Dexter at Dawn
Chapter 12
by Technomad
When I got to my computer, I fired it up and began researching Anne "Annie" Wilkes, RN. At first, everything I found seemed to be completely kosher. But as I dug, I found more and more things that made little, if any, sense.
Annie Wilkes was a few years younger than I was, and had gone to college at the University of Colorado. She'd got herself a graduate degree in nursing, and had gone to work at a hospital in Denver. So far, so good. She'd apparently done very well for herself, moving up rapidly to a supervisory position. She was fully surgery-qualified, and had won many excellent evaluations by her superiors.
Then something had happened. What it was, I could not find, but she had apparently found it expedient to leave Colorado suddenly, relocating to Miami. I made a note to dig more deeply. What could have made her leave a lucrative, successful career to start all over again in a completely new town? She had never been to Florida in her life before suddenly deciding to move here.
I had heard more than enough about northern winters from snowbirds and others who had come from the north to understand why someone might get tired of fighting them. But leaving a job she apparently loved and was good at just because of winters she had to have been accustomed to for years? That made me suspicious. There had to be something else going on.
With my access to police records, I took a look into the Denver PD's files, as well as those of the Colorado State Police. Soon I found references to a very strange episode. Annie had apparently been accused of kidnapping a famous writer and holding him captive, because of her obsession with a series of novels he had written. The writer had escaped, but somehow Annie had avoided facing serious consequences. Very soon after that, though, she had removed to Our Fair City, securing a position at Jackson Memorial Hospital. Since her nursing record was exemplary and her skills were top-of-the-line, they had snapped her right up.
At the accounts of what apparently had happened between Annie and the writer, the Dark Passenger uncoiled from the back of my mind and began whispering intriguing suggestions about just how to deal with someone who would do the things she was said to have done. I must admit, the Passenger's ideas were, as always, very tempting, but as far as I could determine, nothing was proven thoroughly enough to make her a valid target under the Rules of Harry.
Her record in Miami so far, according to the Miami-Dade PD computers, was flawless. Her superiors at Jackson Memorial sang her praises, and the nurses who worked under her supervision worshipped the water they thought she walked on. She'd mentored several beginning nurses, molding and shaping them from callow newbies into fine young women, skilled and competent at their jobs and with their private lives firmly in order. From what I could find, Annie had firm ideas about how a young woman should behave, and had run off some suitors for her subordinates' hands that she did not approve of.
How such a woman would team up with Paul Bennett was beyond me. I saved the data I had found to a new folder on my own computer, shut the machine down and went to see what Arya was up to.
Arya was in the living room, watching a movie on DVD. "This is Scaramouche," she explained. "A girl's fencing coach told her that it was a good movie to watch." Since I trusted Madame Duchamps' judgement, I sat down and watched it with her.
I'd never seen it before, and I found myself caught up in the story. A young man who'd been wronged by a nobleman in pre-Revolutionary France had to flee, joined up with a theatrical troupe, and later became a master swordsman. After a series of duels with obnoxious noblemen who thought that his common birth made him an easy target, he finally got a chance at the man he was after.
The ensuing duel was a thing of beauty and a joy to watch. Scaramouche and his noble enemy fought in a theater, going up and down and all around. The nobleman was an evil swine, and the sort of person to whom Harry's Rules might well have applied, but I had to admit that he was no coward and an excellent fighter. Scaramouche finally won, but he had to really work for his victory.
As the movie went on to its end, Arya turned to me. "A girl can see why Madame Duchamp wanted her to see this movie," she said. "Unlike other movies featuring sword duels, in this one a girl could see that the actors knew what they were doing. Some of it was faked, but a lot of it was done very skilfully."
"Do you think you could take either of those two in a real swordfight?" I asked. I knew that Arya was keeping up her swordsmanship partly in case she needed it. Her skills had apparently kept her alive and free as a homeless wanderer for quite a while in her home world, and I could see why she thought swordsmanship was a good thing to know. For that matter, although I did not want to ever get into a real fight with one of my playmates, it occurred to me that picking up some combat skills might be a good idea.
