by Julie Bozza
Sitting on one of the wickerwork chairs on the veranda, Fletcher stretched his long legs out before him. He seemed perfectly at home. “It’s a beautiful day. What else could I want?”
“If you like that sort of thing.”
“Well, you obviously do.”
“Really.”
“It’s self-evident, Sherlock. Here you are, outside, enjoying the sunshine.”
Albert squinted up at the sky. It was, indeed, blue and free of clouds. And the sun was gently shining, the air was full of spring’s sweetness, a breeze was soughing the trees that shaded them, and a myriad flowers dotted the burgeoning green. There was laughter every now and then from the neighbors. He said flatly, “I am merely tending the garden.”
“If that’s all you’re doing, then why don’t you have someone tend it for you?” It was a rhetorical question, and Fletcher was smiling, that mischievous glint in his eye.
Albert wouldn’t have brooked anyone else laughing at him. And he wouldn’t have told anyone but Ash the truth. “I don’t expect others to take on my responsibilities.”
“And you don’t want to have to owe them, even so much as a few polite words.”
“Perhaps.”
“And you don’t like relying on other people, it makes you uncomfortable.”
“It’s true that I strive for self-sufficiency.” His parents had paid a woman in an adjoining apartment to help them with the housework but Albert thought this had been just another way for Miles and Rebecca to redistribute their wealth. They had rarely let anyone intrude on their family, or in their home, for any reason.
Ash was continuing, “Even when it comes to the gardening.”
“But I do, in fact, rely on the Doyle brat next door to keep an eye on the garden, if I’m absent on a case.”
“Which is only the exception that proves the rule: you have the watering set up on an elaborate timer, you have a decent security system for the house, your mail is held at the post office. You rely on the minimum number of people possible.”
“Are you quite finished?”
“I think so,” Ash said easily. “For now.”
“If you’re trying to encourage me not to trust or rely on you, there’s no need.”
Fletcher looked away. “No, that’s not what I’m trying to do.”
“Fine.” Albert considered him for a moment. “Is this a social call, or was there something you wanted to discuss?”
Ash’s face brightened again, then slowly began to outshine the spring sun. “Purely a social call.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe you made me forget why I came.”
“I can’t believe I reminded you,” Albert said dryly.
“Too late now.”
“You came to tell me that you’ve fallen for her, though I have told you a number of times that I am not interested in such matters.”
“I’m in love, Albert. I’m completely, three-hundred percent in love.” The grin supported this extravagant claim, but there was a note of despair along with the joy.
Albert grimaced. “You’re worse than a cheap romance novel.”
“You know, deep down inside, we all just want to be loved.”
“Speak for yourself,” Albert advised. “And, if you really believed that was true, you’d break this tedious habit of falling for the most impossible women you can find.”
“It’s not the women who are impossible,” Fletcher protested.
“Tell me about this latest star-crossed tragedy, then.”
“Her name’s Tyler - Ty. And she’s a remarkable woman. It’s not my taste that’s at fault, or Ty herself. It’s the fact she’s still married to a fellow she broke up with some two years ago. She sees him at least once a week, and she’s nuts about him, they act as if they’re dating. We went to a movie last night, and she wouldn’t stop talking about him.” He added, with a wry twist to his smile, “Nevertheless, I fell in love.”
“Well done, Ash,” Albert said sarcastically. “You deserve some kind of award.”
“I have terrible luck with women,” Ash agreed. “She’s having lunch with him today,” he continued, “but she’s meeting me afterwards to show me the cherry blossom. Washington’s renowned for cherry blossom in spring, isn’t it?”
“Haven’t you ever asked yourself why you have this terrible luck?” To Albert, Ash seemed even more self-destructive when it came to these matters than Albert himself. The tawdry transactions of flesh and currency that Albert had once indulged in were honest and uncomplicated when compared to Fletcher’s tangled, emotional, and usually short-lived affairs.
“But I obviously don’t know the answer yet.”
Albert turned away, began mowing the last quarter of lawn. Fletcher Ash was one of the few people who rarely disappointed him, and the only one of those few whom he knew personally. But this was the issue on which Ash failed to live up to even his own standards, let alone Albert’s. And it was growing worse. What disaster would it take before the man quit wasting all his love on these increasingly farcical relationships?
I’m impossible.
He kept mowing, but it hit him then - all the dizzying blue of the spring firmament tumbling, cascading down upon him in slow motion. Surely he was supposed to be happy about this. Instead, Albert felt sick, crushed by the weight of it all. Was he supposed to be the disaster or the solution? No doubt the former - was there anything more ludicrous than an FBI employee falling in love with a colleague of the same gender? Perhaps he should be glad that Fletcher was so determined to find a woman, any woman, no matter the consequences.
