The Ferryman Institute (10 page)

“It wasn't,” Charlie said. He didn't have time for this. He needed to get going, to see what he could salvage, if anything. But as he turned to walk toward the Ferryman Door, Dirkley spoke up.

“Is it that hard to see we're worried about you, Charlie, or do you just not care?”

Charlie stopped walking.

“When you disappeared after the Bradley case last week, for the first time, me and Melissa weren't sure you'd come back. Isn't it obvious that's why she was so hard on you earlier? I know you've already figured out that we're giving you easy cases tonight. And yet here you are, ready to be the martyr again.” He sighed. “I'm just . . . I'm afraid if you keep this up, we're going to lose you.” He'd been holding his hands out in front of his body, like some protective ward shielding him from Charlie's reply, but now they fell to his sides. “There. I said it.”

There was a disconcerting moment where Charlie realized he didn't have anything to say. Maybe it was brought about by the realization that for all his feigned stoicism, this job—the constant dealing with death, with misery, with the pleadings of honest
people who were genuinely afraid to die, all of it—was not only eating him alive, but that the people closest to him knew it, too.

Dirkley was exactly right. Charlie was playing the martyr, because that was who he felt he needed to be. It didn't matter to him that he'd been at this for two hundred and fifty years—far longer than the thirty to fifty most Ferrymen tended to put in.

He did it because of one word. One they used in situations like this, one that was far more dangerous than
prodigy
or
genius
, because it was the one word he actually cared for, the one that he secretly wanted everyone to whisper in hushed tones when he walked by.

Hero.

To Dirkley's point, there was no argument for Charlie to make, no brilliant repartee stored away in the back of his head. Charlie knew what he was going to do because this wasn't up for discussion.

“I've got a clear head right now, Dirkley, and it's best that we make use of it. I'll be back in one piece. I promise.” He looked at Dirkley with an earnestness that he hoped his partner could understand without asking—one that he tried to express as
I hear you. You're right. But not now. Please, not now.
“I need to go. Did Campbell get the code in?”

Dirkley hesitated, weighing the options Charlie had left on the table. To be honest, Charlie wasn't jealous of the position he'd put his navigator in. After an eternal moment, Dirkley quickly but awkwardly sat down at his desk and banged on his keyboard a bit. “Yeah, the code's in.”

The key that felt so familiar in Charlie's hand was out again, nestled in his palm. He was already twisting it in midair. “Good. When Melissa asks, please tell her this was all your idea.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Dirkley replied. His entire attention
was locked on his computer screen, his fingers flying around the keys in front of him. “Be careful out there, all right?”

The Ferryman Door was already swinging closed.

THE FIRST SOUND
Charlie heard on the other side was the unmistakable wail of someone in an extraordinary amount of pain. The second was the soft whimpering of a woman who seemed to be on the edge of absolutely losing it. The words came in one long string: “OhGodohdearGod,” muttered over and over again.

A dark stretch of dreary country road snaked out before Charlie as he exited the Ferryman Door. Above, the treetops formed a twisted web of scraggly branches, obscuring any light from the moon. The only meaningful illumination came from the car up ahead. Its interior lights were on, along with the taillights and one of its headlights. It looked like a sedan, but it was tough to say, given that it was currently wrapped around a very sturdy oak tree about ten feet off the road. The car was miraculously still running, though how, Charlie didn't know. The whole left side of the car was a hodgepodge of crumpled plastic and crushed metal. If there were airbags in the car, they had very clearly failed to deploy; the deep scarlet bloodstains splattered across the beige dashboard gave little doubt of that. A long set of tire marks showed a dramatic swerve that led up to the scene of the accident, but Charlie could only see where they ended.

Through the shattered windshield of the car, her body now a mangled wreck all its own, was the as-of-yet-unnamed young woman of the assignment. The amount of visible blood on display was nigh incomprehensible. Charlie was no doctor, but he'd been around blood enough to know it was unbelievable she was still conscious. He couldn't see her face clearly from where he stood,
given the angle and lack of light, but he wouldn't bet there was much of it left. Her left arm was nearly gone at the shoulder, probably only being held in place by what was left of her blouse sleeve. Her body convulsed in a short spasm before erupting in another agonizing cry.

