We Cry 4/5

[1shinyboat]

Fandom: Dexter
Pairing: Debra M./OC...toys with Dexter/Lumen
Spoilers: EVERYTHING...'cause I can.
Rating: R...those soddin' "F" bombs and well Deb's overall disposition is not child friendly.
Disclaimer, Spoilers and any notes from me…see chapter 1 ‘cause it all still applies.

A/N: Nada.



Ch.4 - Sensible Attack

“Come in, please,” Ivey directs me inside her apartment. “I haven’t been home recently. New job. New crazy partner that keeps crazy hours, so I’m sorry if it’s not as tidy as I usually keep it,” she teases me.

I flip her off as I pass by her extended arm. She grins and swats my ass as I walk past. Shooting her a glare, I say, “Hands above the waist, Herrera.”

“You say that now, Morgan.” Shutting the front door, she turns to me and wags her finger, “If it changes, don’t come crying to me. Relax, take a load off. Beer?”

I nod and she takes my bag, sets it on the kitchen island and tosses her keys in a dish by the bag. I hear loose change rattle and paper rustle as the keys land. The apartment is more than I expected from her. It’s definitely a home to her. A thick area rug is under the dark oak coffee table. The soft black leather couch feels wonderful as I sink into it. There are a few paintings hanging up and photos scattered throughout the living room.

I run a hand through my hair and let myself relax for the first time in four days. I’m exhausted.

“I hope you like Mexican beer,” my partner says.

I crack my eyes open and lift my head to look at her. She’s standing next to me holding out a brown bottle of Pacifico, a lime wedge is stuffed into the top. I shrug. “Thanks.”

She nods and sits down next to me, drawing a leg underneath her and propping her right elbow on to the back of the couch. I stuff the lime down the neck of the bottle and take a pull of the beer. It tastes wonderful and I moan in appreciation.

“That’s damn good,” I mumble.

“It’s not bad. One of my favorite imports actually.” She clinks her bottle against mine and says, “To being stuck on a shitty case with a new partner and primary suspects that go missing.”

I roll my eyes, but join in the toast. “Could be worse.”

“How so?” she asks around the mouth of her own bottle.

“Your new partner could be a complete asshole instead of me,” I snicker.

Her eyebrows hike to near her hairline and she jokes back, “Who says you’re not?”

I flip her off for good measure and then start bitching, “Jesus Christ. I knew we should have gone after Chase before.” I thump my head off the back of the couch and close my eyes. That fucking prick.

“Hey, at least LaGuerta came through on the order. Jordan Chase will turn up one way or another. The man is kind of famous. Someone will recognize him and call us,” Ivey tries to make this okay.

But it’s not okay. We went to stop him before he left the country on a tour and he didn’t show. His offices don’t know where he’s at. His personal assistant is clueless and said this was very out of character for her boss.

Dumb woman. She has no idea what exactly her boss is capable of. All the idiot wanted to do was protect her precious Jordan Chase.

I growl.

“Debra, seriously, there isn’t anything we can do for the rest of the night. Relax. For both of our sakes.” Ivey’s hand rests on my knee. The skin heats up and she gives it a gentle squeeze.

I turn my head and open up my eyes to look at her. “I should be at the station going over everything. There has to be something there.”

She shakes her head; her lips form a thin line. “Deb, he’s not around. We’ve got an A.P.B. out on him. You heard Batista. He just about threw us out of the station. Let’s take his advice,” she says gently.

My eyebrows knit together and I sigh. “This is just such…God; it’s all so fucked up.”

“Why?” she wonders.

“Why?” I snip, “Why wouldn’t it be?” I look her in the eyes and summarize the past week of my life, “Let’s start off with the suspension and investigation of my former partner, Joey Quinn, who I was living and sleeping with. We’ll segue into twelve dead women who were raped and tortured whose killers or at least suspected killers keep on coming up missing. On top of that, they find Quinn’s buddy, former police detective Stan Liddy, dead from a shot to the head in his apartment this afternoon.” I point my beer at her and ask, “So what about that isn’t fucked up?”

She sighs, shifts her position to mirror mine, but doesn’t remove her hand. “Don’t know,” Ivey finally agrees.

That’s what I thought.

I place the beer between my legs and lace my fingers behind my head. It is fucked up. Kind of a standard around here for the most part…but fuck, why can’t things be just…halfway fucking normal for a change? Is that so much to ask?

I could unload on her further and ask her what in the hell she thinks she’s doing to me? She’s all touchy, and normally, touchy is bad. I’ve broken a few fingers and hands because others couldn’t keep their hands to themselves, but she just sort of…ignores my walls.

