Life After Death

by Verifictus

The Dexter finale was a train wreck, the creation of a bunch of pseudo-intellectual existentialists ending the show by needlessly ruining the life of every character. So they need to redeem themselves by penning a Movie-of-the-Week to clean up the damage, to the extent possible. The following story is one possibility.

1. A Lonely Road

"I can't believe you, Dexter!" Debra screamed, "Hannah McKay is bad news. She's going to get you in a shitload of trouble."

I took a deep breath and tried again. "You're wrong, Deb," I pleaded. "She's not what you think. She was a confused kid back then, but she's an adult now. She's a different person. She . . ."

"Different? She tried to fucking kill me."

"She was scared, desperate. But she's different now."

"Just like you," skepticism dripping off each word.

"I know you don't . . ."

The earsplitting alarm went off. Time to get up. Time to face the real world. My world. God, I miss Deb. Even arguing with her. About the only time she really got mad at me was when she was trying to stop me from doing something stupid. Now I only have myself to listen to. Not good. I miss her colorful vocabulary, too. Just add it to the list.

It was Sunday. No work. A day of rest. For others, maybe, but not for me. Ever again. What's the old saying? - 'No rest for the wicked.' I think they wrote it for me.

But rest or not, I was hungry, with nothing in the house - my cold, leaky shack. So I crawled out of bed - my sagging, rock-filled cot - and got dressed. On Sundays I always walked into town - or what passed as a town, Fate's Crossing - and had breakfast at Gracie's Diner, a truck-stop run by a hateful old bag who set a surprisingly decent table, provided you were into food guaranteed to blow out an artery in three years or less. I think it was secretly owned by a group of cardiologists in the next town. The place was perfect for someone like me, though, someone who was suicidal but disgusted by people who actually pull the plug.

I always walked rather than took my beat-up truck. Not sure why. Probably some viciously mischievous part of my brain, trying to offset the effects of Gracie's. You know, stretch out the misery and suffering as long as possible. Boy, a shrink would have a field day with me. But he'll never get the chance. Ol' Doc Meridian was it.

I suspect the real reason I always walked was that it was a form of meditation. Not the Buddhist mindfulness stuff, but the brain-dead variety. Somehow, walking down a long, curving, hilly, country road bordered by impossibly-tall trees, shrouded in splotchy darkness even on a sunny day, let my brain shift into autopilot mode. No thoughts, no memories, no pain. Alright, less pain. Temporary escape from permanent self-imposed purgatory. I looked forward to it every week. I'm a lot of things, but not a masochist, at least not much of one.

As I walked, more like floated in my usual daze, a car tore around the bend in my direction. As it got closer, I could see it wasn't a car but one of those big Mercedes vans that I used to see in Miami; a favorite of the drug cartels. Not something I'd ever seen in my little part of the Pacific Northwest, though. No one I knew. Which was good. I wouldn't be forced to have a boring conversation and pretend like I was enjoying it. I really wasn't interested in Uncle Floyd's gastric bypass surgery or Elmo's hunting accident or St. Aphrodite's fundraiser or Iranian nukes on the way or whatever. I didn't want anything to interrupt my meditation, my temporary black hole in reality.

But the van began slowing as it neared me, edging toward my side of the road. Probably someone lost needing directions, I thought. Stupid tourists looking for that ridiculous redwood tree with a tunnel carved through it. The van rolled to a stop and the driver-side window rolled down.

The driver waved at me. I sort of waved back, a little. I didn't want to encourage him too much. "Hey man," he said, "you know where Highway One is?"

Tourists. I groaned and walked over to the van. Somebody in the passenger seat was buried under a crumpled map. "Boy, you guys are totally lost," I said. "Highway One follows the coast. That's about a hundred and . . ." Before I could finish, he grinned and shoved a gun in my face.

"Don't try anything," he said, "I'm a real good shot and you're too close to miss."

