The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  At twenty-three he’d discovered young men, discovered the power of rough and tumble with something that struggled, something that wouldn’t break or even complain much. That had been enough for a long while - doing things he could pay a guy to forget, things a whore expected in any case, things that became rape even if they started out as seduction. A couple of times he’d had to dump them at a hospital: drive them as far away as possible, and leave them for someone else to care for. There were so many dull frigid years to make up for, though he had to be careful. He had a business to run, a growing reputation to protect. There were some situations, after all, that you couldn’t buy or charm your way out of; some foibles that would not be overlooked.

  Though back then people had been willing to accept him despite knowing, hearing somehow, or figuring out that he was queer. There had been more comfort about the issue in the seventies than the eighties now offered. It had been forgivable, ignorable.

  One night he’d taken the sex too far; been so caught up in the young man’s humiliation that sheer sensation had carried him beyond where he’d dreamed possible. It had sickened him afterwards - not the injuries he’d caused, but the surrender of control and the intolerable situation it had put him in. It had infuriated him.

  He’d stood over the guy, impatient with his repetitive pleas, trying to assess the damage. Yes, this time it was fatal. “No hospitals,” he’d said.

  But the guy hadn’t shut up. “Help me, get me some help, please …”

  And then reckless sensation seized hold of him again, the nauseous panic swamped by delight, as he’d realized this was what it had all been about, right from the beginning. He sat in a chair, a short distance away, and watched. Sometimes he’d crept closer to kiss the guy, run a hand over the shuddering flesh, feel the fever heat come and go. Once he’d masturbated sitting back in the shadows, laughing at the crazy excess.

  It took the guy three glorious, scary, divine hours to die.

  Garrett was left with a body to deal with. The dreary denouement, the anticlimax of aftermath. Trying to think it all carefully through, despite the panic returning to jolt him.

  No one had known he’d picked this guy up, that was all right. Perhaps someone would have missed the young man by now but it was a Sunday, so Garrett himself wouldn’t be looked for until the next day.

  He’d driven up into the mountains, with the body wrapped in a blanket in the trunk. Having already done without sleep for thirty-six hours, another six wouldn’t matter. The body was already naked but Garrett also took the two rings from his hands and the chain from his neck, slipped them into his hip pocket. Kissed him, kissed the unresponsive mouth, held him for a long while, sitting on the cold ground with the weight of the young man in his arms. It was hard to let this one go. But he had eventually dumped the body in the river, watched the rapids take him.

  Home again, he’d packed the guy’s few possessions carefully into a box, sealed it up, and stashed it in the back of a cupboard, anonymous amongst all his junk. Perhaps it would have been smarter to have dumped the jewelry and wallet as well but Garrett couldn’t bear to leave them behind. It had been enough to sacrifice the guy’s clothes to the incinerator’s fire.

  And then, for no reason he could now fathom, he’d walked to the kitchen, picked up the sharp vegetable knife, and slit open the veins from the inside of his left elbow to his wrist and on into his palm, cut again across the meat of his forearm. Quickly dizzy as the blood pounded out of him, as the darkness approached. Was this how the young man had felt? Garrett cried out loud, roared out defiance and grim joy and completion, let his heartbeat fill the world.

  A sorry coincidence had been his undoing, his savior. One of the few neighbors had been passing this isolated house of his, heard the painful noise, came in through the door that had stupidly been left unlocked, tied a kitchen towel tight around the biceps, called an ambulance. Lucky that she hadn’t passed by the previous night, when it hadn’t been Garrett screaming.

  Garrett could have lost the arm, almost lost his life, almost followed the young man into the darkness. But he survived, pleaded lonely despair, promised to get help. Moved interstate with the scar of a cross on his arm, a cross bound with stitches. The stitches reminded him of thorns.

  It had been five weeks and three days before the papers announced they’d found the body washed up against a bridge.

  Rusty touched the raised lines of skin on Garrett’s forearm, traced the defiant cross, walked his fingers along the puckered dots left by the irregular stitches. The scar was white now, refusing to tan, but that was better than the unhealthy grey that had lingered just beneath the surface for months. “Bad times, huh?” Rusty asked, all light sympathy. Then, with the enthusiasm expected from a child, “I bet there was lots of blood.”

  I could show you, Garrett thought. What an interesting idea, to mark a boy in the same way. Maybe when it was time, in a little less than two years, when the monstrous building rose into the sky. Or maybe right now. No one would miss this tramp. There was a cellar to the house, small and dark and sound-proof. He could strap Rusty to the shelving on the wall: one lash at his right wrist, and one at his left elbow, perhaps one around his ankles to prevent him from kicking out; that’s all he’d need. And then he could hold Rusty’s hand as he carved an identical cross deep into the boy’s flesh. Watch as the blood pulsed out, spattered them both; watch as Rusty resisted the fearful darkness drawing near. He imagined the young man crying and begging, the big childish eyes afraid, his breathing harsh and ragged; then Rusty’s head wilting as he went under, the heavy mop of hair listing forward. Yes, I could show you, my friend.

