The Ferryman Institute (29 page)

Claude wasn't sure he understood half of what Vanderducken was saying, but he thought he'd connected enough to get the gist. “Get your Ferryman out and secure the spirit's passing to the afterlife. Have I got that right?”

Vanderducken shot a sharp glance behind him. “Of course, that's what I just said. Keep up with me, would ya?” he said, snapping his fingers in a quick rhythm as he continued to zig and zag away.

“Anyway, here's the good news. The kid might be wet behind the ears, but the navigator I've got is aces. I swear, that gal could reassemble
War and Peace
from the opening line and a fragment of the title page. She's put together quite the note package for the assignment, so listen up and I'll give you the dress rehearsal.” Vanderducken reached into his vest and produced two haphazardly creased sheets of neatly typed paper. After giving them a rough smooth over, his feet still whisking him around groups as they plowed on, he began to read.

“
Subject's death: beaten by a small group of ‘La Resistance' outside
a bar in Paris and strung up as an example. Group discovered that he'd sold information to the German SS about several Jewish families in hiding. Also revealed key Resistance figures and hideout locations.
” Vanderducken lowered the paper for a moment. “What I'd tell ya? Doll's good, no doubt about it. Anyway, based on what the kid said when he radioed in for help, subject's gone wacky thanks to the way he kissed off. Serious regrets, by the sound of it. Snitching on your pallies for some greenbacks will do that you.”

News in the Institute often arrived by way of Ferrymen, similar to how Claude imagined it used to travel from sailor to sailor before telegraphs. Often it came in bits and pieces, little snippets of observation by the men and women on the ground, as well as tidbits from the subjects of assignments themselves. The Second World War, however, arrived with all the details of an intricate novel, mostly thanks to all the extra souls that started pouring in—a common occurrence in times of war. Claude had heard that Germany had occupied France a year ago and now briefly wondered at the future of his former homeland.

“So the subject is unstable due to the circumstances of his death. That's unfortunate,” said Claude. He removed a small notepad from inside his jacket and began crafting an outline of what he knew so far. He didn't always need it, but it had become part of his process. Every Ferryman had their own style, and Claude, for his part, preferred knowing everything he could about a subject. “Any other pertinent information you have on the assignment?”

Vanderducken stopped for the first time to allow Claude a chance to compose some notes, but the look of impatience on the man's face suggested that thoroughness might have to give way to a slightly more ad hoc approach. “We don't have time for this futzing around. My Ferryman's already given up on trying to get that
stool pigeon's spook to the afterlife. He's stalling until we can get you in there to do just that.”

Claude frowned, but accepted that, for future emergency cases, he'd have to operate slightly differently than his usual well-prepped method called for. “I'll take the highlights, then.”

With a dramatic sigh, Vanderducken returned to the two sheets of paper. “If it were up to me, I'd have your face halfway to France by now.” He scanned the pages, flipping back and forth between the two as he sought out the relevant details. Claude stood ready with his pen.

“Born and raised in France. First Paris, then several other cities, including Marseille and Nice in his teenage years before returning to Le Paree. Ran with a gang for most of his life. Deserted the French Army last year. Never met his mother, who died giving birth, and his father passed when he was young. Nickname is Porto, given for the port-wine stain on his right cheek. Date of birth: October nineteenth, 1918.”

The pen had been scratching furiously across the page when Claude let it fall to the floor. “Give me that date again,” he said. The words came out, yet they sounded somehow unsure of themselves.

“October nineteenth, 1918,” Vanderducken replied. He seemed prepared to follow that with some flippant commentary, but as he looked up, Claude was already in the process of grabbing him around the collar.

“His name!” Claude barked at the man. “What is this man's name?!”

“Settle down, slick, I'm getting—”

But Claude pulled the man's face even closer. “
Tell me!
”

“All right, already,” Vanderducken said, his face a mix of bewilderment and amusement as he consulted the notes again.
“Guy's name is Henri. Last name has changed a bunch, but my navigator says his father's family name was . . .”

He stopped speaking immediately, the twinkle of amusement in his face vanishing in a wink.

