your little girl?”
“Rita’s girl,” I said. For some reason it seemed like an important distinction. “I have to go find her.”
“Oh, my God, of course you do,” she said.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said, although I wasn’t sure at all.
“Go,” she said. And then she frowned and plucked at my shirt. “But maybe you should change first?”
I looked down and saw that I was still wearing my bloody Ben Webster shirt. It probably would be better not to wander around on a rescue looking like I was the victim. “Oh,” I said. “I think you’re right.”
I went back to the trailer with Jackie and began to change into my own clothes. Jackie settled onto the couch and watched me. “Do you have another scene to shoot?” I asked her.
“Not for a while,” she said. “And then it’s the big scene. The ultimate horror.”
“What do you mean?” I said, pulling up my pants. “I already died—what could be worse?”
She made a truly appalled face, and she actually shuddered. “A love scene with Robert,” she said.
“Oh,” I said. I sat beside her to put on my shoes. “Can you do it?”
“Somehow,” she said, and she shuddered again. “But he wants to run the lines with me, and … I probably should; it’s a big scene.” She sighed, and then shook her head. “Or I could go through Kathy’s stuff, like I promised Detective Anderson,” she said. “I’ve been putting it off and putting it off, and I really don’t want to think about Kathy being …” She looked away from me, into the bedroom, where the box was crouching beside the bed. “Suddenly the thought of having to kiss Robert makes it bearable.”
“Well, then,” I said, and I stood up. “That’s what you should do.”
“Yeah,” Jackie said, still looking at the box. And then she shook herself and stood up. “Look at me, such an actress, totally self-centered,” she said. She put her arms around me. “Your little girl is missing,” she said, and she hugged me with her head on my chest, and then looked up at me, those wonderful violet eyes turning suddenly moist. “Go find her, Dexter,” she said. “And quickly. And …” She gave me a long and searching look, and quite clearly there was something else she wanted to say, but after a long moment she simply buried her head in my chest. “And then come back to me,” she said.
I started to say that of course I would, but then she raised her head and her lips covered mine and it didn’t seem all that important to say anything. And far too quickly, Jackie pushed herself away from me. “Go,” she said. “Before I drag you into the other room.” She leaned in and pecked at my cheek, and then strode in and lifted the laptop out of the big box of Kathy’s stuff, and began to plug it in beside the bed. “Shit,” I heard her murmur. “I hate this.…”
I wasn’t too happy with things at the moment, either, but I headed out the door. And as I was almost out of
earshot I heard the trailer door slam open, and Jackie’s voice yell, “Robert!” and then, softer, “Son of a bitch …” She had clearly decided that she would rather run lines with Robert than sort through Kathy’s stuff. It was a tough program either way, but I had some hard time ahead of me, too.
I headed for the perimeter.
I had left my car in the parking lot at work, since I’d been riding with Jackie in the Town Car. But I found a cop who was headed that way and hitched a ride. He had an AM radio playing a conservative talk show. The host was making some very interesting statements about the president. I don’t usually pay much attention to politics, but from what the man said, I had to believe that sometime in the recent past the laws regarding sedition must have changed.
The cop who was driving, however, was nodding his head and muttering agreement, so I just rode along, grateful that I didn’t have to make conversation, and in a mere twelve minutes I was getting into my car and headed for home.
THIRTY-ONE
AT THIS TIME OF DAY, A MIDWEEK AFTERNOON, IT WAS AN EASY drive to my quiet South Miami neighborhood. The traffic was light, and I went quickly up onto I-95 and then straight down Dixie Highway with no problem, and in only about twenty minutes I pulled up in front of my house—my ex-house—and parked my car. I sat for a moment, looking at the place. It had been my home for several years, and it was still home to several things I cared about. My special private rosewood box, for instance: the carefully concealed reliquary for my ever-growing collection of memento mori. Each and every one of my Playmates was there, represented by a single drop of dried blood on a small glass slide. Not Patrick, of course, and that was too bad, but he had been rather a rush job. But all those other fond memories, fifty-seven of them, still lived here in my box. Would it come with me? It had to, of course—leaving it here was unthinkable, and so was getting rid of it. But could my beautiful and unique collection make the transition to life in the fast lane? Could I find a new and safe place for it in my new and unknown life?
That box and its slides were important to me—but under the circumstances it was a truly stupid thing to worry about. I had to find Astor, wherever she was, and if she had been snatched by some predator, as I suspected, then there would soon be a new slide in the box.
The front door of the house banged open and Rita came chuffing out to my car as I got out. “Oh, Dexter, thank God you’re here; let’s go, quick!” she said, reaching for the handle of the passenger door.
