The Ferryman Institute (44 page)

In complete contrast was the beautiful, golden-haired woman sitting clockwise from him. She was remarkably pale, like a porcelain doll, yet still perfectly vibrant. Her hair fell easily to the small of her back, gentle waves whispering throughout it. Wrapped around her neck was a brilliant necklace, its band ornate and delicate, while the massive red stone that hung from it seemed to burn with an inner flame.

And so it went around the table: a proud-looking man with a military posture; a rich, ebony-skinned man with an exuberant grin; a raven-haired woman with glowering eyes; a man with distinctly bronze skin who gave off an air of disinterest; and a hooded man hidden underneath a plain brown cloak.

The man sitting directly across from Charlie—the one with the sable skin—now addressed him. Charlie realized quickly from his baritone voice that he was the one who'd spoken earlier.

“Charles Ronald Dawson,” the man said, enunciating each part of Charlie's name. He initially said nothing after that, instead nodding his head gently as if he were continuously reaffirming Charlie's existence, then said, “I sincerely apologize for the circumstances you've had to deal with of late. Let me be the first to tell you that we never intended for things to turn out this way.” He
paused again for a brief moment, realizing he'd forgotten something. “But where are my manners? Please, sit,” he said, gesturing to two empty chairs.

Charlie considered it. For whatever reason, an animal instinct told him sitting there was dangerous. “I appreciate it,” he said, “but I think I'll stand.”

The man's expression never changed, but he slowly leaned forward. “Sit, Charlie,” he said in no uncertain terms.

Charlie sat. Cartwright took the chair next to him. With the pair now seated, the man continued.

“Before I go any further, I suppose some introductions are in order. My name is Charon. I am the original Ferryman, and this is my Institute. The men and women you see before you are undoubtedly the best of the best. The . . . legendary ones, if you will, and names I'm sure you've heard before.” Charon started by pointing at the man with the olive skin and ridiculous hair, then went around the circle, indicating names as he went. “Anubis. Freya. Michael. Morrigan. Sraosha. And Azrael. The first one I recruited, however—the man who helped found this wonderful organization—is sitting next to you, though I believe you've already picked up on that.”

Charlie took a peek over at Cartwright, who for once seemed almost unsure of what to do. He just sat there, staring off into space, failing to even acknowledge Charlie's gaze.

“Hi,” Charlie said. “You, uh, have a very nice room.” A variation on that line had worked with Alice. Actually, she'd shot him in the head after that. Charlie hadn't quite thought that one through.

“Thank you. Are you comfortable? We have quite a bit to discuss, so please, tell me if you're not.”

Charlie swept his eyes across the table, trying to judge facial expressions. He couldn't glean a single read from anyone. An old
poker proverb came to mind:
If you can't spot the sucker at the table, it's you.

“I'm great. Thank you,” Charlie said. He couldn't believe this was all happening.
Actually
happening.

“Fantastic. Has Virgil mentioned why you're here?” When Charlie shook his head, Charon said, “Because you've assembled quite the eventful service record, Charlie, and we thought it high time we all sit down and have a chat. So, then—let's talk about you.

“Two hundred fifty years ago, Virgil discovered you. Being in the Council doesn't preclude us from engaging in Ferryman activities, but we do it with discretion. Regardless, one thing we do not do is recruit new Ferrymen. Though it's not a formal prohibition, we leave that duty exclusively to the president. However, when Virgil returned with you in tow, he insisted there was something special about you. In fact, he was so sure about it that he voluntarily wagered his position on this Council to prove it. Thankfully, we don't have to discuss what would have happened should he have been wrong. Your record speaks for itself. You've been the longest-serving, most successful Ferryman this institution has seen in over a millennia. Needless to say, Virgil's decision was vindicated quite spectacularly.”

