The Definitive Albert J. Sterne

by Julie Bozza

  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.

  “Yes,” Albert said, before taking his leave. None of this mattered to him personally - even if he’d had any respect for Jefferson, he doubted it would really matter - but when Fletcher needed him for this case, it would obviously have to be an unofficial use of Albert’s own time. So be it.

  Fletcher knocked on his office door at two in the afternoon. “My flight leaves in an hour. I thought I’d give you the chance to say good riddance.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Albert advised, standing up behind his desk.

  “I’ll call you when I get in tomorrow. Caroline agreed to me stayin
g overnight in Georgia, then back to Colorado in the morning.”

  “I prepared this for Roberts.” It was a report Albert had written over lunch, summarizing the forensic evidence in the Colorado case. Roberts didn’t want to be lost in extraneous detail but it was in their interests to ensure she had the salient facts.

  Fletcher leafed through the pages. “That’s great, I appreciate it.”

  Now that it came to the crunch, Albert was mostly inclined to be sorry the man was going. He surprised himself by asking, “Do you need a lift to the airport?”

  “No, I -” Fletcher was staring at him, quizzical. “Mac’s driving me, actually. But thanks for offering.” A pause. “I’ll miss helping with the painting.”

  Albert snorted. “If you time it right, I’ll have all the hard work done by your next visit.”

  “And it will look magnificent.”

  Silence. They had had some disjointed conversations in the past but this would have to be among the most pointless. “You should go.”

  “Yes. Thanks for everything.”

  Fletcher held out his right hand, and after a moment Albert shook it. A good firm grip, maybe a little extra pressure, which Albert assumed was supposed to be reassurance. Long fingers, cool fine skin. But surely they had dispensed with these formal gestures some while ago.

  “Good riddance,” Albert said.

  “Yeah, until next time.” And, with a smile, Fletcher was gone.

  Albert reached out to close the office door, and sat down again. It was a few minutes before he regained the momentum of that morning.

  He stood alone in the twilight, staring back at the blue flowers of the rogue groundcover that had infiltrated his garden. He’d fought it long enough. It was time to accept an inevitability. Albert muttered, “Let the damned thing grow.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  OREGON

  SEPTEMBER 1984

  Only seven days to go, and John Garrett was running high on anticipation. Two years since the last deaths, two years of exhilaration sliding to patience descending to terrible frustration. But he never questioned the few rules he’d imposed on himself and one of those was that he had to wait, he had to space the beats of his heart.

  This coming Saturday, the game between the Seahawks and the Denver Broncos was being broadcast and Garrett couldn’t decide who to invite over to watch it. There was Tony, one of the construction workers, who had a strong tanned body and long dark hair that fell over his face if he didn’t wear it in a ponytail. Garrett suspected he had more than a drop of native blood pumping through his heart. He’d caught Garrett watching him months ago, as he worked in frayed jeans and leather boots and little else. At first, Tony had been annoyed but now he thought it was funny and he treated Garrett as slightly ridiculous, harmless, even someone he could be fond of.

  The alternative to Tony was a hooker Garrett had sex with a fortnight before. A latecomer to the streets, the young man hadn’t had the spunk kicked out of him yet - but if Garrett left him for next time, over a month away, it might be too late, the boy might have already lost his attractions. A tough decision.

  If he were honest with himself, what Garrett really wanted to do was take Tony but that brought risks as well as joy. There was the link of employment between them, and the chance that the young man had joked with someone about the queer at work who couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

  All these temptations every day. It wasn’t so long ago that Garrett had to drive halfway round the state to find someone suitable. The miles he’d covered in Colorado, for instance, had been incredible. This place was too convenient. It almost seemed a pity to move on.

  But, no, that was another rule he wouldn’t break - create a plausible if vague reason to move to another state once the two years were done, and mislead anyone who asked where he was heading. It was by far the smartest thing to do. As for his reason this time, the glass facade was going up on the beautiful monstrosity he was building, he was about to hand the interior over to the decorators, his job would soon be finished, and of course he would be off looking for other work, despite a few offers to manage other construction projects in Portland.

  There was a knock at the door, and Garrett frowned. He wasn’t expecting anyone and the football was about to start. Beer in hand, he walked through to the hall, opened the door.

  “Hello, Mr Garrett,” said the young guy standing on the step.

