by Julie Bozza
Albert waited there, watching Jefferson carefully. This seemed to be a major heart attack but the man would live if they got him to an intensive care unit quickly. It would, however, no doubt mean the long-anticipated end of Jefferson’s career.
At last the medics arrived, equipment on a stretcher between them, led by one of the security guards. Albert stood out of the way, answered their terse questions about the situation with equally terse facts, and then left.
A crowd had already gathered outside the office but, fortunately, they seemed more interested in Jefferson and the medics.
Albert dropped his weekly report in the secretary’s tray and returned to the forensics labs, where he washed and scrubbed his hands and face as if preparing for an autopsy procedure. And then he returned to work, attempting with mixed success to ignore the unusually high numbers of staff who seemed to find it necessary to visit the labs this morning.
Thirty minutes later, the phone rang. Albert picked it up and said, “Sterne.”
“What’s this about you being a hero?” Fletcher.
“I see no need for any fuss,” Albert bit out.
“People are making a fuss over you?” Fletcher seemed amazed, even charmed, by the idea.
“People are staring at me. I suppose McIntyre relayed the gossip.”
Ash chuckled. “I can neither confirm nor deny that rumor. Seriously, though, is Jefferson going to be all right?”
“I assume so, unless there are further complications.”
“And you saved his life.”
“Apparently.” Albert sighed, and rubbed at his face with his free hand. “Is this really of any consequence? I have work to do, Ash.”
“Of course it’s of consequence.”
“Only to Jefferson,” Albert replied.
“All right, point taken.” There was a strained stretch of silence, familiar these days. “Shall I call you at home tonight?”
“If you must.”
Ash apparently heard the grudging note in Albert’s voice because he said a quick goodbye and hung up the phone.
Determined, Albert put any consideration of Ash or Jefferson aside, and recommenced study of a police report regarding a murder.
There were fewer distractions that evening. Albert didn’t feel like eating, so didn’t even have any cooking to occupy him. Instead, because he felt unusually unclean, he had a hot shower, using the soap to good effect. Then, because the weather was humid, he adjusted the temperature and let the shower run cool for a while, before dressing in his more casual clothes, and heading for the backyard.
Though he’d installed an automatic sprinkler system some years ago, Albert occasionally watered the garden beds by hand, especially on long hot summer evenings such as this. He carried a bucket and trowel with him, in order to deal with any new weeds.
The garden was pleasant, despite the neighbors, both adults and children, who were also enjoying their patches of civilized nature, though with somewhat more noise and abandon than Albert. The shrubs Albert had planted around the three boundaries and the decades-old trees provided some privacy and a far more attractive appearance than the alternative of ugly, minimally-attired humanity.
Fletcher liked the garden and often said so. Liked the endless varieties of green foliage, forming subtle and complex and asymmetrical patterns; liked the simple beauty of the few flowers, all white and yellow; appreciated the peaceful atmosphere, fragile though that peace was given that it could be disturbed any moment at the whim of the neighbors. Fletcher had compared the garden, due to the apparent informality of the arrangements, to the perfection of a forest glade. That was hardly surprising, as the man’s imagination often led him to overstatement and inappropriate imagery.
Albert sighed. He had no wish to think about Fletcher right now because Albert suspected Ash was so miserable that he was finally considering ending the sexual component of their relationship. And Albert had no idea whether he wanted that to continue, but he suspected not.
It seemed impossible to continue any component of their relationship under current circumstances, and neither of them had the power to change the situation. Fletcher had tried every way he could think of to - as Ash put it - get through to Albert and Albert would not, or perhaps could not, let Fletcher succeed.
Albert knew he wasn’t punishing Ash for the affair with Xavier Lachance. Surely he wasn’t. It was more about the fact that they’d been miserable enough before the affair and had no hope after. Albert had known for most of his life that there would be no one to love him as Miles and Rebecca had loved each other. If he’d ever dared to dream that Fletcher Ash could love him, then Albert was a fool and he was wrong. And he hated being one let alone both of those things.
Fletcher never seemed to mind appearing foolish. For a while he had continually protested his love for Albert, in tantrums and sanity, in reasoned statements and heartfelt pleas, in melodrama and poetry, even once in a physical assault that owed more to frustration than passion - which was all plainly ridiculous. The man was honest but, in this instance, deluded. Or perhaps the word love meant radically different things to each of them. For Albert, love meant what Miles and Rebecca had. And that was impossible for him and Fletcher - surely they had made that patently clear to each other by now.
When Fletcher hadn’t managed to get through to Albert with his protests, then Ash had pleaded with him to talk about things Albert had no intention of discussing. Fletcher would talk, endlessly, about himself, trying to elicit confidences in return. Fletcher would beg Albert to trust him. How the younger man could stand the humiliation of it, Albert had no idea.
Fletcher seemed to think the sex should be something it wasn’t and couldn’t be. He tried to trick or surprise Albert into feeling more, doing more -
Albert didn’t want to be thinking about any of this. Damn Fletcher Ash and his manipulations! Damn the man’s selfish needs.
Spying a weed amidst the flowers, Albert turned off the hose, put it aside and crouched at the edge of the lawn. Once he’d carefully pushed away the surrounding foliage, he dug the thing out, roots and all. The weed was then placed in the bucket and the soil was tidied. Albert rearranged the plant’s runners - and then realized it was the damned blue-flowered groundcover that had been running wild in his garden for years. He should never have let the thing grow.
He did something then that he never did - Albert sank his fingers deep into the soil, let the dirt push beneath his nails, clenched his fists around the damp rough texture, imagined the dirt ingrained in the whorls of his fingerprints.
Surprised at himself, Albert stood and dusted his hands off, then rinsed them under the hose. Dismissed the impulse as meaningless.
Continuing with the watering, even methodically allowing the groundcover its quota, Albert endeavored to recollect and review the details of the latest murder case to cross his desk.
But thoughts of Fletcher intruded again.
When Fletcher failed to reach Albert, by means more foul than fair, Ash instead tried to draw Albert out, to make him over-commit himself. Fletcher would pretend a wounded vulnerability, apparently expecting Albert to take greater care of him. Or Fletcher would fall back on his old trick of taunting Albert with some false accusation, hoping that Albert would retort with some truth, some secret.
And then Fletcher would ask, with the heat of those blue eyes now dispirited, “Is this all we’ll ever have?” Would assert, “We’re capable of more.”
Are we? Albert would ask himself, but would say flatly, “I don’t think so.”
And then that ghastly conversation on the phone two days ago, and Fletcher’s accusation: “Albert, you’re trying to make me the same as you. You’re forcing me to withdraw, to care less, to distance myself, to build barriers. But I don’t care that I’m vulnerable where you’re concerned, do you hear me? It doesn’t matter that you can hurt me - it only matters that you choose to do so. I love you but I don’t want to live like that, behind walls. You’re going to have
to stop driving me to it. I don’t want to change that much.”
“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 has
sling 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.