Of course, that presupposed that I would have the copious free time I would need to learn such things. I knew that Astor's judo classes were several evenings a week, having arranged them myself, and Arya's fencing was just as time-consuming. Between my work, my outings with the Dark Passenger and researching potential playmates, and figuring out how to get Rita free and back in Miami, my time was pretty much eaten up already.
After the movie was over, Arya yawned. "A girl thinks it's time to go to bed, Dexter," she said. "School resumes tomorrow, and a girl needs her rest to put up with the idiots who surround her there." Since I had felt very much the same way when I was her age, I agreed with her. We took turns using the bathroom, I supervised Arya's evening prayers, and we went to sleep in our separate rooms. I knew that I was no substitute for Rita in the mothering-and-nurturing line...how could it be otherwise? Monsters aren't known for their nurturing skills...but I hoped I was adequate.
With Arya safely deposited in school, I headed for work and soon found myself summoned to a crime scene. This one, unlike some of the grotesque murders and mutiliations I had seen in my time, was fairly routine. Two gangbangers had had an argument, the loser had come back with a gun. Since nobody was admitting to anything, the police were reduced to working through their lists of "usual suspects." However, that was no concern of mine. My concern was blood, and making the nasty stuff make sense so as to reconstruct the sequence of events.
With my work on site done, I returned to my nice air-conditioned office to fill out the paperwork needed to close the case. I had heard that the perpetrator was in custody, and while I had no faith that that erratic monster known as Florida Justice would be able to keep him on ice, I chalked it up as a win for the good guys. I disliked gangbangers, not least for their habit of spraying bullets indiscriminately. All too often, the people they shot were not gangstas themselves, but people who had the bad luck to have a gangsta in their family or as a neighbor.
Vince Masuoka stuck his head in. "Ho, Grasshopper," he said. "Have you obtained sustenance?" We took turns bringing in doughnuts and other pastries, although with the uproar about Rita disrupting my life, my colleagues had been very understanding when I came up short.
This time, however, I had remembered. I nodded to a bag on my desk with the logo of a well-known bakery. He reached in and pulled out a large one, covered with chocolate frosting. When he bit into it, his face lit up in a smile. "Strawberry jelly filling! The gods have smiled on your endeavors!"
"I but do my poor best," I told him. "How fare you in your endless quest against evil?"
"Not badly, Grasshopper. The perpetrator of that shooting has been quite voluble in his denials, and has added enough detail that we are quite certain that we have the right person in charge. My services were hardly needed."
"Excellent!" I said, turning on one of my fake smiles that seem to fool almost everybody. "Let us hope that he ends up with a long stay as a guest of the great State of Florida!"
"His counsel is already talking plea-bargain," Vince warned me. "He may well have enough other information about other crimes to be able to be let off with a lighter sentence than his actions have earned him."
"Not good news, O Master," I said. As I've said, I dislike gangbangers, as much for their indiscriminate killing as for the extra work they pile on me. Downtrodden Dexter has quite enough on his plate without them bringing me more blood to look at.
"However, O Grasshopper," Vince held up a finger, "we in Florida have discovered that Georgia and Mississippi both have claims on him. He could yet sit in prison for a very long time. Or make the acquaintance of Old Sparky, or the needle."
This thought pleased me. Even though I may well face it myself one day, I have no problem with the death penalty. How can I, since the Dark Passenger and I deal it out so often to deserving playmates? About the only thing I can say against it is that I don't care for the way we allow endless futile appeals to delay things for decades and decades. When the Dark Passenger and I kill someone, we make it fairly quick and certain, instead of drawing it out as a sadist would do.
However, it was drawing on toward afternoon, and Daddy Dexter had to be there to pick up Arya. I hoped to see Astor and Cody as well, but that was by no means certain.
