The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (52 page)

“Happy birthday, Fletcher.”

He grimaced, wholly unprepared for a civilized personal conversation. “Thanks, Dad. I’d forgotten what day it was.”

“Forgotten your own birthday?”

“Yes, forgotten my own birthday,” Fletch repeated with a touch of impatience. Trying harder, he asked, “How are you?”

“We’re all fine up here and business is good. Harley and Beth said to tell you they’d call this evening, once the dinner crowd have gone, if you’re going to be home.”

“Yes, that’s fine, I’ll look forward to it.”

“What are you doing to celebrate?”

“Nothing much. Albert is up for the weekend but we’re just working on a case.”

“Working at home? That must be the old murder case you’re spending your spare time on. Don’t you have better things to do on your birthday?”

“Not really.” Fletcher sighed. Peter wouldn’t understand because he didn’t know anything about the case, about Fletcher missing the 1982 and 1984 deadlines that the killer had set. He wasn’t going to miss 1986. Peter also didn’t know about the mess of his son’s personal life. Instead of an explanation, Fletch offered, “Albert will no doubt cook me yet another delicious meal tonight.”

“That’s good. Any presents? That shirt he sent at Christmas was beautiful.”

“No,” Fletch replied, looking directly at his lover, “no more blue silk shirts.” Albert, perfectly able to hear at least this side of the conversation, did not react. Fletcher, though he didn’t really feel like being fair, continued, “However, Albert did try to recreate the DNA identification process for me.”

A brief pause. “That means something to you, does it?”

“Yeah, actually it means a lot.”

A longer pause. “Fletcher, you’re sounding unhappier than ever.”

“I’m all right, Dad.” Though they both knew that was a lie, and that there was nothing Peter could do anyway. Staring pointedly at Albert again, Fletcher said to his father, “Go on - do it with
impossible
.”

“Impossible, inconceivable, insuperable. Unimaginable, unattainable, unworkable.”

“You’ve still got it, old man,” Fletch said, though his laugh was bitter. “I’d better get on with it, all right?”

“All right. I hope your thirty-fourth year is happier and even more productive than your thirty-third.”

“Thanks, Dad, I hope so, too. Talk to you next week.” And Fletch hung up the phone.

A silence stretched until it became clear that Albert did not intend to provide any good wishes for Fletcher’s birthday. And he must have known all along what day it was, anyway, without the prompt of Peter’s call.
So be it
, Fletcher thought,
if that’s the way you want it, you cold-blooded bastard.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

WASHINGTON DC

AUGUST 1985

Albert was waiting outside Jefferson’s office, ready to submit his weekly report of tasks on hand, when he heard something heavy fall to the floor inside and then a second, lighter crash. Jefferson’s secretary apparently heard it, too, for she glanced at the door and then fearfully at Albert, as if wondering whether she had the nerve to investigate.

Having already decided to do so in the absence of anyone more appropriate, Albert stood and opened the door. He’d interpreted the noises correctly: Jefferson was on the floor behind the desk, one hand clutching the telephone receiver, the other knotted at his chest, mouth open as if gasping for air; his chair had rolled back into the bookcase. Albert said to the secretary, even as he was walking to Jefferson and kneeling beside him, “Call an ambulance; suspected heart attack. Then clear it with security and get rid of this call.”

The secretary, who hadn’t ventured further than the doorway, withdrew to hopefully carry out the brusque instructions.

Establishing that there was a rapid and arrhythmic heartbeat but no breathing, Albert rolled Jefferson onto his back, checked his airway was clear, and began administering artificial respiration.

The secretary returned to hover in the open doorway just as Jefferson began breathing for himself again. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked, apparently unwilling to come closer. “Is he all right?”

“He’s alive,” Albert said curtly, not taking his gaze off this unexpected and unwanted patient he’d acquired. He waited for a moment to ensure respiration would continue before rolling Jefferson onto his side and into the recovery position. The man seemed to be in a great deal of pain but there was nothing more to be done for him right now. Albert remained crouched, fingers on the pulse in Jefferson’s neck, and said, “I’ll monitor his condition. You keep the curious out of the way and make sure the medics can get through.”

“Okay,” she said, and backed away.

Albert waited there, watching Jefferson carefully. This seemed to be a major heart attack but the man would live if they got him to an intensive care unit quickly. It would, however, no doubt mean the long-anticipated end of Jefferson’s career.

At last the medics arrived, equipment on a stretcher between them, led by one of the security guards. Albert stood out of the way, answered their terse questions about the situation with equally terse facts, and then left.

A crowd had already gathered outside the office but, fortunately, they seemed more interested in Jefferson and the medics.

Albert dropped his weekly report in the secretary’s tray and returned to the forensics labs, where he washed and scrubbed his hands and face as if preparing for an autopsy procedure. And then he returned to work, attempting with mixed success to ignore the unusually high numbers of staff who seemed to find it necessary to visit the labs this morning.

Thirty minutes later, the phone rang. Albert picked it up and said, “Sterne.”

“What’s this about you being a hero?” Fletcher.

“I see no need for any fuss,” Albert bit out.

“People are making a fuss over you?” Fletcher seemed amazed, even charmed, by the idea.

“People are staring at me. I suppose McIntyre relayed the gossip.”

Ash chuckled. “I can neither confirm nor deny that rumor. Seriously, though, is Jefferson going to be all right?”

“I assume so, unless there are further complications.”

“And you saved his life.”

“Apparently.” Albert sighed, and rubbed at his face with his free hand. “Is this really of any consequence? I  have work to do, Ash.”

