Deborah glanced up at me without any real recognition and then back to Mr. Aldovar. I was scenery to her, part of what a crime scene looked like, Dexter as Background. Enough: It was time for me to leave, to go back to Lily Anne and Wonder.
And so without lingering for any awkward farewells, I slid out the door and walked back to my car, where it still sat nestled in by the Dumpster. I drove to the hospital in the prelude to evening rush hour, a magical time when everyone on the road felt empowered and entitled to all the lanes at once because they had left work early, and in my past life I had taken great joy in the sight of so much naked contempt for life. Today it left me cold. These people were endangering others, not something I could tolerate in a world where I would soon be driving Lily Anne to ballet lessons. I drove at a careful ten miles per hour over the speed limit, which only served to enrage most of the other drivers. They flew past me on both sides, honking and extending their middle fingers, but I held firm to my safe and sane course, and soon I arrived at the hospital, without any actual exchange of gunfire.
As I came off the elevator on the floor for maternity I paused for a second as the faint echo of a whisper rattled off the back wall of Dexter's Dark Subbasement. This was where I had almost seen somebody who might have been watching me for some reason. But the thought came out sounding so ludicrous that I could do no more than shake my head and send a distant Tut-tut to the Passenger. "Almost Somebody" indeed. I moved on past, turning the corner to the nursery.
All my new friends at the nursery window were gone, replaced by a new crop, and Lily Anne, too, was no longer visible on the other side of the glass. I had a moment of crippling disorientation-where had she gone?-but then logic reasserted itself. Of course-it had been several hours. They would not leave her there alone and on display for so long. Lily Anne would be with her mother, feeding and growing closer. I felt a small surge of jealousy. Rita would have this important and intimate bond with the baby that I could never know-a head start on Lily Anne's affections.
But happily for all, I heard the soft and mocking chuckle that lives inside, and I had to agree. Come now, Dexter: If you suddenly choose to feel emotions, is breast envy the best one to start with? Your role is just as important: to provide firm and loving guidance on the thorny path through Lily Anne's life. And who better than me, who had lived on the twisted trail, savoring the thorns, and who now wanted nothing more than to help her through the thickets unharmed? Who better, in short, than No-Longer-Demented Daddy Dexter?
It was all so neat and logical. I had lived the wicked life in order to know how to steer Lily Anne into the light. Everything made sense at last, and although bitter experience has taught me that if everything makes sense you are looking at it wrong, I nevertheless felt great comfort from the notion. There was a Plan, a True Pattern, and at long last Dexter knew what it was and could actually see his feet on the game board. I knew why I was Here-not to harry the wicked, but to shepherd the pure.
Feeling greatly enlightened and uplifted, I walked briskly past the nurses' station and down to Rita's room at the far end of the hall, right where it was supposed to be. Even better, Lily Anne was there, sound asleep on her mother's chest. A large bouquet of roses sat on the bedside table, and all was right with the world.
Rita opened her eyes and looked up at me with a tired smile. "Dexter," she said. "Where have you been?"
"There was an emergency at work," I said, and she looked at me blankly.
"Work," she said, and she shook her head. "Dexter, I-This is your newborn child here." And right on cue, Lily Anne wiggled slightly and then continued sleeping. She did it very well, too.
"Yes, I know," I said reassuringly.
"It's not-How can you just wander off to work?" she said, and she sounded very peeved, in a way I had never heard before. "When your brand-new baby is-I mean, work? At a time like this?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "Deborah needed me."
"So did I," she said.
"I'm really very sorry," I said, and weirdly enough, I really was. "I'm very new at this, Rita." She looked at me, shaking her head again. "I'll try to get better," I added hopefully.
Rita sighed and closed her eyes. "At least the flowers you sent were nice," she said, and a tiny bell began to ring in the dark backseat of Dexter's wicked wagon. I had not sent any flowers, of course. I was not experienced enough at all the many subtle hypocrisies of married life to think of such a clever ploy-I had not even realized that responding to an emergency at work was wrong, let alone that I needed to apologize with flowers. Of course, Rita had many friends who might have sent them, and I knew several people who were theoretically friends-even Deborah might have had a moment of sensitivity, unlikely as that seemed. In any case, there was absolutely no reason a few fragrant blossoms should set off any kind of alarm.
But they did. They definitely did-a steady, annoying ding-ding-ding of an alarm that very definitely meant all was not what it should be. So I leaned casually over and pretended to sniff the roses, while actually trying to read the accompanying card. Again, there was nothing at all unusual about it, just a small tag that said, Congratulations to us! and scribbled in blue ink underneath was, An admirer.
From the same general region that provided the little alarm bell, I heard a soft and wicked chuckle well up. The Dark Passenger was amused, and no wonder. Dexter is many things, but "admirable" is not one of the top ten. As far as I knew, I had no admirers. Anyone who really knew me well enough to admire me was theoretically already dead, dissected, and disposed. So who would sign the card like that? I knew enough about humans to know that a friend or family member would sign their own name to make absolutely sure they got credit for the flowers. An ordinary human, in fact, would already have called on the telephone to say, "Did you get my flowers? I wanted to be sure because they're so expensive!"
Clearly, no such call had come, since Rita assumed the roses were from me. Just as clearly, there was nothing really threatening about such a minor mystery.
So why did I feel small and icy feet walking up the back of my neck? Why was I so certain that some hidden danger threatened me and, therefore, Lily Anne? I tried to be logical, which is something I had once been very good at. Of course, I told myself reasonably, it was not merely the anonymous flowers-I also had the alarm from the possible sighting of a potential someone earlier on. And when I added it all up, I realized what I had: a very strong possible maybe something or not, which might or might not be an actual threat or not. Or something.
Put that way, in clear and logical form, it made perfect sense for me to feel uneasy. Lily Anne was being stalked by an idiot.
Me.
FIVE
I spent an hour sitting with rita and watching lily Anne sleep, fuss, and feed. Objectively speaking, it was not really a great deal of activity, but it was far more enjoyable and interesting than I would have imagined. I suppose it is no more than a form of egotism to find your own baby so very fascinating-certainly, I had never found other babies compelling-but whatever it might say about me, I did it now and I liked it. Rita dozed, waking only once when Lily Anne twitched and kicked for a few seconds. And then a few minutes later, Rita frowned, opened her eyes, and looked at the clock on the wall above the door.
"The kids," she said.
"Yes," I said, watching as Lily Anne reacted to Rita's voice by curling and uncurling one tiny hand.
"Dexter, you have to pick up Cody and Astor," she said. "At the after-school program."
I blinked. It was true: The program closed at six, and the young women running it began to get very cranky by quarter past. The clock said ten minutes of six. I would just make it.