The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  Good, yes, but uncontrolled and very unwise. Garrett sat in the armchair, gazing at the body stretched along his sofa, the arms dangling back as if broken. He smoked, one cigarette after another, trying to find the reason why he hadn’t been able to wait for another seven days. And this wasn’t even how he’d planned it to happen this time around: this was greedy and meaningless and opportunistic and Garrett knew better than that. Inviting the kid over in the first place had been unwise enough, let alone taking his life with no malice aforethought. And it had all been so … intimate, the sex and the dying so personal and simple, with no props and no planning. Sweet. Damned sweet, but that was no excuse for something so dangerously self-indulgent. What in hell was the matter with him?

  He lit a fresh cigarette, and noticed his hands were shaking. Unbelievable. Well, he figured, he was in no fit state to deal with the disposal of a body right now. He couldn’t afford to make this many mistakes as it was, let alone compounding the problem. Tomorrow, when he was thinking clearly, he’d decide on the safest thing to do. Tomorrow.

  For now, he’d have to hide the body in the cellar, just in case. Yes, that was smart. Get it out of the way. You never knew what might happen, who might knock on the door.

  Garrett stubbed out the last half of a cigarette, and stood to haul the body up over one shoulder. Walked unsteadily through to the kitchen, then bent to unlatch the half-sized door at the end of one of the benches. The damp musty smell hit him at once and he frowned.

  Unable to deal with this in any sort of sensible way, Garrett hit the light switch then let the body tumble down the concrete stairs, watched it land in an ungainly sprawl.

  He was going to shut the door and leave it all until the morning, but something made him decide to check the place. To get down there, it was easiest to sit on the top step, and start walking from where his legs reached, one hand on the ceiling to steady himself and avoid hitting his head.

  The sight that greeted him as he stepped over the fresh body was old blood, dark dry stains everywhere. He looked around in disbelief: caught the dull glint of a knife abandoned in a corner, saw leather straps hooked on the shelving.

  That was what prompted the memory. A fantasy, that’s what he thought it’d been, to slash a cross into a boy’s arm and wrist in the same way he’d misguidedly cut himself all those years ago, to watch what might have happened to him. A fantasy, surely. But it seemed he’d acted it out. Had it been that tramp with the apple pie freckles and the thick mop of hair? Garrett couldn’t even remember the boy’s name. This was crazy.

  And what in God’s name had he done with the body?

  Garrett groaned a protest, let the groan become a sickened growl - the noise grew out of his chest, opened his throat in a yell of bewildered rage. What in hell was happening to him?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WASHINGTON DC and CONNECTICUT

  SEPTEMBER 1984

  “Albert. Let me in.”

  It was Fletcher David Ash on the doorstep of Albert’s home, dark and rain-laden storm-clouds massing behind him, obliterating the stars. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Albert snapped, having been woken from precious sleep.

  “Late,” Fletcher replied. “Let me in, Albert.”

  “I gave you the keys months ago, Ash, so I trust there’s a good reason for you waking me up. Your few polite habits seem to be the most inconvenient.” Despite having the keys to Albert’s home, the man never would let himself in if Albert was there to answer the door. Such deference was usually acceptable, as Fletcher kept civilized hours, or at least more civilized hours than Albert did. Until tonight.

  “We need to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Something urgent.”

  “The case?”

  “Something urgent,” Fletcher repeated. “And personal.”

  “At this time of the morning? Can’t you have your crises over dinner like other people?”

  “I drove right here from Scranton to see you,” Ash said. He’d remained focused on Albert throughout this ridiculous conversation, frowning in concentration, but now he seemed to take in something of the situation. “We need to talk, Albert. Trust me, you don’t want to do that on your front step.”

  Then the wry awareness was gone and Fletcher was staring at him again, all of him honing in on Albert as if trying to influence him through sheer willpower. But there was something forced about the intensity, there was a false note to it. Albert could guess at the cause of this display. It had been exactly two years since three young men and one young woman had died in Georgia; four years since the deaths in Colorado. He’d anticipated Fletcher finding this a difficult time to live through, but there was an unexpected factor in Ash’s approach. Something didn’t ring as true as Ash’s tantrums when those bodies were found in Georgia, or as true as his sadness and dejection and sense of failure. The histrionics and the increased consumption of alcohol had been annoying, but they had at least been direct and honest reactions.

  “I wound up the Scranton case earlier than I thought,” Fletcher was saying into the silence, deliberate. “I drove right here to talk to you.”

  “You’re presuming a lot, Ash. I have to work tomorrow, and I don’t have the time or the inclination to talk. If it can’t wait until tomorrow - this evening,” Albert amended, glancing back at the clock in the hall, “then I can’t help you.”

  “Let me in, Albert.”

