The Ferryman Institute (6 page)

“Good evening, gentlemen.” It was a male voice, not overly deep but certainly on the lower range of the spectrum. The words were crisply enunciated, to the point of being stern and emphatic,
like a military salute. Reluctantly, Charlie turned to face the speaker.

Inspector Javrouche stood a few inches shorter than Charlie, but with a posture that tried to compensate for it. There was no hint of facial hair on his clean-shaven face, nor could Charlie ever remember a time when there had been. The Inspector's brown eyes were sharp, piercing things whose focus constantly shifted around the room with a keenness that suggested a fair amount of practice at such a task. In contrast, an offhanded smirk never seemed far from his lips, a snarky grin perpetually living on the edge of a sneer. The combination made for an unsettling look, as if Inspector Javrouche always knew someone's darkest secret and couldn't wait to share it with the world. It was an arguably fitting air for the Institute's foremost police authority.

“Inspector,” Charlie replied, his expression completely blank. It was a talent Charlie had honed over the years for just such occasions, particularly given how lousy he generally was at masking his emotions. Dirkley merely nodded, trying his best to seem small and inconspicuous. For a man with Dirkley's disposition, it wasn't terribly difficult.

“Monsieur Dawson,” he said, his eyes narrowing in a barely perceptible movement. Both his French and English accents were flawless. “I see the rumors of the prodigal son's return were true, after all.”

“In the flesh,” Charlie said matter-of-factly, holding out his arms in a
here I am
gesture. “When are we going to slaughter the fatted calf to celebrate?”

“Unfortunately we're short on fatted calves at the moment. That, and there were concerns your ego wouldn't fit in any of our prospective venues, so right now it's tentatively scheduled for some time around never.”

Charlie scratched the back of his head. “That's exactly the sort of attitude that's going to make me think twice about inviting you.”

“Wonderful. That's exactly what I was hoping for,” Javrouche said. “And this whole time I thought you didn't actually listen to me. I'm flattered.”

“Well, I was going to invite you as our entertainment for the evening. I'm of the opinion you'd make an excellent piñata. I think a lot of people would enjoy the opportunity to whack you repeatedly with a stick. Very cathartic, you know?”

The Inspector allowed his smirk to crawl halfway across his face before it promptly died. “And I would very much enjoy seeing a certain problematic Ferryman chained to the bottom of an active volcano, but life is so often an exercise in managing one's disappointments, isn't it?”

“Mmm,” Charlie said, nodding as if he were present at an academic lecture. “Like how I find the fact you're still standing here massively disappointing.”

“Yes . . . I would think you know a thing or two about disappointment, but what person wouldn't if they had to live their life as you?” Javrouche edged slightly closer to Charlie and lowered his voice dramatically as he spoke. “You know what I find peculiar, Mssr. Dawson? When the Institute is in need of its so-called finest Ferryman, he can never be found. Isn't that bizarre? It's almost as if, for all the esteem he's held in, he's actually nothing more than a childish coward who runs when he's needed most.”

A sudden, impulsive urge raced up Charlie's spine right into his frontal cortex, which demanded that he punch Javrouche squarely in his throat. Fortunately (or unfortunately—Charlie couldn't quite decide which) he held himself back. It was obvious that the Inspector was trying to goad him into a reaction, and
Charlie so genuinely hated giving Javrouche what he wanted. Instead, he closed his eyes and slowly exhaled, forcing his mind to step away from the wave of anger that was now pulsing in his skull. After a brief pause, he opened them again.

“Why are you here, Inspector?” he asked. They weren't the words Charlie wanted to use, but he knew a pointless fight when he saw one. There was also the small matter of not rising to the Inspector's bait, which Charlie bet would annoy him to no end. It was a tiny victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Javrouche stood still, waiting to see if perhaps there was a delayed fuse on Charlie's reaction. But when nothing greater than a fervent stare materialized between the two of them, the Inspector wound down.

“Just dropping by to say hello, Mssr. Dawson. Occasionally I think you need a friendly reminder I exist.”