When I got to the school, Arya was waiting outside for me. Unlike some of the unruly brats she went to school with, she was almost preternaturally still. I wondered if the rough play I saw had ever included her, and asked her about it once she'd climbed in and buckled up.
"No. That's mainly for the boys. A girl is not a boy, so she is not included." She gave me a rare smile. Her Dark Passenger peeked out of her eyes for a second as she went on: "A girl thinks that the others can sense something different about her, and know better than to tangle with her." Then she visibly remembered something. "Oh! Caroline Sula wants to know if we can come over to the Sulas' place for dinner tonight. The Sulas like you, and they like a girl, and feel bad that we're all alone."
"I'll call the Sulas when we get home and tell them 'yes,' Arya. I like the Sulas. It'll be a nice change from eating by ourselves. How are Astor and Cody doing?" Even though I have no normal human feelings, I had developed a concern for Rita's children, and with them entrusted to me (save when that pestilential father of their had them) I wanted them to be well and happy.
Arya looked thoughtful. "A girl does not see any sign that anything is wrong," she finally said, after visibly chewing the question over in her mind. "Astor and a girl eat lunch together, along with Caroline Sula and some of her friends. A girl believes that if anything were wrong, Astor would tell a girl about it. Astor and a girl have few secrets from each other."
"How about Cody?"
"A girl does not see Cody as often as she does Astor. She sees Cody in the halls once in a while. A girl cannot see that anything is wrong with Cody." Then she looked rather rueful. "But even Astor admits that she has a hard time reading Cody sometimes."
By this time we were home. Arya disappeared into the back hard to do her exercises with her straight stick, and I noticed that she was incorporating moves that she had learned at Madame Duchamp's fencing school into them. Watching her through the back window, I called the Sulas and asked about the invitation to dinner.
"But of course, Mr. Morgan! We want to have you! Caroline sings your ward's praises, and she's good friends with your stepchildren as well! After the good turn you did us with my son's car, we owe you some favors in return, and a good dinner you don't have to cook yourselves or go to some restaurant to get is the least we can do!" Once I had reassured her that we'd be there, I hung up and told Arya that we'd both have to get spiffed up before going to the Sulas' place. Arya nodded, and headed for the bathroom and the room she shared with Astor.
An hour later, changed and looking our best, we pulled up in front of the Sulas' house. Charlene Sula saw us coming and came out into the front yard to welcome us in. "Ah, Mr. Morgan, Arya! Welcome to our house! We're so happy you're here! Come in and meet everybody!" She led us in, and I could smell heavenly odors coming from the kitchen. "I hope my cooking's up to your specifications! Arya says that you and Rita are both very skilled in the kitchen!"
I hadn't known that Arya thought that well about my cooking. Against my will, I was very touched. I would never dare compare my skills in that area with Rita's. Before my marriage, I had often been perfectly content nuking something in the microwave and calling it good. As long as the mighty machine that is Dexter's metabolism had fuel, I was content.
Arya nodded, agreeing with Charlene. "A girl has not found any food she does not like since she has been here, Mrs. Sula," she said. "Before a girl came to Miami, she wandered, homeless, for a long time, and had to get used to eating whatever came to hand. A girl got used to eating those things, but a girl never liked it."
Charlene was horrified to hear that. "Oh, my dear! I'm so glad Dexter and Rita found you! I just hope you can get Rita out of jail and back here where she belongs! I pray for her every night, you know." Being Florida-born and around Southerners all my life, that statement did not shock me at all, although I knew that a "Yankee" might have been taken slightly aback to hear such a thing discussed so openly and so casually. I had dealt enough with Northern transplants to know that they were often slightly shocked at the open religous committment so common in the South.
"A girl appreciates your prayers, Mrs. Sula," Arya assured her. "A girl also knows that Dexter feels as she does on this." Appealed to, I nodded vigorously. While I have no more religious belief than a clam does, I have often found it expedient to fake belief. Rita believes, and did not know that I did not.