  Now it was a demand, not a request. Albert’s hackles rose and he briefly contemplated the satisfaction of shutting the door in Fletcher’s face. But Ash seemed in no mood to leave, despite the discouragement Albert had already thrown his way. It might result in less aggravation if he humored the man. Every now and then, Albert would ungraciously allow Ash to be more stubborn than himself.

  After a pause amply illustrating his reluctance, Albert stood aside, then locked the door once Ash was through, and followed the man to the kitchen. Ash had seated himself at the table. “You want coffee, I suppose,” Albert said, already filling the jug with filtered water.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Silence as the coffee brewed and Albert communicated his impatience of this ill-timed melodrama. Communicated it for anyone to see, if they’d bother showing any interest. Fletcher was turned away, apparently gazing at the floor, and only straightened to face Albert once he’d placed a mug of coffee on the table. Albert prompted, in cool tones, “Talk, then, if that’s what you’re here for.”

  And Fletcher looked across at him, the wildness in his eyes betraying the taut calm of his expression.

  Letting out a breath, Albert glanced away. He should have expected Ash to come undone at some stage. That was, in itself, a pity. But why did it have to be at moments like this - when the younger man was troubled, even slightly crazed - why did his normally ignorable features then intensify into such dangerous beauty? Did it require a focus for his energy for him to look this way? Was it a matter of concentrating some essential core of him? And, Albert unwillingly extrapolated, did sex provide that focus in the same way that this obsession with the serial killer did?

  “Yes,” Fletcher said.

  For a terrible moment Albert feared Ash was answering his mental speculations rather than his verbal prompt. Wanting only to end this situation as soon as possible, Albert sat at the table across from Ash. “This has to do with the serial killer, I assume. It is now fall, two years since the last deaths.”

  Ash lifted his eyebrows in a show of surprise. “If you realize that, then I’m right to come to you.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  The briefest grimace, as if attempting to offer a smile. Fletcher often seemed to treat Albert’s remarks as if they were intended to be humorous; a strange quirk in the young man’s perceptions. “I’ve lost my balance, Albert.”

  “That much is obvious.”

  “I understand what this man does when he tortures and kills these boys.”

  “We’ve been through all that,” A
lbert told him. “Cut to the chase, Ash.”

  “You’re hardly the easiest confidant.”

  “But you’re going to tell me anyway,” Albert said.

  “There’s no one else I can ask for help.”

  Silence again for a long moment, which Albert at last broke in exasperation. “You’re the one who chose to come here, if you recall. Just get this over with, Ash, so I can get back to sleep.”

  “I understand this man; I understand the thrill it gives him,” Ash finally said in a low voice. “I feel the thrill and the need, the insatiable need for more, the power of it all.” He met Albert’s gaze. “And I hate that I understand this.”

  “Then you hate yourself,” Albert observed.

  Ash nodded in agreement. “I’m walking a tightrope, madly juggling all these parts of me, and one of them is darkness. It’s the heaviest. When that falls into my hand, I falter, I might fall. There’s no safety net down there. Or I might turn away and walk on air, holding only the darkness -” Fletcher lifted his right hand, palm up, cradling this part of him - “letting it give me strength, leaving the rest of me to fall where it may. I could let the darkness become the whole of me.”

  “I see.” Albert couldn’t help but sound slightly disapproving of this overblown metaphor, though it did not bode well that Fletcher had taken his familiar tightrope image and developed it far further than ever before.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re right. It’s been two years since the murders in Georgia. He’s out there now, maybe tonight, torturing some poor young man. And, in my imagination, in my nightmares, it’s like I’m there, looking over his shoulder. Or worse, sometimes - I’m him.”

  “I see,” Albert said again.

  Fletcher leaned forward, intense. “And do you see what I need? Something to counter-balance the darkness, Albert, something to think of that has nothing of this terror.” He lifted his left hand, bounced it as if to compare the weights of what he held. Still contemplating his upturned hands, he continued, “This man brutalizes boys, rapes and destroys and discards them. I need to love a man, make love with him, grow with him. Something creative to counteract the destructive.” He looked up. “I need your help, Albert.”

  “Yes? What for?” His face was the one he turned to the rest of the world - stony, uncommunicative, bitter, offended. He was aware that this mask hadn’t been directed at Fletcher for months, years now, but he was powerless without the defense it gave him.

  “I’m asking for your indulgence, Albert. A little of your loving.”

  No point in pretending to misunderstand the proposition, no matter how unexpected. “Surely there are many more suitable candidates.”

  “None. Your friendship - I trust you. I need something special, something worthwhile. And I’ve never - I’ve only loved women before.” Fletcher directed a wry but happy smile at him. “Who else but you?”

  “Maybe I can recommend someone,” Albert offered, urbane, refusing to be touched by the unexpected happiness. “A young man I met once in New Orleans springs to mind.”

  Ash was not to be distracted. “I assure you there’s no other option.”

  “You’re assuming I’ll agree.”

