"…Now I know my ABCs, next time won't you sing with me?"
Finally, we're done. Let me emphasize that again: finally. As much fun as it is singing with a bunch of other parents while our one-year-olds sit drooling and attempting to mumble along with the song, I really don't enjoy blending in. Maybe it's just the heat today – I can practically feel my skin melting. Not to mention, it's not the most comfortable thing for Harrison to endure. Damn those weather forecasters; it was supposed to be breezy this fine Sunday afternoon.
Right as I am leaving with Harrison, single moms assault me (one in particular has been persistent). "So, Dexter, is it?" Don't pretend you don't know my name, "Uh, last time I checked." "You're so funny!" she says, giggling and playfully hitting me. "Thanks?" I say, trying to get to my car. Great, she's following me.
"I was just…thinking…Dexter, do you want to schedule a play date?" "Uh…I'm not sure, aren't the kids still a little young for that?" "But you're not," she says, winking. "Oh, I'm flattered, but," I have to kill somebody, "I'm busy with work right now." "Right, stopping bad guys. Maybe some other time," she says walking away dejected, but hiding it with a half-smile.
Phew. I really don't have time to add more social interactions into my life right now – especially the ones that I don't fully understand.
I feel the familiar cold claws and rustling feathers scratching at my soulless guts. 'Where?' I ask. 'There,' a thousand screeching voices reply at once. Scanning my surroundings I can only see other parents at the park, and the only other cars are mom- and dad-mobiles. 'I don't see what you're talking about-' but then I see someone that makes my Passenger assault my insides, refusing to let go.
'It can't be – there's no way…' 'It is, Dexter. While you were distracted, you missed her. She's the one.'
But it's too late; my hesitation lets my colleague make her getaway. The vigilante stares at me from underneath her large sunglasses and mop of dirty-blonde hair. Her triumphant red grin is engraved in my Passenger's aching mind.
"Please tell me what happened, I just need to know." "Fine," Sonya finally says as she settles in with Harrison. "I took Harrison outside for some fresh air and a short drive around so he would fall asleep. I know I locked the apartment door when I left that evening, that's what startles me," she says, "When I got back, the door was unlocked, but I thought that maybe I had accidentally left it that way. That is, until I saw the air conditioner." She points from her chair, Harrison in her lap.
"The cover looked like someone had taken it off and put it back on. So, I went to fix it, but I knocked over a couple of things on the shelf – including the candle as I'm sure you saw," I nod, "I didn't get the chance to clean it up when you got back, so I couldn't fix the vent." I feel a small sense of relief, but something still troubles me…
"Why didn't you tell me before? You rushed out of here so fast I thought something bad had happened." "Actually," she says, "My father is sick. I've been visiting him in the hospital any chance I can. It's been difficult finding time for him because I need to work to pay off some of his medical bills. Neither of us has very good insurance." "I'm so sorry," I say, trying to sound sincere – at least I can relate to this to a certain extent, even though Harry has been out of my life lately.
"You should take some time off…personal time…to deal with your father," I offer. "But Dexter, I need to work right now–" "I'll compensate you, just take the time you need, Sonya. I'll find someone else to take care of Harrison for now." "Thank you, Dexter," she says, placing a hand on mine momentarily, "You're a saint." Well…
At a hardware store, not unlike the one that Dexter typically visits, the vigilante goes through the aisles, searching for the perfect tool. Picking up a knife, she studies it, imagining what it will feel like when she slides its cool blade into the writhing body of her victim…
"Need any help?" A sheepish, carbuncular teenager asks, trying to seem useful for his watchful manager. "Yeah, I think I'll take this one. What do you think?" "It's nice. What is it for?" "Ah, it's never too early to shop for Thanksgiving. I've been preparing for a while," she says, paying attention to hide the dark voice that wants to emerge from her.
I flash my laminate at the burly man and burlier woman behind the crime scene tape; they let me into the house of the latest crime scene of my elusive and mocking vigilante friend. I'm back at the blood-filled kitchen that I know was intended to provoke my Passenger. Well played.
Every detail of this crime, from the blood-filled room and the chainsaw used to hack up the heavily bound bodies, is intended to call my darkness out. The problem is that we couldn't find all of the victims in the kitchen that the DNA suggested.
That is, it was a problem until Vince Masuka (who is now on vacation) had the brilliant idea of checking the rest of the house this morning. And there it was: in the large basement freezer were the two missing bodies. They were not the neatly wrapped bloodless bodies that I so love. No. They were messy with the sticky red substance I hate so much.
