The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (12 page)

Sacrificing Rusty right now would not be poetic: it would be an uncontrolled indulgence. Even if the idea of how he would die was beautiful, irresistible. For two years at a stretch, Garrett obeyed the signs.
Don’t walk on the grass.
But then he’d leave the path behind, net the right young man, and chase sensation with him, through him. Taste the power of it. Live life with a shit-eating grin.

It was good. And the joy of it lasted for months. Rusty was safe.

He pulled the guy to him; took care to make Rusty groan at his own ecstasy rather than scream at Garrett’s; reached climax with the memory of that first, accidental, beautiful death hovering just behind his eyes. Was Rusty so blind he really couldn’t see that potent image?

Mark. The first boy’s name had been Mark. Someone else had taken him from the river, and given him to the ground.

Garrett looked stunning in a tuxedo. He smiled at the mirror’s image as he adjusted the bow-tie, just so. His hair was white-blond, and had been since his mother died, which made him look older than his thirty-three years - but combine that with his flawless skin and regular features, and the result was sophistication. His ice blue eyes were pleased right now - he added the sparkle to them, expression smooth, then the tiny self-deprecating smile that undermined any interpretation of smugness. Perfect.

“Cool,” Rusty exclaimed appreciatively, bouncing around on the bed. “Didn’t take you long to get invited to the classy parties.”

“Of course not,” Garrett agreed urbanely. He began searching for the silver ring he wore on his left hand at these occasions. He liked to think it distracted from the tail end of the scar. But what with Rusty’s help and hindrance, his belongings were in greater disarray than ever.

“I found some jewelry and stuff here. Is that what you want?”

Garrett turned, wary. The boy was pushing a box across the floor, the box of all the watches and chains and earrings and other oddments he had taken from naked bloody bodies. “Leave that alone,” he said, soft and cold as velvet.

“Lots of it. Not classy like you’re dressed now, though. Where did you get it all?”

“I told you to leave it alone.”

“All right.” Rusty glanced at him, looked away, uncomfortable. “Sorry.”

Garrett’s smile, his sparkle, even his smugness were gone. But it wouldn’t be sensible to frighten the boy, after all these hours and days of hints and clues that might add up. Rusty had an imagination, after all. What to say? Start with the truth - every good lie needs a core of truth. “They’re mementoes,” Garrett said. “Fond memories.”

“Oh,” Rusty drew out the vowel in dawning comprehension. “A boyfriend?” he hazarded.

“Yes. He died.”

Rusty nodded, respectful of this grief.

“I’m going to take you home now,” Garrett said. “What do I owe you?”

Surprise, disappointment. “I  didn’t mean to, you know, upset you like that.”

“It’s all right. I was planning on taking you home anyway. Perhaps I should have discussed it with you first.” Those last words held such an elegant sarcasm.

Rusty lifted his head, shrugged. “No.” Of course not. “A hundred.”

“Don’t be silly,” Garrett said coolly. “We agreed on more than that.”

“You already gave me two.”

“Here.” Garrett reached for his wallet, counted out four fifty-dollar notes. “Take it. Take care of yourself.”

The guy accepted it, wouldn’t touch him. That was fine. Garrett didn’t want Rusty scared, but he didn’t want the guy to come looking for him again, either.

He drove the boy down to the docks in silence.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WASHINGTON DC

MARCH 1983

These days, it was the most peace Fletcher knew. Strange to find peace in Washington DC - a  place he associated with politics and HQ and the highest murder rate in the States - when he’d only found it in the country before, with his own complications for company, and no one else’s crowding for attention. But Washington now meant Albert, and Albert’s home; and Fletch found himself coming down here on the slightest pretext, often just for the weekend, even though Albert was inevitably unwelcoming. Perhaps it was stranger still to find peace in the den of a creature so determined to show a bitter and objectionable face to the world.

Fletcher sprawled in the wickerwork chair on the back veranda at Albert’s, let his head fall back, a stray breeze teasing his hair, caressing his throat. Last night, it had been Ty’s fingers instead.

So Washington DC now meant Tyler Reece as well.

She was gorgeous, so alive, with a unique energy. Fletcher had never met anyone who quite deserved the description vivacious until now, and Tyler was vivacious every minute of every day.

They had talked; both scrambling to say it all, listening to each other, fascinated, and then talking some more. She taught literature at high school, and worked with a lobby group dealing with women’s issues. He thought of her vitalizing the children, bringing Shakespeare alive, of her swaying the old men in Congress with her sharp intelligence and snappy eyes and wide generous mouth. And she was still nuts about a particular actor, who was based in New York, and who Ty had happened to be married to for fifteen tumultuous months.

She had come up to Fletcher’s hotel room, blew the drab walls away with her bright laughter, lay on the lumpy old bed and made it a magical place.

And every grain of time, every ounce of energy, every spark of creativity in Fletcher had all been dedicated to surprising Tyler into thinking of him rather than her husband. Perhaps he had succeeded. A  little. At least she had been polite enough to quit talking about the man. Verbally. And Fletch had fallen for her in the middle of it all, as she shared the pleasure with him, as with a delighted gasp she had  …

Fletch shook himself. This was fruitless, let alone unwise. He opened his eyes, dazed as if he’d been asleep, and he looked for Albert.

Albert, who was standing close by, where the paving ended and the grass began, gazing at Fletcher as if the answer was at last, unexpectedly, within his reach. Albert, who seemed a little taken aback, but speculative as if he were already analyzing available facts and finding some kind of coherence. But mostly there was need, an age-old need, that few would fail to recognize. Anyone else might have thought it sat oddly on Albert’s face, but Fletcher had the privilege of seeing passion there before - if only in relation to Albert’s work until now.

