The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  Something that sounded like breathless disbelieving laughter. “You have a lot of faith in me, Albert.”

  “If so, it is not undeserved.” Silence again, long enough this time to indicate that Ash might have talked all he wanted for now. Albert said, “Your hair is still tangled with salt and sand. Rather than take another shower, perhaps you’d like me to help you wash it in the sink before we retire for the night.”

  “You’re kind. No, don’t tell me -” Ash almost laughed again. “You’re only thinking of the pillows.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s a wonder you’ve allowed me to rest my head on your shirt.” But when Ash moved, it was only to turn within Albert’s arms, to cling to Albert as if he might leave. “I have to tell you something,” Ash said quietly, his face at Albert’s throat.

  “Yes?”

  “I almost killed myself twice today.”

  Impossible to prevent a physical reaction to such bluntness: Albert’s whole body tightened its hold on the man convulsively.

  “After I’d called Halligan, sitting there at Garrett’s house, I almost fired my gun again. And then when I tried to get clean in the ocean, I almost kept swimming. And I wouldn’t have reached South America.”

  “I see,” Albert managed to say.

  “But I didn’t, Albert, I decided to live. I have to figure out how to live with the fact that I killed a man, but I will live.”

  A pause, which Albert didn’t attempt to fill.

  “If I didn’t commit suicide today, then I never will. I had to tell you that. I know I scared you but you don’t have to worry anymore, you can trust me. I promise.”

  “You did not scare me, Ash,” Albert said flatly.

  “Yes, I did. You were terrified you’d never be with me again.” The man lifted his head and locked his gaze with Albert’s, with only an inch between them so there was no escape. A moment that felt like agony, and then Ash apparently decided to show some mercy. “I would love you to wash my hair for me,” he said simply, as if neither of them had talked of anything else since Albert’s offer. His mouth quirked into a genuine smile. “And then you can do that thing with the hand cream again, if you like.”

  Once he thought he could rely on his voice, Albert said, “All right.” But first they just sat there for a while, holding each other close. And eventually Albert found it in him to kiss the man again, simply to press another kiss to his temple, lightly as if the gesture had no significance.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  WASHINGTON DC

  SEPTEMBER 1985

  Fletcher felt as if he were in some kind of limbo, felt as if he were waiting for something, waiting for something he didn’t even know the nature of. Here he was, alone and bored and rattling around Albert’s home most days, while Albert went in to his labs at headquarters. Thankfully, the man was only working standard hours, rather than the ten- or fifteen-hour days he used to put in. Though it seemed pitiful, even to Fletcher, that the only thing Fletch found himself thankful for was Albert’s company each evening.

  The physical exertion of spending a day working in Albert’s garden didn’t seem to be helping, either. It didn’t make him feel, or stop his mind racing back over recent events. Disappointing, really, to be busy mowing the grass, and still be fretting.

  Limbo. In the immediate aftermath of killing Garrett, Fletch had feared what would happen when he began feeling again - now he was impatient for it. He wanted out of this numbness, this neutrality, this going through the motions. The only distraction from this nothingness was poor Albert. The only interruption from loitering was the discomfort of occasionally being called in to headquarters.

  During those last days in New Orleans, and while here in Washington, Fletch had written up a dozen lengthy reports, including an annotated transcript of his interview with Garrett. He’d discussed it all a hundred times, with the Bureau’s investigators in New Orleans, with the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, with the public relations people, and with damned well everyone else who wanted to know. He’d relived that last night of John Garrett’s life a thousand times. It had been ghastly. The only thing he was thankful for, other than Albert’s ever-present company, was that the Bureau respected his wish for privacy - which meant he didn’t have to deal with the media. The Bureau, usually adamant in ensuring that special agents remained anonymous but always keen for good publicity, had really pushed Fletch on that one. I’m no hero, became his standard refrain. With which too many people disagreed.

  The period post-Garrett - which he mentally labeled PG - hadn’t been without its high points. The problem was that Fletcher had been in no condition to really appreciate them.

  Albert, who’d been surprisingly supportive throughout the last days of Fletcher’s investigation, had been even more amazingly wonderful during the first day of PG. Exactly what a wounded man needed, all the quiet loving care Albert provided.

  Things had changed since then, of course. During those first twenty-four hours PG, both Fletch and Albert had been so reduced by all that happened, so raw and stunned and vulnerable. Now they were returning to themselves, and all the old tensions and difficulties and disappointments were also returning. Though nothing, for Fletcher at least, could diminish the fact that Albert had cared so well for him, so much for him - and Fletch suspected that Albert wouldn’t forget that fact, either.

  Another high point had been sharing a couple of bottles of burgundy with the ponderous mountain that was Judge Beaufort. The man hadn’t seemed surprised to see Fletcher sitting up the back of his court one afternoon, with Albert in tow. Fletch and Albert were virtually inseparable PG, which Fletcher assumed must soon drive the older man quite mad.