"Hey, what is this?" I said. "I don't have any . . ." The map dropped, revealing the passenger: a beaming Jacob Elway, Miami private eye, Debra's ex-boss. If it wasn't for him, she'd probably still be alive and I'd probably be in Argentina with Hannah and Harrison. Damn him!

"Hello Dexter," he said.

.

2. The Dead Fly Cargo

"Well, well, well," Elway purred, obviously delighted, "if it isn't the dearly departed Dexter Morgan. Beard and all."

"What do you want, Elway?" I grumbled, none too happy.

"Oh, come on, you know what I want." He got out of the van and walked around to me, gun in hand. "Hannah McKay. That's what I want."

"Well, you're the big-time PI. You find her."

He smiled again. "Oh, I will. And I am. Got someone in Argentina as we speak. Getting closer every minute."

"Then why do you need me?"

"Why do I need Dexter Morgan?" he mused as the smile disappeared. "Because you cost me a ton of money. You hid her; you protected her; you spirited her away, out of the country. You cost me money. A bundle!" He smiled again. "And you broke the law. So I'm going to be a big, fat hero and bring in a criminal. You! And totally embarrass all those buffoons at Miami Metro. I mean, can you see their faces when I march you and Hannah McKay in the front door, in chains, and have you both booked?"

Elway glared at me. "Besides, you might come in handy, you know, as bait."

"I wouldn't count your chickens just yet. You don't have either of us in Miami. And never will if I have anything to do about it."

At that, Elway and his partner started laughing so hard they could hardly keep their guns pointed at me. Hardly, but enough.

"Trust me," Elway said, "she may have slipped through my fingers in Miami, but she's not going to do it again." He got serious again. "Nobody makes a fool out of me and gets away with it. Nobody!"

While I struggled to get my totally-out-of-shape lizard brain working on a plan, I decided to change the subject. "So," I asked nonchalantly, "how did you find me?"

"You amateurs. You think making your escape using nothing but cash doesn't leave a trail. But it does. I just followed a trail of serial numbers across the country, like breadcrumbs."

"Huh," I replied, trying to sound contemplative, "I'll have to remember that next time."

"Yeah, right! There ain't gonna be a next time, Morgan. I'm not letting you out of my sight. Or my custody. You're going with me to Argentina." He sort of giggled. "First class, all expenses paid."

I smiled, trying to look amused. "What makes you think she's in Argentina?"

"I don't think; I know. It's just a matter of where in Argentina."

Lizard brain to human brain: Don't fight him, Dex. Go with him. Better chance of protecting Hannah and Harrison. "So, I assume you've chartered a private plane. You don't think I'm going to go quietly commercial, do you?"

"Oh, that's exactly what I think. Now, if you'll just step in the back." He escorted me to the back of the van where his partner had already opened the door. "Get in," he ordered. I climbed in; he followed me and closed the door behind him. At a nod, his partner pulled a tarp off a long rectangular object on the floor. A coffin.

Somehow it amused me. "Is there some Transylvanian dirt in the bottom?" I said in my very worst Béla Lugosi imitation.

"Funny," he said, unamused. His partner opened the lid. "Get in." With two guns pointed at me, I didn't have much choice. So I climbed in and stretched out."

"More comfortable than my cot," I said.

"Well, get used to it," Elway said, taking a hypodermic syringe out of the foot of the coffin and removing the cap. At the same time, his partner packed thermal blankets over me. "One shot of this and everyone will think you're a stiff. Cold, pale, no visible heartbeat. Dead to the world."

"Not everyone."

"You're right. Not a doctor or a medical examiner. Or," he smirked, "a forensic geek like you. But I've already checked - and greased a few palms - so that's not going to be a problem. To the paper-pushers who look, you'll just be my poor brother Louie who wanted to be buried where he lost his virginity."

"You're assuming I'll get there alive, in a cold, airless cargo hold."

"Not to worry. I've checked with the experts. The blankets will insulate you. And you're breathing will be so slow, you'll have all the oxygen you need for the flight. So," he said as he jabbed the needle into my shoulder, "sweet dreams."

