The Ferryman Institute (22 page)

H
e's not answering.”

Charlie held Alice's phone limply in his hand. The third attempt to reach Cartwright had been as unsuccessful as the first two. With a sigh, he dropped the phone into his lap. Charlie wasn't sure whether it was a good idea to call Cartwright or not, but he wasn't exactly drowning in options, either. Mostly, though, he just wanted to know the truth. Actually, he didn't want that—he only wanted Cartwright to be who he'd always been. And if that wasn't the truth . . . ?

He frowned.
Dammit.

The streetlights lit up Charlie's face in intermittent beats as the Jeep rode steadily through the night. Was it possible that Javrouche was lying about Cartwright not being in the Institute's records? It was nice to think the Inspector had made up the accusation, but ultimately it was bound to be true. Javrouche was vindictive, sure, but he was no fool—if he didn't have the evidence to support the charges, there wasn't a chance he would have made them, no matter how much he hated Charlie.

As for what that all meant, Charlie had no idea. In Charlie's mind, Cartwright was the Institute's ultimate ambassador, the one
who had made Charlie a Ferryman to begin with two hundred and fifty long years ago. It seemed completely beyond comprehension that the Institute didn't know who the guy was. There was no way Cartwright could have snuck Charlie in, all the while leading a double life. It just wasn't possible.

Right . . . ?

“So, what now?” Alice asked.

Charlie kept both eyes on the road as his attention turned to the passenger next to him. Despite a few narrow misses and some flagrant traffic violations, she'd given up on getting Charlie to relinquish the driver seat. To be fair, they were currently driving in New Jersey, so traffic laws were more guideline than law anyway.

“First order of business is getting away from your house. If my phone was bugged, they probably know its location from when I dropped in the first time around,” he said.

“So we're fleeing the scene of the crime. Interesting. Are we going to be on the lam for a while?”

He could see her looking at him anxiously from the corner of his eye. “I have absolutely no idea what that's supposed to mean.”

“You know—fugitives, on the run, pulling a Bonnie-and-Clyde.”

Charlie stole a glance at her before returning his attention to the road. “You sound disarmingly excited about that prospect.”

It was true. She did appear oddly chipper about the whole thing. If Charlie had to guess, he would have put it down to shock or adrenaline. After all, she had just cheated death, and in rather unconventional style to boot.

“Well,” she said, “it's either that or I hysterically lose my shit, which I'm trying desperately hard not to do. But if you don't have a preference—”

“Status quo is fine by me.” Charlie made a hard right onto a
highway ramp he thought would put him in the right direction. “In response to your question, no—being fugitives is about the last thing I want. We're going to get this sorted out as soon as possible. Regardless of what I may or may not have done,
you
had nothing to do with it, and I intend to make sure that the Ferryman Institute knows that's the case.”

It was a plan Charlie was admittedly cobbling together as he went, but even an improvised one was better than nothing. Unfortunately, said plan's success hinged on a meeting with the president of the Institute—a person he had no idea how to find. Still, if—and it was a big if—Charlie could find him, it'd be his best chance at sorting out the tremendous clusterfuck he'd tangled them in. It was a long shot, but crazier things had happened. Exhibit A, everything so far that night.

Even without looking over, he could feel Alice's eyes on him again. “So we're headed where then, exactly? Not for nothing, but I didn't think you could take the Garden State Parkway to the afterlife, though that would explain a lot about the traffic,” she said.

A wry expression co-opted his face. “No, but you can take it to New York.”

“Hold up. Are you implying that your dead-person tour guide club—”

“That's not even close to what the Ferryman Institute is,” Charlie interrupted.

“Fine, whatever,” Alice said. “Back to my question. Are you saying your base is in New York?”

“No.”

Alice frowned. “So we're heading to New York, then, because why, exactly?”

