But luckily for Samantha, before I could even reach for the duct tape Deborah decided to impose herself again in the role of compassionate rescuer. "All right," she said. "This can all wait. Let's just get you home to your parents now." And she put her hand on Samantha's shoulder.
Naturally enough, Samantha pushed the hand off as if it were a loathsome insect. "Great," she said. "I can't fucking wait."
"Put your seat belt on," Deborah told her, and, completely as an afterthought, she turned to me and said, "I guess you can ride along."
I almost told her, No, don't bother, I will stay here and feed mosquitoes, but at the last second I remembered that Deborah's record with sarcasm was not good, so I just nodded and buckled up.
Deborah called the dispatcher and said, "I've got the Aldovar girl. I'm taking her home," and Samantha muttered, "Big whoopee-shit." Deborah just glanced at her with something that looked like a rictus but was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile, and then she put the car in gear, and I had a little over half an hour to sit in the backseat and picture my life splintering into a million decorative shards. It was a terribly depressing picture-Dexter Disenfranchised, tossed on the scrap heap, stripped of his carefully built costume and all its comfy props-flung naked and unloved into the cold and lonely world, and I could see no way to avoid it. I'd had to go down on my knees and beg just to get Samantha to do nothing while I tried to escape-and she had been neutral then. Now that she was peeved with me, there was nothing I could possibly do to stop her from telling, short of actual vivisection. I couldn't even give her back to the cannibals; with Kukarov dead and the rest of the group either captured or on the run, there would be no one left to eat her. The picture was grim and very clear: Samantha's fantasy was over, she blamed me, and she would take her terrible revenge-and there was nothing I could do about it.
I have never really had an appetite for irony, but I couldn't help but see more than a little of it here: After all I had done, willingly and joyfully, and now I would be brought down by a sulking young woman and a bottle of water? It was so subtly ludicrous that only the French could truly appreciate it.
Just to underline my predicament and her own determination, Samantha turned and glared at me every few miles as we drove the long, depressing way to her home, back along Route 41 and then over LeJeune and into the Grove to the Aldovars' house. And just to remind me that even the worst joke has a punch line, when we turned down Samantha's street and approached her house, Deborah muttered, "Shit," and I hunched forward and looked through the windshield at what appeared to be a carnival in front of the house.
"That goddamned son of a bitch," she said, and she smacked the steering wheel with the palm of her hand.
"Who?" I said, and I admit I was eager to see somebody else take a little heat.
"Captain Matthews," she snarled. "When I called it in, he got the whole fucking press corps here so he can hug Samantha and jut his fucking chin at the cameras."
And sure enough, as Deborah brought the car to a stop in front of the Aldovars' house, Captain Matthews appeared at the passenger door as if by magic, and reached in to help a still-sullen Samantha out of the car as flashbulbs popped and even the horde of savage reporters murmured, "Awwww." The captain flung a protective arm around her shoulders and then waved commandingly at the crowd to move aside and let them through-a truly great moment in the history of irony, since Matthews had summoned them all here to watch this exact moment, and now he was pretending he wanted them to leave him alone while he comforted Samantha. I admired the performance so much that for a full minute I only worried about my future two or three times.
Deborah did not seem quite as impressed as I was. She trailed along behind Matthews with a wicked scowl on her face, shoving at any reporter foolish enough to get in her way, and generally acting like she had just been indicted for waterboarding. I followed the happy little group through the crowd until Matthews reached the front door, where Mr. and Mrs. Aldovar were waiting to smother their wayward daughter with hugs and kisses and tears. It was an extremely touching scene, and Captain Matthews played it perfectly, as if he had been rehearsing for months. He stood beside the family group and beamed at them as the parents snuffled and Samantha scowled and finally, when he could sense that the reporters were reaching the end of their attention span, he stepped in front of them and held up a hand.
Just before he spoke to the crowd, he leaned over to Deborah and said, "Don't worry, Morgan; I won't make you say anything this time."
"Yes, sir," she said through her teeth.
"Just try to look proud and humble," he told her, and he patted her shoulder and smiled at her as the cameras rolled. Deborah showed him her teeth, and he turned back to the crowd.
"I told you we would find her," Matthews told the crowd in a manly growl, "and we found her!" He turned around and looked at the Aldovar trio so the reporters would get a shot of him gloating protectively at them. Then he turned back around and gave a short speech of praise for himself. Of course there was no word about Dexter's terrible sacrifice, nor even Deborah's diligence, but perhaps that would have been too much to expect. It went on predictably enough for a little longer, but finally the Aldovars went in their house, the reporters got tired of the captain's chin, and Deborah grabbed my arm, pulled me through the crowd to her car, and took me home.
THIRTY-TWO
Deborah drove up to dixie highway and turned south toward my house without speaking, but after a few minutes the angry glare faded from her face, and her hands on the wheel lost their white-knuckled grip. "Anyway," she said at last, "the important thing is that we got Samantha."
I admired my sister's ability to identify the "important thing," but I really felt I should point out that it was the wrong one, because it did not include me. "Samantha didn't want to be got," I said. "She wants to be eaten."
Deborah shook her head. "Nobody wants that," she said. "She said that because she's maybe a little fucked-up, and she started to identify with the assholes that grabbed her. But wants to be? I mean, eaten?" She made the sour-lemon face again and shook her head. "Come on, Dex."
I could have told her that I was quite convinced, and that she would be, too, if she talked to Samantha for five minutes. But when Deborah makes up her mind, it takes a written order from the police commissioner to change it, and I didn't think there was one in the works.
"And besides," she said, "she's back with her family now, and they can get her a shrink or whatever. The more important thing for us is to wrap this thing up, round up Bobby Acosta and the last of the group."
"The coven," I told her, and maybe I was being pedantic. "Samantha says it's called a coven."
Deborah frowned. "I thought that was witches," she said. "It's apparently cannibals, too," I said.
"I don't think you can call a group of guys a coven," she said stubbornly. "I think it has to be witches. You know, women."
It seemed like such a small point, especially after all I had just been through, and I was far too tired to argue it. Happily, my time with Samantha had prepared me to give exactly the right response. "Whatever," I said. Deborah seemed satisfied with that, and after a few more empty remarks we were at my street. Deborah let me out in front of my house and drove off, and I thought no more about it in the pleasure of being home.
Home was waiting for me, and for some reason I found that surprising and touching. Deborah had called Rita and told her I would be late, not to worry, everything was fine, which seemed very close to callous overconfidence on her part. Rita had seen the news, though, which had made the capture into the evening's lead story-and really, how could they possibly resist? Cannibals, missing teen, Everglades shootout-it was a perfect story. There had already been a phone call from a premium cable network, trying to get the rights to the story.