I felt the needle prick followed by the icy fluid coursing through my veins. My body became chilly all over, trembling. Then I faded slowly into blessed darkness, temporary death.

.

3. Dead Man Waking

Pain.

My first sensation after my temporary death was pain. Like someone had pumped ten gallons of molten lead into my two-quart skull. I was, apparently, alive again. Like the old saying: 'You're never so alive as when you're in pain'. I'll drink to that!

Before I opened my eyes, though, I did as much stealth surveillance as possible. There was fuzzy music and talk, Spanish. Or was it Italian? Obviously a television, presumably in Argentina. And snippets of hushed conversation, Elway and company. Smalltalk, nothing important. There was a knock on a door, someone with sandwiches. We were in a hotel room.

And dusty smoke. Not a fire, a cigarette. One of those foreign things Cubans in Miami were always puffing on. Unpleasant but reassuringly familiar.

From the softness below me, the coffin had been replaced by a bed. Not particularly comfortable, though; probably a cheap hotel. And I was restrained; handcuffs and some type of restraints on my ankles. Elway wasn't taking any chances.

It was time to rise from the dead. So I opened my eyes and looked around. Yep, a hotel room, a cheap hotel room. Elway was pacing back and forth, smoking, clutching a cellphone with white knuckles. His partner, a big Neanderthal who looked like an overweight tackle off a football team - 'Lumpy', I nicknamed him - was on the other bed, watching television. He must have heard the cuffs jingle because he turned and looked at me.

"Loverboy's awake," Lumpy said. Elway stopped pacing, turned and glared at me. Then sneered.

"Well, it's about time," he said.

"Gave me too much," I said as I sat up and leaned back against the headboard, my head threatening to explode.

"Had to. You're too clever, Morgan. If you woke up mid-flight, you'd be in Bulgaria by now."

"Sorry to be so much trouble." I smiled at him, as maliciously as possible. It was time to see how bad things were. "So," I said, "how's your little wild goose chase going?"

Elway snarled at me. "It's going just fine. But it'd be a hell of a lot finer if you just told me where she was."

"Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have the slightest idea." And I didn't. They could torture me 'til the cows came home and they wouldn't get a thing. Nothing.

Lumpy rolled off the bed and stood in front of me, glowering down at me, trying to look scary. Scarier. "Let me work him over a little, boss," he rumbled. "He'll talk."

"Not yet. Let him sweat a little. A lot." Just then, his cell phone rang. He slapped it to his ear so fast, I thought he was going to knock himself out. "You better have something this time!" he barked, "I'm paying you a lot of U.S doe-lors, señor." His expression changed from terminal displeasure to metaphysical bliss - not a good sign. He dropped into the chair at the table near the window, grabbed the complimentary ballpoint pen and started writing on the complimentary notepad. "If it pans out this time, there'll be a little something extra in the envelop." He hung up, ripped the sheet off the notepad, read it and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Then he let out a long sigh.

"Who was that?" Lumpy asked.

"My contact. Nobody you know."

"Good news?"

"If it turns out to be accurate this time." He jumped up, pulled his coat on and headed for the door. "Keep an eye on Morgan. Don't let him out of your sight for a second. Even to take a piss." He jerked the door open. "Shoot him if you have to, but don't kill him. Got it?"

"Got it, boss." Elway slammed the door behind him. Lumpy turned, smiled with a mixture of venom and amusement, and devoured me with his eyes, like I was a thick, juicy steak and he was starving."

.

4. A Troublesome Side Effect Of Death

Lumpy stomped over to the table and filled one of the chairs, gun in hand, pointed at me. "Go ahead, Loverboy, try something," he scoffed. He set the gun on the table, but still holding it and still pointing it at me. Then he turned into a granite statue watching the television, motionless; even his eyes stopped blinking. Your classic vidiot.

