The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (19 page)

“We were only talking about work.”

“No, we’re talking about our personal reasons for what we do, our reactions, our compromises. And it isn’t
just work
for either of us.” Ash looked around the dining room, apparently searching for a change of topic. “This is a wonderful meal. I appreciate that you go to the trouble of indulging my tastes.”

“That’s the best you can manage?”

“All right,” he said impatiently. A moment of thought, then a very direct stare. “For friends, we sure bicker a lot.”

Albert looked down at his plate as he neatly gathered together a last mouthful of food. “It would be ludicrous to expect our opinions to always coincide.”

“Well, I certainly agree to disagree with you on some things.”

“Such as?”

“You’ve spent half the evening telling me what I am - or what I’m not, to be more exact. And, yes, you’re often right about people, even if you always underestimate them. But it would be nice if you’d respect my judgment.”

“I don’t see why. You’re hardly in the best position to make judgments about yourself. And I’m not going to lie to you if I think you’re wrong.”

“There’s a line beyond which honesty becomes sheer nastiness, and tact or understanding are called for.” Ash grimaced and added, “Besides which, you seem to think no
one’s in a better position than you to judge Albert Sterne. Why can’t that principle apply to us lesser mortals?”

“Is that an example of nastiness?” Albert asked scathingly. “Thank you for the demonstration.”

A turbulent silence.

Albert stood, reached for Fletcher’s plate that had, at last, been emptied, and carried it through to the kitchen. The last few days had been horribly tiring - Albert was used to long hours, tragic cases, little sleep - but he wasn’t used to dealing with a friend as well, not someone who meant so much, invading his home so there was no retreat.

“Never mind, Albert,” said Fletcher Ash, in the quiet, reassuring voice he used with frightened children. He was leaning in the doorway, at ease.

Does this mean so little to you?
Albert flared at him.

“I’ll be heading back to Colorado soon. Or Georgia, if Caroline will let me. Out of your way, in any case, let you have some peace and quiet.”

A strange sensation, akin to the shock of Ash striking out at him two mornings ago. Which was worse: Ash threatening to leave, or the thought of this domestic chaos continuing? Albert felt at a loss for a moment, his anger dying, and not even this unfamiliar disorientation rekindling it. He plugged in the coffee-maker, filled the jug with filtered water, measured out the required amount of ground beans, added an extra spoonful because Ash preferred his coffee strong.

The man was just standing there, watching him. Albert didn’t like it, but he had nothing to push Fletcher away with right now. If Ash started again with those declarations - the ones impossible to interpret because they left so much unsaid, the half-explanations that assumed there was some kind of understanding between them - if Ash started with those, in that pitying tone of voice, Albert had no idea what he’d say. The tension of all the unshouted words churned in his gut.

But when Ash moved at last, he simply walked over to the sink and ran a tubful of water to wash up in - water as hot as Albert insisted on for proper sterilization, so he couldn’t even take the man to task for that. Silence, as Fletcher washed, and Albert dried, and the coffee brewed.

A silence that slowly became companionable. Albert knew that now he had truly let the man into his home, a large part of him didn’t want Fletcher to leave; and yet the rest of him couldn’t bear anymore of this. And Ash knew that, too, of course. One of the things Albert loved him for was his instinct for how people were feeling and what they were thinking, even though that was so dangerous right now, with Albert’s unwanted yearnings and confusions all too evident.

But there was always the good and the bad when it came to Fletcher. For instance, the man was still optimistic enough to see the best in people, to expect and therefore to find quality, despite all the years of what Albert considered must be disappointments. But when that ability extended to seeing something worthy in mediocrities like McIntyre, Albert had a difficult time remembering that it was a desirable attribute.

And then there was this strange idea of Fletcher’s, that he had the potential for evil. The man was not a killer, he did not fit any of the profiles. Rather the opposite. He no doubt had problems with carrying a gun, and being expected to use it within certain situations, even though that was a requirement of being a special agent in the field. And yet Ash insisted there were impulses within him that had to be fought and contained. Albert couldn’t accept that as possible - but even this mistaken and melodramatic notion of his was reason to love Ash. Humanity was capable of so much evil and Ash was all the more valuable for choosing to make a career of fighting it, and for wrestling the bad within himself as well.

Contradictions, paradoxes. Could that be love? Surely it had been simpler for his parents. Miles and Rebecca were different sorts of people from Albert, and they had each found someone who embodied all of the best qualities. Yet wasn’t that exactly what Albert had found in Fletcher? Humanity’s drive and complexity and passion and idealism, all in a package that, to add insult to injury, was so obviously attractive.

Fletcher seemed to realize that Albert should be left alone, and once the kitchen was set to rights again said a quiet, “Goodnight,” then retreated to the guest room with a mug of coffee.

Albert took his time doing the rounds of the house, ensuring the locks were set, the windows closed and fastened. Exhausted, and yet too troubled to even contemplate sleep.

At last, safe in his room, with two doors closed between him and the intruder, Albert undressed; carefully aligning his shoes with the others, hanging his suit and tie, folding his shirt and shorts and socks and placing them in the laundry hamper. Then he headed for the bathroom, stepped into the shower, and turned the taps round to full. At first the blast of water was icy hostility, but the temperature soon raced up the scale to hot, perhaps unhealthily so. Albert braced himself with palms against the cold tiles, and let the water pummel his face and skull, his shoulders and back and torso.

