by Julie Bozza
Special Agent Fletcher Ash standing outside, arms folded, posture weary. He could hardly look less threatening if he tried, so it was probably an act. “Mr Garrett,” the man said, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. “May I come in?”
Fumbling to regain the attitude necessary to deal with this man, Garrett snapped, “Why?” He thought to glance down at the street, but Garrett could see no sign of the man’s friends, and Ash’s car seemed empty.
“You’ve said a few times that you want to talk, Mr Garrett. So let’s talk.”
“It’s after ten, Special Agent.” He said it shortly, checking his watch, as if he’d been asleep.
Ash held his right hand up, palm out, to show it was empty. “I didn’t bring my credentials. This isn’t official.”
“It’s after ten, Mr Ash.” Garrett sighed his impatience. His mind was clearing, the confidence beginning to return. It was only now, when he needed to make sense, that he realized how incoherent his thoughts had been. He grabbed for the shit-eating attitude, tried to make it his own again, and said, “It’s late for a social call.”
The man replied with a shrug. “You said you wanted to talk, I thought this might be a good time, in your home, without the distractions of work. You suggested we could sort this out, Mr Garrett, so let’s try.”
None of that could be true, Ash couldn’t possibly want to deal with Garrett one on one, outside the law: the special agent, credentials or not, must have some other agenda. Frowning, Garrett asked, “Where’s your motley crew? Where’s that goon you always have tagging along beside you?”
“I gave them the night off, which they richly deserved. So it’s just you and me, Mr Garrett, like you wanted. Let’s sort this out.”
Of course it was too good an opportunity for Garrett to let pass, which only increased his mistrust of Ash. What in hell did the man expect to accomplish? But what did Garrett have to lose? If things didn’t go well, Garrett could always heap on the righteous indignation, and throw Ash out - meanwhile, Ash was not only alone and vulnerable, but alone and vulnerable in Garrett’s house. Garrett’s lair. The man was a bigger idiot than Steve.
After a long moment, Garrett nodded in agreement, stepped back to let Ash through, then closed the door behind him. How best to bypass the living room and the complication of Steve’s presence? “Do you want a beer?” Garrett asked, expecting a refusal but planning on getting one for himself.
But Ash said, “Yeah.”
They ended up in the kitchen, sitting opposite each other at the table, sipping at their cans of beer. Mind racing, Garrett forced half his attention to watch the man, trying to figure him out, and the other half to deciding how to approach this. He guessed he had to show Ash the same face he presented to the rest of the world. Consistency was important vital. Every other man in America was fooled by Garrett’s friendly I’m-just-one-of-the-boys routine. Hell, Garrett enjoyed it so much that he even fooled himself sometimes. It hadn’t appealed to Ash but it was worth one more try.
“You look exhausted,” Garrett observed at last, with a good pretence of sympathy. And it was true enough. There was nothing more than nervous energy in Ash.
“No worse than you,” Ash said, not denying this vulnerability. Must be an act, wanting to draw Garrett out. The FBI agent added, “It’s been a long four years.”
“What has been? This case?”
“I found the bodies in Colorado four and a half years ago and I’ve been on your trail ever since. Amongst dealing with other things. However, if you’re hoping I’ll collapse in an exhausted heap now, Mr Garrett, when I’ve finally found you, you’re in for a surprise or two.”
Garrett shook his head, as if he didn’t understand Ash’s meaning. Playing dumb innocent uncomprehending.
A silence. Ash prompted, “You wanted to talk.”
“Sure.” It had been a bluff, of course. Garrett almost grimaced, very inappropriate. What would the reasonable intelligent man say at this stage? “I wanted to know why you’re doing this, Special Agent, why you’re accusing me.” Garrett took a moment to swallow some more beer, offered an apologetic shrug. “I wanted to ask you to stop. You’re not good for business. I already lost one of my staff, it’s a wonder I haven’t lost them all.”
“I’m doing this because you’re guilty, Mr Garrett, it’s that simple. Therefore I will not stop until I’ve brought you to justice.”
The man’s tone had been flat, but still with that edge of determination. Seemed like Ash would carry that edge until his dying day. If Garrett didn’t deal with the man one way or another, this would be the end, like Ash wanted.
A mild panic as Garrett feared he’d left too long a pause in the conversation, his sense of time failing him. He smiled a little, hoping to cover himself. “Tell me about your case,” Garrett suggested. “Tell me why you think I’m guilty.”
Ash sat back. He was watching Garrett carefully, but trying to appear casual. “There’s no point in discussing the evidence because it’s all circumstantial. Otherwise I’d have arrested you already, as you said. But I saw the truth in your eyes, Mr Garrett. You’re a serial killer.”
Garrett laughed in surprise at this bold bald statement. Was Ash trying sincerity, or was this a bluff as well? The laugh turned confident, as Garrett’s wits returned. “I’m not surprised no one else believes you, Ash,” he confided. “There isn’t a jury in the world who’d convict me because of something you thought you saw in my eyes.”
“But I will make sure you are convicted.”
Garrett gestured expansively, the most genuine and reasonable of men. “What can I say to convince you that I’m innocent?”