But, while it was certainly ridiculous, Albert soon began to realize that this was virtually inevitable. He considered Fletcher Ash to be the one person closest to fulfillment of all humanity’s potential. That was an objective opinion formed over the years of their acquaintance. So perhaps Albert should have anticipated the danger of this sudden and overwhelming subjectivity, perhaps he should have been prepared, even though at thirty-five he should have known better.
In any case, the whole idea was completely out of the question. He would simply have to bury it deep, and let it wither.
He walked slowly back to the house to fetch the rake. When he was closer, he looked at Fletcher, and met his gaze. There wasn’t anything in Albert’s expression to betray him but Ash’s smile faded, and he grew serious.
Albert picked up the rake and went back to work.
CHAPTER SIX
OREGON
MARCH 1983
John Garrett had spent the afternoon helping a pair of muscular young men move him into his new house. The moving company he’d used seemed to recruit with Garrett’s taste as the main criterion. So, he was almost twice their age, but he hefted and lifted and carried along with them; as strong, as tireless, as ready with a joke and a laugh. There was cold beer in the car and he had pizzas delivered for lunch. It surprised them, to have that much fun on the job with a client. He suggested they drop by the construction site, to see if he could offer them something more.
Once he was settled, he drove into town and watched the five o’clock crowds. It seemed there were young men everywhere he turned. There were the college students, of course. And the boys earning a living, with their brawn or their brains, the former ones fit and the latter weight-trained under the well-cut suits. Then there were the sailors who docked and the whores who serviced them. Portland had been a wonderful idea.
He liked them straight best. John Garrett liked the college quarterbacks and the tough tender young construction workers. The ones with spunk and maybe a little ambition. The ones with a string of girlfriends. So naïvely provocative.
Sometimes, Garrett thought that was the most perverse part of it. They were hardly the smartest choice for victims, after all, even if they rarely confessed to anyone where they were heading, who they were drinking with that night. He intrigued them yet embarrassed them, with his invitations for a beer and the football, his eyes promising more, daring them to accept. But because i
t wasn’t smart to even seduce, let alone kill, too many of society’s Most Likely To, Garrett often made do with the strays and runaways, the hookers - the ones who wouldn’t be missed, the ones who society had already discarded.
Perhaps he would make do with one of the whores tonight, just for sex. Which would be fine; he was still riding high on the memories of last fall. Wandering the streets, letting the crowds jostle him, Garrett thought of them: Philip, with his mess of blond hair, and his nervous but mischievous response to Garrett’s barely veiled sexuality; then a college boy from the gym, with a dash of Latino blood to add a little spice - they had talked half the night away before Garrett took him, though Garrett couldn’t recall his name now; and Mitch, picked up while hitching a lift, who’d given Garrett a black eye and bruised ribs in the scuffle to get upstairs to the attic, infuriated that Garrett had only enjoyed it all the more. Yes, Garrett had loved his righteous fury. All three of them left behind in Georgia, given to the ground until some meddlesome cop dug them up.
Let them, Garrett thought. Let them disturb the boys if they wanted. Who cared? It was over. It was over, and no one knew who the hell he was. Rather than immediately move here from Georgia, he’d traveled, taking odd jobs when he’d felt like it, spending time in the country when he didn’t. It had been good, like taking a holiday, and it had also been smart, drifting under a variety of assumed names.
As dusk drew in, Garrett walked towards a guy bouncing around by the last set of traffic lights before the docks. It seemed too absorbed a dance to be a display but Garrett nevertheless stood waiting to be noticed. Finally, the guy’s arms threw wide, his head fell back, his legs spread with knees bent - which only drew attention to the crotch of his jeans - the pose miming a dramatic chord before collapsing back into the cool of self-consciousness. The eyes opened, the fingers pulled the headphones away from the ears. “The lights have changed, mister.”
“Why did the man cross the road?”
“Is that a joke?”
Freckles - the guy still had freckles, and even a chipped tooth. Garrett almost laughed at the apple pie cuteness. He said, “Are you looking for a little pocket money? A place to spend the night?”
“Maybe.”
“How old are you?”
“Sixteen.” Defiance.
Garrett looked skeptical.
“All right, seventeen, and that’s the truth.”
“That’s too bad,” Garrett said. “Kids aren’t my thing.”
“I’m eighteen, I swear. Not my fault if I look young for my age.”
“I’m sure it’s good for business.”
The guy - too cute to be called a man, though he was of age - The guy laughed, and asked with a pretence of wariness, “Just what sort of business are we talking about here?”
“You know what we’re talking about,” Garrett said easily, appreciating the smart humor. He walked forward, ruffled the guy’s thick mop of hair, gathered him up with a strong arm around his shoulders. “Why don’t you come home with me?”
“Yeah? Okay.”
“You can help me unpack.”
It was the guy’s turn to look skeptical.
“What’s your name?” Garrett asked.
“Rusty. Russell, if you really don’t like me.”
