The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (63 page)

“I don’t think so.”

“It’d be good.”

“It would,” Albert agreed. “But I have no intention of accepting your offer.”

Rick turned away. “You
are
still stubborn, aren’t you?” he said over his shoulder.

There was a silence. Knowing he was handling this badly, when he’d assumed it would be easy, Albert reached for his wallet. “I  brought money, in case you need it.”

“You wouldn’t have to pay me this time.”

Albert sighed, glad Rick’s back was the only witness. He felt ridiculous, with the bundle of fifty-dollar bills in his hand, so he slid them into his pocket. “I  would pay,” he explained, “in other ways.”

“Guilt? Trouble?” Rick let out a humorless laugh. “You wouldn’t have to tell him, this friend of yours. Are you worried he’d leave you?”

“I doubt that he’d leave me. But, yes, I would feel something akin to guilt and remorse.”

“Hasn’t anyone ever offered it to you for free?”

Wondering again why he came here, Albert left a long silence before saying, “He thinks he has.”

“Well, everyone needs a little disruption in their life, Albert.” Rick turned to face him again, his expression and tone indicating he’d accepted defeat. “I’m sure the good outweighs the cost of having him around. And did you ever really have any peace of mind in the first place?”

“I didn’t come here for homilies about my personal life,” Albert informed him.

“Why, then? I thought you wanted to relive old times.”

“I came to see if you were dead yet.”

“No, you didn’t.” Rick was watching him carefully, the defeat forgotten. “You wanted to see if you’d changed. Well, you have.”

“I don’t think so,” Albert said flatly, responding to both suggestions.

“You’re more interested in me, as a person, my own person. Last time you said you were, but you wanted me to fit in with your ideas of good and bad. Now, it’s like you’ll let me have my own ideas, but you’re still willing to help.”

“Is that why you refused to let me help last time?”

“Come on, you didn’t offer in a way I could accept. You weren’t even trying, it was impossible.” And he explained, “You didn’t know me, but you decided I had a bad life, I’d made all the wrong decisions, I couldn’t take care of myself.”

“You’re saying I was arrogant and judgmental.”

Rick was brought to a halt by this bald statement. He grinned, drew close again. “Yeah, you were,” he said softly. “But you’ve changed. You’ve already helped me tonight. So stay with me, Albert. Come to bed with me.”

The bed in question was a pile of two single mattresses in the corner, haphazardly covered with sheets and a quilt and a variety of pillows. Albert deliberately returned his gaze to Rick’s, and said, “No.”

A smile reflecting both regret and amusement. “Blunt, but not rude anymore.”

Albert reached into his pocket, and handed over the bundle of cash. “Take this if you need it.”

Rick gaped, riffled through the notes. “Must be more than a grand here.”

“Yes.”

“A whole heap more than a grand. Jesus, Albert, when you do something, you do it thoroughly, don’t you?” Rick looked at him. “If you’re serious, I’m not going to refuse. I’m not so proud anymore.”

“Then keep it,” Albert said with a trace of impatience.

“Is
this
why you came?” Rick asked, and then shook his head in answer. “No. It wasn’t to warn me about that man, or ask for information, or give me money because you didn’t last time. Those are your excuses, Albert - but you came to see if you’d changed.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

Shrugging, Ricardo said, “I can’t read your mind, man. But I bet it has something to do with your friend.”

“Really,” Albert said shortly.

“You’re not even going to ask me what I’m going to do with the money, are you? You have changed, see? Last time, you would have told me to go get a haircut and some decent clothes with it, so I could find a better job. You would have told me to get in off the streets.”

“I obviously don’t need to advise you anymore, Ricardo. You have begun to achieve something with your life, without my help or hindrance.”

“Hey, you really like my painting? You think it’s good enough to sell?”

“Yes,” Albert said, the impatience obvious now.

Rick laughed, and darted in close for another kiss.

This time, Albert didn’t respond, and immediately pulled away. “Don’t flatter me with your persistence, Ricardo.”

“I bet your friend has a thick skin, being with you.” A pause, and then Rick said, “I’d give you that painting for him, if you think he’d like it. If you wouldn’t be too embarrassed explaining where you got it.”

Albert frowned at the painting again. “I  believe he would like it. And I’m not ashamed of knowing you.”

“Really?” Rick’s grin was broader than ever. “Then take it.”

But Albert shook his head. “It would be wisest for you to sell it through the diner, as you suggested. The theme is one that should prove commercial.”

After a moment, Rick nodded. “All right, I  understand. Thanks, Albert.”

“Goodbye, Ricardo,” Albert said. He turned away, and headed for the door, glad that Rick didn’t follow him.

“Goodbye, princess,” Rick murmured, his tone wistful.

Albert closed the door behind him, jogged down the stairs, and began walking away at a reasonable pace. Very glad that Rick didn’t follow him. He had never expected to feel temptation. He wondered if Miles or Rebecca ever had.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

NEW ORLEANS

SEPTEMBER 1985

John Garrett held himself very, very still, otherwise he might kill the young man lying on the sofa. His hands stirred restlessly. He could feel the boy’s skin under his palms, feel his fingers digging into the boy’s throat leaving a chain of bruises, feel the heart pounding blood through the jugular in panic; it was far more physical sensation than mere imagination. It took all he had to stop himself from actually doing it, so much strength to deny the hunger, but Garrett was sure murder would be a mistake right now and the control was the important thing, the one thing he couldn’t lose.

What the hell was the guy’s name? He frowned in difficult thought. Ridiculous, to let it slip his mind when Garrett saw the man every day.

