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The Secret	By : Keen Category: 1 through F > Dexter Views: 4873 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Dexter, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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�� SHE knows.
�� I watched her over my computer
monitor as she moved among the detectives. They dwarfed her, everyone usually
does. Her neck must hurt from looking up all the time.
�� I feel slightly foolish. Her
diminutive size and frilly pink dress said she�s anything but a danger, but she
was. At least to me. She was the single most
threatening thing in my life, which if you knew me, really says something. The
hinge that held my world together was under her meticulously manicured hand and
I had to remove it before she pulled it out.
�� I would have never imagined seeing
her in a place like that. She would have looked out of place in an S&M
leather bar with her always neatly pressed lien dress suit, sensible heels and
sable coloured hair pulled into a shiny tight chignon.
�� ATF agent Callianne
Harper was the picture of Southern gentility. The Louisianan Belle was a
pseudo-relic from a day gone by when men bowed and stepped off sidewalks as
ladies, always in delicate skirts, passed with giggling, their red lipstick
smiles hidden behind lacy gloved hands.�
�� Her accent, not at all abrasive or
overpowering, sweetened her naturally sultry voice. It made words like please
and thank you, of which she used often, sound like a pleasant chime. It was a
welcome change from the usual never ending stream of profanities and shouts in
the department.
�� She was, for a lack of a better
phrase, a breath of fresh air. A product of cotillions, violin and French
lessons, she was a cultured woman and the picture of serenity. So imagine my
surprise when I heard that sweet bell ring in the dark of Hot T�s Leather Club,
in the thick of its black and purple whipping rooms.
�� Dexter?�
�� My name,
whispered so faint and breathlessly, never sounded so ominous.
I turned
slowly, my hands still wound in the cord wrapped around Granger�s neck. I
wouldn�t have known who she was save that voice. The body she hid under her
tailored vintage suits curved wickedly in the slick patent leather cat suit she
wore. From the tips of her fingers and to the top of her neck she was dipped in
it and it squeaked as her sculpted arm pushed open the door.
�� Usually
at this point, the man would be unconscious, tucked away somewhere hidden by
now but Frank Granger, career rapist, was a very
strong man. He broke my syringe of tranquiliser and nearly broke me next. I
managed to pull the bit of electrical cord from my pocket during the tussle and
wrap it around his thick neck. It wasn�t my preferred method, I actually
favoured pushing a knife to the centre of the chest, but for Granger it would
do. I figured that amid the pleasured moaning and groaning from nearby rooms no
one would hear his choked screams, but she did.�
�� Callianne,
through the eyes of her mask, looked at the man at my feet. Granger groaned pitifully,
his skin turning purple, tongue wagging obscenely between his bloodied lips. He
reached for her and I instinctively tightened on his neck, silencing his
murmuring, ending what had been fifteen years of terror on the Hialeah community. His hand fell with a thud
and her honey coloured eyes settled on me. The real me.
Not the Dexter I pretended to be, the one I created and shaped through years of
meticulous planning and doing, but the Dexter I really was.
�� This was not good.
�� I set Frank on the ground, rolling
him into the plastic and moved to stand, maybe to explain, maybe to have her
join him. But by the time I turned, she was already gone, ghosting from the
door without so much as sound. I ran into the corridor after her, shouting her
name over the chorus of cracking whips and grateful moans but she was truly
gone.
�� Dammit.
�� I finished up with Granger rather
quickly after that. Dumping him in the usual fashion and then cleaning up with
extra care before I went back to the police department. I found Harper�s
address there and sat on her house the rest of the evening, patiently waiting
for the sleek BMW to pull into park but she never came home.
�� On the second day and fortunately a
day off, I realised it wouldn�t be wise for me to be captured while stalking
what I was now sure was my first and only living eyewitness. So I went home,
waiting to be detained in the comfort of my own living room. Thoughtfully
awaiting that knock on my door and a stern voice that would call me to go with
the dapper officers on the other side, but it never came.
�� It was then I started to think then
she had come into some accident in her haste to leave me that night. Callianne Harper, ever prim and proper, strictly adherent
to the rules, wouldn�t willingly let a transgression like that slide. She had
witnessed a murder with her own two eyes, something like that would compel her
to raise her voice. So knowing that, I began to imagine her as she left Hot
T�s.
�� It was a rainy south Florida night, the roads
slick, barely visible in the unrelenting down pour but still not enough
motivation for our level-headed motorists to too cautiously. I could see her
distraught and tearful, agonising over what kind of monster I was, careening
down Dixie Highway,
not at all seeing the car that turned abruptly in front of her without blinker
or warning. Amid the high pitched scream of the tires, she�d swerve off the
road and tumble into a canal. Trapped by her seatbelt and dazed by the impact,
she�d drown in the murkiness there and her body, bloated and distended, would
flake away in the foul smelling water until it was discovered by some
unsuspecting pedestrian.
�� I had so convinced myself she was
gone I walked into the department building the next morning with confidence my
secret was safe.
�� And now here she sat, chatting with the other
detectives, letting that sweet bell of her voice torture me, remind me of how
careless and na�ve I had been and also, that I had no idea what would be her
next move.
�� I sulked behind my computer, pretending
to work, furiously flipping through case images, while I tried to gather what I
should do next. I had a few near misses in my time, so this anxiety I felt was
nothing new, but it wasn�t welcome either. I had to know what she was planning
and it seemed as if I would get an opportunity.
�� Lieutenant LaGuerta
strode out of her office. She spared me a wink before stopping at the table and
directing them to a conference in her office. I waited until the door shut
tightly behind them and the curtains were drawn before I hurried to Harper�s
desk. I was immediately drawn to the thick manila folder that bulged in her
leather messenger bag. I undid the elastic wrap round it and frowned at the
contents.
�� Harper had not spoken up yet because
she was building a solid case against me. Thumbing through report after report,
I could see she had been investigating my doings, carefully correlating cases
that came by my desk with people I made disappear. Not everyone in my
collection was there, but there was enough to put me away several life
sentences and then some.
�� Doakes thundered
in and quickly I shoved the file back into her purse, walking away as casually
as I entered. He glared at me, but it was the usual hate filled scowl he gave
me everyday. Settling back behind my desk, I gathered my thoughts. I didn�t
have a clue what I was going to do with her before then, but now I was certain.
I had to kill Agent Callianne Harper.

A/N: I�ve only been privy to the first season of the show so don�t crucify
me for mistakes and discrepancies that come about as consequence. I just love
the show and couldn�t help but write a spur of the moment tribute.
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The Secret