The Ferryman Institute (37 page)

She was so caught up in the moment that she failed to notice the man in the long trench coat standing next to the table. In fact, it was only after he cleared his throat that either of them did. Startled, Alice quickly wiped both sides of her mouth.
This guy must think I'm a slob
, she thought.

“I'm terribly sorry to interrupt,” he said politely. His voice was crisp and articulate, but the look on his face—the only thing she could make out thanks to his pulled-down fedora—seemed a bit strange. Eager, maybe? “You don't happen to have the time, do
you?” She noticed that both of his hands were firmly tucked in his coat pockets as he spoke, which was more than a little peculiar.

“Sorry,” she said, “I just lost my cell phone tonight. You could ask the waitress, though.”

“I might just do that,” he said. He remained there, smiling, and it was beginning to creep her out. “How is your”—he cleared his throat again—“food?”

It was only then that Alice's mental lightbulb went off. She knew what was going on here: she was being hit on! Alice was no stranger to that particular phenomenon—she was an attractive girl in her own right, thank you very much—just that . . . well, maybe she was a touch out of practice. Even so, flattered or not, she wasn't in any particular mood to humor the guy. Whoever he was, he made Charlie seem normal and well put together by comparison.

“Good,” she replied, hoping that would end it. She shot a glance at Charlie, hoping he might be able to table the proceedings. He never saw the look she gave him, however, because his entire focus was dedicated to the man standing at their booth. She was about to look back toward the man when Charlie's eyes shot open, practically bulging out of his head. He made to stand, but was stopped midway when the mystery man planted his left hand on Charlie's shoulder and pushed him back down.

“Now, now, Mssr. Dawson. Your food just arrived. Please, sit. Eat. There's no rush. In fact, I'd recommend you enjoy what little time you have left. And just to be sure that we keep our discussion civil . . .”

The man lifted his right hand slightly out of his pocket, revealing the butt of a pistol. When he was sure they'd both seen it, he pressed the barrel against the front of the jacket, making it rather clear that the barrel was pointed toward Alice.

“Civil, yes?” the man said.

Charlie reluctantly complied, but not before giving the man a look that transcended a
death stare
by several hundred megatons. She'd only seen Charlie angry once before—for a brief moment after the solicitor had called, after he mistakenly thought she'd hung up on Cartwright—and it was only a glimpse, at that. But the look in his eyes now—whole cities burned in that reflection.

“Javrouche, you son of a bitch,” he growled.

That was when Alice finally put two and two together. Javrouche. The bad guy. They'd been caught. To put it poetically:
Game over, man. Game over.
She stared across the table, desperately holding back tears, refusing to cry for a third time. This was bad—she knew it, and she could tell beneath Charlie's unhidden contempt that he did, too.

“There's no need to be a sore loser, Mssr. Dawson. You tried, you failed. The world will continue to turn tomorrow, I assure you. Now then, would you be so kind as to bring me over that chair? Slowly, if you please.” Charlie rigidly stood up, then grabbed a chair from the empty table beside them and placed it at the middle of their booth. “Good. Now sit. Slide over as close to the wall as you possibly can. There's a good man,” he said as Charlie complied. “Excellent. See, Mssr. Dawson, following the rules isn't quite so hard, is it? Maybe you
can
teach an old dog new tricks.”

“How the hell did you find us?”

“How, indeed . . . ,” Javrouche said. He reached into his jacket pocket, the one not stuffed with a handgun, then flicked something into the air. It was small, about the rough dimensions of a typical American dime. It hit the table was an understated
clink
.

“A simple and very small tracking device. Fortunately, one of my officers was able to affix it to your jacket sleeve before you apparently rolled away to freedom late last night. We noticed your
jacket stopped moving not too long ago. Found it in a garbage can, which I thought was ironically appropriate. And now, here I am. I can only assume you missed me terribly.”

Alice could practically hear Charlie's teeth grinding against each other from across the table. “Fuck you, you little rat bastard.”

