The Ferryman Institute (26 page)

Suddenly, his cell phone sprang to life. He didn't bother looking at the caller ID—he had a very good idea who it was.

“Koroviev,” he stated. He listened intently, his footsteps never wavering, as the voice on the other end talked quietly and quickly. “It's been taken care of. Yes, both of them. That's right . . . Yes. Yes, I passed on the information to the Inspector. He's acting on it now while I head back to coordinate . . . I understand. Thank you, Cartwright.”

Koroviev ended the call. The door at the end of the warehouse hallway creaked as he pushed it open and walked out into the night air. It had been some time since he'd been outside the Institute's walls—long enough that he couldn't quite remember when his last visit had been. Perhaps that was why the stars seemed so
bright just then, glittering so shamelessly above. He longed to stay just a few minutes more, but there was work to be done, unfortunately.

He sighed. It was going to be a long, eventful evening.

W
ow. That's . . . Wow,” Alice said. She had breathlessly listened to Charlie's story, and now that he was finished, she didn't have the faintest idea what to else say.

Apparently, he didn't either. “Yeah” was his only reply before lapsing into silence. She looked over at him, but he continued to stare out the windshield as he guided the Jeep along. She could practically see in his long-gone stare how far away his mind was then, his dry sense of humor buried by the mess he'd made digging up the past. What thoughts were tumbling around behind those green eyes of his? What mix of emotions had she just stirred awake? And, perhaps most surprisingly to her, why did she feel so bad now about asking him? Maybe it was early-onset Stockholm syndrome, if that was such a thing.

“I had no idea that you died,” she finally said. “Well, sort of. Mostly, maybe? It's kind of like that part in
The Princess Bride
—have you ever seen that movie?
He's mostly dead!
Do you know what I'm talking about?”

Alice knew she was rambling, just like she always did when the silence became too stifling for her to bear. He looked over at
her with a sidelong glance, his lips curling just a touch, then returned his gaze to the road ahead.

“So you were married, huh?” Alice said, barreling on. “Can't say I saw that one coming. I had you pegged as bachelor material.”

Charlie didn't react initially, but eventually he gave her an indifferent shrug. “It was a very long time ago. I've changed a lot since then, I'm sure.”

The silence began to creep back in, but Alice was loath to let it take hold. “Did you ever see her again? Your wife, I mean. After you became a Ferryman.”

“No,” he said harshly. Alice was slightly taken aback, and evidently Charlie was as well. “I wasn't allowed to,” he quickly added. “Deliberately visiting friends or loved ones as a Ferryman is considered one of the three gravest offenses of the Institute. Treason, basically. We have to protect the secret of our existence at all costs, which is why they're coming after you.”

Ah. Well, that explained it—Alice had become the not-at-all-clichéd
girl who knew too much and must be eliminated
. While that would have been a stark revelation a very short time ago, she currently found herself more concerned with Charlie's past. Namely, one aspect in particular.

“So even though you agreed to become a Ferryman so you could see her again . . .” She left the thought unfinished.

The remark brought a cynical shape to Charlie's face. “I was young and stupid back then. Naive. They told me I couldn't see her, and I listened, but I continued to dumbly believe that destiny would bring us back together somehow . . . two star-crossed lovers whose bond was so strong even death couldn't break it apart, or something like that. But I never saw her again. I asked around, but never heard a word about my wife from anyone else at the Institute.
To this day, I still have no idea what happened to her after I became a Ferryman.”

Alice leaned forward in her seat. “Wait, you never found out what happened to her?”

“No,” Charlie said, “and it haunted me for a long time. I tried to convince myself that there was nothing I could do. It's much easier to accept the regrets of your life when you believe the outcome was already written. Except that's not how the world works—at least it hasn't for me—and I've only recently come to see that. Sometimes, you just have to fight for the things you believe in. Given the chance today, I would break that rule in a heartbeat. But I don't have any friends or loved ones from my old life to see now . . . and I haven't for a while. It's just me.”

Alice once again found herself at a loss for words. It seemed there was quite a bit more to the man than she'd originally allowed for, and she wasn't quite sure how to feel about that realization. After running through a laundry list of responses in her head, she settled on the only one she found appropriate for the situation. “I'm so sorry,” she said quietly. “I can't imagine what that must be like.”

Her words seemed to bring the Ferryman back from himself. He drew a deep breath, and forcefully exhaled. “Don't be,” he said. “In fact, if there's anyone who should be apologizing, it's me. I didn't intend on turning what was otherwise a wonderfully upbeat car ride into the last half hour of
Titanic
.”

Alice felt a smirk brush across her lips. “Look at you. An old geezer at two hundred and however many years old and you're rattling off pop-culture references like they're going out of style. Color me impressed.” Alice considered changing the topic, but his relating of his past had stirred up one last question in her mind, one begging to be asked.

“Do you miss her?” she asked.

She wasn't sure why she felt comfortable asking him, of all people—it wasn't the type of question you generally asked someone you hardly knew—and yet, the way he'd spoken about his own life moments ago, she had the sense that maybe she was asking for him as well.

He laughed, though Alice had a hunch it was more to himself than anything else. “You can't possibly enjoy talking about depressing stuff this much.”

“Your thinly veiled attempt at avoiding the question is noted. Your hostage is displeased.”

Charlie sighed. “I'll answer the question, but only on the condition that you stop referring to yourself as my hostage.”