  “Don’t you always just die if you lose more than a pint of blood?” Rusty was asking. “You only have eight or nine pints or something, and you go into shock, and just die.”

  Let’s find out, shall we?

  But that wouldn’t be sensible. Garrett rationed himself, only so many deaths, only so many attempts at that ultimate satisfaction. And it would not be wise to link himself so obviously to the victims.

  “It takes more than a pint,” Garrett said. This cool control was fine. In fact, control was the whole point, it all had to mean something, life was too precious to take with anything less than finesse. Screams should be conducted like music. Garrett was creating poetry, just like a football team executing a classic play, like the beauty of smoothly slotting each piece of a glass tower into place. Perfection.

  Sacrificing Rusty right now would not be poetic: it would be an uncontrolled indulgence. Even if the idea of how he would die was beautiful, irresistible. For two years at a stretch, Garrett obeyed the signs. Don’t walk on the grass. But then he’d leave the path behind, net the right young man, and chase sensation with him, through him. Taste the power of it. Live life with a shit-eating grin.

  It was good. And the joy of it lasted for months. Rusty was safe.

  He pulled the guy to him; took care to make Rusty groan at his own ecstasy rather than scream at Garrett’s; reached climax with the memory of that first, accidental, beautiful death hovering just behind his eyes. Was Rusty so blind he really couldn’t see that potent image?

  Mark. The first boy’s name had been Mark. Someone else had taken him from the river, and given him to the ground.

  Garrett looked stunning in a tuxedo. He smiled at the mirror’s image as he adjusted the bow-tie, just so. His hair was white-blond, and had been since his mother died, which made him look older than his thirty-three years - but combine that with his flawless skin and regular features, and the result was sophistication. His ice blue eyes were pleased right now - he added the sparkle to them, expression smooth, then the tiny self-deprecating smile that undermined any interpretation of smugness. Perfect.

  “Cool,” Rusty exclaimed appreciatively, bouncing around on the bed. “Didn’t take you long to get invited to the classy parties.”

  “Of course not,” Garrett agreed urbanely. He began searching for the silver ring he wore on his
left hand at these occasions. He liked to think it distracted from the tail end of the scar. But what with Rusty’s help and hindrance, his belongings were in greater disarray than ever.

  “I found some jewelry and stuff here. Is that what you want?”

  Garrett turned, wary. The boy was pushing a box across the floor, the box of all the watches and chains and earrings and other oddments he had taken from naked bloody bodies. “Leave that alone,” he said, soft and cold as velvet.

  “Lots of it. Not classy like you’re dressed now, though. Where did you get it all?”

  “I told you to leave it alone.”

  “All right.” Rusty glanced at him, looked away, uncomfortable. “Sorry.”

  Garrett’s smile, his sparkle, even his smugness were gone. But it wouldn’t be sensible to frighten the boy, after all these hours and days of hints and clues that might add up. Rusty had an imagination, after all. What to say? Start with the truth - every good lie needs a core of truth. “They’re mementoes,” Garrett said. “Fond memories.”

  “Oh,” Rusty drew out the vowel in dawning comprehension. “A boyfriend?” he hazarded.

  “Yes. He died.”

  Rusty nodded, respectful of this grief.

  “I’m going to take you home now,” Garrett said. “What do I owe you?”

  Surprise, disappointment. “I didn’t mean to, you know, upset you like that.”

  “It’s all right. I was planning on taking you home anyway. Perhaps I should have discussed it with you first.” Those last words held such an elegant sarcasm.

  Rusty lifted his head, shrugged. “No.” Of course not. “A hundred.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Garrett said coolly. “We agreed on more than that.”

  “You already gave me two.”

  “Here.” Garrett reached for his wallet, counted out four fifty-dollar notes. “Take it. Take care of yourself.”

  The guy accepted it, wouldn’t touch him. That was fine. Garrett didn’t want Rusty scared, but he didn’t want the guy to come looking for him again, either.

  He drove the boy down to the docks in silence.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WASHINGTON DC

  MARCH 1983

  These days, it was the most peace Fletcher knew. Strange to find peace in Washington DC - a place he associated with politics and HQ and the highest murder rate in the States - when he’d only found it in the country before, with his own complications for company, and no one else’s crowding for attention. But Washington now meant Albert, and Albert’s home; and Fletch found himself coming down here on the slightest pretext, often just for the weekend, even though Albert was inevitably unwelcoming. Perhaps it was stranger still to find peace in the den of a creature so determined to show a bitter and objectionable face to the world.

  Fletcher sprawled in the wickerwork chair on the back veranda at Albert’s, let his head fall back, a stray breeze teasing his hair, caressing his throat. Last night, it had been Ty’s fingers instead.

  So Washington DC now meant Tyler Reece as well.

  She was gorgeous, so alive, with a unique energy. Fletcher had never met anyone who quite deserved the description vivacious until now, and Tyler was vivacious every minute of every day.