  Beaufort had invited them home for dinner, over which he and his wife and Fletcher talked about the nature of justice. Albert provided minimal comments - though as all his observations cut right to the heart of whichever issue was being explored, this participation was both amusing and annoying, and tended to put a damper on the conversation.

  Fletcher had at last said to the judge, “You’ve heard how my case ended.”

  “Yes,” Beaufort replied, as slow and deliberate as ever. “The man is dead.”

  “I never intended that - at least, I knew it was one possible outcome when I went to his house. I didn’t want it, but he forced the situation.”

  The judge said, “What is it that you want to ask me, Special Agent?”

  Fletcher looked at the grave faces of his three companions. “Your opinion matters to me, Your Honor.”

  “It is no use asking me to sanction your actions, Fletcher: I wasn’t there, I don’t know what happened between you and Mr Garrett. It seems that you acted properly. Though approaching him alone was unorthodox, I do not believe you went there with murder in your heart.”

  This was close to what Fletcher wanted to hear. But, once heard, it didn’t seem enough. He nodded, unhappy.

  “You can’t deal with this on a rational level,” Beaufort continued after examining Fletch’s expression. “It is an emotional issue for you, not an intellectual one. It doesn’t matter to you whether your friends support you, or what my opinion is, or whether you were cleared by the Bureau’s investigation - what matters is whether you can forgive yourself.”

  “All of that matters,” Fletch said, though he felt dismal. “It matters that I was cleared by the field office this afternoon.”

  “It doesn’t matter as much.” Beaufort shifted a little in his seat, leaned forward. “Your own conscience matters most to you, and you have fine principles: that is partly why I trust you. If you want my opinion, then, if the matter came before me, and there was nothing more to know, I would dismiss any charges. Of course, no one can tell the whole story - not even you, now that Mr Garrett is dead. But you should consider dismissing the charges you’ve laid against yourself. You should move on to other things.”

  And Fletcher had taken heed of this advice, though he felt he was still missing the vital part
s of the puzzle. There had to be a way of dealing with this blood-guilt. There had to be something more than the time needed to heal. Because otherwise his whole life might not be enough time.

  As he finished mowing the lawn and began weeding the garden beds, Fletcher reflected that he’d been disappointed in the Bureau’s investigation. It was over so quickly that he felt there couldn’t possibly have been suitable consideration given to the issues. But everyone involved had been relentlessly supportive, which was such a complete turnaround from the previous lack of belief in him it was absurd. Fletcher suspected that all the evidence proving Garrett was the serial killer might be overriding people’s other concerns.

  It was too easy from this side of it to wonder if there were anything else he could have done.

  Albert seemed to be the only one treating this seriously. He had insisted on taking Fletcher to talk with a defense lawyer, and from what Fletch could make out, the best and most expensive defense lawyer in town. Uncomfortable with this, believing that the truth should be enough, Fletcher nevertheless acquiesced for Albert’s sake.

  After ten minutes of conversation in her subtle but rich offices, the lawyer had fastened Fletch with a sharp gaze and said, “I’m beginning to understand Mr Sterne’s concern. I trust you wouldn’t plead guilty if they charged you with murder, Mr Ash.”

  And Fletcher had been forced to find the answer, which was, “No.” Even though he thought someone, somewhere should make that accusation.

  When he and Albert returned to their hotel that evening, Fletcher immediately headed for the balcony and leaned forward, arms outstretched, into the living wall of green that surrounded and infiltrated the railings. If the closer branches had been stronger, he probably would have climbed right in.

  “Communing with nature, Ash?” Albert had commented, sardonic, when he joined Fletch outside.

  “This is wonderful,” Fletcher replied. He turned around to see his lover, though he remained in contact with the tree. “You chose this place for me, didn’t you?”

  “You may think it’s wonderful but it also makes us vulnerable to burglary. I trust you’ll ensure the balcony windows remain locked when you’re not out here.”

  Fletcher considered the man for a moment. “Just think of all that energy you waste being a wet blanket twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I am being practical.”

  “It’s really illogical, you know,” Fletch mused. “Being gloomy is such a waste of time.” But he relented, and said, “This place is wonderful and you chose it for me, and I love you for it.”

  “Platitudes and sentiment,” Albert observed.

  The phone rang at that moment, saving Fletch from having to retort. He headed inside and picked up the receiver. “Hello, Fletcher Ash speaking.”

  “It’s Caroline. How are you, Fletch?”

  “I’m getting there.” He wasn’t going to lie to her, but when he’d tried confessing all he felt, in a long painful difficult phone call the second day after he’d killed Garrett, Caroline Thornton hadn’t managed to empathize with the depth of Fletch’s angst.

  “You did what you had to do, Fletcher,” she said now. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. The man was a monster.”

