The Ferryman Institute

by Colin Gigl

  The room was a closet. Not in the figurative sense of it being a small room, but in the literal one of it being an actual closet. Motor oil, several extra car batteries, jumper cables, a mop. All else being equal, it would certainly give them some privacy, but it wasn’t much for comfort. Charlie could see a narrow passageway off to his right, which he assumed led farther into the tunnel, namely what his original plan had called for.

  “Uh, is there a reason we’re going in here and not following that tunnel over there?” Charlie asked.

  Cartwright’s oh-so-familiar, all-knowing smile arrived on cue. “Of course” was all he said.

  Forthcoming as always, Charlie thought with a grimace.

  Reluctantly, he followed Cartwright’s lead, shuffling in behind Alice as they filed into the cramped space. When they were all inside, Cartwright reached into his breast pocket and produced what Charlie always considered his Ferryman Key, then moved aside a box of windshield wiper fluid. Curiously, carved in the wall behind it was a small opening. With casual indifference, Cartwright flipped his key around so that the barrel and key bit were facing away from the hole, holding the key essentially backward, and slid it into the wall. There was a click, and just like that, the wall was sliding open.

  Cartwright looked at them, a twinkle in his eye. “Contingency plans. You simply cannot have enough of them.”

  Beyond the now-open wall was a softly lit room roughly three or four times the size of the closet. There was a small wooden table in the center, complete with four chairs situated around its four sides. A lazily steaming teapot sat in the center of the table, three teacups placed nearby. An open doorway stood beyond the table, its long passageway quickly bleeding into darkness. As Charlie crossed into the room, the last of their threesome, the wall behind him began to close and, within seconds, had sealed shut.

  In all his years of service, Charlie had never seen anything quite like it. Yet it felt strangely familiar, his skin buzzing ever so slightly as he crossed the threshold—much like it did whenever he used his Ferryman Door.

  Alice looked around, obviously surprised that such a space appeared to exist next to the Lincoln Tunnel, of all places (Charlie knew the feeling). “Did we just walk into a secret passage, or is it safe to say I’m now in Narnia?”

  “Not that particular universe, precisely, but a not altogether dissimilar idea,” Cartwright said.

  “So, as of right now, I’m not on earth anymore?” she asked. “One small step for man and all that jazz?”

  “How to explain it . . . yes and no. Ferrymen operate between worlds, as it were, an existence betwixt the mortal world and the afterlife. It gets complicated rather quickly, and I regret to say I don’t quite understand it all that well myself, so unfortunately that explanation will have to suffice. Now then, I daresay I will find it nigh impossible to excuse myself for such inordinately rude behavior. I haven’t even given you the common courtesy of introducing myself. William Henry Taylor Cartwright the Fourth, at your service.” He bowed, and took her hand.

  Something very important occurred to Charlie just then. “Hold on a second. If you’re holding your key, how can she see you?”

  That was Ferryman 101. Even without his key, Charlie would still be able to see Cartwright—such was the way of the Ferryman. It had been explained to Charlie as a necessary precaution should any Ferryman lose their key and need assistance. However, as an outsider, Alice shouldn’t have been able to. In fact, Charlie had witnessed her inability earlier in the night when he’d arrived in her room. With his key, she couldn’t see him. Without it, she could.

  Cartwright, who at the moment was leaning toward Alice’s hand, stopped. “Magic, my good fellow,” he replied, then proceeded to gently kiss the back of Alice’s hand.

  She looked over her shoulder at Charlie. “Now that’s a gentleman,” she said, a touch of impish delight drawn on her lips.

  Charlie’s brain, however, was too busy trying to process everything to notice. Secret doors that were opened by Ferryman Keys; Ferryman Keys that didn’t make their Ferrymen invisible; Ferrymen—or men who claimed to be Ferrymen—who somehow knew all about this . . .

  Jesus, what the hell is going on here?

  “You must be Ms. Spiegel, I assume?” Cartwright asked politely.

  “Yes, Alice Spiegel,” she said, apprehension coloring her response, “though I’m a bit curious as to how you know that . . .”

  “My apologies, I had absolutely no intention of alarming you. However, without divulging too much, I have been reliably informed by various sources as to who you are.” Charlie’s eyebrows shot up. That was news to him. “Regardless, and I pray this isn’t too forthright, I am positively delighted to make your acquaintance, Ms. Spiegel. I must say, you have a positively intoxicating smile.” Alice’s mood instantly brightened at the compliment. “May I offer you some tea? I would offer Charles some, but his rejections of such offers generally end in ill-advised attempts at comedy. I would imagine you are now quite familiar with his unique sense of humor as well, for which you have my condolences.”

  With a giggle, Alice followed Cartwright to the central table and sat with him. Charlie, however, stayed standing where he was. He ran his fingers through his hair, completely at a loss for what to do next. Javrouche’s revelation was exactly the type of problem he’d normally go to Cartwright for, except that was an obvious nonstarter in this situation.

  Hey, Cartwright. Listen, I just had a quick question . . . Let’s say I have this friend who, hypothetically speaking, knows a guy who might actually be a spy for some clandestine operation that for all he knows could directly or indirectly lead to the end of humanity as we know it. Any tips on how I—I mean he—might approach his friend about that? Without hurting his feelings, of course.

  That was sure to go over well.

  Did Cartwright even know about Javrouche’s accusations? If he didn’t, then how did he know about Alice? Even more mind-boggling than that, how had he known where to find them? The maintenance garage of the Lincoln Tunnel wasn’t generally the place old acquaintances coincidentally ran into each other. There had to be something else at play—it was simply inexplicable otherwise. And if Cartwright did know about his own apparent lack of existence, why was he acting like . . . like . . .

