The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (64 page)

It was getting harder and harder to pretend that life was proceeding as normal, to maintain any kind of composure with these people tailing him everywhere, waiting for the slightest slip. That was surely what they intended. Harassing, annoying, never letting him alone. It was an obvious method but effective. The question became who would tire first. Four against one in a war of attrition - well, Garrett had beaten longer odds.

All right, Garrett thought, another attempt to figure it out. Ash said he was investigating fifteen murders in four states. He’d named three of those states, which meant Ash knew about Wyoming as well, but not Washington State or Minnesota or Illinois. Fine. But Garrett couldn’t make the numbers add up to fifteen - four states, three boys in each, was only twelve.

So the kid he’d killed this time last year, dumped in the cellar and then forgotten about - he made thirteen. Sam, that was his name, he’d worked at the gas station. Garrett couldn’t think who this Stacey Dixon was that Ash mentioned; a girl, for God’s sake, that made no sense at all. From Ash’s point of view, that was fourteen. So who the hell was the fifteenth?

Mistakes, that was the only damned answer. A  vague recollection of terror, back when he first moved to New Orleans, suffering through the fear that he’d begun making mistakes, breaking his own rules, and not even realizing it at the time. Blank spots in his memory. He’d finally dismissed it as ridiculous back then, but it was his confidence that seemed ridiculous now.

That damned FBI agent had probably been onto him for years, and fool Garrett never even guessed. Ash was determined, had resolve enough to make up for a whole precinct even though he was on his own. And he had decided that this was the end for John Garrett.

Who the hell was Ash to decide such a thing?
- Garrett almost cried it out loud.

Cold calculation abruptly replaced the righteous fury. Yes, Fletcher Ash was acting on his own. His ragtag friends from Washington hardly counted for much. Garrett’s fool buddy Halligan was probably hindering Ash as much as helping him. But, even if no one in the FBI or the police force was taking Ash seriously, Garrett was too smart not to.

And what that all added up to was that Ash was alone, and Ash was therefore vulnerable.

Garrett smiled. He’d been more than clever over the years. Few men got away with what Garrett had. He was definitely clever enough to deal with Fletcher Ash. There were always options for a man as clever and as ruthless as John Garrett.

Maybe he’d feel better about this if he took it all the way with Steve. Maybe he should get away with murder yet again, satisfy the old hunger, feel the return of the control for all the hunger of the years to come. Prove to himself, and to Ash if he were paying enough attention, that John Garrett was going all the way to the Super Bowl. Maybe that was the best idea right now.

There was a knock at the front door.

Ridiculous how something so trivial could set his heart pounding again, just because it was unexpected. Garrett remained in the chair, hands clutching cramping, willing the stupid panic away. He dragged his gaze away from Steve, who hadn’t stirred. Had to deal with this, so it was all right if he moved now, it was safe. Garrett lit the cigarette he’d been holding, stood stiff after this tense hour, this muscle-taut evening, went to investigate.

Special Agent Fletcher Ash standing outside, arms folded, posture weary. He could hardly look less threatening if he tried, so it was probably an act. “Mr  Garrett,” the man said, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. “May I come in?”

Fumbling to regain the attitude necessary to deal with this man, Garrett snapped, “Why?” He thought to glance down at the street, but Garrett could see no sign of the man’s friends, and Ash’s car seemed empty.

“You’ve said a few times that you want to talk, Mr Garrett. So let’s talk.”

“It’s after ten, Special Agent.” He said it shortly, checking his watch, as if he’d been asleep.

Ash held his right hand up, palm out, to show it was empty. “I  didn’t bring my credentials. This isn’t official.”

“It’s after ten, Mr Ash.” Garrett sighed his impatience. His mind was clearing, the confidence beginning to return. It was only now, when he needed to make sense, that he realized how incoherent his thoughts had been. He grabbed for the shit-eating attitude, tried to make it his own again, and said, “It’s late for a social call.”

