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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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�� WHAT are you grinning at?� Deb
said, hopping onto my desk.
�� I swatted her hands away from my
spatter display and told her I wasn�t, although I knew I had been. My cheeks
ached.
�� Agent Harper had finally arrived and did her best
to look everywhere but at me. She hadn�t done what I asked and wanted to avoid
me at all costs, which was fine by me. I didn�t necessarily need her to bring
me a case, that I could do on my own, but I had to
test her fidelity. I had purposely made her uncomfortable to see what she would
do.
�� I was still on the fence about what
to do with the woman. Naturally I was leaning to killing her, but she would not
go unmissed and it bordered on breeching Harry�s Code so I tested her.
Temporarily resting on that far out possibility that she actually did mean what
she said so I could prolong her murder indefinitely.
�� Deb finally relented, letting my
immaculate photo boards alone and turning her attention on me instead. She
rambled on about her latest date. She was really excited with this one, but she
always was. At times I envied her, wondering what it would be like to be so
worked up over one thing, but I imagined it would be tiring. I often grew tired
just listening to her talk.
�� So what do you think?� she said,
happily.
�� About what?�
I smiled.
�� Deb rolled her eyes and punched my
shoulder, realising I hadn�t truly been listening to her. �About
dinner, with James? You can bring Rita and we can make another double
date out of it.�
�� I paled at the thought. The last
double date we went on filled Rita�s head with ideas of romance and passion. I
wasn�t prepared to weather that road again. �I don�t know about the double
date, Deb. Rita has been busy with work lately but I�ll meet him.�
�� Deb was a little deflated but she
didn�t argue, happy she only had to bother me once to get me to meet her new
flavour of the month. She was about to tell me more about the guy when Doakes
happened by, slamming a file on my desk, chest heaving and ever expanding like
some great animal. He always made it a point to look like he was on the edge
and sometimes, even for me, it worked.
�� Tell me why I�m still waiting for
the fucking forensics on this?� he snarled, nostrils flaring.
�� Deb turned with a snort, �Jeezus
Doakes, you think about switching to decaf?�
�� Shut up, Morgan. Usually this
creepy motherfucker is all over anything with blood but he�s dragging his ass
and I want to know the fuck why.�
�� I glanced at the file and smiled. I
knew why he was more testy than usual. This was the case he had been following
especially closely. It involved the very rich and very attractive widow of the
very dead billionaire playboy Kent Wright. The widow Wright had a certain
effect on Doakes, whether or not he recognised it. Fortunately I was free of
such obviously deranging emotions.
�� As soon as Masuka gives me his
report, I�ll be on it,� I said cheerily, knowingly angering Doakes even more.
�� He hated it that I wasn�t fazed by
his aggressive outbursts and this time was no different.
�� Doakes sucked his teeth and narrowed
his eyes, leaning across the desk like a shark on the scent of blood. �And do
you have any fucking idea when will that be?� he said lowly.
�Right now.�
�� We both looked up and saw Harper
float by. She flipped through a handful of files in her hands, opening them
wide to read the tabs. Doakes eased away from my face and turned to her,
returning her sunny smile and warm greeting. Putty. She handed him a file, one
for Deb and another for me. �There�s been some kind of mix-up. I�ve been
getting things meant for other people all week. Can you believe that?�
�� Doakes
glared at me again. �So that means you�ll have this shi-�stuff, ready for me at the end of the day?�
�� He corrected himself because Harper
was there, otherwise he would have let the word fly. Even Deb tried to reign in
her language around the soft spoken woman. It�s rather amusing they think she
needed to be protected from such indelicacies. I could imagine she has said and
heard worse in the belly of Hot T�s.
�The end of the day,� I nodded with assurance, sending the angry
Detective stalking away. Deb followed him and Harper, still flipping through
the arm full of files, turned to do the same. I looked up when she momentarily
paused from pivoting on her pink heels.� ��
�� Oh, Dex, here is that other file
you needed.�
I took the file and flipped it open. She said the words so casually I
didn�t think it was the file. The one
I personally asked her for. I quickly snapped it shut and watched her walk
through the rows of desks. Her heart was obviously heavy, the decision she made
weighed on her terribly, but it shouldn�t have. She made an excellent choice.
I only gleaned a few things before closing the folder, but I saw the
charges on the arrest report. The case file she gave me was of a child molester,
Pascal Laurent. I expected as much from a novice. Paedophiles were an easy
choice for me when I was at a loss too, almost like a comfort food. If anyone
fit Harry�s Code they certainly did and they also came with a special added
bonus. Child molesters were notorious for disappearing and jumping bail,
slipping off the radar never to be seen again. Very few asked questions and
even fewer came looking for them, so it made my job that much easier.
�� Walking to the lab adjacent to my
desk I locked the door and drew the blinds, giving me a bit of privacy as I got
to know my next charge a little better. He started young, in his own family
too. His youngest brother was his first victim. Years spent in juvenile
detention for various shoplifting charges only hardened him and allowed him to
graduate from molester to rapist. As a youth coordinator of a nearby children�s
service, he had his literal pick of the litter. He also had everyone�s
suspicions but the Haitian community was a silent one.
�� Only one boy came forward to report Pascal�s
wrong doing, Jean-Paul Maurice. Maurice now aged twenty-one, was older and
wiser than when Laurent first found him at the tender age of six. Despite his
rapists� repeated assurances, he knew now that what happened to him was not his
fault but Maurice�s confidence unravelled as others refused to stand with him.
Eventually he withdrew his statement and Pascal walked free, embraced as a
victim and hero by the very community he victimised.
�� I flipped over another page of his
case and found a piece of paper out of place. A pink scalloped square with the
faintest scent of lavender tucked in between the yellowing pages and gnarled
edges of the heavy manila folder. The slender red script made me smile.