“Careful now, monsieur. You should know better than to upset a man with a twitchy trigger finger.” Javrouche adjusted his hat. “Let's be honest with each other. I'd advise against calling my bluff. We both know I have no qualms about pulling this trigger.”

Alice didn't much like the sound of that.

Charlie's eyes remained lit with rage, but an undercurrent of desperation swirled in them now. “What do you want from me, Inspector?” he asked quietly. “I'll do whatever it is, but she has no part in this. All right? Just let her walk.”

“It's a bit late for bargaining, don't you think, Mssr. Dawson? Besides, you're making a very poor assumption about what I want . . .” He leaned in close, his voice now a mere whisper. “I want justice, Mssr. Dawson,” he breathed slowly. “You've already cost me my son. I won't let you take the Institute from me as well.”

Alice's focus darted between Charlie and the man he referred to as Inspector. What did that mean? Was Charlie hiding something? Trying to follow their conversation was hard enough as it was. Trying to do it knowing she could be riddled with bullets at any moment made it exponentially more difficult.

The Ferryman bristled. “That wasn't my fault. What you're talking about—this, all of this—isn't justice. It's revenge for a crime I never committed.”

“The difference here, Mssr. Dawson, is perspective. Benedict Arnold—hero or traitor? Depends on what side of the Atlantic you hail from. Charles Dawson—hero or traitor?” He cocked his
head slightly, just enough so that Alice could make out the embers in his eyes. “Easy to see where I stand on that issue, isn't it?”

Charlie's eyes went cold as he stared back. Even Alice found herself frightened at how hardened they looked. That calm, easygoing nature of Charlie's seemed a distant memory now.

“I was given a choice. I haven't done anything wrong.”

A callous simper danced across Javrouche's face. “And yet you've done an awful lot of running for an innocent man.”

Alice's eyes studied Charlie, watched him scowl. He glanced at her, his eyes sizing her up, wondering perhaps what words to use in front of her. “You would've killed her if I didn't.”

Javrouche paused, then slowly turned to Alice. His expression had gone blank. He, too, appeared to be sizing her up.

“Would have?” he said. His gaze wandered back over to Charlie. “I still might.”

Alice really,
really
didn't like the sound of that.

“Here's what I don't understand, Mssr. Dawson,” Javrouche said, tilting back his chair ever so slightly as he spoke. “You're a clever man. Personal feelings aside, even I will grant you that. You know the ramifications of what you're doing. Yet you're risking the exposure of the Ferryman Institute and all the catastrophic consequences that come with it for what? A scrawny girl with life expectancy issues?”

When Charlie offered no immediate reply, Javrouche turned to Alice. Despite the twist that tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes burned at an intensity that caused her to shrink away. The words left his mouth at a volume just above a whisper. “Did you know that, Mlle. Spiegel? If word gets out that Ferrymen exist, humanity might very well cease to be. All because you're alive. Amazing, isn't it? The extinction of the human race because your heart beats on, ba-dump, ba-dump—” His voice rose a bit
higher. “Because your lungs continue to pump, in and out, in and out—” Higher still. “Because the synapses in your brain are still firing, still filling your mind with inane thoughts—” His words came out with assured confidence now, spoken like an expert salesman explaining the virtues of his mag-
nificent
new vacuum. “Because you continue to
be
, Mlle. Spiegel, because you lived, because of you—”

With a massive
bang
, Charlie's fist crashed into the table. He loomed over the booth, towering over the seated Inspector. Molten fury flowed through his expression, his entire body trembling with volcanic rage. Alice looked on, a party of tears knocking at the door behind her eyes, yet she held them back. An attempt to fully comprehend everything failed, but the vague nugget she managed to absorb—that she might be the catalyst for the end of the world—hit her hard and sharp.

“Not another word, Javrouche. I stopped her. The potential repercussions of that rest on me. But so much as
hint
to Alice again that this is in any way her fault and I will tear you limb from limb and enjoy every fucking second of it.”

The entire diner had turned to focus on him, to stare at the crazy man standing at his table. Javrouche, however, simply chuckled in amusement.

