by Colin Gigl
As Alice flopped onto her bed, the taste of ink still ruminating annoyingly in her mouth, it dawned on her, with a strange and sudden clarity: there really was only one thing left to do. She had flirted with the idea, but now she understood instinctively that it was time to throw in the towel. Time to make the ref stop the fight. Lugubriously, Alice raised herself off of her bed and sat quietly in front of her desk again.
Tonight, she thought.
She didn’t want to face tomorrow. Not when tomorrow marked 365 days since her mother’s death.
Tonight.
She took a blank sheet of eight-by-eleven paper from the loading tray of her printer, grabbed a pen from the zombie mug that adorned her desk, and placed the sheet on top of her desk. Then, she began writing.
Dear Friends and Family,
This note will be labeled something I’m not all that comfortable calling it. Instead, I would rather call it my final “thank you” letter to you all . . .
Tonight, she thought as the blueprint assembled in her head. The pen glided across the paper in effortless strokes, hardly making a sound.
CHARLIE
* * *
THE FALLOUT
I don’t know, Cartwright. Two hundred and fifty years is a long time.” Charlie was lying on his back, letting his feet dangle over the cliff while the sun once again sank below the Mojave’s horizon.
“Well,” Cartwright began, “that is relatively speaking, of course. I suppose for a normal human lifespan your supposition has merit. However, if we imagined ourselves as the bit of rock we’re sitting on, then no, a quarter of a millennium would be but the blink of an eye. Quicker than that even—extraordinary, if you think about it. The marvels these specks of dirt must have borne witness to . . . But to be able to share in a fraction of those memories!”
Charlie rolled his head slightly so that he was looking at Cartwright instead of straight into the sky. The British gentleman cleared his throat. “Of course, relatively speaking, I would concede that it is a long time, yes.”
It had been a week since Charlie’s last case, and he’d spent most of that time doing exactly what he was doing now: thinking about that night.
* * *
CHARLIE RETURNED to the Institute with no fanfare, no bustling crowd waiting to burst into applause at another remarkable performance. The employees in the immediate area were going about their business in typical worker-bee fashion, blissfully ignorant of the events that had just transpired. There was the odd side-glance or discreet whisper—something Charlie had gotten used to from the teams in his vicinity—but nothing he would consider out of the ordinary. The only indication that anything unusual had just happened were the people milling about his area—Jen Smalling was staring at the floor, shaking her head slowly, Melissa was firing accusations at Campbell, and Dirkley was sitting on the corner of his desk in the middle of it all, arms across his chest. He was the first to notice Charlie’s reappearance, immediately getting to his feet as Charlie shuffled out of the doorway.
“Well?” he asked as he hurried over.
Charlie, for his own part, had spent the majority of his return to the Institute distracted by his own thoughts and, as such, was caught completely off guard by the question. “Well, what?” Charlie asked. The other three were following close behind.
A beat passed before Dirkley said, “Did she cross?”
Charlie nodded dumbly.
“Thank God,” Dirkley said, then, before Charlie could react, wrapped him in a bear hug. “Are you all right?” Dirkley asked as he broke the embrace. “You don’t look all right. Jesus, Charlie, I’ve seen craps that look better than you. No offense.”
“Stop, you’re making me blush,” Charlie replied in a complete monotone. He sighed. “In all seriousness, I’m fine. A little unnerved, mostly relieved, but otherwise fine.” He himself was somewhat surprised at the unexpected candor of his response.
The clacking of Melissa’s heels preceded her arrival. She looked abnormally flustered. “Charlie, are you okay?” She turned sharply toward Dirkley. “Is he okay?”
“Does he look okay?”
Her eyes narrowed. “No, that’s why I’m asking you.”
“Guys, I’m standing right here.” Charlie’s mood was darkening at the same rate his patience was running out.
Melissa released Dirkley from her gaze and turned back to Charlie. “You sure you’re all right? How are you feeling? Should I get someone from the medical team over here?”