Ash was refusing to buy, though Garrett was hardly surprised at this stage. The FBI agent said, “There’s nothing you can say. But, if you’re serious about proving your innocence, there’s one thing you can do: come down to the police station and let me take your fingerprints. It’s a simple procedure; it would only take a few minutes.”
A long moment, while Garrett’s mind sped up again. Surely he’d been cleverer than that. “Why?” he asked at last. “You have the man’s fingerprints?”
“I have a partial print from a boy’s shoe. If your prints don’t match, I don’t have any case at all.”
Garrett couldn’t believe this intense man would let the case go for something as mundane as a lack of evidence. But how to call that bluff? Garrett eventually said, “A partial print? As in, just part of one fingerprint? You and your forensics goon could make anything match that.” He shook his head, and sat back, confidently matching Ash’s posture. “No. I won’t do it. I’m not guilty but I don’t trust you that much.”
Ash said, “Then I will continue to work on this case until I get enough evidence to convict you.”
Humorless bastard, Garrett thought. What did Ash hope to accomplish? That interview at the police station, Ash seemed like he was going through the motions. The harassment since had been dogged. Tonight, Ash was dispirited. So what had driven the man through four years of investigation? Garrett suspected feared he was missing something here.
Giving himself a moment, Garrett took a long swig of the beer. Specifics, had to deal with the detail. He’d left all his boys naked, so where did this shoe come from? It might be safe even wise to volunteer his fingerprints, if the shoe was from some unrelated case Ash had mistakenly attributed to Garrett. Unless Ash was lying and this was a trick. No doubt the FBI agent was more than capable of that kind of double-think, which was fine because Garrett was, too.
And then Garrett remembered Sam. That body in the cellar in Oregon, fully dressed, except his sneakers tossed loose beside him. Garrett had pushed them back on, unlaced. But obviously he hadn’t been careful enough. No, he concluded, no deal. This bastard had more than he thought.
Garrett returned his attention to the man sitting opposite him, and smiled again, despite the flicker of fear in his gut. He said, “Sounds like checkmate. You won’t believe I’m innocent, and you sure as
hell won’t convince me I’m guilty. What happens next?”
“You tell me,” Ash said.
“I’ll tell you,” Garrett said. What the hell did Ash want out of this? “All I want is for you to get out of my life.” He was frustrated with this and he let it show. Ash had suggested they talk, and all he’d done was threaten Garrett with a fingerprint. A partial fingerprint. What else did he have? Garrett said, “I’m going to file a complaint, like Halligan suggests, and the damned courts will tell you to leave me alone.”
“But I won’t leave you alone. You’re a murderer, Mr Garrett.”
Maybe Ash was here to let Garrett know how serious he was. All right. That was a game two could play. Deliberately keeping his tone conversational, Garrett said, “If all this were true, I could kill you now, Mr Ash. Why come here and put yourself at risk?”
Ash didn’t betray the slightest surprise. “I took the risk because bringing you to justice is my only priority. I’m not going to let you kill me.”
Garrett lit a cigarette, frowning as if he were considering a few things. “But the man you’re after has no limits. If you’ve cornered him, he’s desperate. How would you stop him?”
“I didn’t bring my credentials, but I did bring my gun.”
Shrugging as if all this were new to him, Garrett said, “Let me warn you, Special Agent: New Orleans is a crazy dangerous city. No one would think twice if you were found dead on a street corner, mugged and beaten.” Who cared about reasonable? At this point, Garrett just wanted to convince. “No one would pay any notice if your body was hauled up out of Lake Pontchartrain in a fishing net early one morning.”
Still no reaction. “I know someone who’d notice. And you would be the obvious suspect.”
“What? Your friends would pick up where you left off?”
“They would. Dr Sterne would make sure you were arrested, tried and convicted.”
“Sterne? The goon who has his hands on - and in - dead bodies all day. Imagine getting paid for that, what a great job.” Garrett grinned, but Ash refused to react. Insinuating now: “What did he do to those dead boys you found, after the killer finished with them?”
“If you’re trying to discomfort me, that’s not the way to do it, Mr Garrett.”
Serious advice, one man to another: “He’s nothing but a forensic pathologist, Ash. If he hasn’t provided you with the evidence you need with all these other murders - fifteen of them - then how far would he get with just one?”
Ash considered him across the table, apparently unmoved. He took a last sip of his beer, and put the can down, then commented, “You must be scared, Garrett, to threaten me like this.”
Garrett shrugged, endeavoring to appear as relaxed as the other man. Difficult, when all he wanted to do was throttle this guy - slowly, so Ash had plenty of time to realize he had lost. How would the fear look in Ash’s eyes when he saw the darkness coming to claim him? Garrett shrugged off the lovely image, said, “I’m simply warning you to be careful who you’re dealing with.”
“You’re scared, all right,” Ash repeated. His voice was quiet, but full of confidence. There was the smallest damned smile on his face. “I guess you know who you’re dealing with, too.”
