The Ferryman Institute (28 page)

Even with her protests, his objectives hadn't changed. Charlie was going to make sure she was protected from the Institute, like it or not. Maybe that made him naive, an anachronistic holdover from a bygone era. Hell, maybe it made him just plain stupid. Didn't matter. Charlie was going to see the girl safely on. If the moment she was released she wanted to step in front of a bus, well, that was on her.

“We're clear. Very clear,” came Charlie's reply.

Alice hesitated. “Good,” she eventually said. She made to say something else, but apparently thought better of it. The settled hum of the Jeep rolled on.

Music suddenly filled the car, the staccato pluck of violins punctuating every beat. Then the lyrics came, the beginnings of a story woven through them, framed by the acute loneliness of the melody.

The sound was so unexpected that, had it not been for his seat belt, Charlie would have had a good chance at putting his head through the soft-top roof. His eyes immediately began scanning the mirrors again for signs of trouble.

Alice, however, was already furiously searching the car for something. “It's my phone, my phone! Where the hell is it?”

That made a bit more sense. Charlie looked down at his lap—its previous location—but the cell was gone. Not surprising, given the stunts they'd just pulled. “It was on my lap, but I don't see it anymore.” Then it dawned on him. “That might be Cartwright!”

“More likely my dad.” She was searching the floor by her feet. “Check by your feet, would you? It should be lit up.”

“I'm doing eighty on a highway meant for fifty. For your sake, no.”

Alice's phone rang on, the ringtone still playing, the namesake woman in it waiting, waiting, but for whom, the song wondered.

Charlie shook his head. “You have a very depressing ringtone,” he said, trying to keep one eye on the road and the other searching the interior of the car. Without warning, Alice was climbing over the shifter, sticking her head in between Charlie's legs. “What are—”

“Don't crash right now and kill me, please and thank you,” was all she said as she scurried onto the driver-side floor.

Her body pressed against his as she slid farther underneath the seat, the sense of urgency clearly overriding any of Alice's demure sensibilities. First her stomach, then her hip, finally her thigh all snaked along his right leg while she spelunked deeper into the cave of underdriverseatopia. Though he'd eased off the speed, Charlie still had the car doing sixty—more than enough to kill her should they get in an accident. Charlie was desperately trying to keep his eyes on the road, but Alice's butt was waving around in front of him, like that of a regal house cat in heat. He opened his mouth.

“So much as a word right now and I will rip your tongue out,” she said. Apparently, Alice had assumed the worst of Charlie. He was about to tell her how offended he was by that when she preempted him again. “I see it!”

There was a subtle key shift as the chorus arrived, another minor chord, the very barest hint of urgency wrapped around the lyrics as they asked a different question now.

“Got it! Stupid thing was facedown.” With a triumphant grin
she clambered out from underneath him with an impressive amount of dexterity and dropped back into her own seat. She stared at the phone while fumbling with her seat belt. “Blocked number?”

Of course it would be—if Cartwright was calling, that made perfect sense. “Answer it, before he hangs up.”

The last bars before the chorus, the same question about to be asked, the string quartet building—

He could make out her eyes on him in his peripheral vision, no doubt wanting to ask a question. Instead, she slid her finger across the phone's touchscreen and placed it against her ear. “Hello?” She listened. Her eyes widened slightly before relaxing. “Yes, this is Alice Spiegel. I'm sorry, who is this? Uh-huh. And how did you get this number?” Charlie motioned for her to put it on speaker, but she was staring at the floor. She was listening again. “No, I'm afraid I don't want to do that. Listen . . . yes, listen, I don't want to. I don't care. I'm sorry. Good night.” Alice lowered the phone.

Charlie blinked. He couldn't believe it. She'd just hung up on Cartwright. Who else could it have been? It wasn't conceivable that Cartwright wouldn't call back.

It had to have been Cartwright.

Right?