He inhaled sharply through his teeth. “No,” he replied. “Again, I’m fine.”
But Melissa pressed him further. “Are you sure? A quick exam couldn’t hurt.”
“I don’t want to be examined, and I don’t need to be examined. The case is over, nobody died that wasn’t supposed to, everybody’s happy, the day is saved, hip-fucking-hooray.”
Both Melissa and Dirkley seemed taken aback by Charlie’s harsh tone, which he immediately regretted. “Sorry, that was uncalled for,” he said. “I’m just . . . tired.”
“Of course,” Melissa said. Charlie caught her shooting a quick glance over at Dirkley. It wasn’t hard to guess the unspoken message between them. “Leaving aside the numerous protocol violations along the way, which for once weren’t really your fault”—she paused to shoot Campbell an icy glare—“you did amazing. You really did. We’re very proud of you—everyone is very proud of you. You should be proud of you.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said softly. He looked around the room. A pack of employees still lingered around their team’s area. He could feel more eyes on him now, some nearby Ferrymen undoubtedly wondering what the minor fuss at his station was about. He never asked for the attention—he really just wanted to be left alone. But when did Charlie ever get what he wanted?
“She’s right, Mssr. Dawson.” Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Another remarkable job.”
Case in point.
Javrouche was walking over deliberately, his hands squeezed tightly together behind his back. “It’s amazing what things you can do when you’re actually here to do them. To ‘save’ another Ferryman and successfully complete a—” He stopped walking and looked in Jen Smalling’s direction. “Which was it again, Mme. Smalling—a completely impossible assignment or a definitely, completely impossible assignment?” Jen initially opened her mouth to respond, but instead averted her eyes to the ground. “My goodness, she’s speechless. So it was that difficult? And here I thought we didn’t deal in impossible cases. To think I’ve been wrong all these years.”
Melissa took a few hasty steps forward and began walking next to Javrouche as he continued to march toward Charlie. “All right, Inspector, we’re just making sure he’s fine. I really think—”
But Charlie found himself in no mood for their obligatory verbal cut and thrust. “Let’s skip the bullshit, Inspector. What do you want?”
The senior officer of Ferryman Institute initially appeared surprised by Charlie’s attitude before his lips curled ever so slightly in anticipation. “Well now . . . someone seems a bit touchy tonight.” He stopped abruptly about five feet in front Charlie. “Feeling a pinch of guilt, perhaps, Mssr. Dawson?”
A curt laugh popped out of Charlie’s mouth. “For what? Pulling off the impossible tonight? Again?”
The Inspector surveyed the room as he considered Charlie’s reply. There was a glint in his eyes that Charlie instinctively didn’t like. “Yes . . . pulling off the impossible. You are the great Houdini of Ferrymen, aren’t you? After all, I’ve never met a man who could vanish when he’s needed quite as easily as you. And I’m sure you intended to make this evening’s trick even more astonishing by sending the other Ferryman away from the scene of the assignment. Make your only help disappear. Bravo, monsieur. Clearly you missed your true calling in life as an awful magician.”
Charlie knew where this was heading and opted to remain silent. He’d hoped for a chance to organize his thoughts before the inevitable meeting with Javrouche, but apparently his luck
was passed out in a gutter somewhere, nowhere to be found.
Taking Charlie’s silence as a response, the Inspector continued. “Are you aware, Mssr. Dawson, what Code III, Section 4, of the Ferryman Laws states?”
For a brief moment, Charlie considered not taking the bait, but ultimately decided against it. “No Ferryman in an emergency situation shall refuse the assistance of another Ferryman, prior to or during the course of such action as is deemed necessary.”
Javrouche applauded with mock approval. “Amazing—there is more than god-awful puns stored in that brain of yours. So if ignorance isn’t the issue, why did you choose to blatantly disregard the rules?”
Charlie’s right fist tightened to a degree only a man incapable of pain could manage. “I believed the assignment had a better chance of success with only one Ferryman. I was right. It’s shocking how often that happens, isn’t it?”
