The Ferryman

by Christopher Golden

  With the headlights off, Kindzierski could make out the vehicle. It was a brand-new powder blue Lexus, just like the one Ruth Vale had been driving when she disappeared.

  Get in the car, he chided himself. Watch from the fucking car.

  But he couldn’t look away. The doors on Ruth Vale’s car opened, and three men stepped out. Even from that distance, Kindzierksi suspected he knew who they all were.The driver was a black-haired kid, maybe eighteen, who perfectly matched Bairstow’s description of the driver who had forced him off the road. The guy in the passenger seat was much older, late sixties at least. The old guy had white hair and a beard, but he didn’t look a damn thing like Santa unless Santa had slimmed down and was seriously pissed off. He matched the eyewitness description of the man who murdered Spencer Hahn behind the wheel of his car in a Cambridge parking lot.

  Riveted to the pavement, Kindzierski stared openly at them, almost guaranteeing that they would see him. In his mind, he scrambled frantically to put the pieces together, to try to figure out what the hell these people were doing at Bairstow’s house, if it meant Bairstow was involved, or in trouble. But neither his astonishment nor his confusion accounted for the way he abandoned all common sense, not to mention his training as a police officer, and just stood there out in the open.

  No, his seeming paralysis, the shutdown of the part of his brain that dictated logic and self-preservation, could be attributed to the third guy, the one who climbed out of the backseat and followed the other two across the driveway and the front lawn toward Bairstow’s front door, none of them sparing even a glance for the linebacker-sized middle-aged cop in the leather jacket who stood staring at them sixty yards away.

  The third guy was Spencer Hahn.

  But Spencer-fucking-Hahn was dead, his throat slit by the white-bearded guy with whom he now seemed pretty damned chummy.

  “Holy shit,” Kindzierski whispered.

  The sound of his own voice was the catalyst he needed. The astonishment that had frozen him shattered and he could move. A minivan came down the street from the other direction and with it the world came back to life. A door slammed somewhere nearby, and in the Federal Colonial his car was parked across from, the radio began to blare, much too loud.

  Kindzierski hurried across the street again, picking up speed as the three men went up the front steps of David Bairstow’s house. The other two hung back as if intimidated by the old man, who rapped angrily on the door. As he jogged faster, Kindzierski reached into his back pocket for the small leather wallet that held his badge.Almost unconsciously, he reached inside his jacket and unsnapped the tiny strap over his gun. He had always thought it strange how, with the strap on, he could forget all about the gun.Yet with it unsnapped, the sensation of danger emanated from the weapon all through him.

  The old man knocked harder now, impatient. The other two grinned at each other. Kindzierski’s gaze was drawn again and again to Spencer Hahn. Someone in Cambridge P.D., never mind the M.E.’s office, had seriously screwed up.

  No one in the house seemed to be responding to the knocking. The old man raised his fist a third time, but by then, Kindzierski had reached the edge of Bairstow’s lawn, maybe forty feet away from them. He slowed to a walk, took two long breaths.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. Can I help you with something?” the detective asked. He hung his badge out for them to see as he walked across the grass.

  Hahn and the kid glanced up at the old man, who rolled his eyes as though he found Kindzierski’s arrival tiresome.

  “Get rid of him,” the old man said.

  Kindzierski frowned, but before he could even respond, Hahn and the kid started down the steps toward him.

  “You picked a bad time to get curious, Officer. The wrong place. The wrong time,” Spencer Hahn said.

  There was something off about his voice, something bizarre. Like a ventriloquist drinking a glass of water while the dummy talked. But the observation had no time to take root in Kindzierski’s brain. The two of them strode toward him with malice gleaming in their eyes.

  The detective felt the ominous weight of his gun. He reached up and drew it with a speed he knew surprised anyone who saw him do it. These guys didn’t even blink.

  He leveled the gun at Hahn. “Not another step.”

