The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (53 page)

“Yet you expect me to change,” Albert had said.

“No. I want you to be more true to yourself, I  want you to be all that you can be. I  want you to be honest about what we mean to each other.”

Dangerous and irresponsible words if they had been overheard, but Albert had been calling from a hotel in North Carolina and Fletcher had been in his laundry.

“You used to help me, Albert, you used to be the only thing keeping me sane. Now you’re one of the things driving me crazy. And you know me too well, you know just how to really hurt me.”

Silence. How was Albert supposed to respond when he didn’t even credit these wild statements? All he could do was be thankful he couldn’t see Fletcher, that he wasn’t in the same room as the man who looked his most beautiful when intense, focused, half-crazed.

“Please let us get over this. Do whatever it is that you have to do, forgive me all my damned indiscretions if that’s the problem, and stop putting us through this hell.”

But this hell was all Albert knew. He managed to say, “You expect too much.”

Fletcher replied, as he had before, “No more than you’re capable of.” Though his tone now was despairing.

And even if Fletcher had been there, the fire of him all but irresistible, Albert would still have been wholly unsure how to respond. All he could do was watch that relentless happy optimism of Fletcher’s die. All Albert could do was hope this wasn’t revenge.

“You have no idea how much I love you, do you, Albert? You don’t see it as possible.” A return to Fletcher’s protestations. “Why? Do you consider yourself so unworthy?”

It was more about the fact that Fletcher considered Albert unworthy, surely. Second best. And Fletcher would therefore never be content, never stop regretting, never fully entrust himself  -

That sounded like disappointment. There was too much to this, these trivialities had gained too much importance. Because Albert expected too much, as well, and neither could meet the other’s needs.

These days, Fletcher was dissatisfied with even the sex. During the early months of their relationship, Fletcher had always called the sex ‘perfect’, had always been hungry for it, always seemed overly impressed with the results. It had been their one constant, their one infallibility. These later months, Ash seemed full of sad yearning, even in the warmth after his completion, perhaps especially then. Memories of his affair with Lachance, Albert assumed. He was at a loss to explain it, otherwise, because Albert approached the act the same way he’d always done: he worked hard to inspire Fletcher’s beautiful intensity, to capture and hone the man’s focus, to thoroughly satisfy him, to adapt his own skills to the situation, to expand his knowledge of Fletcher and Fletcher’s responses. Obviously, that wasn’t enough anymore. Equally obvious, there was nothing else Albert could do for the man.

Nevertheless, Fletcher seemed to think there was. He’d approach Albert at unexpected times or in unexpected places, whispering something supposed to be shocking while they were in public, running his hands around Albert’s waist while Albert was working in his study, stealing a kiss while Albert was cooking. Apparently his intent was to inspire Albert. Instead, Albert would indulge him, as soon as it was safe and appropriate and convenient, in the same manner he always did. If perfectionism and hard work weren’t enough for Fletcher, then Fletcher would simply have to manage as best he could.

Damn the man. Albert did not need his peace disturbed by all these thoughts of Fletcher, did not want to match Fletcher’s tendency to mull over all the whys and wherefores of inconsequential matters. It was a complete waste of time and energy.

He was almost glad to be interrupted, even though it was by a child’s multi-colored ball landing on his lawn. Albert turned off the hose, set it down and walked over to the ball. He picked it up with the intention of tossing it back in the direction it had arrived from - and then came to a halt. Contemplating the garish reds and yellows covering the sphere in his hands, Albert recalled that he’d never once thrown a ball in his entire life. This would be the point where Fletcher began to feel pity for him.

Albert frowned. Rather than attempt this thing for the first time now, and risk great embarrassment if his aim was wrong or he misjudged the strength needed, Albert walked over to the boundary of his garden.

A small child waited on the other side of the shrubs, about two yards away. Her posture indicated an urgent desire to flee but her eyes lit up when she saw the ball. Rather than toss it to her, Albert reached out, and let it fall onto his neighbor’s shabby grass. Then he turned away, not bothering to acknowledge her timid, “Thank you, Mr  Sterne.”

How ghastly that the child knew his name. Albert grimaced then headed for the house as he heard the phone ring. He took a moment to wipe his hands before walking to the study and lifting the receiver. “Sterne.”

“It’s me.” Fletcher, sounding curiously subdued.

Despite the lack of enthusiasm - though, secretly, Albert was inclined to find Fletcher’s enthusiasms rather alarming - Albert felt something within him sink. “Ash,” Albert said in greeting.

A long silence, which was odd. Fletcher usually talked incessantly on the phone, unless Albert had given him something to think about.

Eventually Albert said, “Did you call for a reason? If so, perhaps you might tell me what it is.”

Another pause and then, very quietly, “I’ve found him. I  know who he is.”

“You know who whom is?”

“The serial killer.”

It was Albert’s turn to pause for a moment of contemplation. He wondered if he’d expected Fletcher to be happy at this juncture. “Who?” Albert asked at last.

“His name is John Garrett. I  know  -” A deep intake of breath that sounded perilously shaky. “I  have his name. I  shouldn’t say I’ve
found
him. I  don’t know where he is right now.”

“How do you have his name?”