“Come now, monsieur. Just because you completed the assignment doesn’t make you right. For all her speech difficulties, Mme. Smalling seems a more than capable Ferryman—who’s to say your combined efforts wouldn’t have made the assignment as simple as hello?”
“Whether you agree with my decision or not seems irrelevant now, particularly in light of the successful outcome,” Charlie said. “With all due respect to Ms. Smalling, I made a judgment call at the scene, determining that she was mentally unfit for duty at that moment, and that her continued presence would be a hindrance. Incidents like that are hardly without precedent.”
Javrouche took a step closer. “And what gave you the authority to make that decision, Mssr. Dawson?”
“Intuition. Experience. My record.” He let that last one linger for a bit, knowing it was a particularly sore spot. “What gives you the authority to question decisions I make out in the field, Inspector?”
An electric tension buzzed through the air. “My position does, Mssr. Dawson, and you’d do well to remember that. I’d suggest you tread lightly when you walk on thin ice.”
“And I’d suggest you remove the massive iron rod shoved up your ass and stop being so uptight. Though while we’re on the topic: Does it tickle your brain when you sit? I’ve been dying to know that one for years.”
Javrouche actually chuckled. “You are adorably predictable. My job is to enforce the laws that guide this Institute, not grovel at the feet of its false savior.”
Almost everyone nearby was watching now—some with half an eye, others with their full attention. Charlie couldn’t see them all, but he knew it to be true, their curiosity powered by the same primitive human instinct that fueled rubbernecking and viral videos. And yet to Charlie there was no crowd, no murmuring voices, only himself and Javrouche. He suspected his counterpart felt the same way.
As if sensing the building pressure, Melissa physically stepped in between the two men. “How about we all just take a deep breath and discuss this in a more private setting?”
Charlie, however, had other ideas. “I know you didn’t come down here to say thank you, so why don’t you tell me what you really came here to say, Inspector. Go ahead. I know that’s what you want to do.”
Javrouche’s eyebrows narrowed into dangerous points. “You removed your Ferryman Key, didn’t you? You sent Smalling away so you could remove it without anyone knowing, give yourself an edge, all at the risk of exposing our entire operation to the mortal world. That’s what I’m accusing you of, Mssr. Dawson.”
Charlie was already marching toward Javrouche as the Inspector let his accusation fly. The Ferryman almost walked past the Inspector, but stopped when they were a mere foot apart.
“I acted in the best interests of this Institute, of the general human populace, and of the friends and family of that woman. I succeeded in the assignment. If you want to bring me up on charges, fine, go right the fuck ahead. Just know that this place needs me a hell of a lot more than I need it right now.”
Javrouche buried his gaze into Charlie’s own. “Does it? I think my son would disagree with you there, monsieur.”
Charlie clenched his right hand even tighter. “No matter how many times I’ve apologized, it always comes back to that with you.”
“For good reason,” Javrouche replied. “It’s a poignant reminder that you can’t be trusted.”
“I made a mistake. Nothing more.”
“You’re a danger to the Ferryman Institute, which makes you a danger to all mankind.”
Charlie glanced over his shoulder as Campbell discreetly put his arm around Smalling’s waist. Both were looking in his direction. “Have you told the two of them that?” Charlie asked. “They’d probably beg to differ.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Let me ask you this: Why did you take their emergency assignment, Mssr. Dawson, when you’ve disappeared for so many others? Did you do it after you heard the subject was female? I hear it gets lonely being a Ferryman . . . How’s a dying woman supposed to say no, after all?”
The sound of Charlie’s index and middle finger popping out of their respective sockets from tightening his fist punctuated Javrouche’s words. Charlie leaned in closer.
“For the record, Inspector—if you ever suggest anything like that again, I’ll kill you.”
Javrouche seemed intrigued by the proposition. “Such a shame, Mssr. Dawson, that you can’t.”