It’s annoying.

Take for instance the hand she has on my knee. That should bug the shit out of me…now, I kind of like it. What the hell is up with that…it sort of feels like…

I shake my head to rid myself of the thoughts…nope. Not a good idea to go down that road. I don’t need it.

It’s got to be the exhaustion. That’s the only thing I can come up with. I pry my eyes open and turn to look her over. She’s staring at me when I meet her gaze and I quirk an eyebrow.

“I got something on my face?” I ask.

She smiles and shakes her head. “Nope.”

“Then what’s up?”

“Nothing. Just trying to figure out if you make everything as difficult as possible?” The smile she gives me removes the sting from the words.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, my tone lighter than I feel.

She shrugs and uses the nail of her left thumb to pick at the label on her bottle. “Nothing,” she sighs, “Look, just…come on. Let’s get you settled into bed and we’ll start fresh in the morning.”

“I’m fine here,” I say making a show of slipping my shoes off and curling my legs under me.

“Nuh-huh. Come on, Morgan, don’t fight me on this. We’ve spent the past how many nights on cots that really aren’t fit for POW’s. You need to sleep in a real bed.” She stands and sets her empty bottle on a coaster on the coffee table.

“Where are you putting me?” I ask resignedly before draining my own beer and setting the empty bottle next to hers.

“If you behave yourself, you’ll sleep in my bed, if you’re cool with me sharing it. If not, I’ll take the couch.” She grabs my hand and pulls me up. She doesn’t let go as she leads me down the short hallway and through the open bedroom door. Flicking the light switch, a lamp in the corner comes on and bathes the room in soft light.

I stand by the bed as she drops my hand and spins towards me. “I think I may have…” Ivey trails off and her eyes rake up my body. “I’m sure there’s something somewhere in my closet that’ll fit you.”

Her left index finger taps her chin. I can’t help but smile. She’s shorter than me by a good four maybe five inches. Looking her over she sort of reminds me of an older Rosario Dawson, but shorter. I don’t think there’s anything in her closet that will fit.

“Hmm,” she turns towards one of the chest of drawers along the right wall. I decide to let her figure it out and remove my gun and badge to set on the left side nightstand.

“Here,” Ivey grabs my attention by tossing some clothes in my direction. “I think these’ll fit.” She smiles and gives me a once over again. “If not, then well, Morgan, you can sleep in your underwear.” She winks at me and my stomach does this weird flip.

I roll my eyes in an effort to not give away that that idea wouldn’t be too bad an option. Ivey takes my reaction to her words as discomfort, so she tries to joke, “It’ll be the most action I’ve seen in months.”

“You’re fucking joking?” I ask before I have time to censor the question.

She shakes her head. “Unfortunately not.”

I look her over. It would be a fat fucking lie to say that I didn’t think she was hot. The hair, those eyes, and she’s got these full pouty lips…ah…yeah…okay. “Well,” I cough, “you are obviously not looking in the right places.”

I can feel the heat on my cheeks. I turn away from her and begin to strip. My pants go first and then my shirt. I grab the t-shirt from the bed and hold it up. It’s a Miami PD shirt that looks nearly the right size. I pull it over my head and tug it down. “Shit,” I mumble as it only comes to just above my belly button. I sigh and grab the shorts. They’re loose in the hips, but short in the legs. “I look like a fucking giant in midget’s clothes,” I grumble.

I turn around to face my snickering partner. Even under her dark olive toned skin I see the blush. I see her swallow and cover her mouth with her left hand.

“Fuck off,” I retort and fling the covers down my side of the bed. “I’m going to sleep.”

“I’ll be in in a bit,” she finally says. “G’night, partner.”

My eyes are closed and I’m halfway to dreamland, but I manage to mumble, “G’night.”

“Dexter,” Harry says from the passenger seat, “think about what you’re doing, Son.”

My jaw clenches at the delusion’s words. I’ve yet to figure out if he’s my subconscious reflected back at me or if he merely is a delusion and a symptom of my psychosis.

Even though I would hardly consider me psychotic. I’ve seen psychotic. While I’ve come close, you do need a firmer and broader base of emotions to be psychotic.

“You have no idea what to expect when you go out there.”

Harry Morgan. Always the voice of reason. He’s not wrong here either.

The last few days have been stressful: the discovery of Liddy’s body, Debra meeting Lumen, and the coup de grace of my day today, a call from Jordan Chase telling me he has Lumen.