Fucking hell
, Charlie thought.
Gruesome
didn't even begin to do this justice.

Off to the side of the car, more than a few steps back from the accident, was a petite young woman who looked on the verge of bursting into tears. Her black skirt and unremarkable heels were covered in dirt. She hesitantly took a step toward the car, but withdrew immediately when a fresh howl of agony ripped through the night.

“Jennifer!” Charlie yelled as he ran over to her.

The bewildered Ferryman turned to Charlie. “Mr. . . . Dawson?” She moved a few steps away from the accident, her eyes darting between him and the screaming woman. “I . . . I . . . I don't— She, she was just . . . ! And then . . . the screaming, and, and . . . I mean, look at her!” She shook her head and took a moment to compose herself, but she was well beyond that point now. He could see the tears welling up in her eyes, her lips a thin, hard line as she fought to hold them back.

Charlie didn't want to be a callous jerk, given Jen's emotional state, but he knew he needed to move quickly if he was going to make this work. “Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded profusely and attempted to say something, but the words refused to come out. After a couple deep breaths, she eventually collected herself. “Yes,” she managed to croak out.

Not much, but it was a start.

Charlie placed his hands firmly on both her shoulders so he could look at her squarely. “Listen to me. You have to leave. That's
not a suggestion—grab your key and get out of here. Go straight to Agent Campbell when you get back to the Institute. Do you understand? Go to Campbell.”

The empty look Smalling returned answered that question rather quickly. “I—I can't, though. This is my case. I have to stay. Those are the rules.”

He squeezed her shoulders gently. “This is going to sound harsh, and it's not meant to be, but you can't help me right now. Jen, you need to leave—just go back before we lose any more time. Yes or no, do you understand?”

Standing helplessly rooted to the ground, her eyes darting back and forth between the accident victim and Charlie, Jennifer Smalling said, “No, I can't. Protocol says I have to remain on the scene until the end. Besides, I can help you. I'm here, let me—”

Charlie resented what he was about to do. With a small jolt, he yanked her close and looked directly into her face. “Jen, seriously, so help me, you will get the fuck out of here right now!” His voice, a pale whisper when he started to speak, rose to a demanding shout as he finished. He hated the yelling, and hoped that Jen wouldn't hate him in kind, but at that point, he needed action.

To Charlie's disgust and relief, Jen cringed back from the outburst, then immediately began searching for her key, eventually succeeding in pulling it out. The loud
click
of her newly opened Ferryman Door echoed among the trees. She pushed it open, and with one last look over her shoulder, said, “I'm really sorry I fucked this one up,” and nothing more.

As her door soundlessly closed behind her, one singular thought crossed Charlie's mind:
This assignment was meant for me.
He'd seen the sense of failure in her eyes, as obvious as the tears that had marked their corners. He could tell she wanted to say more before she left, maybe something to atone for what she believed
was her fault. The truth, however, was that Jen should have never been here.

No, she should have been the one soothing Ethel the cat lady, and Charlie should have been here, not the other way around. Whatever way he looked at it, he didn't see a way in which he wasn't to blame. If he'd just managed to hold himself together longer or, failing that, at least not make it so stupidly obvious that he couldn't, then this would have never happened. No Ferryman to save, no spirit on the brink of missing out on the afterlife. None of it.

But the damage was already done.

He shot a burst of air through his nostrils while he shook his own shoulders loose. Much as he wanted to, he didn't have time to dwell on it, especially as now came the tricky part. He dove into his jacket pocket and yanked out Campbell's form. He needed something, anything, to connect with this woman.

Charlie stole a glance at his watch. Two minutes until ETD.

Brutal, shocking deaths (e.g., the woman in front of him) had a tendency to create abnormally confused and uncooperative spirits. If his unnamed assignment died and he had nothing for her, Charlie was almost certain he'd lose her. He said a quick prayer to whatever gods, goddesses, or benevolent flying spaghetti monsters were listening, and opened up the sheet, hoping that Dirkley's familiar Apple II font might be waiting for him on the page.

