The Ferryman Institute (19 page)

At least two dozen men clad in body armor had surrounded his work area. Four of those men, possibly more, were holding capture rifles—weapons specifically designed by the Institute to detain employees who had wandered outside the bounds of good behavior. Capture rifles, like their smaller Taser cousins, were specially designed to interrupt the electric signals that power the human body's motor system, but at a much higher amplitude and for a much longer period. It was the first time Charlie had seen
them in person, and frankly, he preferred the immediate past where he hadn't.

“Thank you. Did I forget my birthday again? You know how awful I am with dates,” Charlie said. Though his typically understated sarcasm sounded intact, his shifting eyes betrayed the gnawing unease in the back of his mind. Something told him the timing of Javrouche's appearance wasn't a coincidence, and that didn't bode well for his future.

The corners of Javrouche's lips twisted at Charlie's response. “Close. This is actually your surprise going-away party. I thought it appropriate, seeing as you're going to be gone for a very long time, Mssr. Dawson, and I wouldn't want to send you off without a proper gathering first. Still no fatted calf, though, I'm afraid.” He turned around and motioned to one of the armored personnel standing nearby. “Could you find Koroviev for me and tell him Mssr. Dawson has returned?”

A few seconds later, a young man arrived and stood next to the Inspector. Charlie recognized him as Begemot Koroviev, Javrouche's long-standing lieutenant. A calm, if disinterested face sat upon his shoulders. His hair was short and bristly, not dissimilar in consistency or color to a black cat's fur, while his eyes, though keen, seemed perpetually half lidded. He and Charlie hadn't interacted much over the years, but his position as the Inspector's right-hand man made him guilty by association as far as Charlie was concerned.

With his second-in-command now present, Javrouche once again turned his attention to Charlie, who was busy fighting back an overwhelming urge to pummel the Inspector's pompous face in.

“Well, now that we're all here, why don't we get started?” The Inspector straightened his stance, his authoritative voice rising
triumphantly as he spoke. “Charles Ronald Dawson, Ferryman Number 72514—I hereby place you under arrest for multiple violations of the code held as law by the Ferryman Institute.”

It wasn't news to Charlie that Javrouche had it in for him. However, the cadre of guards—he assumed it was the detention unit, or at least part of it—and the formal charges? That in itself was worrying, but it was Javrouche's overwhelmingly self-satisfied attitude that put Charlie especially on edge.

Despite his reservations, Charlie tried his best not to show them. He held up his hands in his best mea culpa and said, “All right, I admit it. I shouldn't have suggested I wanted to kill you. I sincerely apologize. There's just something about your face that instills homicidal urges in me.”

Javrouche didn't rise to the comment, and Charlie knew then, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that something was terribly, horribly wrong.

“Keep digging that hole of yours, Mssr. Dawson. He who sows the wind reaps the whirlwind.”

Charlie's mind immediately kicked into overdrive, simultaneously trying to figure out a way to stall the conversation while attempting to discern what the Inspector knew. He had a bad feeling the answer was
too much
.

“Fine. No more jokes. What am I being charged with?”

“Koroviev, if you'll do the honors,” Javrouche said.

Koroviev cleared his throat, then began in a slight Russian accent. “The first: two counts of removal of one's Ferryman Key during the course of an assignment. The second: two counts of revealing sensitive information to unauthorized Institute personnel.”

Bewildered, Charlie tried to interrupt—“What are you talking about?” he cried—but Koroviev continued.

“The third: one count of deliberating sabotaging an assignment
to prevent the designated death of the subject. This charge qualifies as treason and is therefore punishable with admission to Purgatory.”

Purgatory? Did he really just say
Purgatory
? That was bad. Very bad.

Charlie could practically feel the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream. “I said,
what are you talking about?!
” He advanced a step from the door. In immediate response, the guards standing at ease behind the Inspector snapped into a ready position. Several capture rifles were now pointed directly at Charlie. He held his ground, half in, half out of the Ferryman Door.