All the guys at work were being ridiculous - trust it hadn’t rubbed off - behaving as blind and devoted as a fan club. There were rumors, of course, with this damned FBI agent tailing him and not bothering to hide the fact. Those of his employees who had fathers and uncles and cousins on the police force soon heard the story or a version of it. But they misguidedly decided on loyalty, rebelling against the very people who wanted to save them. Pathetic that Garrett had them so thoroughly fooled, that he’d achieved this blameless cover so easily. They didn’t mind that he was drinking or hungover most times, and he had a temper when hungover; didn’t even mind that he was working them twice as hard. Except for one of the guys, who’d heard enough of viciousness in the rumors, who’d resigned and gone home. The only sensible one of the lot, and all he achieved was encouraging solidarity in the others, stupid idiot.

Steve here was an even bigger idiot  - of course, the young man on the sofa was Steve. He’d let Garrett fuck him a couple of times, before the FBI showed up and changed everything, and now Steve assumed a familiarity, a defiant trust that Garrett found laughable, acting like he was Garrett’s boyfriend. Steve obviously didn’t realize he’d be dead right now if he hadn’t fallen asleep.

The football had been on, the start of the new season, and Garrett had somehow divided his attention between the boy and the play. He’d been rough and demanding, and Steve loved it - every now and then Garrett was distracted from the increasingly vehement clinches by touchdowns, and Steve laughed indulgently. Seemed like Garrett would be half way through killing the guy before Steve even realized the danger he was in. Fascinating idea, to see how long it would take Steve to feel afraid if Garrett didn’t make his intentions clear beforehand. When he would realize this time it was all the way, Garrett would take him to hell and leave him there, Garrett would call on the darkness and let it claim the boy.

Garrett gripped the arms of the chair, willing himself to stay still. Surely it wouldn’t be smart to kill Steve. Half out of his mind on dope now, anyway, what was the point right now when the kid would be numb to the pain? When Steve woke up, maybe then - but it wouldn’t be clever.

Hell, there were times when giving in to the impulse seemed to make as much sense as anything else. Amusing, to turn up at work tomorrow as if nothing had changed, and the others might take a couple of days before they began to worry about where Steve was, and maybe a few more of them would begin to suspect there was some truth to the rumors: their beloved boss got his kicks from killing young men.

Smarter, surely, to track down the one who’d resigned. Couldn’t remember his name but he was a good strong lad from the country, a homely face begging to be terrified out of the few wits he had. No one would miss the kid, he was already gone.

No, Garrett wanted to do it now. If Steve hadn’t fallen asleep, under the influence of the damned weed, maybe he’d have done it and to hell with the consequences. He would definitely have done the deed  … How foolish. Where had the control gone?

He’d once had this spaced-out image of the deaths spanning time with all the reverberation of beats of his heart - slow deep beats, two years between each, no one else could see the perfect pattern. There was something of beauty in it, these long and elegant arches, and no one but he would know where the next column would fall, who it would destroy.

Frowning, Garrett let his eyes rove. Couldn’t move the rest of him, didn’t know what he’d do next if he didn’t hold himself still. There was a can of beer in his hand and he remembered sharing a few already with Steve, no wonder the kid had fallen asleep on him, what with the beer and the dope. No wonder Garrett was getting poetic with this stupid weird image of the arches. It hardly applied now, with his heartbeat racing demanding.

And the football season had started, so why was he sitting here worrying over the inconsequential when he should be having fun?

Fun. The word hardly described the power and the beauty of dealing in death, the finesse of creating comprehensive terror, the joy of letting a boy’s pain loose to buffet the walls the city the unknowing world.

Steve wouldn’t fight him, though, wouldn’t struggle. If Garrett wanted to fuck a corpse, he wouldn’t have cared that Steve was lazy sleepy numb with the weed, he’d be doing it now. But, even fully conscious aware, Steve would let him take it so far - Steve wouldn’t protest until way too late, would think this was just another damned game. No good.

Not like Tony back in Oregon. Only a year ago and still so vivid, those furious cursing eyes of his, the uninhibited strength of him that couldn’t fight death. Glorious. Garrett adored them when they had the spunk to refuse surrender.

Only a year ago. What the hell was wrong with him, what the hell was going on in his head? It was a cardinal rule that the deaths were every two years, no more and no less. Yet here he was barely restraining himself from strangling Steve where he lay, from searching for that country boy who’d resigned, from finding his next victim and  …

The control was the important thing. He was nothing, this meant nothing, without the control.

Garrett sat in the chair, holding himself very, very still; sweating with the heat, with the effort not to move.

He stared at Steve, both confrontation and distraction. The boy lying stretched out on his back, one arm flung carelessly over his head. Sprawling abandoned. Long blond hair straggling across the cushion. A disorienting moment of, what did they call it, déjà vu, only something wasn’t right.

Light brown hair instead of blond, and both arms dangling back, broken. Concentrating on the image, the face resolved into that of the corpse Garrett had found in his cellar back in Oregon, and that was one mystery solved.

He’d killed a boy, without planning to, and then forgotten all about it, even when he’d discovered and disposed of the body. Just how crazy had he been?

Garrett fumbled for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, mind racing as fast as his heart. A  mistake, a self-indulgent greedy meaningless death, and he was having great trouble stopping himself from repeating it. This was madness, surely this was madness.

Perhaps he’d made other mistakes - even as he considered the notion Garrett felt it was true, feared it was true, knew it was true. Perhaps that was how Special Agent Fletcher Ash managed to find him. Maybe all Ash’s harassment, his contrary unsubtle hounding of Garrett, was Garrett’s own fault. Had to be.