The white-knuckled grip I have causes the plastic and leather under my hands to groan in protest. I went to Emily Birch’s house. What did I find? Blood. No bodies.

“I know that, Dad,” I take my eyes from the road and look at him. His eyes are sad and worried. Much like the way they looked when he was in the hospital and worrying over whether or not I was going to be caught for my after-dark avocations. “But he has her and I don’t know how much time I have,” my voice is barely a whisper.

“You don’t even know if you have the right location,” he tries to reason again.

“I don’t have any other choice,” I state. I have to be right. The camp was the only location that fits. It’s where I would go if the roles were reversed. My Dark Passenger agreed when we saw the printouts from the Hall of Records.

The campsite where it all started and Jordan Chase, a.k.a. Eugene Greer, got his start as a motivational speaker, serial rapist and murderer. He and his friends took advantage of Emily Birch, his first and last victim.

Why else would he keep a vial of her blood around his neck? Trophies will get you caught. Someone should have told him that.

Everything just seems to be falling apart. Lumen should have stayed at home. I told her it wasn’t safe. But she went and tried to talk to Emily again.

For her trouble she got abducted by Chase. Emily’s house was devoid of everything but the blood spatter.

Why did she go?

Why does it have to be her?

Looking down at the paper in my lap, I see the address of the campsite and check it against the passing buildings. I’m on the right road, but it looks like the site is a few miles up the road. I depress the gas Emily’s car a little more and it takes off.

“What are you going to do with him, Dexter? What if she’s already dead?” my dad asks.

“She won’t be,” I spit. “She’ll be alive and untouched.”

“You can’t guarantee that,” he pushes.

“I can. He’ll want me there.” I lick my lips and look at Harry out of the corner of my eye. “I’d want me there. To watch. To hear her scream. To plead. He’s waiting for me.”

Harry doesn’t respond to this. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest and stares out the windshield. I seem to have convinced him.

Now, as the signs for the campsite come into view, I have to convince myself.

I’m coming, Lumen.

Ivey follows behind me as we come out of the empty office building. Of all the fucked up…

I cock my fist back and hit the first thing within striking distance. I pull back to strike again, but a strong arm prevents my fist from hitting the palm tree again.

“Whoa, Mike Tyson, chill,” Ivey says. Her arm hooks around my bicep and she spins me around. “Partner, seriously, we don’t have time to take you to the emergency room.”

I shrug her off and flex my hand. The initial numbness begins to wear off and I enjoy the feel of the slow burn running up the length of my arm.

“Goddammit, Debra,” she hisses and looks at the now busted knuckles of my right hand. “I just don’t get you.”

I shrug. “This is fucking bullshit,” I spit as she leads me away from the tree and over to her car. She opens the passenger door and points to the seat.

“Sit your crazy white ass down,” she demands going to the trunk of her car.

I glare at her, but do as directed. My right hand rests in my lap and I look at it. The knuckles are swollen and puffy already. The skin is tattered and bleeding. It feels good. It feels better than the frustration and anger I’ve felt since I got to the station this morning.

I should have known when I woke up this morning, in Ivey’s bed no less, with her curled up to my right side, that today was just going to be shitty beyond recognition. I should have listened to my instincts and pulled the covers over my head and ignored today like the emotional cripple that I am.

Instead, Ivey gets me up and hands me my clean clothes, she apparently did them when I fell asleep last night. Not only that but she also cooked breakfast while I was in the shower. She’s got this thing about her. It’s fucking annoying ’cause I hate being taken care of, but I let her do it and I’ve known her less than a week.

How fucking crazy is that shit?

Thats’s why I don’t say anything as she comes back with a first aid kit, bottle of water and towel. Ivey gently takes my busted hand and opens the water to pour over the broken, battered skin. I say nothing and she says nothing as she cleans off my hand and inspects the damage.

I look down at the clean wounds and figure that at the very worst I broke a few knuckles. Big deal. I want to find Jordan Chase-slash-Eugene Greer and break my hand on his face. The self-righteous, arrogant, fucking rapist prick.

I bite my lip as she uses some band aids from the kit and a few pieces of tape to wrap my hand. Her thumb ghosts over the covered wounds and she looks up at me, her eyebrows knitted together.

“Don’t do stupid shit like that.” Ivey’s voice is calm and even, but there is steel behind her voice.

“I, uh, fuck…” I stammer and rub the back of my neck.

“Shut up, Deb.” She closes the first aid kit and I swing my legs into her car.