I had to do something, and fast. But what? Human brain to lizard brain, I thought repeatedly, frantically, do something! But it didn't seem to be quite as active since my commitment to Hannah, my rebirth - or was it my death? Sadly, it looked like everything was up to the human brain, my semi-human brain. Not good.

As I sat there, thinking, agonizing, I felt something: internal discomfort. I hadn't peed since the Pacific Northwest. How long ago had that been? I couldn't see a clock, but it was too long.

"Uh, I hate to disturb your concentration," I said, "but if I don't take a leak real soon I'm going to pee my pants. And the bed." I looked pained; not an act.

Lumpy just glared at me. "Okay, but don't try anything or I'll shoot your pecker off." He laughed; guess he thought it was funny. "Not that you're ever going to get to use it again." More laughter. He stood up, got serious again and followed me into the bathroom, keeping a respectable distance. "And you don't get no privacy either. So the door stays open."

"No problem. I hope it's not too much of a turn-on, sport."

"Hey, you can't . . ."

"Just kidding," I said as I relieved myself and zipped up.

I walked out as he backed down the entry hall to the bedroom. Suddenly, the room began spinning and I started staggering. A side effect of the drug, I guessed, or jet-lag, or death. Or all of the above. As I tried to get back to the bed, I tripped over a suitcase on the floor and went flying, landing on my face.

"Ah, you retard!" he growled, kicking me in the ribs. "Get up." I got to my knees then toppled over again, hitting my head on the dresser and rolling over. I'd cut my lip and blood was trickling down my chin. "I'll be damned," he said when he saw the blood, "you ain't faking, retard." He reached down, grabbed the handcuffs and pulled me up like a rag doll. The guy was strong. And really stupid.

Once on my feet, I instantly dropped my weight, catching him off guard, the cuffs slipping out of his hand. When he bent down to grab them again, I spun around, looped the cuffs around his neck and did a flip, landing on his back. I pulled the cuffs with all my strength. He reared up, gurgling, backed into a wall, knocking all the wind out of me, and spun around. He landed on the table, smashing it - and me - then got up and crashed into the dresser, smashing it. And yours truly. I don't care how big and strong you are, though, you can only go so long without air. Lumpy eventually collapsed and lay there like a beached whale. I didn't let up until I was absolutely sure he was out, forensically sure he was out.

I untangled the cuffs from his neck and rolled off of him onto my back, covered with sweat and more aches and pains than I could count, but nothing broken. Ironically, my headache was gone. When I finally got my breath back, I rummaged through his pockets and their suitcases until I found the keys to the cuffs. Then I put them on him, looping both the wrist cuffs and the ankle cuffs around the sturdy pipe feeding the radiator; like I said, a cheap hotel. And, just to make sure he couldn't warn Elway, I dropped his cellphone out the window and watched it explode on the patio below. Pulled the phone out of the wall, too. Fortunately, a secretive Elway hadn't told Lumpy who his contact was. So, it was going to be just Elway and me.

But first I had to find where Elway had gone. I snatched the complimentary notepad off the floor. It wasn't even necessary to run a pencil lead over it to read what he'd written. He'd been so pumped that he'd practically engraved the letters into the tablet down to the cardboard backing. I re-wrote the address for easier reading and left, taking the tablet with me. I dropped it down a sewer to make sure Lumpy didn't see it, assuming he was smart enough to figure it out. Probably wasn't, but I didn't want to take the chance.

.

5. Avenidas De Flores

There was no time to waste. As soon as I saw the address Elway had written, I knew he'd found what he was looking for: 79 Avenidas de Flores - Avenue of Flowers. An address that would have appealed to someone like Hannah, who loved flowers.

