The Definitive Albert J. Sterne (71 page)

If Ash didn’t return.

There had to be a time when Albert could stop waiting. At some logical moment, he would forget this uselessly melodramatic gesture of Ash’s and stop waiting, get on with his work.

The fury, however, was another matter. Albert didn’t think he’d ever leave the fury behind. He had lived with anger and bitterness, but this pure white nauseous fury was something else. Felt like it would blaze out of him, blaze out of his chest and face in all-consuming devastation. That was as melodramatic an image as Ash had ever managed.

Damn Ash and all he brought Albert to.

Albert had barely returned to his hotel room early that morning after meeting Ricardo, when he received Halligan’s call. A uniformed officer had driven him to Garrett’s house, where he’d found Ash sitting next to the man he’d just killed. Ash’s mental and emotional condition appeared worse than Albert had ever witnessed before, and Albert had seen Ash in many difficult situations. There had been a sense that the composed, reasonable facade would break apart as soon as it was no longer required.

So where had Ash gone, in order to be as raw and vulnerable and utterly miserable as he’d ever been? What was he doing? It didn’t seem likely that he was seeking comfort: he hadn’t wanted Albert’s company, or that of McIntyre or Mortimer, and surely Ash hadn’t had the chance to make any new friends here in New Orleans. For a moment, Albert pondered calling either Peter Ash or Caroline Thornton to ascertain whether they’d heard from Ash, but it didn’t seem a wise or even a feasible idea.

Someone at the door was attempting to fit a key into the lock. Either a confused neighbor, or  - Albert reached the door in three strides, opened it to find Fletcher Ash in the corridor, looking distinctly bedraggled.

“Ah,” the younger man said, his whole manner drab and disheveled. “Albert.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Amazing that he could say it so coldly, so calmly, when this fury in him was reaching awesome new heights.

Ash wandered in, apparently too dazed to respond. He was frowning, as if being kept from a goal by something he couldn’t quite understand.

Closing the door firmly behind him, Albert asked, “What have you been doing?”

The frown was turned on Albert, who revised his first impressions. Ash wasn’t so much dazed as very narrowly focused, and unaware of much else, although it wasn’t clear what the man might be focused on. At least Ash was alive. There was the same sense of hurting rawness Albert had sensed that morning but Ash had a protective layer or two firmly in place now.

Because Ash seemed to be waiting for something, Albert repeated, “Where have you been?”

“I needed to get clean.”

“Clean?” Ash’s hair was damp and tangled, and his clothes were in much the same state; there were also traces of sand, especially around his trouser legs and shoes. “You’ve been in the sea,” Albert concluded.

“Yes, I  - I’ll have a shower.” And Ash was heading for the bathroom, already unbuttoning his shirt.

“No,” Albert said. When the man didn’t even falter, Albert caught up with him and grabbed Ash’s arm. “Not yet. We’re moving to a different hotel.”

The physical restraint was the only thing making an impression. Ash’s focus appeared to be on getting clean, in a shower this time, and Albert was in the way.

“I’ve already packed your clothes and other possessions, Ash. We can be there in ten minutes and you can have your shower then.”

When Ash didn’t even nod, Albert simply turned the man around and began walking him toward the door. He kept a hand at Ash’s elbow, as if Ash were blind, until they were in the hotel’s underground garage. Luckily, there was no one in the corridors and only one person in the elevator, so this proximity drew little attention.

“Where’s the car?” Albert asked, though he spotted it before Ash roused himself to reply.

The drive into the French Quarter was completed in silence with Ash sitting docile in the passenger seat, staring unseeing through the windshield. Albert located the small hotel he’d already checked them into, parked the car on the premises, walked Ash past reception with a nod to the owner, then up to the room he’d booked on the second floor.

Once safely inside, Ash glanced at Albert. “Yes, have a shower,” Albert said. Barely pausing, even for this permission, the man absently shed his clothes as he headed for the bathroom. Albert cast a critical eye over the scattering of sand, glad it wasn’t his own carpet. And then, hearing the water running, Albert walked over to the phone, and dialed the Bureau offices. After some minutes, he was put through to McIntyre. “This is Albert Sterne.”