“Sit down, Mssr. Dawson,” he said calmly. “You're making a scene.” The barrel of the gun pushed slightly harder against his jacket's pocket. Charlie obliged, but the motion was drawn out. His eyes never ventured from the Inspector's face.

The diner door suddenly swung open and Alice watched several men walk in, each wearing body armor.

Javrouche pulled the hat off his head and set it on the table. “Perfect timing. I'm glad our discussion was engrossing enough to hold your attention while I waited for the cavalry to arrive.” One
of the newly arrived officers walked up to Charlie and produced a pair of handcuffs. “On with the handcuffs, Mssr. Dawson. Cooperate and I see no reason for me to use this little toy of mine.”

It took Alice a moment to realize he was talking about her.
He's offering me safety!
she realized, and the part of her brain suddenly interested in self-preservation jumped at the chance. But Alice knew it was a lie. He would renege on his deal the first chance he got. Everyone knew it.

Except Alice also knew Charlie wouldn't be able to pass it up.

Alice looked over at the Ferryman and shook her head. “Don't,” she whispered. The word had barely left her mouth when she found herself staring down Javrouche's gun.

“Ah-ah,” Javrouche said. “No help from the audience.” With the gun still leveled at her face, Javrouche turned to the few people left in the diner and spoke clearly, his voice radiating authority. “It's all right, everyone. We have the situation perfectly under control. However, for your own safety, we suggest that you calmly exit the premises.”

Alice vainly hoped that perhaps someone would stand up to Javrouche—question him at the very least—but, not surprisingly, once the gun was drawn, no one needed to be told twice.
Cowards
, Alice thought as she glared at the evacuees.

“And now we have the restaurant to ourselves. How romantic,” Javrouche said. “Now then, the cuffs, please, Mssr. Dawson.”

“Charl—” Alice was immediately interrupted by what sounded like a small cough followed by the blistering
crack
of wood splitting. Splinters flew into her face, foam padding from the seat cushion exploding around her like entrails. She was too shocked to even scream, her voice a tiny pocket of air trapped in her throat. A small plume of smoke snaked out of the silencer on Javrouche's gun.

“I warned you once already, Mlle. Spiegel. Twice is my absolute limit.”

Alice opened her mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by Charlie. “I'll put on the goddamn cuffs, all right?!” he yelled as loudly as he could, then looked directly at her. His eyes were an unreadable mix of emotions, but his words that followed were clear enough. “Sit there and stay put. I mean that.” He slid out of the booth and offered his hands to the man in the body armor. The man grabbed Charlie's right arm fiercely and pulled it behind the Ferryman's back before slamming the cuffs on tightly.

“An excellent decision. Gentlemen, please escort Mssr. Dawson to the exit vehicle.” The armored men hauled Charlie up and began marching him to the front of the room.

It was painful watching them lead Charlie away—that was what struck Alice the most. She could feel the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes.
Don't give them the satisfaction
, she thought.

Sure, things the past two days hadn't always been great. It started with her almost killing herself, then moved on to shooting a man in the head, and finally ended with her being whisked away by a stranger to inadvertently become a fugitive from a clandestine organization trying to murder her. There were a couple near-death experiences mixed in there, which mostly involved driving really fast while dodging big cars. There was that kiss, too—a kiss she was no longer embarrassed by, particularly now that she and Charlie had reached the end of their road together. Heck, she'd even managed to eat some of her nachos before they were covered by particleboard debris and seat guts. Everything had seemed so positive just a few short moments ago. Why was life so cruel to her?

Alice caught herself before she slid down what she knew
would be an unproductive train of thought. There had to be something she could do,
anything
, but she watched them lead Charlie away, step by step, and still she had nothing.

Well, there was one thing . . .

“I hope you all get penis rot and your dicks fall off while you're fucking your mothers in the ass!” she yelled after them. The opportunity to tell one person, let alone a group, that you hoped their respective dicks fell off didn't often present itself, so chalk that one up in the win column. Sure, it wasn't much, but it made her feel slightly better. One officer stopped at the door and began to turn around when Javrouche gave him a firm push through the door and put a quick end to that.