  “I know.” Grimacing, Fletch added, “I’ll be all right.” He turned to lean against the wall, wondering how often he and Caroline had to do this. It seemed impossible to really communicate with her these days. Hoping to change the topic of conversation, Fletch asked, “What’s new?”

  “Oh, you’re still flavor of the month and so am I.” Her nonchalant tone couldn’t really hide her genuine satisfaction. “And so is your friend McIntyre, if you haven’t picked up on that yet.”

  “That’s good.” Fletcher could only find the enthusiasm to match Caroline’s for this last piece of news. “Perhaps Mac can be promoted as a special agent now.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And maybe I can be his supervisor.”

  “Maybe. No promises, but I’ll work on it, if that’s what you want.” She paused, then said, “I called to see if you’d decided what you’re going to do. Right now, I mean.”

  “I need some time off, Caroline.”

  “Understood. How long?”

  “I don’t know how long; I need to just get away and not worry about when I’m due back.” He sighed. “I might spend a while up in Idaho, I really can’t say yet.”

  “That’s fine, Fletcher. Actually, I think that’s really good. You feeling able to go away and leave all the loose ends in other people’s hands is a good sign.”

  Fletch gave a non-committal grunt.

  “There’s one condition. You take all the time you need and let us know when you’re ready to come back. But I’m setting one condition, for the sake of your career: tell us what you want to do when you’re ready to work again. For your own sake, you should take the opportunities you’re being offered while you can. Have you thought about it?”

  “Yeah, I’ve thought about it. All I ever wanted to be was a special agent, Caroline, I’m not ambitious like you. And I don’t want to join the Behavioral Science Unit, I don’t want to be doing this kind of work all my life. But I was thinking maybe I could act as the BSU’s criminal profile coordinator in one of the field offices.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll raise it with them. You know they’ll give you anything you want right now.”

  “Fine, thanks for that.” Fletch asked, “What about you?”

  “Onwards and upwards: New York City field office.”

  Fletcher grinned. “Well done.”

  “I owe you, Fletch. If you weren’t flavor of the month, it wouldn’t be rubbing off on the rest of us.”

  “You believed enough to support me, Caroline. And you damned well know you deserve a promotion anyway.”

  “Yeah,” she said, the satisfaction now obvious. “Take care and call me again before you leave, all right?”

  “Goodbye, Caroline.” Fletcher barely waited for her farewell before hanging up. His grin quickly faded, and he rubbed at his face with both hands.

  Albert had apparently been listening in. He walked over, took Fletcher’s shoulders in his hands and said very seriously, “I know this has cost you.”

  Fletch sighed. “I needed to hear someone say that.”

  “But don’t lapse into self-pity.”

  Yes, Fletcher reflected, Albert was back to his merciless self. Despite that, Fletch took the opportunity for a hug.

  He’d met Mac and Celia for dinner that night - with Albert still in tow, surprisingly enough. They ate at a French restaurant, the four of them sitting around a U-shaped booth. Fletcher had passed on the news that Mac’s career might also benefit from his involvement in this case. “If they don’t make you a special agent,” Fletch had promised, “it won’t be for lack of Caroline trying.” And he’d done his own lobbying on Mac’s behalf, of course, since he’d come to Washington.

  “That’s terrific,” Celia had said warmly, clasping Mac’s hand in hers on the table.

  “Thank you,” Mac said to both of them. “I appreciate it. Don’t quite see what I did to deserve it but that’s not the point, is it? You’re in the limelight, and so are we.”

  Fletcher replied, “You deserve it, don’t forget that. Just sit back and let Caroline do her bit. She’s got the hang of all this political stuff.”

  Much to everyone’s amazement, Albert said coldly, “Don’t waste time with false modesty, McIntyre. Your work has been significant in progressing this case.”

  Mac was almost gaping. “Who are you, and what have you done with the real Albert Sterne?”

  “Don’t be any more ridiculous than you have to be.”

  “When you realize that added up to a compliment, I know you’ll take it back.” But there was no reply, no retort. More seriously, Mac asked, “What about you, Albert? What dizzy heights is your career going to reach now?”

  “I have no interest in performing any job other than the one I occupy.”


  Fletcher frowned, unhappy that this was the first time any of them had thought of Albert and the rewards the Bureau should be offering him. It wasn’t comfortable, wondering whether his own lack of concern was simply because he knew Albert well enough to guess he wouldn’t welcome a promotion or, indeed, any other form of recognition.

  Mac was frowning, too. In fact, he was looking almost indignant. “After Fletcher, you deserve the most out of this. I know all the work you put in, or I can guess, and you supported Fletch the whole time. Make the most of the opportunity.”

  “I am not interested in taking advantage of any putative opportunity.”

  Taking pity on Albert finding himself at the centre of attention, Fletch re-directed the topic by saying, “Where do you want to work, Mac? Do you want to stay in Washington? Because if we’re in the same field office, I’d love to be your supervisor. I told Caroline that already.”