Charon paused. He tapped a gentle rhythm out on the table's surface, and said nothing for several seconds. Finally, he looked directly at Charlie. “However, about fifty years ago, Virgil came to us rather concerned. He was becoming increasingly convinced that, despite your aptitude for being a Ferryman, you hadn't acclimated to the, shall I say,
mental rigors
demanded by the position. There was some suspicion on his part that your condition had been deteriorating for several decades already, if not longer. He was particularly worried the constant death involved was getting to you . . . only you happened to be incredibly adept at hiding it. That time
frame coincides with a noticeable uptick in your nonresponsiveness to emergency assignments, as well as an increase in your decisions to leave the Institute's campus unannounced, so we never ruled it out. What do you say to that, Charlie?”

The question caught him a bit off guard. He hadn't imagined he was here to do a lot of talking, and on top of that, his mind was still frazzled from the events unfolding around him. Everything was happening so fast. Not even an hour ago, he'd been on the verge of a horrifying incarceration.

Charlie looked around the room. He knew the answer to that question but wasn't sure he wanted to be saying it in front of these people. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, opted for a shrug, and weakly said, “I don't know.”

The rest of the Council seemed to finally come to life. Looks were exchanged among themselves, though Cartwright maintained his stoic nonchalance. Charon, for his part, raised an eyebrow. “I see.” His finger once again resumed tapping on the table, his eyes suggesting he was deep in thought. Charlie waited patiently in silence. After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time, Charon touched a button on his holographic keyboard, then refolded his hands.

“Styx, open video marked
Dawson E7
,” Charon said to no one in particular. A soft chime echoed in response, seemingly out of thin air. Suddenly, a small rectangular video appeared on the table in front of Charlie as well as at every other station. Before the video could start playing, however, the military-looking man to Charon's right—Michael, if Charlie's memory served—balked.

“You can't be serious!” he barked, searching the faces of his colleagues around the table. “We can't show him this!”

“Though it pains me to say it, and though I would argue with his word choice, I agree with the spirit of Michael's objection.”
Charlie looked over at Cartwright, surprised to see him speaking.

Charon looked at both objectors yet stayed silent—a trait Charlie was noticing as a recurring theme with the man. “I disagree,” he finally said. “Given everything that's happened, I believe he's owed this. And Virgil, I imagine your objection is more personal than anything else. As such, your objections are noted but overruled. Styx, play video.” Another soft chime, and the image began to move.

It appeared to be a recording of a meeting, and as the video continued, it became increasingly obvious it was a meeting of the Ferryman Council. All eight of the Council members were there, plus a lone, empty chair positioned directly below the camera. Cartwright was standing up with both his hands on the table. His mouth was moving, but there was no sound coming out of it. As if hearing Charlie's thought, Charon said, “Styx, increase volume.” The chime again, and then Charlie could hear every word. He watched with rapt attention as the scene unfolded before his eyes.

“. . . ARE NOT ROBOTS
! They are not our
tools
! Why is this so hard to understand?” Cartwright backed away from the table, pacing between his chair and the open layout of the room behind it.

“Virgil,” Charon said flatly, “you need to calm down.”

Michael spoke up just as the last syllable left Charon's mouth. His voice was relaxed, but somber. “Perhaps not tools, but you're failing to recall that we exist solely to serve the mission. Where would humanity be without us? How many souls would be wandering the earth if not for our guidance? We have the data. You've seen it. We know how vital it is to keep the souls of the dead away from those of the living. Think of how destructive a single poltergeist
can be to a community. If not for Ferrymen, that number could be exponentially higher. The human race could very well cease to exist if not for the Institute.”

Cartwright stormed back to the table. “And what does that have to do with Charles?” His eyes darted around the circle. “Hmmm?”

The woman with the pale skin and the long blond hair, Freya, spoke up. Her voice was flavored with a slight Scandinavian accent. “I believe what Michael is trying to say is that we can't sacrifice the needs of the many for the sake of the few. Not that I doubt your assessment, Virgil, but aside from your claims, there is no other evidence to support your position.”