“I don't,” Charlie replied. “Trust me.”

A smile formed on Javrouche's lips. “Then you should act like it.”

Charlie gave his best plastic smile right on back. “Unfortunately, there's a limit to how much I can pretend I care what you think, Inspector. I'm only human, after all.”

“I won't argue with you there, Mssr. Dawson. I just find it a shame that the rest of this institution seems to think otherwise.”

Strange though it was, for once in their torrid relationship, Charlie found himself agreeing fully with the Inspector's sentiment. Not that he planned on telling Javrouche that—he had a feeling it would prove much too gratifying for the smug bastard.

Their verbal sparring now over, Javrouche produced from inside his jacket a serviceable, if clunky-looking, cell phone that he thrust at Charlie, who took it cautiously.

“Madame Johnson had a suspicion you had . . .
misplaced
, I believe was the word she used, your previous one. Hopefully, like your reputation, you will take better care of it this time.”

The senior officer of the Ferryman Institute then began to turn around but stopped, turned back slightly, and said, “Mssr. Dupine,” in Dirkley's general direction, then left.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

As the footsteps receded, the sounds of the room seemed to return in their place.

“Did I mishear,” Dirkley began slowly once Javrouche was well gone, “or did you just ask if you could beat the Inspector with a stick?”

Before Charlie could answer, he was cut off by a loud ring. It took a moment for him to realize it was the new phone Javrouche had just handed him. He tapped the screen.

“Charlie Dawson. How may I best direct your call?”

There was a pause on the other end before a familiar female voice spoke up. “I see your phone is magically working again.”

“Yes. The Inspector delivered it to me in person. He had a suspicion I might have”—he cleared his throat—“
misplaced
my old one.”

“How thoughtful of him. I wonder where he got that idea from. Maybe this one won't be thrown off a cliff as quickly as the last one was?”

Charlie smirked. “I have a feeling it won't.”

The other end was quiet again, though Charlie didn't find it hard to imagine why. Despite his occasionally vagabond nature, he still considered Melissa a friend, and this game they played wasn't much fun for either side. At least, that's what Charlie hoped.

“I guess I should apologize for sending the Inspector down there,” Melissa said. “You didn't deserve that, especially given the
history between you two. I was . . . Well, you just put me in a bad mood today. I'm sorry.”

“Stop,” Charlie said firmly into the phone. “You don't need to explain yourself or apologize. I'm the one in the wrong here.”

Melissa hesitated for a few beats. “That's good. I'm glad to hear it,” she said. “I just worry about you, that's all. I hope you can understand that. I can't shake this feeling that there's something you're not telling me . . . and as your manager, that makes me feel like I'm doing a shitty job. I hate that feeling even more than not knowing where you are, believe it or not.”

Gone was the raging Melissa of earlier, replaced with the levelheaded and grounded manager he'd come to know over the past few years. Despite their earlier exchange, he'd always carried a deep respect for his manager, even if he didn't always do a wonderful job showing it. Maybe it was because she'd stuck with him when so many others would have bailed in a huff. Charlie hadn't had much success with recent managers—few had lasted more than a year, even fewer two—yet here Melissa was into her fifth. It was a welcome change of pace.

“No, you're not. Don't even think that.” Charlie sighed, long and deep, as if he was trying to expunge the events that had transpired since his return to the Institute. “How about we forget all this for now and get some work done?”

“Sure. That's what I'm hoping. Is Dirkley all set down there?”

Charlie looked over at Dirkley, who was fiddling with his own headset. Two small clipboards sat patiently on the edge of their desk. “Yeah, he's ready to go,” Charlie said.

“Good. All right then, I'll leave you to it.” She paused again. “Good luck out there.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I'll be fine.”

“I know. You always are.” And with that, the other end of the
line went silent. Charlie took a moment to readjust his jacket and regain his composure, then walked over to the desk and picked up one of the clipboards.

“So?” Charlie looked up to find Dirkley staring at him.

“So . . . ?” Charlie replied.

“For one, are you okay?”

“I'm fine, but thank you for the concern.”