“. . . Toulouse.”

Claude released his grip and took off back in the direction of his desk, his feet churning at what seemed like an impossible rate. The words Vanderducken shouted after him never reached his ears. The world around him fell into a subtle hush, like someone had lowered the volume on Claude's life. In that extraordinary moment, all of Claude's previous ambitions stood vaporized, blown into dust by the revelation Vanderducken had inadvertently unleashed. A single repeating thought reverberated in his skull, over and over:

Dawson can save this.

His son. The assignment was Claude's own son.

Claude couldn't go in to assist now. He'd be useless, worse than that.

But if Henri didn't cross . . . Good God, if he didn't cross—!

Dawson can save this.

He'd promised Henri on his deathbed that they'd meet again, and Claude now longed for that eventual day even more than he had then. He had no reassurances about what constituted the afterlife or who would meet him there, but Claude truly believed that once he was released from his service, he would tell his son what a great man he'd become, the souls he'd helped to the afterlife, the trying cases, the accolades.

All of it was earmarked for the next life.

Dawson can save this.

It had to be Dawson. They'd wasted so much time—the
chances were so slim now. Yet Dawson's assignment history was riddled with cases that he'd rescued, impossible circumstances that he'd managed to turn in his favor.

Claude frantically scanned the crowd as he bolted past his desk. Dawson could still be nearby.

“Dawson?!”
he yelled, his booming voice stopping groups of employees where they stood.
“Charles Dawson?!”

Eyes turned to him, a few accompanied by shrugs, others mild distaste, some simple curiosity.

He shouted again.
“Charles Dawson! I need to see Charles Dawson!”

Claude searched the throngs, his old thieving skill of seeking out a mark returning with little effort. Countless faces with as many expressions, almost all of them now staring at him. But still no Dawson.

“For the love of God, I need him! Please, anyone?!”

Nothing.

“What do you need Charlie for?”

The voice was approaching from his left, a look of concern evident on her face. Neatly cropped brown hair pushed out around her head in tight curls while her pale blue eyes intently studied Claude.

“It's an emergency, I need him—”

“I get that,” interrupted the woman. “What for, specifically?”

“A case,” Claude said. “An emergency assignment.” His eyes continued to search the crowd around him.

“He's had ten of those already today,” she replied, apparently unimpressed.

Claude whirled around to face her.

“How do you know that?” he snapped, trying hard not to lose what little control he still had over his temperament.

She responded with a lackadaisical smirk, perhaps amused by the sheer intensity of his reaction. “Because I'm his manager.”

The final word had barely left her mouth when he raced over to her, his anxious expression rising several levels to on-the-verge-of-meltdown. His voice spilled out in spastic, stunted clips. “Call him! Please! The subject of the assignment is my son. He's in danger of not crossing over. I need to see my son again. I need to know he's made it!”

The desperation in his voice slapped what little amusement there was off of the manager's face. In fact, Claude thought she looked more than embarrassed about it.

“Jesus,” she said as she pulled out a large, handheld radio transceiver. It looked comparable to the current “handie-talkies” being used in the war, except the Ferryman version was slightly more compact. “I actually just ran into him—he was on his way to his office. He looked a little run-down, but given the circumstances I'll get him over here as soon as possible.” She placed the receiver next to her ear and spoke quickly but firmly. “Switchboard, it's Vanessa Miller, authorization code 8171984. Connect me to Ferryman Charles Dawson, ID 72514. Urgent.”

They waited.

After the longest minute of Claude's life, he watched Dawson's manger frown. “Well then, ring his office phone.”

Another minute passed in silence, and quickly succeeded the previous one as the longest Claude had ever experienced.

“Can't be reached?” Now even Vanessa seemed concerned. “What do you mean . . . ? He has to be on-site somewhere. All right, keep trying. Contact me if you get ahold of him.” She replaced the receiver in a special sling vaguely reminiscent of a pistol holster attached to her leg, and started walking toward the exit of the Ferryman control room.

“What's going on?” Claude asked, following closely behind. “Where is he?”

“I don't know.” The slight hitch in her speech confirmed it as the truth.