“Any news?” was the immediate question.

“Yes, Ash has returned.”

“Thank God for that,” McIntyre said fervently. “Is he all right? Where was he?”

“He hasn’t yet told me where he was. I believe he will be all right.” Albert continued before McIntyre could ask anything more: “Would you inform Halligan and Dr Mortimer that he has returned. I’ll give you the phone number of the hotel where we are staying in case you need to contact him, but he’d appreciate it if you didn’t disturb him at least until tomorrow.”

“Of course, I understand.” McIntyre took the number down, then as Albert was preparing to end the conversation, said, “Hang on, can I speak to him now? Is Fletch there with you?”

“He is taking a shower.”

McIntyre made a noise that was apparently supposed to convey sympathy. “Did you hear the autopsy supported Fletch’s story? Celia’s down there again seeing to the last of the tests and finishing her report.”

“Dr Mortimer phoned to inform me of the results as soon as the procedure was complete. And, McIntyre, if you call yourself Ash’s friend then it isn’t appropriate for you to characterize his statements of fact as a story.”

“It’s not going to be an issue, though, is it?”

“Perhaps not.” A moment of silence. “I  will tell Ash you were concerned about him. I  am sure he appreciates Dr Mortimer’s work.”

“Good. He’s really all right?”

Albert left a pause, impatient with this meaningless conversation. “I  said that I believe he will be.”

“Make sure he knows Celia and I are thinking about him.”

“Yes,” Albert said. “Either Ash or I will talk to you tomorrow.” And he put the phone down, then sat in the nearest chair to wait for Ash.

Some while later, Albert frowned, and again consulted his watch. Ash had been in the shower for almost twenty minutes, which seemed excessive. Deciding to investigate, Albert walked over to the bathroom and knocked on the door. No response, but for the fact that the water was still running. It sounded as if Ash had the taps on full.

A moment of something as potent and as physical as the fury, though it was merely apprehension. Could Ash be in a self-destructive mood? Albert opened the door, and was relieved to see Ash obviously alive and in one piece. Through the steam, it appeared that the man was washing himself, reaching behind his back, then working across his chest.

He would have closed the door and left Ash to it, but Albert’s attention was caught. There was a noise, almost as if Ash were whimpering. Albert had heard that once before, back in Washington when Ash was in the throes of yet another bad dream.

And, apart from this pathetic noise barely audible over the tumult of water, Ash’s movements appeared random and compulsive, almost violent. There was no logic to this act of cleaning, if that’s what it was. Ash could have thoroughly soaped and rinsed himself within a few minutes. As Albert watched, the man leaned down to scrub at a thigh, then his calf, the sole of his foot. Ash straightened to again work at his shoulders, apparently trying in vain to get at the middle of his back, when Albert knew very well the man was usually flexible enough to have no trouble reaching the skin between his shoulder-blades. The man was using the loofah that the hotel supplied, which wasn’t in itself a matter to draw Albert’s attention - until Ash used it to scrub at his face, rubbing two-handed, the muscles in his arms taut, then even ran it back over his head, as if trying to clean his scalp through his hair.

This behavior was surely crazed. Albert stepped forward, said, “Ash. What do you think you’re doing?”

No reply, not even a reaction, as if Ash had no idea he wasn’t alone.

Albert walked up to the glass door of the shower, spoke louder: “Ash! Stop this.” Unthinking, he blurted out, “What the hell is the matter with you?”

Still no response.

There seemed no other option. Albert began stripping off his clothes, hanging his jacket and trousers on the hook on the back of the door, quickly folding the rest and piling it on a nearby shelf. Then he stepped into the shower.