He was aware of a tension that wouldn’t go away, a dull and distant ache, an irritable hunger. His penis was stubbornly engorged despite his efforts to ignore it. Images filled his mind of Ash’s bare chest, his ribs and musculature, the dark flame of hair that Albert wanted to cool with the flat of his tongue. Then less prosaic memories of the man’s smile, the blue eyes merrily sharing some irony. The wistful seriousness of,
I  wish you’d tell me why.

Albert had reached down before he was aware of the decision to masturbate. Seeking a release, no matter how fleeting the satisfaction would be, despite the terrible loneliness of the act. The despair was flavored, this time, with illogical excitement at Ash being a few feet away rather than a thousand miles. Excitement and, to be honest, fear - though what difference did it really make? The man was just as unavailable, inaccessible. And there was no danger of Ash walking unannounced into the bedroom, let alone opening a third door and breaching the privacy of the bathroom. Even so, the potential humiliation of being caught going at it like some schoolboy was awful. His penis lost some of its enthusiasm. What if Ash’s instincts led him to realize what Albert was doing right now, and he came to investigate  …?

But no. The idea of Ash barging in was ridiculous. Every now and then the pressure built and must be answered, so it might as well be now. The memories of Ash in those worn flannel pajama pants flooded back. And Albert decided to get the deed over with.

He unwittingly let out a groan at the end of it, frustration and relief and need claiming him - but surely it wouldn’t have been heard over the water’s thunder, through the three doors. He was disappointed with the results, as always - there wasn’t any depth to an orgasm when he was alone. During all those years since the beautiful Lily, his satisfaction had been bleak and cold, grey and tasteless. He hated that it must be that way.

Albert let the shower run, wanting all this discontent to be washed away, but eventually he cared more about the waste of electricity and water than he did about his frustrations, and he turned the taps off. More tired than he could remember ever being, he forced himself through the motions of toweling off, then settled for his old pajamas rather than a fresh pair, and fell heavily into the haven of the bed.

Nothing had changed the next day except that somehow, from somewhere, Albert’s equilibrium had returned. He even felt like smiling when he took freshly brewed coffee in to Fletcher, who was always slow in the mornings. The mess of hair, the hands eagerly grasping the steaming mug, and the wry gratitude were appealing in a pathetic sort of way. Albert wondered at himself all over again but there was little criticism to it this time.

At the office, he lost himself in the work that had backlogged in his absence, prioritized it and quickly cleared through what he could. Then, as he was expected to, he took an updated report of current tasks to Jefferson, who supposedly oversaw the allocation of work and resources in the forensics area. What actually happened was that Albert allocated his own efforts as he saw fit, unless the bureaucracy needed a signature on a travel request or a supplies order or some other such form. As Jefferson apparently knew little about either priority-setting or forensics, this suited Albert and dealt effectively with a large workload, but played havoc with Jefferson’s peace of mind. It had been years since Jefferson had tried to defend Albert to anyone but as he had only ever produced ineffectual excuses on Albert’s behalf, Albert wasn’t sorry for the change.

The older man seemed particularly stressed today, Albert noted, like a pressure cooker about to burst. While Albert had long ago accepted that he was required to answer to the worst manager in the Bureau, Jefferson still fought his fate.

Albert rarely reflected on it but he knew there was no career path for him in the FBI. It didn’t matter to him because he was doing exactly what he wanted to do, and had no desire to be promoted from a position dealing with crime scenes and corpses to one handling forms, memoranda, budgets, and troublesome subordinates. And even if he had wanted promotions, no one would have given them to him. Fletcher had been right about one thing last night: all the merit in the world couldn’t save Albert from the fact that no one liked him. That made him impatient because while he couldn’t care less whether people liked him or not, he considered that there were a number of far more important qualities to judge someone by. At least Ash obviously agreed on that.

As for Jefferson, having quickly risen to a level of management that he simply couldn’t cope with, and having then been shuffled sideways time and again until they found an area he would do least harm in - Jefferson was trapped here, too, though not by choice. Albert pondered for a moment on whether having to supervise him was Jefferson’s punishment, or whether someone had been bright enough to realize that Albert was the last person to be adversely affected by Jefferson’s uselessness. Albert was always going to function to the best of his abilities, no matter what the Bureau threw in his way. Or perhaps the higher level managers were testing Albert as well, waiting to see which one of them would hand in his resignation first.

Fletcher would accuse him of being a conspiracy theorist at this point.

Albert might not be affected by Jefferson, but he obviously had been by Ash. This was Fletcher’s forte, mulling over the whys, speculating on the wherefores. Albert was far more inclined to reach a conclusion whenever necessary, and then get on with the job.

It didn’t occur to him to ask what Jefferson was so uptight about, but at least part of it was soon made clear. As Albert turned to leave, Jefferson spluttered, “Aren’t you going to ask me if you can swan off to Georgia again at Bureau expense?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t want to give you the pleasure of refusing me.”

It seemed as if Jefferson was going to blow a gasket right then and there. Albert looked at him, considered whether to leave, and postponed the decision until he had further information. Much as he despised the man, Albert didn’t want to be the sole cause of the inevitable coronary.

He continued, “I’m sure Special Agent Ash is capable of investigating the situation, at least as far as our lack of jurisdiction allows us.”

“And that’s another thing,” Jefferson said.

Albert closed the door and waited out the tirade. It seemed that relations between the Bureau and the police were at a low again, and it would not be appreciated if he or Ash trod on any toes in Georgia. And it was Jefferson’s opinion that if someone were to be sent out there to heal the relationship, Albert was the last person he would consider for the honor. And Jefferson couldn’t see anything in the whole mess anyway; the young man from Colorado ought to be careful he didn’t throw away the last of his credibility.