  “I’m hoping you won’t ignore a plea for help.” He took a moment to sip at the coffee, thoughtful. “You’ve never let me down before. Not when it really mattered.”

  So Fletcher knew, had probably known all along. And was not above manipulation in this as in all else.

  The storm broke at last, rain a percussion sweeping across the roof. Albert was released from his cool politeness. He stood, pushing his chair back, asking angrily, “How dare you expect me to do this for you? What do you think I am? More to the point, who do you think you are?”

  “Someone who needs you,” Ash said quietly.

  “And you presume I’ll fill that need, whatever it happens to be?”

  “I didn’t think you’d find the idea abhorrent.”

  “You know I don’t, damn you - and it’s only now that it suits you to acknowledge the fact. I thought I was beyond being surprised by the depths to which humanity will descend, but your effrontery amazes me.”

  “I’m proposing to use your love, I know, and that’s unfair of me. But I wouldn’t have come here if I wasn’t clutching at straws.”

  “Unfair is the least of it, and there’s no need to remind me that I’m your last choice.”

  “You’re my first choice,” Fletcher protested, managing to look both angry and chagrined. “I meant that I’m in a desperate situation.”

  But Albert continued his tirade. “You’re not the only one who has to cope with fears and nightmares. What a pity you have no internal resources to fall back on.”

  “You have bad dreams, too, Albert?” Ash asked quietly. “Maybe we can help each other.”

  Albert glared at his companion, lately considered a friend. “The trouble with you, Ash, is that you’re an intelligent man too often driven by your hormones.”

  “They drove me to think of you,” Fletcher offered. “All I could think of was you - not just because I thought you’d be amenable, but because of who you are and what you mean to me. You’re my first choice,” he repeated. “My only choice, Albert, because I love you, too.”

  “Not the way I want you to,” Albert said sourly. But that would be a ridiculous situation if ever there was one. He’d long since concluded he wasn’t capable anymore of responding to that sort of love even if it was offered. Maybe he never had been capable. Perhaps he should simply take the little that was available.

  Silence, until Ash pushed his chair back, stood, and turned away. “I’m sorry. For all of it.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’ll leave you be. I hope you get some sleep. Call me sometime, Albert?”

  “Don’t you dare walk out on me,” Albert said furiously. “We’ll do this, but we’ll do it on my terms.” Ash was staring at him with those hot blue eyes, confused perhaps, but so full of trust and need. It was enough. “Come here,” Albert ordered.

  The man walked nearer, doubts now visibly warring with the deliberate return of that intense focus. It could have been frightening, having all five of Ash’s senses locked in on him, but Albert was well practiced in mastering difficult situations. And Ash made it so easy for him: the younger man stood close now, close enough to kiss, and whispered, “It’s really going to happen, isn’t it?” Wondering, and scared, and in awe. “I’ve wanted this so bad. You pushed my curiosity up to overdrive.”

  “Don’t give me dialogue from your soft porn romance novels,” Albert said. But he lifted a hand, snaked his fingers through the dark tangle of Fletcher’s rebellious hair, and drew the man near so that their mouths met and meshed.

  Ash seemed to enjoy that. When he lifted his head, he was smiling broadly, his eyes afire. Then, without drawing away, he whispered, “I’m safe.”

  Albert perhaps betrayed surprise, and perhaps suppressed the distaste at this inelegant but necessary topic of conversation.

  “I mean, I’m safe from AIDS,” Fletcher was continuing as if Albert might not have understood. “I’ve used a condom every time, even before AIDS became an issue. I figured I was the sort who’d have to do the right thing and marry the girl if I -”

  “Spare me the sordid explanations,” Albert interrupted dryly.

  The smile grew wry again, and Ash insisted on continuing, “Which would be a disaster, because you know how impossible all my women are. And I had the test done, too, about six months ago, just in case. It was negative.” A delicate pause. “What about you?”

  Albert grimaced. He was not about to tell this man that he hadn’t had sex since 1973. Fletcher, who judging by his behavior did not consider chastity a viable option, would think Albert was asking for pity. “There hasn’t been an opportunity for me to catch AIDS,” Albert said instead, hoping that would suffice.

  “All right, I trust you,” Fletcher said. �
�You don’t have to explain, either.”

  That was an attitude that Albert would consider sentimental and dangerous, except that Albert did not intend to do anything that would be classified as unsafe, anyway. He dismissed the topic by kissing the man again, and once Fletcher was suitably eager, which really didn’t require much effort or skill, Albert led him down to the main bedroom.

  He found he could play Fletcher Ash like he imagined a musician played an instrument - every touch, just so, precise and controlled, creating the most beautiful music Albert had ever heard. Fletcher sighed and groaned and cried out, sometimes inarticulate, sometimes voicing words both sacred and profane. He had climaxed twice under Albert’s expert guidance.