They marched out, precious seconds ticking away. Through a maze of hallways they wandered—left turn, right turn, left again—until they reached a small set-off section with a single door at its end. A lounging security guard sat at its entrance, his hands folded behind his head. He instantly perked up as Vanessa approached.

“Well now, if it isn't Ms. Miller. Been a while since you've come round these parts. I was just saying to Charlie—”

“Not now, Barney,” Vanessa said, promptly interrupting. “Did he come through here?”

Despite being slightly put off by Vanessa's crude interruption, Barney said, “Just walked through not two minutes ago. Looked right sore, so he did.”

Vanessa pushed past the guard, who made as if to speak but ultimately said nothing. Claude followed closely in tow. She threw the door open, its handle banging against the wall on the other side.

“Charlie?” she asked the room, her voice rising. “Charlie!”

No answer. It was empty.

Just as quickly as she'd entered the room, Vanessa strode out. “I thought you said he was in here!” she barked at a startled Barney, who nearly fell out of his chair.

“He is!” Barney responded. “At least, he ain't come back this way since he went in there.”

“You're sure? You're
absolutely
sure?”

“I never lie to a pretty face, honey. Swear on my grandmother's Holy Bible, so I do.”

Vanessa stood in the hallway, unmoving. As the silence stretched on, Claude looked between the pair. Barney, for his part, affected a look of absolute befuddlement.

“So, where is he?” Claude asked. When his question was greeted with no response, he asked again. “Madame—where is he?”

Vanessa slowly turned to him, a look of clearest dread slathered on her face. “He's gone.”

Claude stared at her, unsure of what to say. “What do you mean,
gone
?”

That was impossible. If Dawson had entered his office, he still had to be in there. Unless he had used his Ferryman Key outside of the control room . . . but that was a clear violation of the Ferryman Laws. He would
never
do that. Charles Dawson was the hero of the Ferryman Institute . . .

“I don't think he's in the building anymore,” Vanessa said.

“But . . . the assignment . . . ,” Claude whispered. “My son . . .”

“I'm sorry.” She hesitated, then shook her head, clearly avoiding meeting his eyes. “I'm truly sorry.” She paused again, then started walking away. “I have to go find my Ferryman. I'll keep you and your son in my thoughts.” And then she strode off, her hand coming to cover her mouth as she disappeared down the maze of halls through which they'd come.

Barney looked at Claude, who now stood shell-shocked in the hall. The security guard did not seem a very prudent man, and yet even he sensed the dejection of the moment and wisely said nothing. Claude slowly returned down the halls, numb to the eventuality he faced.

Charles Dawson had not saved him.

Charles Dawson would not save him.

Charles Dawson was going to let his son slip away.

Claude arrived at Vanderducken's desk in just enough time to see the manager's Ferryman, the previously discussed “kid,” return. The check box on his form—the one labeled
Assignment successfully ferried
in the upper right corner—remained blank.

CLAUDE SPENT
the next seven nights locked in his office. His manager, hearing of the incident, placed him on administrative leave until he was ready to return to his Ferryman duties.

He never would.

At some point, Charles Dawson had evidently stopped by to extend his apologies and condolences, but Claude remained where he sat, staring at the only thing hanging on his otherwise barren walls. It was a painting, a copy of a portrait by Pierre-Auguste Renoir of his close friend Claude Monet gazing down intently into an open book, one errant page fluttering seemingly of its own accord. How the Institute had managed to procure or even produce a copy of the piece, Claude couldn't say, but it had been his only request after becoming a Ferryman, and the Institute had obliged. The picture had been Henri's favorite—they'd seen it on a tour of the artist's work after his death. For whatever reason, the boy had fallen in love with the piece, enamored by the pipe jutting out from Monet's bushy, unkempt beard. Claude himself derived a small piece of satisfaction from the knowledge that he shared a name with the subject of the painting. He'd sought it out almost immediately after his introduction into the Ferryman Institute, eager to hold on to one well-regarded connection to his past. Now it hung on his wall, and while nothing about the painting itself had changed, he knew it would never look the same.