The Ferryman Institute (23 page)

“Wow,” she said. “That's, uh, a few years ago. You don't sound very eighteenth-century-ish.”

He laughed at that, the green mile markers ticking by on the side of the road. “Just because I was born then doesn't mean I've warped through time to get here. My speech has evolved along with everyone else's.”

“Makes sense. I think. Where were you born?”

The steady rhythm of disappearing and reappearing streetlights bathed the interior of the car. The engine of the car hummed quietly as cruise control kept the speedometer just under seventy. “You've got a lot of questions all of a sudden,” he mused.

Alice gave a laugh at that. Charlie noted that it was still of the cynical variety. “One, apparently you know
all
about me, including what underwear I'm wearing right now, so we don't really need to talk about me—”

“Let's not exaggerate too much,” Charlie interjected. “I know a few bits and pieces, and the underwear thing was a joke.”

“—and two,
I'm
not the mysterious guy with the bulletproof noggin who swears on his grandmother's grave that he's abducting me to quote-unquote ‘save me' from a mysterious organization seeking to do terrible, terrible things to me on account of me
not
blowing my brains out. This all seems a few yards to the left of patently outrageous, so if it weren't for the fact that it
really
looked like I shot you before, I don't think I'd believe you. However, since that did happen, and loath as I am to admit it, I'm also a little
scared, so the less we're sitting here in silence, the better. That work for you, Superman?”

Evidently it was his turn to be surprised by her honesty.

“Boston,” he said, repaying that belief in kind. “I was born in Boston, but left for London on my seventeenth birthday. Hopped aboard a whaler out of Howland Dock almost as soon as I set foot in England, stayed there for twelve years, then went on my last expedition in 1762.”

“Really? You were a sailor?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so surprising?”

“I don't know . . . maybe? You don't look manly enough to be a sailor.” Charlie scowled, but she continued unabated. “So you were a sailor. Why'd you stop? Get tired of it?”

Suddenly, he was beginning to get the feeling that Alice was having a little too much fun with this. Not that he minded, necessarily—it was better than her fighting him every step of the way—but he did find it slightly disconcerting that she abruptly seemed such a willing participant in their newfound adventure. Then again, her actions hadn't followed any predictable pattern up to that point, so maybe this was the new normal.

“No,” Charlie said, leaning back into his seat, “because that's when I became a Ferryman.”

“Ohhh, how mysterious. And how did you ‘become' a Ferryman, exactly?”

Charlie felt his lips tug into an uncomfortable line as he fought off a knee-jerk reaction to grimace. “Long story,” he replied.

Alice tapped the plastic clock in the middle of the console. “I'm assuming you're going to take the Lincoln Tunnel, whether you know it or not, and we've got about thirty minutes until we get there. How about you try me? I'm a good listener, too.”

There was a tone of hopefulness in her voice that Charlie found surprising. Be that as it may, it didn't seem right to be sharing so much about himself—that just wasn't how things worked. It was his job to know about his subjects. Having the roles reversed just didn't feel right.

“I'm not a big fan of bringing up the past,” Charlie said.

“And I'm not a big fan of being kidnapped by immortal strangers, but beggars can't be choosers, I guess. I think I'm owed this story.”

“You really want to know, huh?”

“No, me and all my other Ferryman friends were just talking about it the other day. Of course I want to know. Come on, keep your hostage happy, Charlie.”

Charlie.
It was, he realized, the first time she'd used his name. Whether that was a good thing or not, he had no idea. It also occurred to Charlie that only one other person knew that particular story—the same person who was presently and inconveniently not answering his phone.

With a final, drawn-out sigh that signaled his admission of defeat, Charlie began. “It happened on what was supposed to be my last whaling expedition . . .”

W
e've lost the mizzenmast!”

The explosive cracking of the timber was all but lost in the roar of the tempest, the rain splattering across the deck in a near-impenetrable curtain. Massive waves barraged the deck, rolling over the ship with such force that they'd already claimed the lives of two sailors who couldn't find purchase anywhere before being carried off into the sea. The wind swirled and danced like a vengeful Roma, blasting into the sails of the foremast and mainmast until they snapped at their riggings, the cloth pulling taut with explosive snaps that rang out like musket fire.

The crew was working in nearly impossible conditions to bring the sails in, having already lost the third sail. The mizzenmast had snapped about halfway up its length, sending it careening down into the black void of the ocean.

The
Canterbury
had been caught off guard by the sudden turn in the winter weather. Though the clouds had been ominously gathering in the distance, the captain, Barnabas Shipley, had decided to press onward, convinced they could outpace it in the middle of the Atlantic. During the night, however, the storm had arrived, an assassin in the dark.

The foremast rigging had been secured, and the mainmast was just about there. The first mate, Crowley, threw his voice into the raging gusts. “Come on, Dawson, ye whoreson dog! Get that knot tied!”

Charles's legs had gone numb minutes ago—he was using all the strength he could muster to keep his body wrapped around the spar. His fingers, also moving without feeling, fumbled with the ends of the rope. Even with his eyes well adjusted to the darkness, the lashing rain made seeing a difficult prospect. He just needed to tighten the last knot, and the sail would be secure.

As his fingers moved with automatic precision, his thoughts drifted back to London, back to home. He could hear Crowley bellowing below, but another gust of wind carried the words far across the ocean waves. Charles liked the first mate; tough, crass, and fiercely loyal, the man had more than proved his worth aboard the vessel. Captain Shipley, on the other hand . . .

“Dawson!” boomed Crowley's voice.