Fletch wished Tyler had looked at him like that.

A child ran out into the garden next door, laughing, intruding albeit unknowingly. Albert turned away and the moment, the answer, was lost, put behind him. He began methodically raking up the grass clippings.

So, Fletcher thought, as the dazed numbness faded to an ache. Albert loved him. Why hadn’t he seen it before? In a Sartre play, this was high art. In real life, it was tawdry tragedy, undeserved.

He stood, escaped into the coolness of Albert’s home, leaving ignoble thoughts of Tyler behind. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, belong in this place - but Albert surely did.

When Fletch first came here, he thought the place bland. Now he thought it provocative, richly evocative of Albert, though it still posed mysteries, cast tantalizing glimpses of the man who would perhaps remain forever hidden.

From the outside, it was simply one more house in streets of clones - all wood painted white and a handful of minor variations in design. Maybe it was better proportioned, certainly better taken care of. But it was anonymous, and screened by a row of trees.

His first impression of the interior had been of cool greens and subtle harmonies, of impeccable style, everything neat and clean. But even though it could have graced the pages of any glossy magazine, it was comfortable, accessible. An antidote to the hot Washington summers, a haven in the cold of winter.

It had been a few hours before he’d realized what was bothering him. There was no clutter, no memorabilia. No photos loved more for their subject than their quality; no ornaments or oddments significant to the owner but ugly to anyone else.

Fletcher remembered his great-aunt Kit, a plain-speaking nurse, gesturing with cigarette in hand at an object she loved only for the sake of who gave it to her: “As for this abortion of a lamp  …” Despite the appropriate description, Kit kept the thing, even used it rather than buy something new and tasteful. But Fletcher was certainly not going to find any garish orange-tiled pedestals and crocheted shades here at Albert’s - the man protected himself too well and could not be considered sentimental by even the most generous observer.

There were paintings on the walls, though they were little help. Again, they proved the owner had impeccable taste - each was an original, the colors a summary of, or perhaps the inspiration for, each room. But none of them were of people; they were all landscapes or still life, with one subdued and elegant abstract in the front hall.

Fletcher hadn’t expected Albert to care so much for where he lived; he had assumed the man would brush the necessity of shelter off as he did so much else. It had been surprising to discover the place to be nice, if bland, and then to slowly realize how intimate and revealing it was, to see Albert taking an unconsciously sensual satisfaction in the trappings of his lair.

Here was the living room, large and well-proportioned with a high ceiling, walls a pale sage, the furniture a range of darker greens and fine polished walnut, with every here and there a warm red that reminded Fletcher of the robes and ribbons in old European paintings. Then the dining room, even cooler and lighter, with splashes of blues amidst the sage and the walnut.

The blues deepened to that of Van Gogh’s irises in the kitchen, with the greens paling on the cupboards and benches. All that a serious cook needed was out of sight but easily to hand.

Everything was coordinated. Even the Saab parked in the garage fitted into the scheme, painted a deep forest green, and reflecting the choice of quality and function and style, the lack of ostentation and uselessness and decoration for its own sake.

This was the home of the most interesting person Fletch had ever met, someone he dearly wanted to know better, who hid his secrets away so well, though revealing much that he didn’t intend to. Someone worthy of all that life had to give, uniquely able to make the most of opportunity, who had so much to contribute - and yet someone who had won so little, who had so few friends, who was thwarted at every turn whether he admitted it or not. Someone who loved Fletcher with a generous heart, just as Fletch loved  - no, to be fair, Albert wasn’t one to fall in love lightly. It had to mean more to Albert than Tyler meant to Ash, supported by years of friendship rather than days of infatuation. It was a staggering notion. But what was there to do? Sartre had stacked this play too well.

There was the clatter of the garage and then the back door being shut, the splash of Albert cleaning up in the laundry. Fletcher wandered closer, stood hesitant at the doorway to the dining room. Albert appeared, drying his hands on a towel. He came to a halt, and they stared at each other across the expanse of the kitchen.

Albert’s face was close to his usual expression - shielded, impatient, a touch of arrogance. Gone was the intensity and honesty that had betrayed so much. But the man still seemed to be off-kilter with the shock of it all; he must surely have been more rocked by the realization than Ash.

Fletch had the feeling that if he led the way to Albert’s bed, to the one room he had not yet set foot in, then it all might happen without a word, the last of those defenses would be tumbled, the love Fletch had witnessed would find an answer of sorts, there would be some kind of satisfaction. Fletcher could make it happen, yes, Fletch could become the focus of all Albert’s passion. Incredible.

But Fletch’s memories of Tyler were too sharp. She had made love to Fletcher only hours ago, bestowing a favor because it didn’t really matter to her.

Fletcher couldn’t do that to Albert. On reflection, considering that Albert wouldn’t let him under any other circumstances, perhaps this was the one chance Fletch would ever have.

He turned, headed back to the living room, made himself sit. Heard Albert begin to gather the makings for dinner. Sighed in frustration. What else to do for the man?

CHAPTER EIGHT

WASHINGTON DC, COLORADO and GEORGIA

APRIL 1983

“Are you busy?”

“Of course I’m busy, Ash, as you should be. What  - Wait a moment.” Albert put the phone down, reached to close the door of his office cubicle, and sat down behind the desk before continuing. “What do you want?”

“I was wondering if you can come up here and do an autopsy for us.”