The man replied with a shrug. “You said you wanted to talk, I  thought this might be a good time, in your home, without the distractions of work. You suggested we could sort this out, Mr Garrett, so let’s try.”

None of that could be true, Ash couldn’t possibly want to deal with Garrett one on one, outside the law: the special agent, credentials or not, must have some other agenda. Frowning, Garrett asked, “Where’s your motley crew? Where’s that goon you always have tagging along beside you?”

“I gave them the night off, which they richly deserved. So it’s just you and me, Mr Garrett, like you wanted. Let’s sort this out.”

Of course it was too good an opportunity for Garrett to let pass, which only increased his mistrust of Ash. What in hell did the man expect to accomplish? But what did Garrett have to lose? If things didn’t go well, Garrett could always heap on the righteous indignation, and throw Ash out - meanwhile, Ash was not only alone and vulnerable, but alone and vulnerable in Garrett’s house. Garrett’s lair. The man was a bigger idiot than Steve.

After a long moment, Garrett nodded in agreement, stepped back to let Ash through, then closed the door behind him. How best to bypass the living room and the complication of Steve’s presence? “Do you want a beer?” Garrett asked, expecting a refusal but planning on getting one for himself.

But Ash said, “Yeah.”

They ended up in the kitchen, sitting opposite each other at the table, sipping at their cans of beer. Mind racing, Garrett forced half his attention to watch the man, trying to figure him out, and the other half to deciding how to approach this. He guessed he had to show Ash the same face he presented to the rest of the world. Consistency was important vital. Every other man in America was fooled by Garrett’s friendly I’m-just-one-of-the-boys routine. Hell, Garrett enjoyed it so much that he even fooled himself sometimes. It hadn’t appealed to Ash but it was worth one more try.

“You look exhausted,” Garrett observed at last, with a good pretence of sympathy. And it was true enough. There was nothing more than nervous energy in Ash.

“No worse than you,” Ash said, not denying this vulnerability. Must be an act, wanting to draw Garrett out. The FBI agent added, “It’s been a long four years.”

“What has been? This case?”

“I found the bodies in Colorado four and a half years ago and I’ve been on your trail ever since. Amongst dealing with other things. However, if you’re hoping I’ll collapse in an exhausted heap now, Mr Garrett, when I’ve finally found you, you’re in for a surprise or two.”

Garrett shook his head, as if he didn’t understand Ash’s meaning. Playing dumb innocent uncomprehending.

A silence. Ash prompted, “You wanted to talk.”

“Sure.” It had been a bluff, of course. Garrett almost grimaced, very inappropriate. What would the reasonable intelligent man say at this stage? “I  wanted to know why you’re doing this, Special Agent, why you’re accusing me.” Garrett took a moment to swallow some more beer, offered an apologetic shrug. “I  wanted to ask you to stop. You’re not good for business. I  already lost one of my staff, it’s a wonder I haven’t lost them all.”

“I’m doing this because you’re guilty, Mr Garrett, it’s that simple. Therefore I will not stop until I’ve brought you to justice.”

The man’s tone had been flat, but still with that edge of determination. Seemed like Ash would carry that edge until his dying day. If Garrett didn’t deal with the man one way or another, this would be the end, like Ash wanted.

A mild panic as Garrett feared he’d left too long a pause in the conversation, his sense of time failing him. He smiled a little, hoping to cover himself. “Tell me about your case,” Garrett suggested. “Tell me why you think I’m guilty.”

Ash sat back. He was watching Garrett carefully, but trying to appear casual. “There’s no point in discussing the evidence because it’s all circumstantial. Otherwise I’d have arrested you already, as you said. But I saw the truth in your eyes, Mr Garrett. You’re a serial killer.”

Garrett laughed in surprise at this bold bald statement. Was Ash trying sincerity, or was this a bluff as well? The laugh turned confident, as Garrett’s wits returned. “I’m not surprised no one else believes you, Ash,” he confided. “There isn’t a jury in the world who’d convict me because of something you thought you saw in my eyes.”