I ran out of the hotel and flagged a taxi. Growing up in Miami, Spanish was no problem - I thought. Turned out, my Spanish was primarily Cuban Spanish, which isn't quite the same thing as Spanish Spanish. Fortunately, the driver spoke perfect English. I paid him with Lumpy's credit card, since they'd taken my wallet and I couldn't find it anywhere. I'd swiped the complimentary city map from the hotel room and had the driver drop me off a few blocks away from the address, on another street; that way, I could sneak up on Elway and couldn't be easily followed. Even though it was only about six in the afternoon, it was already nearly dark; that time of the year and near the South Pole. It was cold, too, but I hardly noticed.

The neighborhood was an older suburb outside Buenos Aires, gracefully aged and comfortably rural with tiny cottages, looking more like something out of Mother Goose. I stood across the street from the house. Like all the others, it was a small, Spanish style cottage, easily out of a fairy tale, surrounded by big, old trees, overgrown bushes and flowers, flowers everywhere, even in the chilly weather. Probably all indigenous. Hannah undoubtedly babied them.

In the growing darkness, I crouched down and quietly crawled through the bushes, carefully poking my head up at windows and looking in. It wasn't until I reached the back of the house that I found them. They were in the kitchen. Hannah and Harrison were sitting at a small table in an alcove, a breakfast nook. It looked like they'd been eating when interrupted, the table strewn with plates of partially-eaten food, silverware, a cheeseboard, a glass of red wine in front of Hannah and milk for Harrison. Elway was standing in the middle of the room, pointing his gun at them, talking. I moved to the window over the sink, which was partially open, and listened.

". . . back with me," he was saying, waving the gun at them. Hannah had pulled Harrison onto her lap, shielding him from Elway. "Don't do anything stupid and nobody'll get hurt. We're going to pack a few things and go back to the hotel. And call the police." He patted his coat pocket. "I have all the paperwork for both of you. And your boyfriend, Dexter."

To my surprise, Hannah's expression didn't change in the slightest - did she somehow know I wasn't dead? But Harrison instantly reacted, "Daddy? Daddy's here?" Damn Elway!

"Yeah, daddy's here, kid. But if you're smart, you'll forget about him." He chuckled. "But, since you're his kid, you're probably too dumb to know any better."

Harrison became agitated and started fussing but Hannah calmed him with a few whispered words and a hug. She stood up and scooted Harrison behind her, holding him with one hand. "Alright," she said with amazing calm, "you win. We'll pack and go with you. Just don't hurt Harrison."

"I wouldn't dream of it, sister." She started to leave the room, but he held up the gun motioning her to stop. "Hold it," he said, "there's a few rules we have to get straight first." And he started machinegunning orders.

It was time for me to do something. But what?

.

6. Close Encounter Of The Worst Kind

Across the room, behind Elway, there was a pair of delicate old French doors, closed, unfortunately. There was no way I could sneak in without being heard. But they were the best chance I had. So I tiptoed through the garden, picked up a handful of pebbles and climbed the tree a few feet outside the doors. Then I took a deep breath.

One by one, I dropped the pebbles on the brick patio below. Click. Clack. Clink.

"Huh! Who's out there?" I heard Elway say.

"Squirrels," Hannah said.

"Not at night." He ran, stood next to the doors and peered out. Eventually satisfied there was nothing outside of concern, like a snoopy neighbor or a burglar - or another bounty-hunter, maybe? - he turned back toward Hannah, took a couple of steps and stopped. That was my cue.

I held onto the branch, dropped down and swung toward the doors like the daring young man on the flying trapeze, feet-first. I smashed through the doors, which exploded into a cloud of wood and glass shards, and slammed into Elway sending him flying head over heels across the room. He crashed into the wall, rolled backwards, with me on top of him. In the background, I heard a sharp gasp, presumably Hannah, and "Daddy!" definitely Harrison. Damn Elway! He ruined everything. Damn him!

I grabbed for the gun with both hands but only managed to get his wrist. Still disoriented, he spun around taking me with him. We tumbled and rolled, over and over, fighting for the gun. We bumped into walls and cabinets and furniture, neither letting go. I managed to throw him over my head, but he held on and I went flying with him. My head slammed into the iron stove, my hands slipped. I felt the gun graze my head.

