by Julie Bozza
“No,” Ash said flatly. He was tense, as if still but wanting to leap into action. Did he imagine Garrett would rape Steve here and now, on the kitchen table? Surely he knew Garrett had more finesse than that. The question became whether he would leap in to protect Steve, or to join Garrett.
“No,” Garrett echoed, considering the man. “No, you’re right, you don’t exactly understand. Because you’ve never actually done it. So why don’t you try?” Without facing the boy, Garrett said, “Steve, can you handle two of us tonight?”
“Sure,” was the immediate reply, with a wolfish grin.
Fierce, Ash said, “Tell him what you mean, Garrett. You’re not just after sex, are you? You want more, far more than Steve would be willing to give.”
Garrett glared fury at the man, and sat back. Don’t spoil our chance, Ash. He let Steve go, just a hand on his waist. “No need to scare the kid,” he protested. “Anyway, he likes it rough, don’t you, Steve? Don’t get prudish on me, Fletcher.”
“There is a need to scare him,” Ash contradicted. He reached into a pocket, placed a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Steve, here’s some money. Call a cab from the phone booth round the corner and go home. Mr Garrett and I have some things to discuss.”
The kid frowned, turned to Garrett. Once he’d swallowed his mouthful of sandwich, Steve said, “You want me to leave? I thought we were gonna have a good time. I don’t mind if it’s both of you.”
Garrett thought hungry about what the good time would have involved. Ash better make this worth his while. “I thought so, too, kid. In fact,” Garrett turned to Ash, “perhaps Fletcher should be the one to leave.”
“You know very well that I won’t,” Ash said with his flat determination.
“All you want to do is discuss business. That’s not half as much fun as Steve staying here.”
Ash stared at Garrett, anger fierceness adding fire to the direct gaze. That had provoked him, sure enough. “You’re right,” Ash said at last. “I understand. I’ll talk about that with you if you want, but Steve doesn’t have to know. There’s more than business for us to discuss, Garrett. Let him go.”
That was the offer he wanted. Always the urge to get away with all this pain and death, and then tell the world about it once he was done. Enough in itself to achieve so much through his charm and wits - but Garrett also wanted people to realize what he’d accomplished. To be in awe of it all. And here was someone who could understand, who could see the perfection of it. Someone who knew how clever Garrett was to avoid getting caught. Garrett could leave his story to this man. If Ash survived he would tell the world. For that, Garrett could do without the boy. For now. “Steve, take Fletcher’s money, and go home.”
Shrugging, though he was disappointed, the boy said, “Well, all right.” He stood, collected the last of the sandwiches in one hand, and stuffed the money into a hip pocket with the other. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, John.”
“Sure.” Garrett managed a smile when the boy leaned in to press a kiss to his forehead, then waited impatiently until Steve had located his shirt and shoes, and the front door closed behind him.
“You’re a clever man, Garrett,” Ash said once they were alone. “You like the fact you’ve gotten away with fifteen murders. You’d love to get away with one more, right under my nose, wouldn’t you? That would have been quite something for you, killing a boy, with an FBI agent sitting outside the house.”
Silence. Time for confession, time for truth. Garrett said slowly deliberately, “Yes. That would have been something.”
Ash nodded. “You’ve been clever - but you’re losing control, Garrett. You’re making mistakes and have been for years. You can’t afford to be that daring. It’s hardly smart to prey on a boy I could link to you through your business here, when I’m watching you so closely.” And he leaned forward again to make his point: “The control was important to you, wasn’t it? But it’s gone now. You’ve lost it.”
Not bothering to reply, Garrett considered the man for a while. Ash should be glad they finally had the truth between them. Instead he just accepted it with the same matter-of-fact manner he’d used with Garrett since the interview. Eventually, Garrett prompted, “Tell me, Ash. Tell me what you think this is, if you understand it so well.”
Barely hesitating, and with the direct gaze never faltering, Ash murmured, “I understand what it means to you. That their death be slow, that their terror be great. That their fear and your joy, their pain and your life, be one and the same. That your control over them be absolute. That they suffer like you’ve suffered.”
“Sounds like poetry, Fletcher. You’re a writer, like your father.”
“No.”
Garrett suddenly leaned forward, too. “How can you understand it that well, and not do it?”
“I understand, but I want you to tell me about it. I want to know all you’ve done.”
“Better to show, not tell,” Garrett suggested, sly but serious. “I’ll go call the kid back.” He remembered the boy’s name with an effort. “Steve, I’ll get Steve back here.”
“No,” Ash said again. “Tonight it’s just you and me.”
“Then I’ll show you, Fletcher, I’ll show you.” Garrett grinned. “You’re older than I like them, but you’ll do fine. And you’ll put up a fight, won’t you? You were right about Mitch: he went down fighting, and I loved that.” The words came so smooth, words he’d never spoken to anyone, had a power all their own. “Tony was the same, fought me every inch of the way, cursed me with his dying breath. It’s best like that, but it’s never been perfect, it’s never quite perfect. Maybe it will be when I show you, and you’ll understand everything I do to you, how will that be?”