“Mssr. Dawson, you insult me,” Javrouche said. “You have no idea what we're talking about? I doubt that. Just admit it and save us all some trouble.”

It was taking a Herculean amount of restraint on Charlie's part, but he remained still. “Bullshit,” he growled.

It was a trap.

The Inspector reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone. He pushed a button, then held it high in the air. A recording started playing.

“
But that's the problem, Cartwright. I did exactly what Javrouche thinks I did, though not as deliberately as he seems to think. I
did
break the cardinal rule.
”

Charlie's voice was unmistakable even through the poor quality and crappy acoustics of the control room. He knew right away that the jig was up. Checkmate, game over, thanks for playing, we have a great parting gift for you. Javrouche
really
had something this time, and there was nothing Charlie could do to stop it. But how was that possible? And if they had him saying that . . .

Javrouche pressed a button on the phone and the recording
went silent. “Should I continue? I'm willing to bet you know what comes next.”

Charlie refused to answer. His mind was reeling, trying to slow things down. Javrouche, however, was clearly aiming for the opposite. He had Charlie on the ropes and he knew it.

“No witty comebacks for us?”

Charlie again said nothing.

“Ah, Mssr. Dawson, your silence speaks volumes. Very well, next question. Answer carefully now, as you're failing rather woefully at the moment. Who is William Henry Taylor Cartwright the Fourth?”

“Where did you get that recording?” Charlie asked instead. He was suddenly finding it difficult to stay silent. His breath was coming in long pulls.

“Me first. Who is Cartwright?”

His mind whirling, Charlie struggled to come up with the answer to what was a simple question. “He's my mentor,” Charlie finally said. “He's a former Ferryman, now doing office work. We've known each other since I first started here.”

“Interesting. Did you know, Mssr. Dawson, that there is no record of a William Henry Taylor Cartwright—the Fourth or otherwise—ever having worked for the Ferryman Institute? In fact, there is no record of anyone with the surname Cartwright having served here, period. I don't want to sound alarmist, but it would almost seem as if that person doesn't exist.”

The world seemed to swim in front of Charlie. What the hell was Javrouche talking about? Of
course
Cartwright existed—they met all the time. He was Charlie's only confidant. What was being proposed right now . . . “That's impossible.”

“Wrong again, Mssr. Dawson. Impossible is you treating your position and this Institute with any amount of respect. Possible—
and very real, I should add—is you revealing Institute secrets to a man with no association to the Ferryman Institute whatsoever.”

Charlie blinked a few times, just to make sure that yes, this was reality. “You can't be serious.”

“I have every reason to believe this Cartwright to be a spy for a rival organization. Though I can't prove it just yet, I imagine I'll be able to soon enough. So what does that mean for you? Apparently you've divulged an unquantifiable amount of our secrets to an outside party—secrets you were sworn to protect. That, Mssr. Dawson, is very, very bad. And how unknowingly you revealed that information is also a matter of considerable debate.”

This was all a mistake. It had to be. Cartwright, a spy? Ridiculous—the man pretty much embodied everything the Institute stood for.

Yet, as absurd as the idea sounded, it gave Charlie some doubt to chew on. While espionage wasn't exactly a common occurrence, he hadn't forgotten the havoc caused by the Zoroastrian debacle of 1833. Needless to say, there'd been a spy or two involved there, and it had almost led to the end of humanity as everyone knew it.

Cross-organization spying had only arrived recently (relatively, anyway) to the world of the Ferryman Institute, mostly because the Institute had been the sole proprietor of soul-to-afterlife guidance for the majority of humanity's existence. There was no one else
to
spy on them. For millennia, the number of people dying and the number of cases the Institute pulled in were one and the same. At some point, however, the numbers stopped going hand in hand; more humans were dying than the Institute was handling.

Apparently, Death had started outsourcing.