  Hahn laughed as he swung a roundhouse punch. Kindzierski saw it coming, tried to dodge, but Hahn was faster than he looked. The blow rattled Kindzierski’s cage, sent the cop sprawling back on his ass on the sidewalk. But even on the way down, Kindzierski controlled the fall, kept his gun firmly in his grip. His teeth clacked together as he landed and a scowl split his features. Both hands on his weapon now, Kindzierski steadied the gun, its barrel ticking back and forth from Hahn to the gleefully grinning teenager who accompanied him.

  Nearby, he could still hear the old man pounding on the front door of Bairstow’s house. “Let me in, goddamn it! This is my house, you little shit!”

  Kindzierski cocked the pistol, aimed at Hahn again. “I’m almost happy you did that,” he said in a growl. “Take one more step and I will put a hole in your left shoulder.”

  “Boo!” Hahn whispered, both hands up as though it were a play-ground taunt. He took a small, almost dainty step toward the detective.

  Kindzierski shot him in the left shoulder.The bullet slammed into Hahn, spun him halfway around. It should have dropped him. Even the kid stared at Hahn in disbelief as the man turned once again to Kindzierski, still grinning.

  There was no wound on him, not even a hole in his jacket where the bullet had punched through.

  “That was unique,” Hahn said, fascination in his voice.

  “Cool,” the kid mumbled, staring at his associate. “Do it again.”

  Slowly, the two men turned their malevolent gazes upon Kindzierski again. The detective blinked several times in astonishment, but he was no fool. Hahn had no more than begun to step closer when Kindzierski fired again, this time into the man’s leg. Something wet sprayed from the entry wound ... and then the wound was gone. The bullet had been swallowed up instantly.

  Kindzierski shot Hahn dead center in the chest, then through the forehead.

  Hahn only laughed.

  The detective’s eyes were wide but he was numb all over. Part of him, the part that would have tried to make sense of the world despite the circumstances, seemed to have shut down entirely.Through the numbness, though, his fear remained.When Hahn reached out to grab him by the hair, Kindzierski closed his eyes like a small boy trying not to see the face at the window, to imagine away the thing under the bed.

  Spencer Hahn was a dead man. Of course he could not be killed again. Gary Kindzierski had never backed down from a fight in his life. But this was not a fight. It was a visit from the bogeyman.

  Kindzierski bit his lip, kept his eyes pinned shut, and silently prayed they would just go away. There were more bullets in his gun but he no longer had the strength to lift it. Then the decision was taken from him; the gun was torn from his hand. The detective’s eyes snapped open just in time for him to see Hahn point the gun at him.

  This isn’t happening, Kindzierski vowed to himself.

  His denial was not strong enough to stop the bullet. It went through his right eye and blew out the back of his skull.

  Normal.

  David meandered about his kitchen, searching cabinets for something to snack on. He had put a kettle of water on the stove, though he was still uncertain if its destiny was to become tea or hot chocolate. Father Charles had wandered off into the house, upstairs to his room perhaps. Annette sat hunched over the kitchen table, chin resting on her crossed arms, and watched David’s quest.

  There was something pitiful about it, he thought, this attempt of theirs to pretend this was all normal. The four of them, here in the house, with all the doors and windows locked up tight, behaving as though hiding out this way were perfectly reasonable.

  But the alternative was panic, and that wouldn’t do them any good. If there wa
s a way to combat this thing, Father Charles would find it. David believed that, and he also believed that when morning came, it would help to give them all a new perspective. David had no idea why he believed that. After all, morning was a long way off, and even then, there was no reason to think the Ferryman was any less powerful.

  But we won’t be as afraid, he told himself. The dark makes us like children.

  With a sigh, he leaned against the counter and stared at the contents of the open cabinet above the microwave. “What do you think?” he asked Annette. “Oreos or Pepperidge Farm goldfish?”

  “Wow, talk about options,” Annette replied, feigning boredom.

  David smiled wanly as he drew the package of Oreo cookies down from the cabinet.