�� It was lunchtime when I approached
Harper in the department kitchen nook, diligently making more coffee.� She was so engrossed in her task she didn�t
see me at first. I cleared my throat, announcing my arrival, and she glanced
up, stilling immediately. I thought she was going to scream. I had seen that
look in a woman�s face before. It was the mortified expression when she
realised I would be the one to kill her but on Harper�s soft features it seemed
horribly out of place.
�� She swallowed thickly and looked at
my hands, the ones stuffed in my pockets. I don�t know why, but I slide them
out slowly, opening my fists to show them to be empty. If I was going to kill
her it certainly wouldn�t be here, at this hour. I would have been offended
that she thought me such a novice if I didn�t feel like one. I did not know
what to say to her, what to use to cut the silence that fell like a heavy cloud
between us.
�� I glanced over my shoulder before
daring to near Harper, standing behind her, pretending to wait for a cup of the
caffeine charged brew she was trying to make.
�� Thanks for the current address and
number,� I said, thumbing the slip of paper in my pocket.
�� You�re welcome,� she nodded.
�� It didn�t sound like I was welcome.
That smile in her voice was gone, the loving caress of her southern accent
flat. She was probably frowning. I moved closer to her, lowering my head to whisper
so only she will hear me.
�� He deserves it, Callianne.�
�� I use her first name to say I don�t
view her as any less human. It shouldn�t be consolation from a monster like myself, but it seemed to work. She continued to push the
filter into the handled holder and then slowly nodded.
�� He deserves something,� she agreed.
�� I eased the file into her hand and
for a brief second, we touched. My fingers brushed against hers as she took the
file with trembling. She moved away the instant it�s firmly in hand and snapped
up her cup of coffee as she goes, leaving me alone in the kitchenette.
�� I say �alone,� because it felt like
it. There were others around me, but for the first time in a while, it actually
felt that way to me. Rather than contemplate why that was, I moved away and went
to something more familiar: planning a murder.