Momentarily stunned, I blindly spun around and lunged at him. But stopped abruptly. He was standing near the table, one arm around Hannah and the other holding the gun to her head, none too steady, but very dangerous. His nose was bleeding and blood was trickling out of his hair down one sideburn. I could tell he was mad, real mad.

"Don't move, Morgan," he hissed, panting, "or she's toast. The warrant says 'dead or alive'. I still get paid." I backed up, my hands in the air. I'd blown my best chance. But he still had to get us back to Miami. There'd be lots of other opportunities. Just none as good as the one I'd just blown. He took a few ragged breaths. "How'd you get away from that idiot I hired?" he panted.

"Like you said, he's an idiot," I replied with a smile. Brain always triumphs over brawn, I thought, or so they say.

"Well, I'm not and you're not getting away from me. Either of you."

"I'll cooperate with anything you say. Just take the gun away from her head. Okay?"

"Not okay!" he said with a vicious sneer, striking her head with the gun barrel.

She flinched, but didn't give him the satisfaction of a cry. She turned toward him, as much as she could and said, "If you let us go, I can pay you more than the reward they're going to pay you. A lot more." I'm sure; those Swiss bank accounts she secretly transferred from her cardboard husband, obscenely-rich Miles.

"Yeah, I bet!" Elway snarled at her. "This is about more than money, sister. You made a fool of me once, on the bus, but never again. Nobody makes a fool of Jacob Elway. Nobody!" Where'd I heard that before?

"You'd be a bigger fool not to take the money," she said rather sweetly.

But that only enraged him. "Shut up, bitch!" he cried, hitting her again with the gun, harder, "or I'll . . ." He suddenly looked surprised, stopping mid-sentence. The expression on his face changed like he'd just stuck his big toe in a light socket. His eyes turned into hard-boiled eggs, his jaw dropped, every vein on his head popped out, his skin bleached ashen. Then he slowly toppled forward, almost in slow-motion, like any of the felled trees I'd seen in recent months, and landed on the floor with a dull thud. Hannah and I locked eyes.

A small knife with a mother-of-pearl handle, which I'd seen embedded in a wedge of cheese on the table, was now sticking out of Elway's left kidney.

Behind him, standing at his feet, was Harrison, with a look of angelic innocence on his beautiful little face. In a totally calm, matter-of-fact manner, he quietly said, "The bad man was hurting Hannah."

.

7. Picking Up The Pieces

Hannah and I stood in the door to Harrison's bedroom, watching him sleep. The moon had come up and was casting a striped pattern over him from the antique wooden blinds. We left the door ajar and returned to the living room. I could smell herbal tea and something wonderful she'd pulled out of the oven earlier. We curled up together in a big, overstuffed chair next to the crackling fireplace. We sat for the longest time without saying a word. I knew I had a lot of explaining to do. It was simply a matter of who broke the ice first. Really thick ice. But I had other things on my mind.

Was there any way anyone could find us? Lumpy had no idea who Elway talked to and I destroyed the tablet with the address. The only possibility was Elway's informant. But he probably wouldn't go looking until that check 'with a little something extra' didn't arrive. And I made sure that Elway's body would never be found, triggering a police investigation. I'd read that Argentine sewers were full of Amazonian 'gators. Even if that was just another urban myth, the rats and insects and microbes and bacteria and pollution wouldn't leave much to find, probably not even bones eventually. And if anything was ever found, it was hard to imagine the Buenos Aires police had Jacob Elway's DNA on record. Just the same, it would be prudent for Hannah and Harrison to move anyway. The sooner the better.

Hannah finally smashed the ice. "Why, Dexter?" was all she said. There was no easy way to explain, but I owed her an explanation.

"I did it for you," I said, "and Harrison. It was the only way I could . . ."

"You did what!" she said. "For who! Did you see Harrison tonight? He didn't let go of you for two seconds. And did you see him sleeping? That's the first time since you disappeared that he's slept without tossing and turning and crying. And I haven't done much better."