“Because even if the Ferryman Institute doesn't physically
exist
in New York, there are still ways to enter it from the city.
Without getting into the weeds on this, the Ferryman Institute isn't just this place you can go to. I've been told it's between worlds—this world and the afterlife. Before you even ask, I have no idea what that means in terms of precisely where it is. Parallel dimension or something like that.”

Alice didn't reply immediately, instead sitting in silence for several seconds. Then, she said, “Somehow, things are making less sense as this explanation goes on.”

“The important thing to understand is that, generally speaking, the only way you can get into the Ferryman Institute is with a special key,” Charlie said.

“Like the one you threw at me in my bedroom?”

Charlie sighed. “I didn't throw it at you, I threw it near you. But yes, that key.”

“What's stopping you from using that again?” Alice asked.

“I don't have it anymore. That means if we're going to get back, we're going to have to do it another way. There are a series of secret portals the Institute's hidden in various places—sort of like heavily monitored public entrances—and I think there are a few in New York. We just need to find one. After that, it's a simple matter of getting everything straightened out and then everyone can leave happy.”

Despite the assurance with which Charlie outlined the plan, he felt none of it, namely because he had no idea if any of his suppositions about Institute public entrances were actually true. He'd heard rumors of the so-called Institute portals, but never in anything approaching an official capacity. Even if they did exist, who knew what—or who—would be waiting on the other side of them. Still, Charlie wasn't exactly swimming in ideas, not to mention the last thing he wanted was to give Alice any more reason to suspect this wasn't the finely honed exit strategy he'd let on. At the
very least, New York was an easy place to lie low for a while, Institute access or not.

“Portals. Right,” Alice said. She went silent, gazing out the windshield, unblinking. “I swear to God, if the next thing you tell me is that Elvis is alive, I'm leaving through the window.”

“Don't worry, he's not.” All things considered, she was handling this better than expected. At least, it seemed that way. “Amelia Earhart, on the other hand . . .”

“Shut. Up,” she said. “No she's not. You're fucking with me right now.”

“Nope, true story,” Charlie replied. He was enjoying blowing her mind. Figuratively, of course. “One of the best employees currently at the Institute.”

“You're joking.”

“From what I hear, she's a great manager. Just don't ask her for directions. She gets a little lost sometimes.”

Alice stared at him blankly. “Was that a joke? That was a joke, wasn't it?”

Charlie shrugged, keeping his eyes on the endless supply of repeating white lines on the road ahead of him. “It could have been,” he said. “Were you going to laugh?”

“No,” she replied. “Hang myself with this seat belt, maybe.”

He frowned. “Just the
no
would have sufficed.”

Alice croaked a harsh laugh. “Right. Just remember—you're the invincible one here. As a mere mortal, my body can only take so much of the torture that is your sense of humor.”

It was a weird situation Charlie found himself in. Usually, he only had to deal with an assignment for a few minutes, tops. With Alice, however, he had no idea what time frame he was looking at. Keeping her happy, not to mention in one piece, felt like a tough ask for even a few hours, particularly as her penchant for sarcasm
seemed fueled by the sort of limitless energy source that had thus far eluded scientists. But what if it was days, weeks, maybe? This was uncharted—and mildly terrifying—territory no matter what way he sliced it.

“Can I tell you something, just in the interest of, you know, full disclosure?” Alice said.

He managed to sneak a look in her direction, and in that fleeting moment her eyes looked brilliant, filled with a light that he'd seen tumble out of countless Ferryman Doors. Then it vanished, and he realized that it had only been the reflection of the highway streetlights.

“Sure,” Charlie said. “I'm always good for a listen.”

“All right.” Alice inhaled—
one, two
—then exhaled, almost as if there were an imaginary stethoscope pressed to her chest. “So, just because I decided to tag along with you doesn't mean I'm happy or grateful or anything that you”—she looked out her passenger window quickly before turning back to him—“temporarily postponed the inevitable. I never asked you to, uhh . . . intervene, let's say, so when I decide I've had enough of this little”—she drew a few circles in the air with her index finger—“whatever this
thing
of ours is, that's it. I'm out. You only get to stop me once.
Capisce?
”

Charlie took that moment to mentally reorder his list of priorities vis-à-vis Ms. Alice Spiegel. Needless to say, keeping her happy no longer topped the list.