  Far, far upstairs, Janine screamed.

  For a moment, David and Annette both seemed to hold their breath. He glanced at her, paralyzed for what could only have been a single heartbeat but seemed like so much longer. Then David raced from the room, the bag of Oreos dropping from his hand, splitting, spilling cookies and crumbs all over the tile. Annette was behind him by three or four paces, no more.

  Hand on the railing, David took the steps two at a time. On the second-floor landing he saw Father Charles heading for the stairs to the third story. There was a grim expression on the priest’s face that he envied, as though the clergyman had received a call to arms in a battle he had been waiting his entire life to fight.

  David felt only fear. For Janine. For himself. Fear that all the madness that had been lurking in the shadows about them these past weeks had finally overcome them all.

  They hurried up to the third floor, where Janine sat against one wall, hands in her lap, tears streaming down her expressionless face. David rushed past Father Charles and went to kneel by her.

  “Janine. What happened? Was he here?”

  Her lips pressed together as though she feared the words that might come out. One hand fluttered at the air, then came to rest over her mouth. Whatever had caused her scream, in that moment, it held such power over her that she could not speak of it.

  “There’s nothing here now,” Annette said softly.

  David sensed her behind him, was comforted by that presence. He knew that he had to be strong for Janine right now, but he did not know if he could have done that without Annette there to help him, to share his fear and his love for her.

  He turned to face Annette, his hands resting gently on Janine’s legs. “The other rooms?”

  Father Charles started up the steps to the turret room. “No need. She was staring up here. Whatever was—”

  The priest paused just inside the room and his words simply stopped coming. David felt too warm, suddenly, and damp.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Father Charles came down from the turret and sat on the steps facing them. He gazed gently at Janine for a long moment before glancing at David again.

  “There’s a dead woman up there. She appears to have drowned.”

  “Drowned?” Annette replied, almost angrily. “How could ...”

  Her words trailed off as Father Charles and David both turned toward her. Annette cursed under her breath, looked as though she might say something more, and then hugged herself and moved to lean against the wall.

  “Your mother?” the priest asked Janine.

  She nodded, still mute. Then her eyes widened a bit and she shook her head. “Why?” she finally said. “I mean ... why put her here?”

  David reached out and touched her arm. “God, Janine, I’m sorry.” She slid into his arms and he held her there. Her tears began again, but she did not sob. Rather, she stared past him at the entrance to the turret room and wept silently. David could think of nothing to do except hang on. He turned to glance at Father Charles, but could not keep from staring past the priest, up into the darkened turret room.

  “This isn’t our world,” he whispered, uncertain where the words had even come from.

  Father Charles started. “What do you mean, David?”

  He shrugged, released Janine, began to stroke her hair. Then he looked around at the others. “I don’t know. I mean, listen to us. We’re not questioning how Ruth died, or how a drowned woman ends up four stories off the ground.We’ve come so far from what we’ve always known to be true ... it’s like he’s blurring the lines, pulling us into this gray place, like a no-man’s-land between everything we’ve ever known and this netherworld where he exists, where he has power.”

  “It’s his place,” Father Charles agreed, his voice cold with certainty. “Between this world and the next, the physical plane and the spiritual, that’s where the river flows.The river Styx.”

  “But this isn’t the goddamn river!” Janine shouted abruptly, snapping off each word.“This is real, earth and stone and wood and ... and flesh and blood. Our world. He doesn’t even belong here!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, David saw Annette stiffen. He glanced at her and saw alarm on her face. A deep frown on her forehead that almost erased the sweet, elflike cast of her features, she turned to gaze down the stairs toward the second floor.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  David only looked from Annette to Father Charles and back again, though his ears were now attuned, listening for any unusual noise. They all waited as though listening to the ticking of a clock.

  “I didn’t hear a thing,” the priest said.

  His words were followed by a distant, muffled thumping from below. Someone was banging on the front door. They all stared at each other, none of them wanting to move.