With a final, fierce tug, Charles finished the knot. “It's done!” he cried. A rogue wave—nearly impossible to spot in the gloom of night—slammed into the side and set the ship shuddering. Charles nearly lost his grip as the ship rolled slightly to starboard, but he held on. He waited for the whaler to right itself before clambering down into the netting. The ropes were slick with freezing spray, and Charles struggled to get any solid hold as he descended. Carefully but gracefully, he worked his way down until the deck floorboards were underneath him once more.

“There's a good lad!” roared Crowley. His voice went silent as another gaping wave rolled across the face of the ship, knocking men off their feet and sending others scrambling. When the water had slid off the sides of the deck, it was Crowley's laughter that broke through the fury around them. “Well now, who fancies a
voyage with Davy Jones tonight, eh?! Which one of you devilish lot brought this cursed storm upon us?! Come now, I'll have no liars!”

The ship's carpenter, Stevens, yelled over the bedlam: “You should check with your own son-in-law first—perhaps he hasn't been treating your precious flower as delicately as you would!”

Charles, exhausted from the battering he'd taken having been exposed to the full brunt of the storm, still managed a wry grin. “You're an evil man, Mr. Stevens, casting me into the fire like that! Isn't having our esteemed first mate as a father-in-law punishment enough?!” Gallows humor at its finest, he noted miserably, but both Crowley and Stevens found the gem of laughter in it as well.

Elizabeth had appeared in Charles's life five years ago, when he'd made port at Howland Dock after another successful expedition. When he first laid eyes on her, she was standing nervously by herself, waiting patiently in a dress too fine to blend in with the chaotic rabble of merchant vessels. He watched her closely from aboard the
Manitoba
, his heart slowly being reeled in by her gentle beauty. Finally, as he departed the ship, Charles worked up the courage to approach her.

“Excuse me, miss? Are you lost? I couldn't help but notice that you look a bit out of place here,” he'd said, with the best manners he could manage after several months at sea. The compliment was implied.

She smiled at him warmly—a smile that immediately crystalized in Charles's memory, bound to be remembered for centuries to come—and said, “I couldn't help but notice the same of you. You look a bit sissy to be a sailor.”

It was not the way Charles planned on starting a bright and wonderful romance, but so it was.

After a dutiful combination of persistence and dry sarcasm, he
managed to convince her to meet several days later. When he'd arrived at her house, he quickly figured out why she'd been waiting at the dock earlier that week. Standing outside, dressed exponentially more elegantly than he'd ever been on the ship, was Oliver Crowley, the first mate of the
Manitoba
.

Despite every misgiving Charles had upon laying eyes on Crowley's hulking form that day, he learned quickly that Elizabeth was as witty as her father was boorish—a trait Charles found wildly endearing. The courtship proceeded smoothly, and a year and a half later, the two were wed. Charles took up work as an apprentice cartographer, pursuing his fascination with maps, and the two lived happily for several years. They'd been unable to conceive a child, but it was something they were working at, God bless them.

Except it was never to be.

One day, Charles's father-in-law came around looking for a competent ship hand to complete the ranks of a new vessel, the
Canterbury
, which was preparing to set sail for the Atlantic. Elizabeth pleaded with her husband not to go, repeatedly stating she had a bad feeling about the business. Her father could shove off, for all she cared. However, Charles knew something she didn't. Around the shop, he'd gotten wind that Mr. Crowley had placed a rather sizable investment in a ship—the
Lady Lucifer
—that had disappeared somewhere off the Cape of Good Hope. Though Crowley would never openly admit it, the man was desperate for work. If he couldn't fill the crew of the
Canterbury
, there'd be no expedition, as it was late in the season to be whaling already. Charles couldn't turn him down.

Now, however, with the fierce gale cutting the ship into pieces, he desperately wished he'd listened to his wife.

“If I didn't need the pair of you scullies to see to it that this ship doesn't carry us all straight to hell, I'd throw you o'erboard
myself!” barked Crowley. “Now get below deck, both of you—no reason to make any more widows tonight!”

With narrowed eyes, Charles surveyed the deck. “Where's Shipley?!” he yelled over the wind.

Crowley said nothing initially, instead looking at Stevens. “Our gallant captain,” he finally said, “has decided his expertise is best served from his cabin. I have been left in complete command until the end of this ‘mild weather.' ”

Stevens spit on the deck. “If this is mild weather, then I'm the bloody Prince of Wales. A pox to the bastard!”

“We'll see it through, God willing. Keep your wits about you and your sinful thoughts far from your heart.”

“Aye,” Charles said. Crowley lifted the door for the two to go down. “Wise men first!” Charles yelled to Stevens, even though he was standing mere feet away from him.

“A true gentleman you are, Dawson. Wish I could say the same about your father-in-law!” the old carpenter called back as he ducked below the ship's deck. Charles laughed and looked over to see Crowley's reaction.

Instead of the first mate's squat face, he was greeted with a wall of black water.

The wave pounded Charles into the wooden floorboards as his body was swept across the deck. For an eternal few seconds, he tumbled underwater until he slammed into the ornate railing. His back cried in pain as the hard wood abruptly stopped him. His hands flailed in the darkness, grasping for anything to hold on to, but his already depleted fingers slid over everything they managed to touch.

Suddenly, he was weightless.

A firm tug on his arm nearly tore it out of his socket, but it arrested his fall. Finally given a second to catch his bearings, Charles
realized he'd been flung over the rail on the complete opposite side of the ship. It was only a tremendous grip that was keeping the ship hand from plunging into the frigid water below.