Keeping her alive, on the other hand . . .

Alice's eyes were studying him again, but when he turned to face her, they were impossible to read in the dark, the streetlight reflections no longer able to reach them. As Charlie looked back to the highway, a small chuckle escaped his lips. It shouldn't have been funny, but given the circumstances, he just couldn't help it. He'd finally rescued someone from the very brink of death itself,
and—go figure—she was annoyed at him for it. Evidently he was single-handedly paving the road to hell.

He quietly drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, making sure there was no traffic around him first. Despite her sharp remarks, they meant nothing—the improvised plan was still in effect. In fact, the basic principle of what he was doing was the same as what he normally did with any Ferryman assignment, only this time, he wanted the subject to walk
away
from the light. Hell, when he thought of it like that, the whole thing seemed downright easy.

If only he knew how wrong he'd be.

“I hear you,” Charlie replied, “but, also full disclosure, I just might choose to completely ignore you. I can be remarkably selfish sometimes.”

Normally, Charlie was a better match for a little inane banter, but his mind continued wandering back to his recent confrontation at the Institute. He promised himself that as soon as he sorted things out with Alice, he would find his team and set things right. Maybe it wasn't even an issue anymore—maybe Melissa had managed to smooth things over in the interim. She did have a knack for that sort of thing.

Well, when she hadn't been electrocuted into unconsciousness, anyway.

Did he feel guilty that he wasn't riding to his team's immediate rescue? Of course he did. Was he worried about them? Very much so. But Charlie knew where his priorities lay. While everyone at the Institute was very much immortal, Alice was very much not.

“Jeez, dude, lighten up a little bit,” Alice said. “You look like I just ran over your cat or something.”

“In my defense,” Charlie said, “you did just tell me you'd prefer
being dead over spending time with me. If you're trying to boost my self-esteem, you may want to consider a different strategy.”

The start of a tiny grin seemed hidden somewhere in the corner of her lips. “Look, I'm not happy about the fact that I'm still alive, per se, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little curious about where this is heading. I haven't been out of the house much lately. Plus, no offense, but if I really wanted to be dead right now, I've had ample opportunity to roll myself headfirst out of the car.”

Charlie looked over at her. He promptly locked the doors.

He could practically hear her eyes rolling in their sockets. “Hilarious. The point, Mr. Fairy Man, is that I didn't expect you to be so sensitive about it. I thought you dealt with dead people all the time. What's one more dead flamed-out failure to you?”

A lone car zipped past them on the left as Charlie gave a short, harsh laugh. “Is that really how you think of yourself?”

“Before you even think of giving me some
It's a Wonderful Life
speech right now, I'd like to remind you that I have a power-lock button on my side, too.” The
ker-clunk
of the doors unlocking emphasized her point.

“Duly noted. And yes, I guess you could say I'm a little sensitive when it comes to . . . that sort of thing.”

“Apparently,” she replied. From the corner of his eye, he could see her playing with the tips of her hair, gaze focused out her passenger window. “So what year were you born?”

The question came as a surprise only because he'd gotten the sense that Alice would prefer the conversation be over with. She was proving to be a very difficult person to read. “Come again?” Charlie asked.

“You mentioned before that you saw
King Kong
when it was in theaters. It doesn't exactly take John Nash to figure out that means you've been around for a while, so I was wondering when
you were born. If you were actually born, I guess, and not created in a lab. Or by aliens. Or both.”

He gave equal consideration to both dodging the question and laying it on thick, but given her apparently volatile nature, he decided it best to go along. “September twenty-first, 1732.”