The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (73 page)

“It was hardly the only reason,” Albert said.

“But it was a reason.” Ash drew a deep breath. “Garrett suggested that he should demonstrate what he did on Steve. He suggested that I witness it, or even participate. Albert, I  had the perfect chance then and there, I  could have done it, could have done anything I wanted with the boy. Then killed Garrett, too, like I did - and blamed Steve’s death on him.”

“No, you couldn’t.” Albert frowned. “And obviously you didn’t.”

A relieved moan, and Ash twisted deeper into Albert’s embrace. “That’s still the first thing you say, that I couldn’t do it? Even when it’s obvious I’ve thought about it?”

“Of course. You’re no murderer, Ash.”

“I know that now. That’s what they gave me, you see. At the time, the only thing on my mind was getting Steve safely out of there. I didn’t even consider taking the opportunity, didn’t even think about it. It was only afterwards I started thinking, and my imagination did it all for me, even to the point of tidying it up afterwards and blaming it on Garrett. Though you would have found me out, wouldn’t you? I  couldn’t have hidden all the forensic evidence.”

“I doubt that you could have, unless the investigators were incompetent or didn’t look beyond the obvious.”

“Last night, I also discovered I can lie. Maybe I could even have lied about Steve’s death.”

Surely, after all these years, it was time to end this line of speculation. “You are no murderer,” Albert repeated. “The empathy that allows you to understand John Garrett also allows you to have pity for his victims, their families, and even the people who knew him. If you were ever in a position to victimize someone - and you are probably in that position every day - your empathy would make it impossible for you to inflict pain. You would show nothing but compassion, mercy and understanding.”

“Got
you
fooled, haven’t I?” Ash said weakly.

“John Garrett only saw the understanding. While I am sure you showed him compassion, I  doubt that he was capable of recognizing or responding to it.”

“Really.” Usually, when either of them reacted with that word, it carried a bite of sarcasm or challenge. This time, Ash was unable to even attempt the right tone.

“I am not paying you a compliment, Ash, there is no need to be shy of accepting it as such. I  am simply telling you the truth.”

The man sat quietly in Albert’s arms, subdued. Finally he said, “Love you, Albert. Haven’t told you that lately, have  I?”

Unwise, Albert blurted out, “Your compassion obviously extends even to me.”

“But you so rarely require compassion.” Ash’s tone was light, and Albert was relieved when the younger man didn’t pursue the topic. Instead, Ash said, “You’re right, I  did feel sorry for Garrett. Not for who he became but for the boy he used to be. If someone could have helped him twenty years ago, he might never have become a whole or happy person, but he could at least have avoided the violence and the death.”

A timeless while of silence again, until Albert said, “Your compassion, in fact, extends to everyone except yourself. You said that you can’t handle this situation but then you talk of everything peripheral to yourself.”

“It’s no good talking about it, Albert. You probably expect me to rationalize it away, but I can’t do that. I  killed a man. If anyone deserved death, he did, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about the fact that there’s one less life now because of me.”

Albert said, “Of course you are going to react to that emotionally rather than intellectually.”

“That’s what you don’t understand, right? You’d be able to deal with the whole thing on a purely intellectual level.”

“Perhaps,” Albert replied, trying not to withdraw from the man in his embrace. If Ash thought Albert only ever reacted intellectually, then Ash was wrong - but it might be as well not to disabuse him of the notion. “I  am unlikely to ever find myself in such a situation.”

“Count your blessings,” Ash said dryly. “To go there on my own, knowing what the outcomes might be, that was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. Leaving you behind, knowing I might not see you again, that was ghastly. And I had to listen to a whole lot of stuff I really didn’t want to know about. It’s going to take a while to sort through all that.” A moment, and another change of tone, before Ash continued, “But, beyond all that, the worst thing by far  - he deliberately goaded me into killing him, you know. His death was suicide and murder and self-defense all at once. He was goading me into it but the worst thing is that I goaded him into it, too.”

“Explain that.”

“I was provoking him the whole time. I  wanted to get behind his defenses, to get him to admit the truth to me, to make a confession, to let me arrest him. But, by provoking him, I  put him in a situation where he only had two options: to kill me or to be killed. He didn’t see there were other options.”

“It is not your fault that Garrett refused to be arrested.”

“I should have guessed that might be the case. So many of them get suicidal towards the end. He even  - He showed me this terrible scar on his arm. You would have seen it.”

“Yes, his left forearm. It was some years old.”

“He told me he did that after his first murder. He didn’t understand why but he’d tried to suicide afterwards. Maybe he didn’t understand why he was showing me, either, but now I think he was trying to tell me that he was prepared to die. That he’d tried to carry out his own justice once before but I must do it for him this time. What do you think?”

“That is all possible but I really cannot say. You are in the best position to judge.”

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.”