“Do you remember that he was on the list of suspects in Oregon? He was Tony Shields’ boss at the building site. He’d disappeared before the police found the bodies, which made me suspicious but there was nothing more to go on. I  just found his name on the list of suspects in Colorado. Same social security number, same date of birth. Drove a black four-wheel-drive here in Colorado, which fits with how Andrew Harmer described the man to his friend. His general physical description fits, too. Something that bothered me back in Oregon was that Philip Rohan, in Georgia, also worked as a construction worker, though John Garrett can’t have been a suspect because Alanna said there were no matches on the two lists.”

Albert considered this with a frown. “That’s not much to go on, Ash.”

“It’s enough. It’s by far the best connection I’ve found.” A pause. “Anyway, it
feels
right.”

“Your instincts?”

“Yes.” The tone was flat, resolute.

“I see.” Albert didn’t bother arguing. “Well, I  suppose it’s worth investigating. What do you plan to do?”

“I’ve left messages for Gordon Tomelty in Wyoming, Alanna Roberts in Georgia and Owen Ross in Oregon. They can chase him up as a suspect for their cases, while I chase up all I can here. If I give you his details, will you check him through the national database?”

“Running the fingerprint hasn’t located any criminal record.”

“This might. Albert, please  -”

“Of course.” Albert’s frown deepened. “I’ll go to headquarters now.”

“The next problem is trying to locate him. I have no idea where he might be.”

“There are similarities in the climate and terrain of where he’s lived so far. We could begin with Washington State, Idaho and Montana; Tennessee, Kentucky and the Carolinas; then work out from there.”

Fletcher sighed. “I’m not sure. I  don’t even know if we should rule out the states he’s already lived in - he’s capable of that kind of double-think. Anyway, I  thought I’d ask Mac to start hassling the states through vehicle registration. This man would definitely own a car, for the sake of mobility if nothing else.”

“All right.”

Another silence. Then, even more unexpectedly, Fletcher changed the subject. “How’s Jefferson? Have you heard?”

“No. He’ll live, though I doubt he’ll be able to return to work.”

“So you’ll have a new boss soon.”

“That’s the conclusion I drew.” Albert frowned. “Is this of any relevance?”

Fletcher said, “You have to tell him or her that I’ll need you over the next few weeks. Or months.”

“Of course.” Albert reached for pen and paper. “Give me Garrett’s details.” Once he’d jotted them down, he told Fletcher he’d call back by midnight, whether he had any news or not. Then Albert found himself wanting to offer this strangely quiet man something, though he had no idea what. He started, “I  hope  -” but didn’t know how to continue.

Before he hung up, Fletcher said, “Me, too, Albert. I hope, too.”

That wasn’t at all what he meant.

Six days later, Albert was reading Fletcher’s first report on John Garrett while eating a late dinner. Ash sat across from him at the walnut dining table, picking at his food. “This is very thorough,” Albert commented as he reached the last page.

“It had to be, to convince Caroline.”

“How far was she convinced?”

“Still no taskforce,” Fletcher said. They both knew this lack of support made success virtually impossible. “But I have all my time, and reasonable travel and expenses, for a while. I  guess I’m here in Washington for the duration, until we find him. It’ll be easier to coordinate from HQ. Is that all right?” When Albert nodded, Ash asked, “What about you? Can you spare me your time?”

Albert shrugged. “The first thing Jefferson’s replacement asked me was why I had a year’s accumulation of leave credits. I may as well use those.”

“If you could get official support  -”

“She agreed I could have full access to facilities on your case, on my own time, subject to review of progress in a month.”

“She?” Fletcher queried. It was the closest he’d come to smiling since he’d arrived earlier that night. “Your new boss is a woman?”

“Yes. Is that of any relevance? She seems competent enough.”

“How grudging of you. I  suppose that translates to,
She’s wonderful
.”

Another shrug. “That remains to be seen.”

“How fascinating.” Fletcher was leaning back, considering him. “Imagine you working for a woman.”

“I fail to see what has piqued your interest.”

“You don’t come into as much contact with them as some, especially here at HQ.”

“It’s not as if women are a different species, Ash,” Albert said flatly. “I  anticipate that the difficulties will not be related to gender.”

“All right.” Fletcher apparently decided to let the topic go, despite the fact he was obviously itching with further questions and comments.

“What next?” Albert asked.

A pause, and then Ash said in distracted tones, “We need to find this man.”

“Yes.” When Fletcher wasn’t forthcoming, Albert said, “Why still refer to him as ‘this man’ now you know his name?”

“Would you prefer ‘this monster’?”

“Why would I prefer melodrama?”

Fletcher sighed, and pushed his food around the plate some more. “I  suppose I don’t feel like dignifying him with a name. I  know that’s ridiculous. I  know I shouldn’t be emotional. But at least I try to keep such ridiculous reactions between you and me.”

“I’m glad,” Albert said very flatly.

That almost won a smile for some reason. “You’d have been proud of me with Caroline. I  was so damned professional and eloquent, she couldn’t say no. On the other hand, it’s make or break for my career. If I fail, or if I’m wrong, I  get the distinct impression I’ll be confined to a desk job at best, if not fired. Depends whether I manage to embarrass the Bureau in the process.”

“That’s a risk. But you feel it’s worth it, I  assume.”

“Hell, I don’t care about my damned career, Albert, not anymore. I thought you understood. What’s important is that if I fail, this man’s on the loose and more young men are killed.
That’s
all that matters.”

Albert nodded. “All right.” Then he asked, “Are you finished?”

“Yes, sorry.” Fletcher looked across at him. “It was a great meal - I  just don’t have much of an appetite right now.”