Dexter's Final Cut by Jeff Lindsay Page B

knowledge. And I knew nothing about being a mutilated, helpless victim, either. On the whole, I had to believe that was a good thing.
    No: It was the predator’s perspective that was important for understanding this—an angle that was far more natural for me. I sent a silent apology to the Passenger, and changed my mental point of view.
    All right: The basics of stalking, capture, bondage, all the other bits of foreplay were standard, uninteresting. Then the real work begins, and I leaned back on the couch and tried to see how it hadhappened. Around me in our little house I could hear the clamor of bath, brushing, bedtime, and I closed my eyes and tried to shut it out while I concentrated.
    Breathe in, out, focus; I picture the damage to the body, see how it must have happened, each wild bite and slash. The girl thrashes, terrified, eyes bulging, not knowing what will happen next but knowing it will be beyond horror, and in my imagination I raise up the knife—and I realize there is something atypical here, a first significant variation. Because it was My Imagination, I had pictured a knife going up—it is, after all, how I do it. It is a wonderful moment: to see the eyes widen, the muscles knot against the duct tape, the breath hiss laboriously in for a scream that will never get past the gag. I always use knives and other hardware, with never an exception. It is not merely an aesthetic choice, a pride in making neat and clean cuts; the thought of getting any vile body fluids on my hands is repulsive, unspeakable, a dreadful corruption.
    From my professional experience, though, I knew very well that many fellow hobbyists prefer the hands-on approach, even require it for fulfillment. Picturing direct contact with pulsing wet leaking flesh gave me a feeling of creeping disgust, but I could at least understand it, and even accept it. After all, we must all try to be tolerant of others. Some of us want to get our hands, feet, and teeth into the work; some of us prefer the more civilized approach of working at a distance with cold steel. There is room for all; different strokes for different folks.
    But this time it was something else. This time the killer had used a combination of techniques. The victim had been slashed and stabbed with some kind of blade, but the more meaningful damage, the real signature work, had been done with teeth, fists, fingernails, and other, more intimate body parts. It was an unusual approach, and it almost certainly meant something very important.
    But what? I knew very well what knife work was about; it was the perfect way to take control, to cause neat and permanent damage. And then the biting—a desire for contact, for the most intimate possible interface with agony? Except that what had been done to the eye socket was far more than a twisted cuddle. It was a declaration of total power, a statement that
I
own
you and I can do anything I want toyou
. And it was a commanding bellow of,
Look at me!
More: it was a punishment, a way to say that
Your eyes did me wrong; you should have paid attention and
seen
me but you did not and now I will teach you and I will do
this.
    Down the hall the bathroom door slammed with cataclysmic force and my eyes jerked open. I listened for a few moments as Astor’s voice rose from whining to threatening and all the way up into shrill fury above Rita’s calm and commanding words, finally subsiding into a muted grumble of general discontent. The door slammed again; Lily Anne began to cry, and Rita’s voice turned soothing, and a minute later peace was restored, and I returned to my happy pastime of imagining intimate carnage.
    The killer wanted to be noticed—by all of us, of course, which was why the body had been displayed so publicly. But far more important, he had wanted the victim to pay attention to him, truly and completely
see
him, appreciate his significance. I thought about that for a minute, and it felt right.
You should have noticed me, but you