He faltered for a moment under the torrent of hot water. Ash, left with little space in which to move, began scrubbing at his stomach. “Stop it,” Albert repeated. He managed to prise the loofah out of Ash’s claw-like fingers, then took the man into his arms, endeavoring to contain him. The mewling noise continued. Even now Ash wasn’t responding to Albert’s presence. “Fletcher,” Albert murmured. “Fletcher, listen to me. It’s over now, it’s all over. Stop this.”

Ash’s movements became struggles, then slowed, though he remained unyielding within Albert’s embrace. For a couple of minutes, Albert simply held him, stroking the thick tangles of dark hair. Gradually, Ash’s head tilted to rest against Albert’s. Freeing one arm, Albert reached behind him to turn off the water, sparing a moment to wonder what heating system the hotel used as it was obviously efficient. Then he led Ash out of the shower.

It was immediately apparent that Ash’s skin had suffered: it was bright red not only from the heat of the water, but raw from the scrubbing. Albert alternated between briskly drying himself and patting the towel over Ash, careful not to exacerbate a condition that would surely cause Ash a great deal of discomfort.

Collecting the hand cream from his bathroom gear, Albert led Ash out into the main room and sat him on the side of the bed. Soothing the cream into Ash’s abused skin, beginning with each arm, Albert tried to find something to talk about, tried to establish some kind of communication between them. Risking total inanity, he said, “Water is an abrasive substance, Ash, and is often used as such industrially. Perhaps you are aware of that, given your actions during this current mania for cleanliness. I  own this cream because of my work. I  am constantly required to wash my hands, which guards against me inadvertently contaminating evidence, and also helps protect me from catching or transmitting infections. I  use this cream to prevent the skin of my hands from drying out, which would not only be painful but would eventually result in a lessening of function.”

He had worked from the arms down Ash’s torso and now began on the man’s legs. What else could he talk about? He had no interest and no talent in making conversation, particularly when it was this one-sided. “I  moved us to this hotel because I assumed you would appreciate some privacy during this time, and more comfort than the Bureau’s designated hotel provided. We will probably need to stay here in New Orleans for a week or more until the current situation is satisfactorily resolved. This place has benefits, as you have already discovered: the bathroom is fully equipped with every convenience; in fact, every luxury. What you may not have noticed is that there is an alcove that contains a basic kitchen. I  will be able to cook simple meals for us as necessary. I  believe you may enjoy exploring the environs, as well. No doubt you will find the French Quarter both attractive and interesting.”

This last was said as Albert worked on Ash’s feet, propping each in his lap in turn. When he was done, he lifted his head, only to find Ash looking back at him, aware and focused on Albert. Despite that awareness, however, the man’s expression was almost blank, enlivened by nothing more than the faintest hint of bemusement. A long moment passed, Albert searching for something more to say. His impulse was to murmur, ‘Hello, Fletcher,’ which was plainly ridiculous and would also draw attention to the fact that Ash had not been mentally present for some while. Instead Albert said, “If you lie down, I  will take care of your back.”

The suggestion was acted on. Ash slowly turned and slid down onto the bedcovers, lying on his front with his arms folded under his head. Albert worked in silence now, his touch remaining appropriately business-like even as he smoothed cream into Ash’s reddened buttocks. As he finished, and capped the tube, he was rewarded with a quiet, “Thank you.”

A response was surely required. “You’re welcome.” Unsure about what to do next, Albert returned the hand cream to the bathroom and brought his clothes back out, intending to put them away. And then, of course, there were Ash’s damp and sandy clothes to deal with.

But Ash was leaning up on his elbows, watching Albert closely. After a moment, he said, “Come and hold me.”

Albert put his clothes down on the nearest available surface, and walked around to the other side of the bed. Drawing the covers and quilt down, he encouraged Ash to join him lying on the sheets alone, which would surely be more comfortable for Ash’s skin. Settling back into their usual embrace, Ash seemed almost eager for this contact. They lay quietly for a while, undisturbed by the hum of the air conditioner and the muted traffic noise. Albert eventually said, “You should sleep, if you can.”