by Colin Gigl
“Agitated?”
“I was thinking more like exasperated, but that works. Maybe because of something that happened earlier? Like, say, when I wasn’t in the room . . . ?”
“Beats me,” Charlie replied while walking toward the door, his navigator following closely behind.
Dirkley scoffed, “Come on, Charlie. What the heck happened? The tension in there was so thick, I’m not sure how either of you could breathe.”
“I guess it’s a good thing we don’t need to, then. Ba-dum-chi.” He smiled. “Ferryman jokes never get old. And look at that—another great one without even trying. I’m on fire.”
Dirkley frowned. “You’re avoiding the question,” he said.
This, Charlie knew, was very true, mainly because that’s exactly what he was doing. Truth be told, his most recent interaction with his manager was bothering him something fierce. Melissa had seemed more agitated (or was it exasperated?) than she usually did after one of Charlie’s vanishing acts. Much more, actually. That not only made him feel much guiltier, but also concerned him quite a bit. So, in a word, yes, he was casually trying to avoid the topic. Unfortunately, Dirkley was never one to accurately judge a moment, so the odds of Charlie escaping without giving a straight answer were somewhere down around zero.
“How about I put it this way,” Charlie said. “What do you think happened?”
A look of focused thought consumed Dirkley’s face, his head bobbing from side to side ever so slightly as they walked. “Well, it could have been any number of things. Improperly filling out your SPT report for one, or maybe the Bradley case—”
“You can stop giving me the benefit of the doubt, Dirkley,” Charlie interrupted.
The navigator was silent for a moment, and then said: “You disappeared again, didn’t you.”
Charlie simply smiled and continued on.
“Charlie, why do this to yourself? Why make her miserable? Heck, why make yourself miserable? You try and hide it, but, I mean . . . Look, we’ve been together long enough, and no offense here, but you’re not exactly a hard person to read.”
They were about halfway down the hall when they arrived at a pair of double doors and stopped. While the other doors that lined the passage were single wooden affairs, the ones they now stood in front of were composed of thick glass with a horizontal gray stripe drawn across them. The words Ferryman Resources were etched neatly above the stripe, with each door taking possession of one word.
“No offense taken,” Charlie said. He grabbed the handle on the door marked Ferryman and pulled it open. “Don’t think too much about it. I need that enormous, insightful brain of yours worrying about things that actually matter.”
“You say that, but—”
Charlie looked over his shoulder. “Please. Not today, Dirkley.” He appreciated Dirkley’s concern—he really did—but there were times his consideration only made Charlie feel that much worse.
Dirkley’s eyes suddenly seemed glued to the carpet. “Yeah . . . sure. No problem . . .” His voice trailed off.
The two men entered the obnoxiously fluorescent wonderland that demarcated the office of Ferryman Resources. From the doors, the room quickly opened into a small waiting area outfitted with at least a dozen comfortable-looking chairs, not entirely unlike a doctor’s office. Across from the entrance, a long counter ran along the length of the entire room. A short young woman sat typing behind the counter, a small nameplate resting off to her right. Dirkley hung back by the doors.
As Charlie approached the counter, the woman looked up, her facial features arranged into a rather perfect secretarial smile. He couldn’t tell if she was actually happy to see him or if she’d just been trained to smile like that by rote.
“Good evening, Mr. Dawson. How are you?” she asked.
Shitty, thanks for asking. “Good,” he replied, smiling blithely but feeling none of it, “and yourself?”
“I’m doing great.” She pushed herself away from the computer hidden behind the counter, scooting off to her left on her wheeled chair. She set about sifting through a stack of large white envelopes until she found the one she was looking for. “Here you go,” she said, offering him the envelope.
Charlie took it from her hand, making a show of studying the large stamp at the top. Not that he needed to—the stamp hadn’t changed even marginally in all the decades he’d been regularly receiving them: Office of the President of the Ferryman Institute: SENSITIVE INFORMATION.
He held it up. “Great. Thank you.”
The secretary maintained her smile. “Of course. Enjoy the rest of your night!”
Charlie fixed his own smile in place, as if to say he’d do exactly that, when he knew he’d do anything but.
“Get what you needed?” Dirkley asked as he fell into step beside Charlie on their way out.
Charlie gave a weak shrug. “Something like that.”
They walked the rest of the hall in silence, continuing straight until they reached its end. There, Charlie opened the doors to the heart of the Ferryman Institute.
The hustle and bustle of the control room couldn’t have proved a greater contrast to Charlie’s time in the desert. People quickly bounded by, some furiously talking on headsets as they marched along, others simply plodding about with their heads down. The room itself was massive—it could easily fit fifteen or sixteen commercial airplanes, twice that number if they were stacked one on top of the other—and needed practically a small city’s worth of people to fill it. To the left, the area rose gradually to a raised command area that, at its highest, was about twenty feet above the ground floor. To Charlie’s right, thousands upon thousands of desks were strewn about, no two quite exactly the same.
Charlie and Dirkley casually weaved their way through the throngs of people, all in various states of activity. In front of each desk, a little square section was marked out on the floor. With a steady regularity, men and women materialized into those squares in the exact same fashion Charlie and Cartwright had in the desert. Other men and women sat at the desks, writing or typing away. Most stopped what they were doing to acknowledge Charlie as he walked by, and he tried his best to do the same. The main difference between the two interactions was that they all knew who he was, while, almost to a person, he hadn’t the faintest idea who any of them were.
After spending upward of five minutes winding his way through people and pleasantries, Charlie arrived at a neat, slightly weathered desk with an outdated computer, even by Charlie’s standards, on top. A gold plate that read DAWSON / DUPINE / JOHNSON in bold black letters sat on the right side of the desk. Dirkley moved past Charlie, dropped his papers on the desk, and hopped into the waiting chair with the sort of enthusiasm generally reserved for newborn puppies.
“Good to be back,” Dirkley announced, more to himself than anyone else, Charlie guessed. While the control room always made Charlie feel a little uneasy—probably something to do with the volume of people—to Dirkley, it seemed, there was no place closer to home.
With a deft flick of the navigator’s wrist, followed by a quick volley of typing, the computer hummed back to life. The machine itself bore no significance—it was merely the conduit through which Dirkley did his part for the team. As far as Charlie understood it, each navigator chose the form of his or her navigation instrument. The criteria that the navigators used to choose their particular instrument all boiled down to personal preference—the information the navigator received was the same regardless of what physical object actually relayed it. For Dirkley, that meant an original 1977 Apple II personal computer.
The machine now up and running, the navigator pulled open a drawer, removed a headset, and fitted it over his head. He turned to say something to Charlie, only to stop abruptly. His eyes widened; his jaw clenched.
Charlie didn’t have to guess why. A subtle hush settled around the area as nearby employees suddenly lowered their voices, so much so that Charlie could hear the footsteps close behind him.
&nbs
p; One. Two. One. Two. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. They sounded against the tiled floor like practiced breathing.
“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.