Alice made a show of thinking about it before answering. “Deal.”

His eyes seemed to focus farther down the road. “Do I miss her?” Charlie said. “The idea of her, yes. But do I miss
her
? That's a tougher question. Honestly, I feel like I don't even remember her. I can't picture her face anymore. It drives me crazy sometimes when I sit and really try to see it in my mind. It's like . . . I can only remember certain things about her. She had these vivid, green eyes—almost the same color as mine, but a million times more beautiful. I used to joke about that. I told her that's why we fell in love, because really, when we looked into each other's eyes, we were just looking at ourselves.”

“Like the story of Narcissus and the lake,” Alice said. Before she could do anything, the words were out of her mouth. Almost immediately, though, she realized he might take that the wrong way.
Good one, Alice. Call your invincible kidnapper a narcissist.

However, he seemed pleasantly surprised by the observation, given the excitement in his voice that sprouted in its wake. “Exactly.
Anyway, one day I told her that I was serious, and when she asked me why, I told her that only I could possibly understand myself as well as she seemed to, so really, we must just be the same person living in two bodies physically, but bound by love as one. That, I do remember.” A broad grin spread across his face, fueled by his reverie, but he shook his head slowly all the same. “Everything else is fuzzy, though. They say that happens to you when you become a Ferryman. I will never forget those eyes, though. Never.”

It took Alice a moment to realize that she was staring at him. A half-remembered scene of her and Marc lying naked together was playing in her mind, his gentle whispers teasing her about her overly flowery, cutesy language, their giggles wrapped tighter around themselves than the sheets they'd kicked off the bed.

Charlie caught her gaping before she had a chance to look away. “Why don't we stop talking about me for a while?” he said. “It's a pretty lousy topic.”

A sign for the Lincoln Tunnel passed overhead as the scene in her mind faded away, leaving in its wake the hollow sensation of things lost forevermore. “Only as long as we don't have to flip the spotlight onto yours truly.”

“Why's that?”

Alice couldn't help but laugh at that, turning toward her window as she did. “Asks the guy who almost had a front-row seat to my last moment on planet earth. Let's call the life of Alice Spiegel a sore subject.” There hadn't been a whole lot of time for self-reflection since she'd put a gun to her head earlier—not that it was something she particularly wanted to do. However, if there was one thing she'd learned about herself, it was that her mind seemed to do what it wanted, regardless of what she asked of it.

“Any reason for that?” he asked. She could see him looking at her from the reflection in the passenger-side window.

The casualness with which he asked the question—as if he were a close friend, a confidant, someone even remotely trustworthy—went over like a fart in church.

“So in addition to trespasser and kidnapper, I should now add therapist to your many titles? No, thanks,” she replied with a touch of bitterness. When she turned back to look at him, a smirk was fluttering at the edge of his lips. The sight of it caused a red streak of anger to filter its way through her veins. “I'm glad you find this all very amusing. I really am.”

“I think you would, too, if you had any idea how amazing it is that you're still alive right now.”

“Who fucking cares?! I know I don't care!” she barked back, her restraint snapping like an overtaxed cable. Who did he think he was, acting like he had any idea what it was like to be her? “I'm not supposed to be here right now, and the fact that I even am is your fucking fault!”

Charlie didn't respond right away. When he did, it was with a steady and measured tone. “I care. A lot, actually. Do you honestly regret having a second chance at this?”

“So one, fuck you and your caring because I don't need either, and two, you really think I want life advice from some degenerate kidnapper?” And yet the fire was gone as soon as the words left her mouth. She'd deliberately avoided his question, which she found odd. Alice felt like it should have been easy to answer. Now . . .

Was she actually glad Charlie had shown up so unceremoniously in her life, the proverbial white knight coming to save the damsel in distress? Maybe that was exactly what she'd wanted all along—someone to just show up in her life and give a damn. How many hundreds of times had she prayed asking for that very thing before she'd given up? Or was she just romanticizing what was otherwise an absolutely ludicrous situation?

“I'm not sure I believe you,” Charlie said. His voice was soft.

Alice pressed her fingers to her nose, a sigh falling from her lips as she did. The New York skyline rose in the distance as they took the exit for Route 3 East. “Yeah, well, you should,” she replied.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked.

She looked at him again, trying to read something from that placid face of his. She hadn't been expecting that question, nor had she expected to see him so genuinely interested in her answer. At least, she thought he seemed interested. It's not like she was really any good at reading facial expressions, so maybe that was just her projecting things onto him. Those green eyes, though . . .

“I don't know. I really don't know what to make of you,” she said, shaking her head. The anger was gone, tamped down by the realization that maybe, just maybe, Charlie was being sincere. “If I'm glad of anything, it's that you weren't necessarily the last man to see me naked.”

Charlie's sigh arrived as the shallow exhale of a man knowing he couldn't win. “Have I mentioned that I wasn't looking? Because I wasn't looking.”

“Bullshit. And you're a married man, too. For shame, Charlie.”

“
Was
a married man,” he corrected. “Widower now.”

“Okay,
was
, fine, whatever. Either way, you should be ashamed of yourself. I thought eighteenth-century men were supposed to be gentlemen.”

“The very fact you're even considering the possibility that I'm not a gentleman suggests you don't know me well enough to draw that conclusion,” Charlie replied.

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, hombre.”

Maybe it really all was a dream, though it seemed increasingly unlikely. Even if it wasn't, was that a bad thing?