Dirkley raised an eyebrow. “For the life of me, I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not.”

“No, that wasn't sarcasm. It was a genuine thank-you.”

The navigator bobbed his head emphatically. “Right, right. I mean, obviously. Your sarcasm is just kind of difficult for me to pick up on occasionally.”

“I hadn't noticed,” Charlie replied.

“Really? I'm surprised to hear that. I feel like you have to clarify it often enough for me that you would have picked up on it by now.” It took a restrained effort on Charlie's part to not roll his eyes. “Anyway—ready to get on with it?”

Charlie took a quick glance at his watch. It was a little early still, but based on the day he was having, he was eager to be anywhere but there. He gave a thumbs-up to Dirkley, who gave one back. The navigator had adopted a look suggesting that he was listening intently to something over the radio.

While Dirkley was busy listening to the Institute chatter, Charlie discreetly set about opening the envelope he'd received from Ferryman Resources. As far as anyone knew, Charlie had risen to such an esteemed level that he had regular correspondence with the president. Though Charlie was happy to let that particular rumor procreate, it couldn't have been further from the truth. As far as Charlie knew, no employees communicated with the president, mainly because no one outside of his own office had met him.

It was just another one of the quirks of serving the Ferryman Institute that Charlie had long since gotten used to. The official line was that the president's identity was kept secret so as to protect him from unnecessary bias and pressure. It made sense when viewed in a certain light, and given that the Institute pretty much ran itself, Charlie suspected most employees didn't bother giving it much thought. After all, if someone was capable of accepting they'd become an immortal guide to the dead (and Charlie had long believed that the Institute only chose those who could), then it didn't exactly take an incredible effort to subscribe to the idea that the Ferryman Institute's president was an anonymous figure. Charlie didn't necessarily believe that was the whole truth, and, as was often the case with aspects of the Ferryman Institute, didn't particularly like it. However, as a recluse himself who didn't always color neatly inside the lines of the law yet wasn't punished for it, he didn't push his luck.

At least, he didn't push it on certain things. Charlie pulled the sheet of paper out of the envelope.

Ferryman Institute Form 439-B. Standard Ferryman Transfer Request.

It was the form any member of the Institute used to request either a change in position—say, from navigator to Ferryman, or Ferryman to manager—or an authorized discharge from the Institute. There was no set required term of service to request the latter, but conventional wisdom suggested that the Institute only started taking discharge requests seriously after an employee hit their third decade.

He scanned the form, reading the returned copy, which now contained the Office of the President's official response. The first bold section at the top read
Summary of Request
and, like its name
suggested, reiterated the important information from his original request for posterity's sake.

Employee requesting:
Formal termination of Ferryman contract.

It was the same thing he requested every time.

Years of service in role:
2.5 centuries. 25 decades. 250 years. A hell of a long time (technical term).

He thought the last bit was cute. Not that it mattered.

Reason for request:
Losing my fucking mind.

His eyes lingered there, just for a short time in reality that felt much longer in Charlie's head. He recognized those words for what they were: the first sign he was starting to get desperate. He'd never admitted those feelings to anyone, least of all in such dramatic terms, but he was starting to get the sense that things were coming to a head. It was the real reason why he disappeared so frequently despite the fact his managers threw enough guilt in his direction to make a Catholic weak in the knees. He hated that, too—disappointing anyone, let alone his managers—but if his choice was either a clear conscience or his sanity, it was going to be the latter every day and twice on Sunday.

There was also a difference—at least, in Charlie's mind—to admitting his concerns to some anonymous pencil pusher versus someone in his inner circle. He was too proud and stubborn to tell Melissa, or Dirkley, or even Cartwright about what was going on in his head. Rightly or wrongly, he was sure that if he spilled his guts, he'd eventually get forced over to mental services for a few months, maybe a couple years if it was that bad. Then the Institute
would start to miss his talent, so, as a matter of course, they'd prop him up, stamp him with a clean bill of health, give him the requisite
Good as new!
pep talk, slap him on the ass, and throw him back into the Ferryman wild.