His anger bubbled just below the surface as his brain forced him to entertain the possibility that Alice—egocentrically suicidal Alice—had just deliberately sabotaged his attempt to save her. He liked to think that would be out of character for her, but in reality, how well did he really know her?

“Please tell me you didn't just hang up on Cartwright.” He was careful to maintain a relaxed tone, but his knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.

Alice looked over at him, evidently confused. “Cartwright?” Then, realization hit. “Right . . . Cartwright.” She hesitated. “That depends. Does Cartwright call himself Stephanie, give away free, all-expenses-paid cruises, and sound like he's mainlining nitrous oxide? If yes, then you have my sincerest apologies.”

Before he even realized what he was doing, Charlie ripped his eyes from the road and glared at her.
God help you if you are fucking with me right now
, they said, very clearly. The thought raced through his head in all its malevolent splendor, his sense of humor razed in the wake of the phone call's implications. Though his thought went unspoken, Alice heard every word through his eyes. She shrank back slightly into her seat.

“I swear to God I'm not lying,” she said. “I'm sorry, Charlie.”

Charlie held the edge of fury for a moment longer before it deflated like a busted blow-up doll. A neutral observer would probably have pointed out that Cartwright could call any second now, but Charlie, removed from such an enviable position, knew the truth. How, he didn't know, but he was so completely sure of it that it frightened him.

There was no phone call coming. Though a small part of Charlie certainly had wondered about Javrouche's accusations, he mostly had held on to the belief that it was all a misunderstanding, that Javrouche was somehow terribly mistaken. That conviction now disappeared. It was a mirage, just the shimmer of heat playing on the sand while Charlie struggled through the desert.

The truth, it seemed, was that Cartwright had abandoned him.

Charlie was on his own.

D
awson! Mr. Dawson!”

It was initially the sound of the high-pitched voice, thick with a Manhattan accent and a slick cadence, rather than its words that caught Claude Toulouse's attention. A young man—a boy, really, probably no older than seventeen or eighteen when he'd been recruited into the Institute's ranks, by the look of him—was scrambling through the mob of people bustling around the control room floor.

“Mr. Dawson, can I get a quick word with you? It's an emergency!”

It was only after that particular outburst that Claude noticed the other man, the one the youngster was trying to stop. He recognized the Ferryman immediately.

Charles Ronald Dawson. In the flesh.

Despite his sixteen years of service as a Ferryman, Claude had never actually run into the Institute's most legendary employee, let alone met him. Even with their nonacquaintance, to say that he admired the man was to understate it somewhat severely. He'd gone through and studied almost all of Dawson's cases—the Benderman Affair in 1793, his pioneering work with young children
during the mid-1800s, and even his recent work handling celebrity cases. Dawson was a revolutionary, and Claude wanted to emulate that as closely as he could.

From his very first days in its employ, Claude had immersed himself in the world of the Ferryman Institute with a gusto that bordered on fanatic. He worked at his trade with zealous dedication, seeking the pinnacle of the craft clearly marked by where Charles Dawson stood. Though most saw his ethic as excessive, if not slightly frightening, it was perhaps understandable when viewed as the long-sought dream it represented for him, now finally come true: it was in almost every sense a new beginning. The place had come to be his paradise, his Avalon. The Institute had unveiled itself as a fresh start for Claude, and with that came the chance to finally mold himself into a person whom people admired and respected.

What better person, then, to choose for the template of his new life than the universally revered Charles Dawson.

Even if Claude hadn't met him personally, the Ferryman record Dawson had amassed was nothing short of extraordinary. It was impressive even to the average employee, but to someone well versed in the difficulties of Ferryman service, as Claude fancied himself, it was positively staggering. But while he'd heard much about Charles Dawson's exploits—he'd been the Institute's crème de la crème for over 175 years, so what employee hadn't, really—the man himself was notoriously reclusive. Yet here he was, heading directly toward Claude at a brisk pace.

The facial expression the Ferryman currently wore seemed slightly bemused, but it was clear the look was an overlay hiding his true feelings underneath.