It was blank.

Charlie's heart dropped. Without any information, he was dancing in the dark to music he couldn't hear. It would be no mean feat to reason with a spirit Charlie knew nothing about, especially in the state he was imagining her arriving in. Possible, but about as far from ideal as he could get.

He started to fold the paper back up when he noticed it wasn't
actually blank; he'd missed something in the gloom. There in the upper right corner—small letters that he could barely make out. With a quick snap, the Ferryman pulled out his cell phone, using it as a makeshift flashlight to illuminate the form. They were words, and in Dirkley's barely legible handwriting, no less. If ever there was a sign that Dirkley was operating completely under the gun, it was that.

Melissa Marissa Martha Matilda

All women's names. More continued to fill the page before his eyes.

Media Matia Mary Marie Maria MARIA

Suddenly, the writing stopped. Then, in the middle of the page, where Dirkley usually provided a wealth of information, a word was quickly scrawled out in huge letters:
MARIA.
Underlined twice, then circled.

Charlie shook his head in wonder. Even for Dirkley, it was impressive. The more agitated a person was before their passing, the more erratic their last memories would be. Moreover, the memory feed was probably just about washed out by the time Dirkley even got to it. How Dirkley had managed to come up with a name, Charlie couldn't even begin to guess, but now he had something. Granted, it wasn't much, but a name—even just a first name—at least gave him a shot. Charlie unexpectedly noticed more words appearing on the page. He held his phone over them.

Sorry, but that's all I've got. Feed is too far gone. Smalling made it back safely. You do the same.

—Dirkley

Charlie put away the phone and the form.
First name will have to do, then
, he thought. He considered looking at his watch, but his internal clock told him with relative certainty that there was only about a minute left before he came face-to-face with the spirit of Maria and he didn't want to waste another second. As if the woman could read his mind, she let out a piercing howl. Her body rocked perceptibly on the car, though the scream was quieter and shorter in duration than her previous one. He could hear her crying now, slowly, softly.

His eyes settled on her and her broken body. And then, just like that, the idea was in his head.

His feet carried him quietly across the road. As he walked, his right hand instinctively reached for the Ferryman Key stored inside his jacket, just to be sure it was still there. He stood in front of the car, marveling at the completely decimated state of the hood. Then, he carefully took a seat on it next to the woman named Maria.

She was whimpering now, her breath coming in quick, ragged spurts. A hacking, weak cough disrupted her breathing pattern, and it wasn't hard to see why—having passed through the windshield, she had a large shard of glass embedded in her chest, just above her sternum. Also, given how dramatically her head had twisted (
The Exorcist
immediately jumped to Charlie's mind), it was pretty obvious she'd broken her neck. She faced away from him, looking off into the dense forest, and he was glad for it. As it was, the scene before him would have been enough to keep him well stocked in nightmares for quite a while (had he needed to sleep, which, given that he was going on two and a half centuries without so much as a power nap, either made it patently obvious he didn't need to or explained why he was cranky all the time). No need to make it even worse.

There was something that was bothering Charlie, however. Mainly, his own head. His instincts were telling him to make a play that, for the first time in his career, he was hesitant over. It was risky. Very risky. But when had his gut ever let him down?

Quietly, sitting next to a woman on the verge of death, Charlie did something he'd never done before—he reached inside his jacket, pulled out his Ferryman Key, and placed it neatly on the hood.

The Ferryman Key was a wondrous thing: it allowed a Ferryman to reach destinations all over the globe almost instantly, it opened the door to an assignment's afterlife, and it made the possessor completely invisible to humans. It was the linchpin of Ferryman secrecy, the key (for lack of a better word) to keeping mankind blissfully ignorant of the Institute's existence. Charlie didn't know how it worked, only that it did. Now that he'd removed his key, however, it meant that anyone—human or spirit—would be aware of his presence.