A few minutes later, she slips into the driver’s seat and looks over at me. “So what’s the next location on that list?” she asks pointing to the print out from the Hall of Records. The list contains all of the property holdings for Jordan Chase Enterprises. I pick up the list and look it over.

“This is like playing lawn darts in the pitch black with a greased up midget. It’ll take fucking forever!” I grunt, tossing the list on the dashboard once again. I run my busted hand through my hair and look at my partner.

Her mouth is slightly parted and she’s looking at me like I have something grotesque on my face. “What?” I snip.

She just shakes her head. I’m ready to rip into her when my phone starts to vibrate on my hip. I look at the display and pray that Batista has some good news. Answering, I say, “Morgan.”

“Deb, I have a tip that came through dispatch,” Batista tells me. “A guy selling fruit on the corner of southwest four-twenty-fourth and the One-South said he saw Jordan Chase in a BMW.”

My eyebrows hike up. “That all?”

“The man swears that he heard someone thrashing around in the back of the car, like the trunk area. You and Herrera want to go talk to the guy?”

“Hell yes. We’re en route. Thanks Angel,” I say before disconnecting. “Head South,” I direct my partner. “There was a guy selling fruit on a street corner that claims he saw Jordan Chase.”

She nods and puts the car in gear. Buckling up, I hang on to the dashboard as we rocket out of the empty parking lot.

“Look at you! All grown up,” Jordan Chase coos from the table he’s strapped to. “I made you, Lumen. If it weren’t for me, you’d be just another filthy cunt wasting her life.” He looks her up and down and then snickers, “Now you’re embracing life. You should be kissing my feet, you worthless bitch!”

I’ve had enough. The sound of the palm hitting his cheek is the only thing that registers. “Shut up!” I snap.

His eyes refocus and he glares at me. His mouth opens to speak, but I’m in no mood to hear any more of his bullshit. So I take the rag that I was using to stop the blood from the cut on my brow and cram it down his throat.

There’s so much evidence to clean up. The initial trap that Chase set, a tractor parked in the middle of the road, the wrecked car, the blood on the floor belonging to all three of us, my bloody rag in Jordan Chase’s mouth. I shake my head. I need to keep focused on the task at hand. Lumen is safe. I’m safe. Jordan Chase is about to die. All of this adds up to things going Dreadful Dexter’s delightful way.

I’m just thankful that I got here in time. Granted, I came in cuffed and at gunpoint, but the table’s quickly turned. The stupid prick thought he could one-up me. He actually thought he had the upper hand here.

I want to kill him just for that.

Let alone what he’s done to the women that’ve crossed his path.

“Dexter,” Lumen says softly.

I tear my gaze away from the monster on my slab and look up at her. She swallows and asks without asking if I’m okay. I dip my chin and she nods.

She comes around to stand next to me as I look over my knives. “We’ll have to get you a set if you want,” I tell her. “Something very similar. What do you think?” I ask looking down at her.

Amazingly enough, she offers me this little half smile and nods. “I want to use that one,” she points to the knife that my right hand is resting on top of. “Also, if you want, I’ll go with you to Harrison’s birthday. I’d like to meet the rest of your family.”

I pull out the ten-inch carving knife and nod, handing the blade to her. “I think I would like that too.”

“Thank you,” she says and turns toward her second victim.

Life is defined in small moments. It’s never the big things that make a memory. It’s always the small ones. This small snippet in time will define Lumen Ann Pierce for decades. I couldn’t be prouder.

I watch, arms folded across my chest, standing opposite Lumen as she looks down at Jordan Chase. Her face gives nothing away. She’s the picture of cold calculation as she gently runs her fingertips over the blade of the knife.

Jordan sputters behind the gag in his mouth causing Lumen to purse her lips. She looks slightly annoyed.

That look doesn’t last long. Her arms rise up, lifting the knife in her hands. It comes down swift and accurate, burying the blade to the hilt in Chase’s chest. His sputtering and wheezing dies out.

Before I know it, I’m behind Lumen, supporting her as she collapses crying in my arms.

“Habla Español?” the fruit seller asks for the millionth fucking time.

“Jordan Chase?” I try again with my hands on my hips. It can’t be this fucking difficult to communicate with another human being.

The man’s large brown eyes grow a little bigger and he nods. I perk up and ask, “Which direction did he go?”

“Chase,” he says in a thick Dominican accent.

I look to Ivey. Her sunglasses are mirrored and reflecting the bright afternoon sun. The t-shirt she’s wearing is tucked into the tan slacks and her hands are on her hips, her posture just like mine.