  He had to think for a moment but once he’d mentally added overalls, grease in the light brown hair and an engaging grin, the guy fell into context. “Sam. What are you doing here?”

  “You said - don’t you remember? Last time you filled the car up, you said I should come watch the game with you.”

  “So I did.” What had he been thinking of, for God’s sake? Garrett hesitated, wondering whether this was really as bad an idea as he suspected it was. But then the guy smiled, and Garrett immediately itched to wipe the expression off the impertinent face. “Come on in,” he invited, stepping back to allow Sam through. “You’ve missed the first few minutes.”

  “Sorry. Mom still won’t let me out of the house until I tell her where I’ll be. Ridiculous. Think I’ll have to move out. Big argument like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Yes, I would believe.” Garrett paused. “And you told her?”

  Sam turned back to face him, shrugged. “I lied to her.”

  “Good. Mothers are suspicious creatures. And you’re a man now.”

  “Hey, tell me something I don’t know.”

  They shared a laugh as Garrett locked the door. He ushered Sam through to the living room where the television cast its flickering light into the darkness. “Do you want a beer?” Garrett asked.

  This was what he should have been doing years ago, Garrett figured, back when he was a teenager: necking on the sofa with some guy as eager as he was, the football mostly forgotten, a few beers warming him. Maybe his whole life would have been different, maybe he could have found someone who’d treat him better than his parents had, maybe he could have done the normal thing and gone to college, maybe there wouldn’t be this terrible resentment burning within him -

  Was this how it should have been? Crazy kissing until his lips were numb but still aching with hunger, hands blindly roving over every part of this body beneath his, Sam’s arms around Garrett’s back rarely venturing below his waist, sensation oddly unfocused and hazy, chasing something he didn’t even know the shape of - that’s what prompted Garrett to make believe they were both teenagers. It seemed this confused pleasure would just go on and on, with no thought of resolution, until Sam maybe decided he’d better go home to stop his mother worrying, and they drew reluctantly apart as if it weren’t even possible to go to Garrett’s bed or make each other come.

  “Hey,” Sam was murmuring, but Garrett kept kissing him because the easiest thing to do right now was feed this vague but insistent need, and he really didn’t want the boy to go home yet. When Sam turned his head away, Garrett simply began mouthing his neck. It was nice, these dull sensations, in an innocent sort of way. “Hey!”

  “What?” Garrett mumbled, not wanting to be bothered.

  “You’re squashing me.”

  He murmured an agreement, sought the boy’s mouth.

  Sam allowed the endless kiss to begin again but brought his hands to Garrett’s shoulders, began pushing ineffectually. Eventually he turned his face away, whispered on a breath, “You’re too big for me.”

  Garrett lifted his head, blearily looked down at the guy. The eyes were hooded, from embarrassment or need, and the lips were as swollen as Garrett’s felt. He was panting.

  “Sorry,” Sam offered. “Too heavy. Can we move -?”

  They were both panting after breath. Garrett’s heart flared, and he bent to meet the boy’s open mouth, the dazed lust abruptly focusing into beauty. Within moments Sam was struggling, though he had no chance against Garrett’s strong and generous frame. For a while, Garrett simply let the boy feel his weight, gen
tly rocking so his penis pushed hard into the boy’s softening genitals, sensation sharp even though they were both fully clothed. Kissing him as if Garrett would eat him alive, one hand holding the boy’s head still, Sam breathing through his nose in panicked rushes, clearly not getting enough air.

  The kid’s hands beat at Garrett’s back, then his head, grabbed at his hair, but Sam wasn’t desperate enough, or thinking clearly enough, to really hurt Garrett. Or maybe he was incapable. Couldn’t hurt a fly, couldn’t even hurt his murderer.

  God, so close to climax, and so easy, so childishly easy to take his pleasure this way. Garrett shuddered, moaned into the kid’s mouth - and finally Sam was smart enough to go for Garrett’s eyes. But even then it was simply a matter of gathering both the boy’s hands in one of his, forcing them over the kid’s head and painfully down against the wooden arm of the sofa. Garrett suddenly raised up, and the kid tried for a lungful of air, but Garrett’s other hand was on his face, palm over his mouth, thumb and fingers pinching the nostrils closed. Sam’s eyes widened in an essential terror, he tried to twist away his head or his body, but Garrett had him secure. Thrusting as the kid heaved uselessly, bearing down on him as he fought, coming as the darkness took the child away. It was so incredibly good.