The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (74 page)

“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 parts 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.”

The frown was replaced in an instant with a broad smile. “That would be great! Do you think they’ll agree?”

“Of course they will,” Albert said distantly. “The Bureau always teams the staff it perceives as potential problems. Thornton and Ash are a classic example. If things go wrong, there are plenty of people to blame.”

“Ignore him, Mac,” Fletch said. “Albert is the biggest cynic I’ve ever met.”

“Hell, he’s probably right. But we’ve already proved them wrong once, haven’t we?”

“Yeah, we have,” Fletch agreed with a smile.

“You’re not staying in Denver, Fletcher?” Celia asked the question lightly, but there was an unusual tone in her voice: pensive; unsure. Both Mac and Fletch turned to look at her. “Seems ridiculous, I  know,” she continued, “but I’ve become used to having you here with me in New Orleans, Mac.”

“That’s not ridiculous,” he said, almost in a whisper.

“It is, seeing as it’s only been a few weeks. Shouldn’t be able to form a habit that quickly. Especially one I’ve been resisting for so long. Fiercely independent, that’s my trouble.”

Fletcher found himself smiling inanely. He’d always had the impression that Mac and Celia’s relationship was far more casual than Mac would have liked it.

As for Mac, he’d obviously decided words wouldn’t do. He slid closer to Celia, took her in his arms, and kissed her as if he were auditioning for the role of Clark Gable. Fletch let out a cheer.

And then there had been all the rigmarole of Fletcher’s good wishes for the pair, and Mac and Celia making it quite clear that they could each move to wherever the other was based, and Fletch admitting he didn’t have the first idea where he might end up, but it would be a field office somewhere closer to Washington than Denver was. And Albert silent and uninterested through it all, not even reacting to this last piece of information and all it implied. Having decided that was enough of a hint, Fletcher restrained himself from commenting on the horrors of long distance relationships - instead, he bought a couple of bottles of champagne with which to celebrate and drank far more than his share.

Three days after that dinner - a week ago now - Fletcher had flown back to Washington with both Albert and Mac in tow. And here Fletch was, in limbo, pruning and trimming the plants in Albert’s garden, which he supposed was an improvement on rattling around Albert’s beautiful house wondering what on earth to do with himself.

The answer, at least immediately, was obvious. Albert was due home soon, so Fletcher would clean up and wait for him on the front steps as usual. It was a lovely day, with the first hints of that crisp fall flavor to the air that reached all the way up to the pale blue sky, with most trees still richly green and others beginning to stain their leaves gold. Fletcher sat there, wishing he could appreciate it like he used to, wishing he could appreciate even the rusty ache in his limbs from all this manual work. Limbo. He hoped he wasn’t becoming the kind of person who could observe but not feel.

As soon as the Saab turned into the street, Fletch headed for the garage and opened the doors so that Albert could drive right in.