Christopher Sula, Caroline's father, came in and came over for a handshake. He was as blond as his wife and daughter. As we sat down to dinner, he told us about his job. "I sell computers and systems to businesses and government entities, Mr. Morgan," he said. "As a matter of fact, I sold the system that you use down at the police department!"
This was interesting! I gently questioned him, and elicited some interesting information. Chris Sula knew the systems we used, as well as or better than I did. He told me some things about our computer systems that I hadn't known before, and I made mental notes. I am always on the lookout for useful information to help me in my job or with my hobby.
Meanwhile, Arya was talking fencing with Caroline and her mother. As it happened, Charlene Sula had been a fencer herself in college. She and the girls were deep in technical discussions that I couldn't follow. When Chris got up to get some more coffee, I looked at the pictures on the wall. One of them was of Charlene, in fencing gear...with her arm around the shoulder of a very familiar fencer.
"Charlene? When was that taken?" I asked.
"Oh, that was when I was in college. I was on the fencing team myself, and that was taken after a match against the University of Colorado's team. The other woman in that photo is Annie Wilkes. She and I faced each other for the winning match. As it happened, I won that one, but it was a very close-run thing. If one or two little things had gone differently, she might have carried off the prize."
Arya's eyes met mine. I could see that we were on the same wavelength. This was a side of Annie Wilkes that we hadn't been aware of. Annie had only ever met Arya in passing, and as close-mouthed and hostile to Annie Wilkes as both Cody and Astor were, I didn't think they'd let word of Arya's skills slip to her. But I made up my mind to warn them to keep quiet when I saw them next. The weekend would come soon.
After what I have to admit was an enjoyable dinner, we made our excuses and headed for home. I could tell that Arya was pretty content with the world at the moment, and my own stomach was purring with contentment. Charlene Sula was nearly, or completely, in Rita's class as a cook.
"A girl wishes that Rita, Cody and Astor could have been along," Arya remarked. "A girl thinks that they would have enjoyed this evening as much as Dexter and a girl have."
"I agree with you completely, Arya," I said, casually dodging around a nasty tangle that was caused by a three-vehicle pile-up. "I want to get them all back home where they belong. Paul Bennett's doing better as a father than I had expected, but I don't trust him an inch."
"Neither does a girl," Arya said. I had shown her stuff on my computer about Paul Bennett's pre-prison life, and Astor had, no doubt, told her many things when they were cuddled up in bed together. "A girl knows much and more about Paul Bennett. A girl is surprised that he hasn't 'broken bad' before now."
And with that, we were home. Arya went out back to practice with her straight stick, and I sat back to watch TV. TV was the usual stuff: the day's murders (none of them very interesting; the Dark Passenger yawned through all the reports, instead of perking up and showing interest) shenanigans in the Statehouse, fumbling in the Federal Government, and international insanity. Nothing unusual, in other words. I found myself yawning by the end of the news report, and Arya, who'd come in to keep me company, was all but asleep. I managed to propel her off to bed and stumbled off to my own bed.
When Astor and Cody came home that weekend, they were a little jealous that they hadn't been along. Arya described the evening, and while she did not exaggerate, the meal really had been sinfully good. We did our best in the kitchen, but our best wasn't up to Rita's routine work.
"Have either of you mentioned Arya's fencing skills around Paul Bennett? Or Annie Wilks?" I asked. I didn't know for sure, but I thought keeping that information close was a good idea.
"No," Astor said. "We don't talk much at all around either of those two. At first they thought something was wrong, but they're used to it now."
This was a relief. Their closemouthed habits could help make the difference in this mess.
There were no visiting hours at the Charleston jail that weekend, but we were able to get Rita on the phone. She was delighted to hear from us. "Dexter! Oh, it's so good to hear your voice! Not like having you here...not that I'd want to ever see you in jail..." I knew what she meant, and I was used to how she talked.
She was interested to hear about our visit with the Sulas. "They do sound like very nice people! I hope I get to meet them in person soon!"
"So do I," I assured her, perfectly truthfully.