“I'm sorry, but I just finished for the day,” Dawson said as he continued walking on, his pace picking up just enough to be noticeable.
A few people turned to look at him as he brushed by but most ignored or, more likely, didn't recognize him.

The young man chasing him, however, wasn't so easily turned away. “I understand, but like I said, it's an emergency. Please! I need your help.”

Just as Charles Dawson made to walk past Claude, who was standing idly by his own desk, being done for the day as well, he stopped and turned to face the young man. For an instant, Claude swore he saw a look of utter dismay cross the Ferryman's face, but perhaps not.

“Listen, sport,” Dawson started, beckoning the other man closer, though he still spoke loud enough for Claude to overhear. The tone was conciliatory, but urgent. “I can't, all right? I just came off my tenth emergency shift tonight as it is. I'm sorry, but you'll have to find someone else.” As the words left his mouth, he started marching away.

“But you said you were off duty!” the man called after him, his accent cutting in with the same inflections as a low-grade gangster. “The law says you're supposed to gimme a hand!”

Dawson stopped midstep, and then slowly, deliberately, turned back around, his head cocked slightly to one side. The look in his eyes was one of dejection, as if he couldn't bear to hear those words but couldn't stomach carrying them out, either. He shook his head sadly and turned away. In that moment, Charlie Dawson seemed so very tired to Claude, so very . . . human.

“Come on, Dawson! Help me out!” yelled the young man.

But the mob was starting to close around the elusive Mr. Dawson, who merely wandered on without turning back.

Claude couldn't believe what he'd just seen. Despite the laws strongly holding that any Ferryman should assist if available, the mythic Charles Dawson had just turned down such a request and
walked away. The stories that passed from employee to employee all said he worked tirelessly, never turning down anyone. But then again . . . hadn't he heard whispers of this new attitude several months ago? At the time, Claude had dismissed it as rubbish, but now . . .

The young man, who up until then hadn't even noticed Claude, looked him up and down. “The hell you looking at, buddy?”

Claude shrugged. “The man who was going to save your case walking away, apparently,” he replied.

Much to Claude's surprise, the young man's face brightened at that. “Quick tongue. I like that. You a Ferryman, chief?”

“Yes. Claude Toulouse”—and he held out his hand. As the man took it, Claude sensed an opportunity that hadn't existed before. If it was true that Dawson was beginning to shirk his duties, then what if
he
became the Ferryman who took on the emergency work? It would take some effort, but surely he'd make a name for himself, and quickly at that. “Sixteen years of service, twelve stars of commendation. I also happen to be off duty now, so should you be requiring—”

Before he could even finish, the other man had already grabbed his wrist and started dragging Claude in the direction he'd come.

“Sure, whatever, pal. Clock's ticking, so you'll have to do. Toulouse, was it? Nice ring to it. Good to have you on board, Frenchie. Keep your ears open because I'm gonna walk and talk”—
wawk
and
tawk
—“and you're gonna listen real good, understand?”

With a sharp tug, Claude extracted himself from the man's grip and adjusted his coat before falling back in stride. “I believe I can handle that, Mssr. . . . ?”

“Vanderducken. E. B. Vanderducken. Rhymes with Bandershmucken.
Now, I know what you're thinking, and don't think it, champ. I know I look a bit short in the tooth such as I am, but I've got more than twenty years under my belt here—that's better than most of the nincompoops pissing around this joint, and that includes you.” Vanderducken barely looked over his shoulder as he threaded his way through the waxing and waning crowds. “Here's my problem. I've got a new kid under my wing with a lot of talent who gave me the royal treatment for a higher-ranked case. I figured I'd throw the pup a bone, but it seems like he's got a bit more bark than bite and now he's bitten off more than he can chew. No nuances to this one, Joe—I'll give you the lowdown, you go in, rescue our adorable young twit, push the ghost to the other side of town, and then you two make tracks back here. Follow?”