"I know. I knew it would be painful but I just assumed you'd both get over me and move on with your lives."

"But why?"

"I wanted to protect you."

"Protect us? From who?"

"From me."

"From you!" she said. "Dexter, you're the person we both most love in the world. The person we look to for protection. Like tonight. If it wasn't for you, I'd be on my way to the chair in the States. And Harrison would be in an orphanage. Or worse - Elway probably would've traded him to a hooker for a trick. So, please, explain." From her expression, I could tell it wasn't going to be easy.

"After Deb died, I realized that I destroy everyone I love. No matter how hard I try, something horrible always happens to them. And it's always my fault. Always! I couldn't live with myself if anything happened to you and Harrison. I had to protect you . . . from me. I figured you were safer without me."

"Well, you figured wrong."

It took a while to work up the courage to drop the other shoe. "I can't stay, Hannah," I almost whispered, "I really can't."

She thought for a moment, changed facial expressions about a million times and finally said, simply, calmly, without emotion, "No."

"But . . ." was as far as I got.

"Dexter," she said, pulling me even closer, "you're confused. You're thinking of the old Dexter. But you're the new Dexter. I was there; I saw the change. I see it now. And if you think you can protect us from the world by abandoning us, then you've been smoking something out of my garden back in Miami. There's no life without risk. Never has been; never will be. And I know we're better off, safer - happier! - with you in our lives than without." She took a sip of the tea.

"Furthermore, I will not lie to your son anymore. He will not go through life without a father, a loving father, you. And I will not go through life without the only man I have ever loved. Now," she said dismissively as she stood up, "it's been a long, exhausting day, so I'm going to bed. And I'm not sleeping alone tonight." She smiled, rather seductively, I thought. "Or ever again."

She took me by the hand and pulled me behind her. "And lose the beard."

.

8. The Long And Winding Road

I didn't sleep very well that night; I tossed and turned, endless monsters slithering in and out of the dark corners of my mind, waking frequently in a bitter sweat. But the creature comforts were off the chart. A night with Hannah, a moment with Hannah, was always an extraordinary pleasure, and after months alone on a cold, hard cot in the middle of nowhere . . . well, the words completely escape me. Died and gone to Heaven, comes to mind, except I don't believe in heaven.

But the creature comforts only made things worse. Despite everything Hannah had said to me the previous evening, I still felt driven to leave. After all, I would always be a danger to them, an endless risk, attracting danger and disaster like iron filings to a magnet. Then again, what if she was right? What if I was different, reborn? It just tied my brain in knots. What would protect them the most? - my presence or my absence? And what would put them at greater risk? - my presence or my absence? An impossible dilemma! Where was Harry when I really needed him?

Later the next morning, after one of Hannah's fabulous breakfasts, we bought a slightly-used Xterra, bright yellow, from one of the neighbors. Harrison loved it. Nothing like keeping a low profile: electric yellow! Our first excursion was into town, to get clothes and practical stuff for me. By mid-afternoon, Hannah had settled with the landlord, including the French doors, and we were heading south along Highway Eleven, Argentina's Patagonia coast. Hannah and Harrison wanted to live near the sea. That's what happens when you grow up in Miami, I guess. The only difference, the entire state of Florida is about six inches above sea level, while Argentina kisses the ocean with towering mountains and cliffs. And instead of only pigeons and seagulls to watch, there were sea lions and elephant seals and lamas. Penguins, too - Harrison's favorite.

We stopped often to sightsee, mostly for Harrison's sake. For him, it was an adventure. He especially liked the beaches, but quickly discovered they weren't like the beaches around Miami. Rockier, not as sandy or as white. And the water wasn't as warm, or warm at all, arctic actually. But that didn't matter to him. It was all a great adventure.