“John. I just moved here today, Rusty. Everything’s in boxes.”
“Everything?”
“So we have to find the sheets and blankets somewhere. What, you’re going to charge me extra for a little honest labor?”
“Depends …” The guy eyed him: Garrett’s bulk, his strength. “Depends how hard you work me afterwards.”
Garrett laughed, loud and happy. The few other people wandering the street or hanging around the intersections cast him world-weary glances, or ignored him. They didn’t care, he didn’t care for them. That was just as it should be.
He did work Rusty hard. But the guy seemed to expect it, found pleasure where he could and submitted cheerfully enough when Garrett wanted other things. Rough and tumble sex was fine; if he couldn’t do what he dearly wanted to do with this boy, then he would take it only a little further than permissible.
Garrett pulled the young man to him again, hands hard. Maybe he would bruise but Garrett didn’t slap him or hit him. He kissed and bit at the guy’s shoulders, but didn’t draw blood. Rusty, the guy’s name was Rusty. Rolling onto his back, Garrett hauled the guy with him, sat him up, impaled the boy. Too tired to protest, Rusty let him do it, helped Garrett fuck him, even though it hurt both of them without lubrication. Garrett grabbed the guy firmly around his ribs, lifted him, set the rhythm.
“Jerk yourself off,” Garrett ordered. And the guy did, though he’d had more than enough already. The face scrunched up as he concentrated on getting this over with, as he found a thread of pleasure despite the painful penetration, the sore abused genitals. Finding that thread, Rusty chased it, determined - spurted semen across Garrett’s belly with a pathetic cry.
Letting out a breathless laugh, Garrett dug deeper into the boy’s flesh with his fingers and his penis, orgasm tearing through him. It was good.
A small whimper as he lay the boy down beside him. Rusty. He seemed worried, fretting, curling up like a child. Garrett said, “Sleep now. Stay the night. It’s over.”
“Take me back home.”
“No, stay. It’s over, I won’t hurt you again. I’ll pay you.”
“Yes,” the guy said. And, after a time, he settled and fell into sleep.
Garrett lay awake. Maybe he’d been too rough. After all, he didn’t need the violence, not all the time; he could function without it, have sex like any other man. More than that. One of the boys back in Colorado had pleaded, “Make love to me,’ and Garrett had been so very careful with him. Even those sensations had been an excess of a sort - though betrayal of the starry-eyed virgin had been sweeter still.
What was the naïve one’s name? Andrew. Drew had had no idea of how much trouble there was in the world. This young scamp Rusty had seen more, but still didn’t seem to really fear Garrett. He had regained his cheerfulness by morning.
“So, you’re new to town. D’you want some company, help with the unpacking, someone to show you around?”
“And how much do you charge for these services?”
“Nothing you can’t afford.”
It was tempting. A better offer than Drew’s. Garrett liked living alone, but he’d sometimes shared his home with a stray for a week or so, in return for sex. Sometimes those strays moved on. Or, if it was time again, they might find the truth of what Garrett was, and then be given to the earth. But Rusty would be safe. Garrett was proud of his restraint: he didn’t kill needlessly. “A few days,” he agreed.
Rusty grinned, went back to his makeshift breakfast of toast and fruit.
Garrett laughed, heartily delighted. Even street-smart Rusty didn’t realize how close he was to hell.
“So what are you doing here?” the young man asked. “Did you come for work or something?”
“You know that big hole in the ground, on the main street up from the court house? I’m putting a building in it.”
“Yeah?” He sounded mildly impressed.
“A beautiful tall glass monstrosity that everyone will hate.” Garrett added, with satisfaction, “I’m the project manager.”
Garrett had never reached college and though he figured himself smarter than a lot of those who did, he still envied them, bitter at what he could never be. He’d had to drop out of school early to support his mother, use his brains and ingenuity in ways that most college boys seemed incapable of. He was proud that he’d made his own way, gotten so far from so many miles behind. Money to burn, these days, and prestige. He knew all the right people, wherever he was, held the right jobs, bought the right influence, donated to the right charities and political campaigns. A rags-to-riches story in which he had both directed and starred.
For so long he had carefully tried to do the right thing, always the right and
proper and smart thing, because he wanted to succeed in the world and he was hungry for success. He had married the right girl, when he was twenty and his mother had died, married the boss’s only grandchild, though she was awful, useless, more of a non-entity than his mother. The wedding had earned him what he needed at the time but if the choice were his to make again, he would find another way.
Sex with her had shamed and then bored him. He had been the virgin, not she, despite the white lace and the blushes she wore and the conspiratorial jokes all the men made that he’d smiled at. He had hated being cheated and fooled like that, loathed being at a disadvantage. But it didn’t matter anymore, she didn’t matter. He’d left her behind years ago, and only regretted that he’d had to leave the job behind, too.