“You’re not going to show me,” Ash said easily, as if he felt quite safe. If Ash had drawn away, or been afraid, Garrett knew the impulse to go for the man would have been too strong to resist. Unaware of how close he was to danger, Ash continued, “I told you, this is the end of the line.”
Garrett stared at him for a moment. Perhaps he could have it both ways, have everything, of course he could - they could talk, Ash would be amazed, would be truly afraid - and when the words stopped flowing, then maybe a demonstration. Garrett nodded, and said, “All right. I’ll tell you, tell it all. Because you’ll understand, won’t you?” And then he saw the difference between them, should have realized from the first. “You don’t like that you understand. You hate that about yourself.”
“Yes.”
“You hate that you’re capable of murder, that you were tempted to join me with the boy tonight.”
Ash just stared at him, not bothering to voice any denials.
“It’s been a long four years, you said. And you’re never going to leave it behind, are you? This will be with you all your life, what I’ve done and what you’ve understood. But you still want to know.” Garrett nodded again. “I’ll tell you all of it. But when I’m finished talking, then one of us dies.”
Ash still seemed unafraid of the threat, damn the man to hell. He said, “Mr Garrett, when you’re finished telling me, then I’m going to arrest you.”
“No, you won’t,” Garrett said firmly. He’d decided years ago he’d never go through jail, and psychiatric evaluations, and a trial, and the newspapers telling lies uncomprehending, and still more jail until blind society finally decided to execute him. John Garrett deserved better than that. He said to Ash, “If I die, then you tell the world all I achieved. You carry on with the burden of knowing everything that I did. Will that ruin your life, Ash?” There was no reply. Garrett continued, “If you’re the one who dies, well, we’ve had a fascinating conversation. That’s the deal.”
“You call murder an achievement, Mr Garrett?”
“You know it is, Ash. Fifteen deaths - more than fifteen, if you want to hear about it - and I’m still free.” A pause, when Ash should have jumped at the chance. “Come on,” Garrett said. “You found me, so I know you’re not stupid. This is t
he best offer you’ll ever get.”
Ash said, “If we’re going to do this, I need to tape it.”
Garrett smiled. “You think you’re gonna survive tonight?”
“Oh yes,” Ash said easily. “We both are. And this will be invaluable evidence.”
A long moment, and then Garrett agreed with a shrug. What could it matter, whichever way this ended? If Garrett was the one to survive, these tapes could join his collection of memorabilia, in amongst the chains and earrings of the dead boys. He could add to them later, maybe even tape Ash’s death as well, and leave the lot to someone in his will. Someone appropriate like the Director of the FBI.
If Ash lived, then he would have all the detail, in Garrett’s own words, to publicize. And to haunt him at night.
Garrett stood and went to fetch the cassette player from on top of the fridge.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
NEW ORLEANS
SEPTEMBER 1985
Fletcher sat there at the rickety old kitchen table, across from John Garrett, with nothing to do but watch him. The man’s mood was almost contemplative now, a distinct contrast from the euphoria of half an hour ago, and different again from the dull confusion when Fletch had first appeared on his doorstep. Garrett had grabbed up a handful of music cassettes, saying with a laugh that he’d buy replacements the next day, and was now carefully fixing a piece of tape over the end of each so that they could be recorded over. He was engrossed in the simple task and in his own thoughts, and seemed not to notice the silence. He might have forgotten Fletcher’s presence.
Considering the man with as much objectivity as he could muster, Fletch decided his first impressions weren’t far wrong. He could still see how Drew Harmer might have found John Garrett attractive. Garrett was a couple of inches taller than Fletch, built on a more generous scale, and smoothly handsome with his grey hair and blue eyes. Right now, while Garrett was quiet, it didn’t take too large a leap of imagination to see how Drew had thought the man good for cuddling. And no doubt the boy had been taken in by the man’s friendly all-charm and no-nonsense attitude.
The silence stretched. Fletcher remained outwardly calm, although internally he was afraid and so tense it was as if someone was squeezing his gut in two mammoth fists. He was also in dire need of something to focus on other than his own thoughts and emotions. To his surprise, for it seemed the most inappropriate of situations, he was considering the nature of love.
He was in danger, Fletch knew that all too well, and he kept a very wary eye on Garrett. As far as he could see, though, Garrett had no weapons to hand - and Fletcher’s gun was a reassuring and worrying weight between his ribs and his arm - but Fletch didn’t even begin to trust the man. Fletch was in danger and, right now, he was free to reflect on all the causes and possible consequences of the situation.
The fact that Garrett was willing to talk, and on tape, meant that he was intending to kill Fletcher. Garrett surely didn’t want Fletch to be able to use this knowledge or these tapes to convict him. At least, that was the logical conclusion - but Garrett wasn’t behaving consistently or logically. He was acting on impulse, reckless in all he said and did. The friendly innocent act of his was coming apart at the seams and even though he’d now decided to tell the truth to Fletcher, Garrett had already spent the evening revealing far more of himself than he’d intended.