  David stood abruptly, glanced at Annette, and a wordless communication passed between them. She moved to stay by Janine’s side as David ran up into the turret room. Father Charles stood aside to let him pass, then followed him up. To one side, Ruth Vale’s waterlogged corpse slumped, eyes open and staring. Her mouth gaped, but within her distended lips there was a darkness deep enough that David had to force himself to look away from it.Water still dripped from her clothes and a stain had begun to spread across the floor.

  He shook himself. Decisions about Ruth Vale’s corpse were for later. Father Charles stood just behind him as David leaned over and peered out the window into the yard below. The first thing he saw was Detective Kindzierski. Then a couple of dark figures trotted toward him from the front of the house, where David could not see. One of them, he was sure, was Steve Themeli. They menaced Kindzierski, who drew his gun.

  For just a second, the other man glanced up enough that the dim glow of streetlights lit his face.

  “Jesus,” David muttered. He glanced over at Father Charles. “That’s Spencer Hahn.”

  “Apparently Charon is still recruiting,” the priest said dryly.

  Something in David’s stomach rolled over, and he stepped back from the window. He had been unable to see the front step, to see whomever was pounding on the door, but he knew who it was. Grandpa Edgar and Steve Themeli and Spencer Hahn were dead ... They were creatures of water now, lost souls crafted into undead things by Charon’s power. Just like Maggie.

  But Maggie wasn’t there. He did not know what to make of that.

  A gunshot split the night outside the house.

  David swore again and stumbled back out of the turret room, ignoring Ruth’s corpse now. Father Charles followed quickly.

  “Wait,” the priest said.

  The two men faced one another, a kind of electric circuit locking them together. Another gunshot echoed outside, and then another.

  “You can’t help him,” Father Charles said. “Not without letting them in.”

  “You’re a priest, Hugh!” David snapped. “You can’t just leave him out there!”

  Father Charles did not waver even the slightest bit. “If I thought we could save him, I’d risk all our lives. You know that, David.”

  A fourth gunshot, this one dull, somehow distant.

  Janine’s tears were gone, and a kind of cold determination was etched upon her face when she ste
pped between them.

  “He’s right, David,” she said. “Right now, the only thing we can do is try to keep them out. Keep Charon out until we can figure out how to destroy him.”

  “We haven’t got the first fucking clue how to even fight him, never mind destroy him!” David snapped. He looked to Annette, trying to find someone who would listen to reason. “We’re screwed if any of them get into the house. Unless someone feels like jumping out a second- or third-story window and trying to make a run for it.”

  “Not very likely,” Father Charles said.

  David bit his lip a second, then threw up his hands. “Shit!” he cried as he turned and started down toward the second floor. “Father, stay here with Janine. You’re the only one with half a chance. Annette, help me!”

  As though she could fly, she was suddenly behind him, crowding him as he hustled down. Ten steps from the first floor, they could hear the voice of David’s grandfather roaring outside the door. It rattled on its hinges as he pounded furiously upon it, crying out vile, belittling slurs against his grandson between every blow.

  At the bottom of the steps, David paused, the fear suddenly bounding out of the jungle of his mind with a ferocity he had never before experienced. It drove the breath out of him, made his knees weak, made him flinch with each thump against the door.

  Wood splintered. The door frame.

  Somewhere on the side of the house, a window shattered.

  “They’re coming in,” Annette whispered at his side. “What do we do, David? They’re coming in.”

  Her fingers twined with his, but David was frozen.

  Janine stood in the third-floor hall, staring at the gloomy stairwell where David and Annette had disappeared only a moment before. With a long, deep breath, she turned to face Father Charles. His auburn hair was graying, his face a bit too fleshy, and yet those seeming concessions to age did nothing to undermine the strength that she had always seen in this man. He was unsettled, yes. Afraid, but he’d be a fool not to be. But his eyes were strong and he held himself with a power given him by his faith.