�� Laurent Pascal was a man of habit
and I took my cautious time learning every one. I wasn�t too sure of myself to
believe Agent Harper had fully submitted to my demands. Pride has led many
individuals in my situation to error, so for weeks, I sat on the man. I watched
his everyday coming and goings in between outings with Rita and the kids, cases
at work and dinners with Deb.
�� The man was so pitifully plain and
unassuming, I wasn�t sure if this was the real Laurent Pascal or a plant from
Harper. Every day at seven, he�d rise and run for a half hour. He�d come back
and bathe, taking care to wash his acne riddled face a second time afterward
and pluck every out of place hair. At eight, he�d go to work at the La Petite Acad�mie,
in the heart of the Little Haiti community. Promptly at five, he�d leave and
visit his girlfriend in Miami Beach
who had three children of her own. By the way they reacted to seeing him pull
up in the drive he had already started in on them as well. The youngest boy
would flee, run screaming into the house to hide,
while the eldest would just stand there in the doorway, waiting for the
inevitable just to get it over with. But I was not sure of any it until the grocery
store incident.
�� Every
Friday, Pascal would clean his home at six. This would be the one day he didn�t
go to see Emil� and her children, instead using the time to shop at the local
Publix. I looked a little out of place there. Although the grocer vendor is a
wide spread chain throughout the south east, this one was still in the centre
of Little Haiti and everyone else looked nothing like me. I was the only six
foot, pale, red-haired thing for several city blocks but my target didn�t seem
to mind. In fact, he didn�t seem to mind much as he crouched in the aisle and
spoke to a child who had wandered from his mother�s side. The woman could not
have been more than a few steps from them, but she did not notice the stranger
who laid a hand on her son�s shoulder.
�� And
it was in his touch I knew Harper had not tried to dupe me. The way he caressed
the boy�s arm, running his hand lovingly,
appraisingly, over his tiny body spoke volumes. As did
the look in his hooded black eyes. An agent, posing as a mark could fake
and feign a lot of things except that look.
�� From
behind the tree of potato chip bags, I felt my insides quell, humming
approvingly as my intended fully manifested in front of me. Revealing
his true and deep desires for knowing eyes to see. As his hand moved
down the boy�s back, nearing his bottom, I snatched up a bottle of something
and strode into the aisle. I was loud as bullhorn as I asked the mother if she
approved of feeding whatever the hell I had in my hand to her own children.
�� She
didn�t understand me. Big surprise in this neighborhood, but fortunately I
hoped it would be just enough to remind her she had a son and he was currently
missing.
�� Mon
enfants,� I said, pretending to struggle in earnest.
�� She
rattled something off in Creole and reached her hand out to her side for her
child to take. When he didn�t, when her hand was not filled by his tiny palm
and fingers, she whipped around quickly, her breath held. She sighed to see the
boy standing alone in the aisle, picking at the bar of chocolate that a
stranger gave him. I watched as she smacked it out of his hand and gripped him
by the scruff of his neck, her finger wagging all the while as she dragged him
to the front.� But I was not the only one
watching.
�� With
forlorn in his eyes, I could see Pascal at the aisle�s end, sighing heavily. He
had plans for that boy, just as I had plans for him.

�� It was five in the afternoon, which
translated to quitting time for Pascal. I slid on my shades as he exited the
school, sulking down in my seat to watch him walk to his old black mercury
cougar. He noticed little else besides himself but I took no chances,
especially after what I saw in the grocery store. I want this one. Badly. I need it.
Doing all this preparation had whet my appetite and I would not be denied now.
�� Pascal backed out of his spot and started
down the street. Once he passed Fourth
Ave, I turned left. He was on his way to his
girlfriend�s for the customary two hour visit. It was like clockwork with this
one. It was the same routine almost every day, which made his behaviour easy to
map and my task that much simpler.
�� I pulled up at his home, rather the
back of it, in the narrow alleyway used by the city of Miami�s civil servants. Aside from the errant
driver and the garbage trucks in the morning, the crumbling roads were used
mostly as policeman�s short cuts and referred to as such. In a well to do
neighbourhood such as Miami
Shores, no one could
abide having their garbage sit out front so these passages were made and
exploited by individuals like myself. People who wanted a quiet way into a
residence they would otherwise not be welcome in.
�� I slipped in through an open patio
door. Despite the word �door� being in the name, people considered it a window
and as they do with windows, they rarely lock it. The inside smelled of spices,
but not pleasingly so, it was tinged with sourness.� I knew the scent would still hug to my
clothes long after I was gone.
�� Stepping into the living room, I knew
this, his home, was where he did his dark deeds. Why else would a fifty-five-year-old
man plaster his walls with Disney characters, have a bookshelf full of toys and
oversized books and three game consoles?
�� I realised I�d have to double check
the last one. Deb�s former boyfriend was a semi-pro gamer in his off time, so I
looked through the game titles. Zapper, Ty the Tasmanian Tiger,
Shrek: Super party. Fluff stuff really, every last one with some animated
character plastered on the front with a smile,� proving his proclivity toward the
younger children. The cabinets in his kitchen, stacked with brightly coloured
boxes of cereal, Chef Boyardee and fruit roll ups, supported my assumption as did
a curiously out of place leather bound album.
�� In his bedroom, on top of the
gleaming TV system littered with tissues and a bottle of what I imagine to be
well used lotion, was a leather-bound album. I eased on my gloves before I took
it, careful not to knock a single crumpled tissue behind the set.
�� Even your most careful of sociopaths
have their trophies, memories of their conquests. I have slides and Pascal had
his album. Page after glossy page was plastered with pictures of young boys,
some in their Sunday best for school photos, others obviously taken once they
found their way here. I snapped the book shut and replaced it on the TV, just
as careful as when I took it off.
�� Standing in the doorway, I let my
eyes wander over the house and then looked at my watch. I smiled realising I
have an hour and half before Pascal came home.

A/N: �For those of you who have been
following, this will be it for a while. I�m going on holiday.

A/N: A big thanks to my Beta MuseofScrolls for whipping this one into shape!
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The Secret