There was one definition of love Fletcher had heard, about a readiness to put the other before yourself. Well, Fletch was sadder for Albert’s sake than for his own right now. Fletch wouldn’t mind losing his life if it meant Garrett lost his as well.
Of course the best result, the one Fletcher grimly reminded himself he must work towards, was surviving and arresting Garrett, with ample evidence at hand of all the man’s crimes. And these tapes that Garrett was still fiddling with would provide that.
But if Fletcher died, it would hurt Albert. Fletch knew that the loss would hurt Albert so damned much. In fact, Fletcher’s death would hurt Albert even more than the death of his parents had. Their deaths had at least left the boy capable of love. Fletcher’s would destroy the one chance the man ever had. Fletcher considered this notion with a great deal of grief, and only the smallest sense of triumph.
Albert loved, even if he’d never admit it, but he’d never believed Fletch loved him. Why not? Fletch silently cried out. He preferred his own definition of love, vague though it was. Something about being true to yourself, and offering yourself openly and honestly to the other. Letting them challenge who you really are, and challenging in turn. Didn’t I do that, Albert? Did I fail, or did you fail to see? Fletcher had played a part in so many other doomed relationships, he now wondered why he’d expected this one to work.
The important point was that Albert would continue, Albert would forever endure. The hurt would not be fatal. But if John Garrett remained free, the hurt he inflicted would be deadly, and there would be more victims - many more victims, and so much more hurt than that relating to the broken heart of a solitary forensics expert.
Just in case, Fletcher had tried to say goodbye. Tried to write something, though he’d soon given up. He’d read the words he committed to paper with Albert’s critical eye, and dismissed them as melodramatic. Anyway, why would Albert believe a posthumous written declaration of love, when he’d refused to be swayed by Fletcher’s verbal protestations?
His own life and Albert’s miserable repression were worth ending Garrett’s freedom. Albert would probably have agreed, if Fletch had asked.
Fletcher distracted himself with the observation that Albert would deplore Garrett’s taste in music, which appeared to be mostly country and western, with some Elvis thrown in for good measure. From the number of cassettes, Garrett planned a long and detailed confession. What might happen after that was, at this stage, anyone’s guess - though Fletcher was absolutely determined that, one way or the other, this was the end of the line for John Garrett.
Finished with his task at last, Garrett was turning a cassette over and over in his hands, quite distracted by it. Eventually he looked up and said, “One of the guys left this, back in Oregon. Metallica isn’t my thing. Don’t know why I kept it.”
“What happened to him?”
After a moment, Garrett looked up at Fletch, an amused glint in his eye. “Don’t worry, Fletcher, I let that one go. He was just a runaway. Fed him, gave him some money, told him to go home. I guess he forgot his tape, though. He’d play the damned thing twenty-four hours a day because he didn’t have a cassette player of his own.”
Fletcher nodded, feeling unwilling gratitude for this small example of - surely it was self-preservation rather than compassion, to let the boy go, even though letting him listen to his music was the act of a friend.
“See,” Garrett said, “I can be a nice guy, too. What did you say? You’ve never met a civilized serial killer before.” He grinned. Well, you have now.
Barely restraining himself from reacting with at least skepticism, wishing Albert were here to cut the guy down to size with some choice sarcasm, Fletcher said, “Let’s do this.” When Garrett nodded, Fletcher put one of the other cassettes in the player, and pressed the record button. “Tape one, side one. This is Fletcher Ash talking with John Garrett. It is eleven-forty on the night of September first, 1985.” A slow breath, and then Fletcher began. “John, you said you’d tell me all about these matters I’m investigating. Would you confirm for the record that you’re doing this voluntarily?”
“Sure,” Garrett said, sounding amused at these niceties. “I’m not under any duress.”
“Thank you. Where would you like to start?”
“Where do you want me to start?”
Garrett still expected Fletcher to take the lead in this conversation, seemed surprised that Fletcher mostly refused to take the initiative. He hadn’t yet realized this confession had to be Garrett’s choice, Garrett’s words, without Fletcher prompting. After a moment, Fletcher said, “Tell me about the last time you killed som
eone.”
“Tony, back in Oregon, right?”
“You haven’t committed murder here in New Orleans?”
“Not yet,” Garrett said with a broad grin, looking directly at Fletch. But then Garrett’s expression degenerated into puzzlement. “Don’t think so. There was a guy, last year, I thought about it.”
“What was his name?”
“Zac. Hooked on coffee. Street kid, lived in a place falling apart down in the French Quarter, probably squatting. I picked him up for sex. Maybe I went back and killed him and his nosy friend.”
“Who was the friend?”
“Idiot of a girl. Self-righteous just because I got a bit rough with the guy.” Garrett shrugged. “It was no big deal. I paid them to shut up. She took the money but she didn’t like it.”
“You thought of killing them to shut them up?”