But the only adventure I was experiencing was the raging mêlée inside. Stay and be a protective father and lover, or leave and be a protective father and lover. It was just that simple. It was just that difficult. It was just that impossible! I kept thinking, hoping, there might be some middle-ground. Maybe I could get them settled in a new home. Somehow. Then disappear into the night.

I kept telling myself I wouldn't be in this mess if I'd just listened to my lizard brain more than my human brain. But I never did, or do, especially now. If I'd killed Arthur Mitchell, Trinity, when I had the chance, Rita would still be alive, and Harrison would still have a mother. And if I'd killed Oliver Saxon, the brain surgeon, when I had the chance, Deb would still be alive, and I'd still have a sister. And if I'd killed Lumpy when I had the chance, there'd be one less bounty-hunter stalking us, maybe none. But I didn't. I wish Dr. Vogel could be here so she could see how wrong she was - I'm not the perfect psychopath! Certainly not now; probably never was.

Hannah keeps insisting that I'm just being too self-critical and overly paranoid, that there probably isn't a stampede of bounty-hunters behind us, maybe not even Lumpy since he didn't know Elway's contact and was only hired muscle, not hired brain. Besides, she says there's not enough bounty on her head to make an international hunt profitable and there's none on me, since I'm not accused of anything, yet, and officially dead. And the only reason Elway made the effort was because she'd made a fool of him, with my help. Like he said, over and over, "Nobody make a fool of Jacob Elway. Nobody!" They should carve that on his tombstone, except, of course, he won't be getting a tombstone. Thanks to Harrison.

And that's another issue. A really big issue! Is Harrison living up to my worst nightmares? Is he going to follow in daddy dearest's bloody footsteps? Have my violent genes devoured Rita's gentle ones? I hope not. But I don't know. Hannah insists he did nothing any other kid his age wouldn't have done under the same circumstances. I hope she's right, but I'm skeptical. She also insists that I need to stick around, risk or not, just in case she's wrong. He'd need me to teach him how to control his needs, his impulses, his genes, my genes, our genes. Teach him The Code.

That scares me. A lot. The thought of having to suddenly morph into a second-generation Harry Morgan, sitting on Harrison's shoulder like Jiminy Cricket, advising him whenever his obsession shifts into overdrive. It's okay to kill that one, son, because he's a bad person - I'd have to instruct - but not that one, because he's a good person. And here's how you tell the difference . . . Just the thought of that curdles the normally-anemic blood in my veins. Maybe Hannah would be a better mentor, more of a fairy godmother. Now, there's another dilemma: which would be better for an up-and-coming junior serial-killer, Jiminy Cricket or a fairy godmother? Just add it to the list.

As I drove, my mind numb with indecision, the highway in front of us seemed like a metaphor for the ordeal ahead of us: a long and winding road. Bumpy, too.

So, while my mind tied itself in layers of knots, we made our way down the coast with absolutely no idea where we were going. Hannah said we'd know it when we found it. Or it found us. A small, quiet town of small, intimate houses with lots of big trees and colorful flowers, with a view of the ever-changing ocean, and flocks of singing birds. A place with a lively downtown of mom-and-pop shops and restaurants, but not a tourist-trap - we didn't want any old friends accidentally dropping in on us. Mostly, though, we wanted good people, good neighbors. But once we found what we were looking for, then what?

Should we change our names? Argentina may not be that fussy with all the Germans and Italians that immigrated after World War II. Should Hannah and I marry? She wanted to. Should we become citizens of Argentina? We'd probably have to; if nothing else, it would make extradition more complicated. But how would we prove who we were? Hannah had fake IDs; I had none. And should Harrison become a citizen? That might not be fair to him if he ever wanted to go home. The list of problems was endless and overwhelming. Bumps in that long and winding road.

And some annoyingly persistent voice deep inside kept nagging me that I had no choice but to stay at least long enough to see that Hannah and Harrison were comfortably tucked into their new life. But then what? I want to stay; I really do. But I'm afraid to stay; I really am. To stay or not to stay, that is the question. Will I stay? Should I stay?

Only time will tell.