When I looked up these and the other victims, however, I could not find any criminal records or possible reasons why any of these victims would have been killers. I think her Dark Passenger is becoming restless…I can work with that.
"…So you have their IDs – that's great, then-" "Actually, that night our system was hacked. We've since improved our firewall, but I can't help you with the night that Tommy Gray was murdered. I wish I could, he was a regular here and a good friend." "That's too bad…You said that you were out of town?"
"I only left town after that. I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't paid so much to go to the conference, but my flight, hotel–well, everything was already booked. And the other manager, who you've spoken to, was in charge after I left," the man says, looking at Deb helplessly yet still remaining professional.
"Thank you anyway…Actually," Deb says, "could I ask you about some of the outfits I saw on the security footage?"
Deb waits impatiently for Quinn to get to the interview room. She has a television set up and the 'Fever' manager sitting across the table. Her fingernails rattling on the table make the two-minute wait seem ten times longer.
"What is it you found on the tape?" Quinn asks, quickly entering the room. "This," Deb says, pointing, "See this person in the over-the-top dress? I mean, the really, really over-the-top one? Well, apparently Mr.-" "Jones," the manager finishes. "Ok, well Mr. Jones said that he didn't see anyone wearing it inside the club. In fact, the person wearing it probably had about two or three different costumes underneath."
"So this means-?" Quinn asks, not really seeing the significance of this meeting. "That person is probably the killer, Quinn," Deb answers, "Mr. Jones, do you mind explaining more?" "Sure, um, basically this means that the person wearing the dress that you see on screen could have hidden something much, much more dangerous –" "Like the tools to kill Tommy Gray and have that elaborate crime scene," Deb finishes.
"Wait, so what about security? 'Cause someone hiding all of that…stuff…" Quinn prompts. "Our security isn't that great. We're working on it," the manager ashamedly says.
"Thanks for taking care of Harrison all day – on short notice too," I say to Lumen as I arrive at home, "Now I guess you don't need to stay in that motel." "Dexter, I need to tell you something." Uh-oh. "I know that I'm the one who left, but I still loved you, and I feel like if I stay here," she pauses, "It's only going to remind me that you can't feel the same way."
"Lumen, I can't help it. I've tried, but I can only feel the…darkness…right now. And after my slip-up with Quinn, I'm not sure I can even control it anymore…" "Slip-up? What else did you tell him about us?" Wait, what? "I called you a few nights ago, remember? I killed again, and Quinn saw. You answered the phone." I can see a small sense of panic on her face, making my Dark Passenger recoil in discomfort. It pushes me down into a chair.
"That was you, wasn't it?" I ask. She just looks down, shaking her head in disbelief. "Lumen, please tell me who answered the phone," I plead. "Okay, okay. Just, don't panic, Dexter. I can't even be sure that she heard everything – or that she even answered," she starts. I suppress my Passenger. "I've been talking to your sister lately – she's part of the reason I'm back in Miami."
Dear Dexter is disoriented. "What else does she know, Lumen?" "She knows that you helped me kill the men who hurt me, but she doesn't know how we met, or about how you killed before you knew me–" "But she still knows I'm a killer. Shit, that's probably why she and Quinn have been avoiding me…"
"But Dexter, she's not going to do anything about it. It all makes sense now. Yesterday, she came to my motel room without telling me she was going to. She started talking about how damaged you probably are from what you went through. I didn't realize it at the time, but–" "She probably thinks that this is all new for me. And she thinks that I'm having a difficult time coping with what happened to you–" No, not just to Lumen. Deb probably thinks that I'm having a delayed reaction to Rita's death.
After a long evening of trying to understand why everyone around me seems to lie to me, dear old Dexter still needs to kill. I have a victim in mind, but now with Lumen as the only person who can take care of Harrison right now, I need to find a way to sneak out of my own apartment. It's going to be a long night, especially because I need to find a new home for my blood slides and kill tools; I don't want the lovely Detective Debra discovering the entire truth – that's just too much.
"Hey, where are you going?" Lumen asks from the couch as I try to leave my apartment unnoticed. "I think I should get rid of these," I say, holding up incriminating evidence of my murderous ways. "Are you sure? They're your...trophies…" "I need to," I say. But I have a different need tonight.
"But what about your 'need'?" she asks, fairly. "Don't worry about it," I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek before I leave. I still can't feel anything, but Lumen seems somewhat reassured.
Dexter pulls into the parking lot behind the dingy bar where his next victim awaits. The full, fat moon looks down on him and the chill of the Dark Passenger's breath heightens his senses. It is finally the time when Dexter can uninterruptedly say…
Tonight's the night.