With a cry of exasperation, Cartwright threw his hands into the air. “Can you not hear yourselves speak! No evidence? What of his continued disappearances to avoid emergency duty? Or his transfer requests? Over six thousand requests to be allowed to retire, all rejected. How about my numerous reports of his blatant and repeated attempts at suicide? He's presently lying, alone, in the desert, and has been for nearly a
week
! Do you think he's out there working on his
bloody
tan? What should I say to him when I go meet him?
Chin up, old sport
? I shudder to even think how much I'm betraying his confidence by telling you all this, but you refuse to listen! What do I gain by fabricating this story? Please, enlighten me.”

Sraosha interjected. “Regardless, he's the best Ferryman we have. You've seen the numbers, Virgil. Ferryman performance has been down year after year after year. Our percentage of successful crossings has decreased by nearly five percent in the past century alone. Human skepticism continues to rise. It's little wonder Death is starting to invest in rival organizations. We've lost nearly thirty-five percent of the soldier demographic to the Sisters of Valhalla. I'm not condoning our behavior, but surely you can at
least acknowledge there's a certain pragmatism to all this. Dawson is the only thing keeping us from a free fall.”

“Your point?” Cartwright asked.

The remark set Michael into a fit of scoffing. “To even say that shows you're too close to this. You can't view this objectively anymore and you haven't been able to for some time. We can't afford to lose him. It's that simple. You know it as well as any of us here. He's too valuable an asset, and we need to make use of his expertise for as long as we can. If that's for less time than any of us would like, then so be it. If our performance doesn't improve, we could be looking at losing seats on this Council. Just as Death giveth, Death taketh away. Or have you conveniently forgotten that, cofounder?” The last word he carved out of spite.

“Damn your bloody seat straight to hell!” Cartwright yelled, his voice rising in a righteous crescendo. “If that's what it means, then take mine and be done with it! Is that all you care about? Forget our performance numbers, forget Death, forget this godforsaken Council—Charles is my friend and we're killing him!” He slammed his hands on the table in indignant fury.

“Enough, Virgil!” Charon's voice roared back in equal measure. Everyone at the table went silent, including Cartwright, who was standing just off to the side. He stopped his pacing, but glared across at his fellow Council member. “That is enough.” Charon exhaled sharply, then picked up a dossier that was sitting in front of him. He paged through it lazily, making it perfectly clear his attention wasn't on the documents in front of him. He tossed it back on the table. “Freya brings up a valid point. If his mental state is deteriorating like you say it is, why hasn't he shared it with anyone? Why not his team? Why not you? Why hasn't he sought help?”

Cartwright circled the table, fingers pinching the bridge of his
nose. “Because,” he began wearily, “that's exactly the type of person he is. He's too proud to say anything, too aware of how people look up to him. And I would argue his transfer requests
are
a cry for help. Yes, yes, I know what the rules are,” he said, waving off Michael. “I understand they are to be treated as anonymous. But not a
single
failed case in two hundred and fifty years. Good heavens, Charon . . . you've heard how reverently other Ferrymen speak of him. They adore him. It's just not in his capacity to openly betray that. Think of his misstep with Javrouche's son years ago—it nearly killed him. Why do you think he's almost completely removed himself from doing emergency cases? The man is simply incapable of saying no and it's eating him alive.”

Anubis turned to face Cartwright. “How sure of this are you?” he asked.

Cartwright sighed. “I would stake everything on it.” He paused, letting the gravity of the statement fill the room before continuing. “If we don't do something, we're going to lose him. Though I feel sick even saying this, I have a firm belief that, should this continue, he is going to make a grave mistake, unintentionally or otherwise. I am as sure about that as I was sure that he would become one of the Institute's greatest assets, and my wager is the same now as it was then.”

Looks were exchanged around the room as Cartwright took his seat, though he still seemed far from calm. The woman with the dark black hair next to Charon, Morrigan, spoke. “Well, I for one am not about to question your judgment. You've been right about him so far. What do you propose?”