  They had talked; both scrambling to say it all, listening to each other, fascinated, and then talking some more. She taught literature at high school, and worked with a lobby group dealing with women’s issues. He thought of her vitalizing the children, bringing Shakespeare alive, of her swaying the old men in Congress with her sharp intelligence and snappy eyes and wide generous mouth. And she was still nuts about a particular actor, who was based in New York, and who Ty had happened to be married to for fifteen tumultuous months.

  She had come up to Fletcher’s hotel room, blew the drab walls away with her bright laughter, lay on the lumpy old bed and made it a magical place.

  And every grain of time, every ounce of energy, every spark of creativity in Fletcher had all been dedicated to surprising Tyler into thinking of him rather than her husband. Perhaps he had succeeded. A little. At least she had been polite enough to quit talking about the man. Verbally. And Fletch had fallen for her in the middle of it all, as she shared the pleasure with him, as with a delighted gasp she had …

  Fletch shook himself. This was fruitless, let alone unwise. He opened his eyes, dazed as if he’d been asleep, and he looked for Albert.

  Albert, who was standing close by, where the paving ended and the grass began, gazing at Fletcher as if the answer was at last, unexpectedly, within his reach. Albert, who seemed a little taken aback, but speculative as if he were already analyzing available facts and finding some kind of coherence. But mostly there was need, an age-old need, that few would fail to recognize. Anyone else might have thought it sat oddly on Albert’s face, but Fletcher had the privilege of seeing passion there before - if only in relation to Albert’s work until now.

  Fletch wished Tyler had looked at him like that.

  A child ran out into the garden next door, laughing, intruding albeit unknowingly. Albert turned away and the moment, the answer, was lost, put behind him. He began methodically raking up the grass clippings.

  So, Fletcher thought, as the dazed numbness faded to an ache. Albert loved him. Why hadn’t he seen it before? In a Sartre play, this was high art. In real life, it was tawdry tragedy, undeserved.

  He stood, escaped into the coolness of Albert’s home, leaving ignoble thoughts of Tyler behind. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, belong in this place - but Albert surely did.

  When Fletch first came here, he thought the place bland. Now he thought it provocative, richly evocative of Albert, though it still posed mysteries, cast tantalizing glimpses of the man who would perhaps remain forever hidden.

  From the outside, it was simply one more house in streets of clones - all wood painted white and a handful of minor variations in design. Maybe it was better proportioned, certainly better taken care of. But it was anonymous, and screened by a row of trees.

  His first impression of the interior had been of cool greens and subtle harmonies, of impeccable style, everything neat and clean. But even though it could have graced the pages of any glossy magazine, it was comfortable, accessible. An antidote to the hot Washington summers, a haven in the cold of winter.

  It had been a few hours before he’d realized what was bothering him. There was no clutter, no memorabilia. No photos loved more for their subject than their quality; no ornaments or oddments significant to the owner but ugly to anyone else.

  Fletcher remembered his great-aunt Kit, a plain-speaking nurse, gesturing with cigarette in hand at an object she loved only for the sake of who gave it to her: “As for this abortion of a lamp …” Despite the appropriate description, Kit kept the thing, even used it rather than buy something new and tasteful. But Fletcher was certainly not going to find any garish orange-tiled pedestals and crocheted shades here at Albert’s - the man protected himself too well and could not be considered sentimental by even the most generous observer.

  There were paintings on the walls, though they were little help. Again, they proved the owner had impeccable taste - each was an original, the colors a summary of, or perhaps the inspiration for, each room. But none of them were of people; they were all landscapes or still life, with one subdued and elegant abstract in the front hall.

  Fletcher hadn’t expected Albert to care so much for where he lived; he had assumed the man would brush the necessity of shelter off as he did so much else. It had been surprising to discover the place to be nice, if bland, and then to slowly realize how intimate and revealing it was, to see Albert taking an unconsciously sensual satisfaction in the trappings of his lair.

  Here was the living room, large and well-proportioned with a high ceiling, walls a pale sage, the furniture a range of darker greens and fine polished walnut, with every here and there a warm red that reminded Fletcher of the robes and ribbons in old European paintings. Then the dining room, even cooler and light
er, with splashes of blues amidst the sage and the walnut.

  The blues deepened to that of Van Gogh’s irises in the kitchen, with the greens paling on the cupboards and benches. All that a serious cook needed was out of sight but easily to hand.

  Everything was coordinated. Even the Saab parked in the garage fitted into the scheme, painted a deep forest green, and reflecting the choice of quality and function and style, the lack of ostentation and uselessness and decoration for its own sake.

  This was the home of the most interesting person Fletch had ever met, someone he dearly wanted to know better, who hid his secrets away so well, though revealing much that he didn’t intend to. Someone worthy of all that life had to give, uniquely able to make the most of opportunity, who had so much to contribute - and yet someone who had won so little, who had so few friends, who was thwarted at every turn whether he admitted it or not. Someone who loved Fletcher with a generous heart, just as Fletch loved - no, to be fair, Albert wasn’t one to fall in love lightly. It had to mean more to Albert than Tyler meant to Ash, supported by years of friendship rather than days of infatuation. It was a staggering notion. But what was there to do? Sartre had stacked this play too well.