“But I will make sure you are convicted.”

Garrett gestured expansively, the most genuine and reasonable of men. “What can I say to convince you that I’m innocent?”

Ash was refusing to buy, though Garrett was hardly surprised at this stage. The FBI agent said, “There’s nothing you can say. But, if you’re serious about proving your innocence, there’s one thing you can do: come down to the police station and let me take your fingerprints. It’s a simple procedure; it would only take a few minutes.”

A long moment, while Garrett’s mind sped up again. Surely he’d been cleverer than that. “Why?” he asked at last. “You have the man’s fingerprints?”

“I have a partial print from a boy’s shoe. If your prints don’t match, I  don’t have any case at all.”

Garrett couldn’t believe this intense man would let the case go for something as mundane as a lack of evidence. But how to call that bluff? Garrett eventually said, “A  partial print? As in, just part of one fingerprint? You and your forensics goon could make anything match that.” He shook his head, and sat back, confidently matching Ash’s posture. “No. I  won’t do it. I’m not guilty but I don’t trust you that much.”

Ash said, “Then I will continue to work on this case until I get enough evidence to convict you.”

Humorless bastard
, Garrett thought. What did Ash hope to accomplish? That interview at the police station, Ash seemed like he was going through the motions. The harassment since had been dogged. Tonight, Ash was dispirited. So what had driven the man through four years of investigation? Garrett suspected feared he was missing something here.

Giving himself a moment, Garrett took a long swig of the beer. Specifics, had to deal with the detail. He’d left all his boys naked, so where did this shoe come from? It might be safe even wise to volunteer his fingerprints, if the shoe was from some unrelated case Ash had mistakenly attributed to Garrett. Unless Ash was lying and this was a trick. No doubt the FBI agent was more than capable of that kind of double-think, which was fine because Garrett was, too.

And then Garrett remembered Sam. That body in the cellar in Oregon, fully dressed, except his sneakers tossed loose beside him. Garrett had pushed them back on, unlaced. But obviously he hadn’t been careful enough.
No
, he concluded,
no deal
. This bastard had more than he thought.

Garrett returned his attention to the man sitting opposite him, and smiled again, despite the flicker of fear in his gut. He said, “Sounds like checkmate. You won’t believe I’m innocent, and you sure as hell won’t convince me I’m guilty. What happens next?”

“You tell me,” Ash said.

“I’ll tell you,” Garrett said. What the hell did Ash want out of this? “All I want is for you to get out of my life.” He was frustrated with this and he let it show. Ash had suggested they talk, and all he’d done was threaten Garrett with a fingerprint. A partial fingerprint. What else did he have? Garrett said, “I’m going to file a complaint, like Halligan suggests, and the damned courts will tell you to leave me alone.”

“But I won’t leave you alone. You’re a murderer, Mr Garrett.”

Maybe Ash was here to let Garrett know how serious he was.
All right.
That was a game two could play. Deliberately keeping his tone conversational, Garrett said, “If all this were true, I  could kill you now, Mr Ash. Why come here and put yourself at risk?”

Ash didn’t betray the slightest surprise. “I took the risk because bringing you to justice is my only priority. I’m not going to let you kill me.”

Garrett lit a cigarette, frowning as if he were considering a few things. “But the man you’re after has no limits. If you’ve cornered him, he’s desperate. How would you stop him?”

“I didn’t bring my credentials, but I did bring my gun.”

Shrugging as if all this were new to him, Garrett said, “Let me warn you, Special Agent: New Orleans is a crazy dangerous city. No one would think twice if you were found dead on a street corner, mugged and beaten.” Who cared about reasonable? At this point, Garrett just wanted to convince. “No one would pay any notice if your body was hauled up out of Lake Pontchartrain in a fishing net early one morning.”