“Oh, I can,” Charlie said, “just not permanently. Which is good, because I don’t think once would be enough. Inspector.”
Charlie didn’t wait to see Javrouche’s reaction. He strode out of the control room and down the long hallway back to his office. After throwing a pair of shorts and a T-shirt over his shoulder, he opened the door to the desert and was gone.
* * *
“THE INSPECTOR has a point, I’m afraid. Those are rather serious accusations, indeed,” Cartwright said. “However, it is my understanding that they are based on nothing more than hearsay and conjecture, in which case you have nothing to be concerned with.”
Charlie dolefully shook his head. “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.”
It was a revelation of fairly magnificent proportions, but if it seemed that way to Cartwright, he certainly didn’t show it. Instead, he scratched his chin thoughtfully and said, “I see.”
“I don’t think you do. I removed my key,” Charlie continued, as if Cartwright’s reply wasn’t enough. “I put it down so I could talk to her before she died, to try and calm her down, reduce the shock of things when she eventually did. I figured if I could just make her understand what was happening and that it was all going to work out for her in the end, I’d have a better shot of making sure she crossed over. I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, it worked, so I guess it was. But yeah, I’ve never done that before. I’ve never gone that far.”
“Charles . . . I understand. You needn’t say any more. You did what you thought was right and, in doing so, accomplished the assignment. An avant-garde methodology to be sure, but a successful one, nonetheless.”
Charlie absorbed Cartwright’s meaning, but it didn’t quite help with his current dilemma. “So, what do I do now?” Charlie asked.
Cartwright gave a few puffs on his pipe. “With regards to?”
“Everything.”
“Ah, everything. Quite a noble question, indeed. Have you ever considered meditation? Or perhaps a good cup of tea?” Cartwright took a sip from his white teacup as if to emphasize the point.
Charlie ignored the comment and continued on with his own line of thinking. “I mean, I signed a contract, so I can’t just leave the Institute. I’m immortal until deemed otherwise by the president. A guy, might I add, that apparently no one I know of has ever seen or spoken to. I could deliberately start sucking at my job, but then who knows how many innocent people would have to suffer. How many failed assignments would it take for them to give up on me? Ten? Twenty? A hundred? And even then, what’s to s
ay they’d let me go and not bring me up on charges of treason?”
“Mmmm.” Cartwright set his cup down on a small table next to his chair. “That is quite the . . . Dear me, what was that phrase again? The Catch-22? Apologies, I have trouble remembering all these new phrases that are entering the lexicon. I still have trouble remembering that knickerbockers has gone rather profoundly out of fashion. A shame, I must admit—’twas a personal favorite of mine.”
A lone vulture circled overhead. Charlie didn’t think the bird was waiting on him—his Ferryman Key was sitting in his shorts pocket, after all—but he found the symbolism appropriate. “You do know that Catch-22 was published almost sixty years ago, right? I’m not sure that qualifies as new.”
“Was it now? I must say, my memory is going to pieces these days. Well, more credence to my theory that time is, in fact, relative.” He took another long sip of tea.
“I can’t be the only Ferryman who’s had thoughts like this.”
“Far from it, my dear fellow. The difference, however, is that those Ferrymen were allowed to transfer out of the Institute when their feelings came to light. I’m afraid your situation is rather unique in that regard. There appears to be a reluctance on the Institute’s part to let their golden goose fly away, if you’ll pardon the analogy.”
“Maybe I could just leave,” Charlie mused.
“Certainly a possibility,” Cartwright said, “though I imagine that might not end with the most satisfactory conclusion, what with pesky contractual obligations and such. I have a notion that the Institute would frown upon such a course of action. The life of a fugitive is no glamorous thing, I assure you.”
“Well, what else can I do? I feel like this is my . . . fate, I guess? Does that make sense? Like I’m going to be doing this until either I lose my touch or the world ends, and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it.” With a slow and haggard effort, Charlie sat up. “How do you do it?”