“Of course it’s of consequence.”

“Only to Jefferson,” Albert replied.

“All right, point taken.” There was a strained stretch of silence, familiar these days. “Shall I call you at home tonight?”

“If you must.”

Ash apparently heard the grudging note in Albert’s voice because he said a quick goodbye and hung up the phone.

Determined, Albert put any consideration of Ash or Jefferson aside, and recommenced study of a police report regarding a murder.

There were fewer distractions that evening. Albert didn’t feel like eating, so didn’t even have any cooking to occupy him. Instead, because he felt unusually unclean, he had a hot shower, using the soap to good effect. Then, because the weather was humid, he adjusted the temperature and let the shower run cool for a while, before dressing in his more casual clothes, and heading for the backyard.

Though he’d installed an automatic sprinkler system some years ago, Albert occasionally watered the garden beds by hand, especially on long hot summer evenings such as this. He carried a bucket and trowel with him, in order to deal with any new weeds.

The garden was pleasant, despite the neighbors, both adults and children, who were also enjoying their patches of civilized nature, though with somewhat more noise and abandon than Albert. The shrubs Albert had planted around the three boundaries and the decades-old trees provided some privacy and a far more attractive appearance than the alternative of ugly, minimally-attired humanity.

Fletcher liked the garden and often said so. Liked the endless varieties of green foliage, forming subtle and complex and asymmetrical patterns; liked the simple beauty of the few flowers, all white and yellow; appreciated the peaceful atmosphere, fragile though that peace was given that it could be disturbed any moment at the whim of the neighbors. Fletcher had compared the garden, due to the apparent informality of the arrangements, to the perfection of a forest glade. That was hardly surprising, as the man’s imagination often led him to overstatement and inappropriate imagery.

Albert sighed. He had no wish to think about Fletcher right now because Albert suspected Ash was so miserable that he was finally considering ending the sexual component of their relationship. And Albert had no idea whether he wanted that to continue, but he suspected not.

It seemed impossible to continue any component of their relationship under current circumstances, and neither of them had the power to change the situation. Fletcher had tried every way he could think of to - as Ash put it - get through to Albert and Albert would not, or perhaps could not, let Fletcher succeed.

Albert knew he wasn’t punishing Ash for the affair with Xavier Lachance. Surely he wasn’t. It was more about the fact that they’d been miserable enough before the affair and had no hope after. Albert had known for most of his life that there would be no one to love him as Miles and Rebecca had loved each other. If he’d ever dared to dream that Fletcher Ash could love him, then Albert was a fool and he was wrong. And he hated being one let alone both of those things.

Fletcher never seemed to mind appearing foolish. For a while he had continually protested his love for Albert, in tantrums and sanity, in reasoned statements and heartfelt pleas, in melodrama and poetry, even once in a physical assault that owed more to frustration than passion - which was all plainly ridiculous. The man was honest but, in this instance, deluded. Or perhaps the word
love
meant radically different things to each of them. For Albert, love meant what Miles and Rebecca had. And that was impossible for him and Fletcher - surely they had made that patently clear to each other by now.

When Fletcher hadn’t managed to get through to Albert with his protests, then Ash had pleaded with him to talk about things Albert had no intention of discussing. Fletcher would talk, endlessly, about himself, trying to elicit confidences in return. Fletcher would beg Albert to trust him. How the younger man could stand the humiliation of it, Albert had no idea.

Fletcher seemed to think the sex should be something it wasn’t and couldn’t be. He tried to trick or surprise Albert into feeling more, doing more  -

Albert didn’t want to be thinking about any of this. Damn Fletcher Ash and his manipulations! Damn the man’s selfish needs.

Spying a weed amidst the flowers, Albert turned off the hose, put it aside and crouched at the edge of the lawn. Once he’d carefully pushed away the surrounding foliage, he dug the thing out, roots and all. The weed was then placed in the bucket and the soil was tidied. Albert rearranged the plant’s runners - and then realized it was the damned blue-flowered groundcover that had been running wild in his garden for years. He should never have let the thing grow.

He did something then that he never did - Albert sank his fingers deep into the soil, let the dirt push beneath his nails, clenched his fists around the damp rough texture, imagined the dirt ingrained in the whorls of his fingerprints.

Surprised at himself, Albert stood and dusted his hands off, then rinsed them under the hose. Dismissed the impulse as meaningless.

Continuing with the watering, even methodically allowing the groundcover its quota, Albert endeavored to recollect and review the details of the latest murder case to cross his desk.

But thoughts of Fletcher intruded again.

When Fletcher failed to reach Albert, by means more foul than fair, Ash instead tried to draw Albert out, to make him over-commit himself. Fletcher would pretend a wounded vulnerability, apparently expecting Albert to take greater care of him. Or Fletcher would fall back on his old trick of taunting Albert with some false accusation, hoping that Albert would retort with some truth, some secret.

And then Fletcher would ask, with the heat of those blue eyes now dispirited, “Is this all we’ll ever have?” Would assert, “We’re capable of more.”

Are we?
Albert would ask himself, but would say flatly, “I  don’t think so.”

And then that ghastly conversation on the phone two days ago, and Fletcher’s accusation: “Albert, you’re trying to make me the same as you. You’re forcing me to withdraw, to care less, to distance myself, to build barriers. But I don’t
care
that I’m vulnerable where you’re concerned, do you hear me? It doesn’t matter that you
can
hurt me - it only matters that you choose to do so. I  love you but I don’t want to live like that, behind walls. You’re going to have to stop driving me to it. I  don’t want to change that much.”