The Institute had made contact with a few groups over the years, like the Sisters of Valhalla or the recently met and altogether
screw-loose People's Temple, but others were out there. Similar to Ferrymen and their keys, each group had its own methods of crossing people over to the afterlife—the Sisters rode their souls away on horseback, for example. Though it was impossible for a Ferryman to outright switch allegiances to a rival FILO (Ferryman Institute–Like Organization), as they were called, that didn't necessary preclude a rogue employee from passing over valuable information. However, these organizations were small. In fact, most Ferrymen would go their entire service without running into a member of one.

So it was less the FILO numbers that frightened parts of the Institute's workforce and more their simple existence. No one at the Institute understood why Death had recruited more groups to do the Ferryman Institute's job, and anyone who claimed they did was full of more shit than a constipated hippo, but there it was—competition for the soul market. Why did Death need those other outfits? Did that mean Death was unhappy with the Institute's performance? Was Death trying to phase out the Institute? If the Ferryman Institute disappeared, then so did its employees—or so went the conventional wisdom among the ranks—and most employees wanted no part of being disappeared. Anything outside of diplomatic contact with a FILO during an assignment was strictly forbidden by the Ferryman Institute

And if Javrouche was to be believed, Charlie was doing just that.

Charlie continued mounting a defense, but the ramparts were quickly being overrun. “But Cartwright brought me to the Institute . . . he's the reason I'm here!”

“Interesting you mention that.” Javrouche held up a file for Charlie to see. “I was able to procure your official record from the Office of the President. I'm sure you could imagine my disbelief
when I found the information detailing your recruitment was missing. Isn't it strange how you claim to have been brought here by a man we don't believe to exist and, even stranger, you can't prove he did?”

Charlie stood rooted to the ground, his mouth hanging open like a feeding whale.
What the hell is going on here?
he thought.

“How did you get that file?! Those files are never supposed to leave the main office of records!”

Javrouche appeared just as surprised as Charlie to find Melissa yelling at the Inspector, but there she was, storming the perimeter in her heels, Dirkley following dutifully in tow. Charlie was well versed in Melissa's knowledge of the Institute's more obscure rules—for whatever reason, that was her God-given talent as a manager—but he was rather shocked she was so willingly putting herself in the line of fire.

“Good evening, Mme. Johnson,” Javrouche said as she strode directly to him. Though the guards near him shifted into more ready positions at her arrival, Javrouche signaled for them to stand down. “I was just explaining to your Ferryman the numerous reasons why we're arresting him.”

Melissa's eyes went wide. “You're doing
what
!?”

“Arresting him.” Javrouche sighed. “Does anyone on this team listen to me?”

When Melissa moved to speak again, Koroviev clamped his hand over her mouth. She initially struggled, but gave up after he whispered something in her ear. Given the expression on her face, Charlie imagined it couldn't have been pleasant.

“Thank you, Koroviev. Now, if all that weren't enough, we've been monitoring your most recent assignment. One with a Mademoiselle”—he consulted a separate report—“Alice Spiegel.” The Inspector shook his head. “Words fail me, Mssr. Dawson. To deliberately
intervene and prevent the death of your assignment . . . I consider myself your harshest critic, and even
I
never figured you capable of something like this.”

The word
how
circled around inside Charlie's head. He wrestled with it briefly, letting go only when he finally convinced himself that, right then and there, it didn't matter. He needed to stand his ground, at least get a foothold back into this conversation. For the moment,
how
was irrelevant.

“I had orders from the president himself,” Charlie said.

Javrouche shook his head. “You expect me to believe that the highest authority here, whose primary purpose is to lead the souls of the dead—emphasis on
dead
—to the afterlife, ordered you to save the life of a random girl?”

“I wasn't ordered, but given a choice. I have proof,” Charlie said. The assignment letter might not be bulletproof evidence, but with the presidential seal, it would hopefully be enough to at least raise reasonable doubts about his present circumstances. Charlie reached into his jacket, but it occurred to him rather quickly that he had a problem. Namely, the problem of nothing being where the letter should have been.