She shakes her head and shrugs.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I snip at her. “You’re fucking Hispanic!”

She smirks and holds her hands up. “I’m also the darkest white girl you’ve ever met. I don’t speak Spanish. I was raised in a suburb of Philadelphia. Irish and Puerto Rican, Deb. I only habla American, you know, the poor man’s English.”

Oh for FUCKS SAKE!

I throw my hands up in the air and spit, “I swear I’m fucking learning Spanish after this!”

This causes Ivey to laugh loudly.

“Direction?” she directs the question to the seller.

I watch the exchange and he points south.

Fuck, at least it’s something.

She nods and says, “Gracias.”

I roll my eyes and get in the car.

Snatching the list of properties off the dashboard I look at the intersection again and place myself on the mental map of Miami that’s stored in my head. He’s got to be around here somewhere.

My finger’s drum across the paper in my lap and I look down, searching the addresses. Nothing. Where the hell is he going?

Ivey says, “Buckle up.”

I toss the paper on the dashboard and do as instructed. She peels out, gravel kicking up behind us. She weaves in and out of traffic, the lights that are clipped to her visor reflecting off the windshield. We’re running silent, but people move out of the way anyhow.

A few miles down, I see a faded sign to the River Jordan Camp for Boys and Girls and point to it. It can’t be a coincidence.

“Got it,” she says.

The car goes into a slide, but she handles her vehicle well. Grabbing the ‘oh shit’ handle, I hang on and try not to freak out too much. The car evens out and we’re zipping down the dirt road before I can blink.

We come around a bend in the road and she stomps on the brakes. Dirt, rocks and debris go flying around the car, pinging against the metal and glass of her Mustang. “Holy shit!” she breathes.

“Uh,” I manage as the car comes to a stop and the noise dies down. “Shit.”

We hop out of the car and take a look around. A Ford Taurus rests on its hood, but there are no bodies inside or around the outside of the car. I wonder if this belongs to the vigilantes.

“Come on,” Ivey says, “there’s nothing here. We can come back later.”

I nod as we run back to the car and take off again, this time going around the tractor and the car. The drive evens out and begins to circle around to a line of cabins. The last cabin on the right has one car parked in front of it.

Jordan Chase’s BMW.

“Fucking all right!” I slap the dashboard earning a glare from my partner.

“Hey, be gentle,” she chides.

I grin at her and jump out of the car before it comes to a stop. My gun is drawn and I feel Ivey flank me to the left. Looking around, nothing seems out of place. She taps my shoulder and points to the open door. I nod and take point.

The inside is dusty and looks like no one’s been in here for years. The only indication that humans came through here are varying sets of footprints that disturbed the layer of dust and dirt on the floor. The paths they create lead me to an open door. I look down at the set of steps just inside the door.

I flick the safety off on my gun and begin the decent.

I duck down and see nothing in my line of sight initially. I ease down the steps. I hit the bottom and scan my surroundings; I know exactly where we are. Sonuvabitch. This is the room on the DVDs. My teeth grind together.
I feel Ivey behind me and move deeper into the room and see the body of Jordan Chase on top of a table. He’s strapped down with a knife sticking out of his chest.

Mother fuck me!

I shake it off and move along. At the very back of the room there’s a curtain of translucent plastic tarp. Two silhouettes are behind it whispering quietly.

“Miami P.D.!” I holler. That gets the voices to stop chattering.

“Don’t move. Just don’t fucking move!” I holler “Whatever’s in your hand, set it down then keep your hands up!”

Ivey comes around to my right and lowers her weapon.

I don’t know what to do.

I look at my partner. Her warm brown eyes hold no answers.

Fuck.

She does nod. It’s a signal.

She’s going to back my play.

Whatever that may be right now.

“Look,” I start out, licking my lips, “I…I get it. If it were me, I’d probably do the same thing.” I’m not sure where these words are coming from, but I know I need to say something. “I’m sorry,” going for broke, I may as well try to make something of this. “Whoever you are, I’m sorry that they did this to you. Whoever your partner is, I’m sorry too. This whole situation is seven exits past fucked up and I’m sorry.”

I swallow and look back to my partner who already has her weapon holstered.

I suck in a breath and continue, “But I’m a cop and I have to call this in. It’ll take about an hour before a response unit shows up.”

Ivey moves before I do. I hear her make her way up the steps. Slowly, I back up and lower my weapon. I don’t need to see who is behind the tarp. I just know they’ll be gone by the time we come back here.

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