The crazy thing was for that moment he didn’t know how to respond. Garrett watched the man, waiting, almost as if mesmerized. The lull in the conversation became full of suspense. Garrett wanted to shake himself out of it, but couldn’t. He wanted to push the table out of the way and feel Ash’s throat under his palms, but didn’t.
And Ash abruptly leaned forward, slammed his hand down on the table - the sharp noise cracked the silence apart - “You’re scared because this is the end of the line, Garrett. I am the end of the line.” Ash didn’t raise his voice, but the sudden focus to his intensity had the same effect. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating me because I’m on the side of law and order. Don’t think there’s anything I won’t do, don’t imagine I’ll draw the line anywhere. I am prepared to do anything it takes to bring you to justice.”
Impressed despite himself, Garrett protested, “There’s no need for all this drama, Mr Ash.”
“It’s not drama, Mr Garrett, this is real. You’re not the only one acting without limits.”
About to retort, unsure of what to say, Garrett was interrupted saved by a younger voice: “What’s all the racket?”
It was Steve, of course, standing in the doorway to the living room in nothing but his jeans. The kid was stretching, sleepily provocative but Garrett found far more of interest in the sight of Special Agent Fletcher Ash: there were shock horror headlines written all over him. He glanced at Garrett, back at the boy, and then fixed his gaze on Garrett again. Accusing. Afraid.
Garrett could hardly stop laughing. He managed to ask, “Didn’t your friends tell you he was here? Didn’t they put out a red alert?” He beckoned the kid over, slipped an arm around his waist. “Steve, this is Fletcher. He’s looking like that because he thought we were alone.” Garrett chuckled some more. “Fletcher, this is Steve. He works for me.”
“Hey.” Steve murmured a lazy greeting, propping himself on Garrett’s shoulder as if he were still too stoned to stand.
Ash nodded once. If Garrett’s laughter was getting in the way of speech, Ash’s fear was having the same effect. He finally said, “Hello, Steve.”
“Actually, your friends didn’t miss him,” Garrett explained to the FBI agent, in a reassuring tone he knew would only add annoyance. Too clever for you. “I gave Steve my keys, told him to let himself in this afternoon. Didn’t want you all leaping to the wrong conclusion.”
“I see,” Ash said with great disapproval.
“That’s a cool name,” Steve was saying, somehow not picking up on all this tension. Idiot. “Fletcher, like Fletcher Christian in that movie, right?”
A brief silence, and then Ash smiled with a great deal of effort. “My father was a writer,” he said to the boy. The words were halting, this was unexpected. “He has a writer’s imagination. My brother’s called Harley, but our names have nothing to do with motorbikes or Mutiny on the Bounty.”
“It’s still cool.” Steve leaned in even closer to Garrett. “Hey, John, I’ve got the munchies real bad. Can I raid your fridge?”
“Help yourself. And get me another beer, kid, all right?” Garrett turned to Ash, almost laughed again - Ash was still looking surprised. “How about you?”
“No.”
Garrett waited until he had the beer and the kid’s attention was solely on the contents of the fridge. It had been amusing enough to get Steve here behind Ash’s back but the special agent’s reactions were even funnier. Garrett leaned across the table to share the joke, said, “Gave you a scare, didn’t I?”
Ash leaned in close, too - odd because he’d physically avoided Garrett at the interview, hadn’t loosened up since. He said, very low, “If you think I’m going to let you hurt even one more young man, you are gravely mistaken.”
“Gravely,” Garrett echoed. “That’s very good, under the circumstances.” He laughed again, defying Ash’s taut expression, which demanded silence.
Steve soon wandered over with a plate of haphazard sandwiches, and sat down at the table. Garrett hauled his chair closer to the boy, sliding his arms around the slender waist. The kid began eating - but Garrett, in a merry mood, nuzzled into Steve’s neck, mouthing and biting the flesh, threatening to tear at the skin with his teeth. The boy rolled his head back, still chewing away while happily accepting these advances. “Hey, John,” he murmured, “let me finish this first, okay?”
“Sure, kid,” Garrett replied. “Then we’ll have some fun.” Plans for this boy rapidly unfolded in his imagination; beautiful, thoroughly cruel plans. Blood surged at the power of it, amusement fading to nothing. Heedless of Ash, Garrett almost groaned in need. This time would be even better than all the others. Experience counted for so much.
The coldest of tones, the FBI agent said, “We have business to d
iscuss, Mr Garrett. Why don’t you leave Steve alone?”
Garrett looked over at Ash, about to protest, but was instead distracted by the man’s expression. The shock and the fear had been joined by fascination. Ash was sickened but he knew what Garrett was wanting to do with this boy. Yes, Ash knew, and in glorious detail. Garrett murmured, “You told me what you saw in my eyes, Ash, now I’ll tell you what I see in yours.”
Silence. Steve continued eating, oblivious to all. Ash seemed to be holding himself very, very still.
“During that interview, describing all those terrible things. And right now. You understand, don’t you, Ash?” Garrett laughed at the thought of it. Of course, Ash had managed to track Garrett down because he had an idea of what sort of man the killer was. “Interesting. That’s why you’ve been so obsessed with this case, isn’t it? Because you know how it feels to do those things. Tell me.”