  “. . . all is right with the world.”

  Charlie looked up at the sound of Cartwright’s voice. “What?” he said dumbly. Only after Charlie had opened his mouth did he realize that Cartwright had been talking to Alice, though both were now looking squarely at him.

  “I was just relating to your new acquaintance my particular fascination with Earl Grey tea. A cup of it paired with some fine reading can make it seem as if all is right with the world, or something to that effect. Where was I? Ah, yes. Ms. Spiegel, would you be terribly offended if I had a somewhat personal discussion with Charles in your presence? Under normal circumstances, I would no doubt ask for some privacy; however, present circumstances being what they are, it would seem that option is currently unavailable.” He gave a broad gesture to signify the room they were in to finish his point.

  Alice took a sip of tea before responding. “First, just Alice, please. Second, it doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice. But I mean, hey, go for it. Pretend I’m not even here.” She gave both men a meaningful look before returning to her teacup, peering over the brim at them like a scheming cat. Though she was trying her hardest to seem put off by the whole thing, Charlie caught the now familiar glint of excited curiosity in her eyes.

  “Splendid,” Cartwright said, finally turning his attention to Charlie. In contrast to the buoyant tone of his voice, Cartwright’s face seemed . . . off. It appeared a little worn at the edges, far from its usual picture of serenity. “So then, Charles, where should we begin?”

  Ah, yes—the million-dollar question. What to ask first? If questions were ammo, Charlie was sitting on a stockpile large enough to outfit a platoon. However, with Alice present, Charlie was beginning t
o think a somewhat guarded approach might be warranted. Actually, what if Cartwright knew Charlie would take a more restrained line of questioning with her listening in? What if Cartwright’s inclusion of Alice was a deliberate ploy to subtly manipulate the context of the conversation? The man knew Charlie well enough, that was for sure. Unfortunately, Charlie didn’t feel qualified to say the same. They’d been together for centuries, and yet Charlie knew practically nothing about the man. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew things about Cartwright: his favorite city (London, specifically the northern end), his favorite tea (Earl Grey), the number of times he’d read Moby-Dick (forty-eight, not counting his latest read-through)—he just didn’t feel like he knew Cartwright.

  And that, quite neatly, summed up Charlie’s problem: his distrust in Cartwright was beginning to snowball. Every thought Charlie had about the man now cast long shadows in his mind.

  Like a chess player assessing various moves, Charlie remained a statue of composure, contemplating his next play with deliberate care. Finally, he shifted away from the wall, careful to keep a moderate distance from his companion. Gathering his courage, Charlie hoped he knew what the hell he was doing.

  “Are you aware of the accusations Inspector Javrouche made against you earlier tonight?” Alice’s intent expression told Charlie he should tread carefully when it came to detailing the various transgressions of the night lest he have to explain his own.

  Cartwright sipped his tea with delicate precision. “I am,” he said before setting the cup on the table. He offered nothing more.

  “Are they true?”

  Cartwright was not the type of man to hesitate. So when the curl of his lip dipped in the slightest bit of indecision, Charlie braced himself.

  Cartwright took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I cannot say.”

  Put diplomatically, that wasn’t the response Charlie had been expecting. Put more colloquially, it was bullshit. The fact Cartwright was avoiding a question that should have had an easy answer instantly left Charlie jumping to conclusions.

  “I don’t understand,” Charlie said. “Why not?”

  “That, too, I cannot say. There will come a time when I can explain everything, but it cannot be now. Forgive me, old friend.”

  Old friend. It was, in a way, a surprisingly fitting turn of phrase. The last hopeful holdouts in Charlie’s brain—the ones that continued to believe that Cartwright was Cartwright, that this was all some hilarious misunderstanding—were quietly dropping their weapons and hoisting the white flag of surrender. The walls had been breached. The city was lost.

  “I fully understand that there is very little I can presently say that will earn your complete trust again. No words could possibly express how deeply sorry I am. This is, in no small part, my fault.” He sighed. “The comedy of it all is that we are quickly running out of time, and now I must ask you to blindly trust me. I will not begrudge any decision you make to ignore me, but I beg of you to please listen to what I have to say. I swear on my honor that I have been as open with you as I can be—perhaps even more so—but your next steps are crucial.”

  The paranoia raced through Charlie’s head, the errant snowball picking up speed down the hill. How about all the times over the years that Cartwright had said things in passing that were just a touch too . . . convenient. Subtle things—little cues that Cartwright seemed to spring on Charlie after a rough case or the like. Charlie had always chalked it up to his being an easy read, but what if that wasn’t actually the case? How did Cartwright know those things, then? Or did it just seem that way? Was Charlie trying to find a pattern that wasn’t there? Which was it? Why wasn’t Cartwright answering the question? What was he hiding?

  Who the hell was William Henry Taylor Cartwright?

  “You’re doing that look again. The someone just ran over my cat one.”

  Charlie looked up in surprise at Alice, who was staring right back at him. There was an air of disappointment in the way she gazed across at him. She held her cup in front of her face with both hands, obscuring her features aside from those piercing eyes. He hadn’t been expecting her to say anything, and given the expression on Cartwright’s face, neither had he.

  “Look, Charlie, I’m no life guru. In fact, I’m probably the shittiest person to take advice from on this side of the Mississippi. However, I’d like to remind you that you told me Cartwright was the only person in a long time you’ve considered a trusted friend. If at the end of this crazy little adventure, you lose out, wouldn’t you rather it be because you believed in the guy who’s always been there for you instead of doubting him the one time he’s asking for a little faith?”

  A singular thought simmered in his head: Who the hell does she think she is? What did she know about the Ferryman Institute? About friends? About Cartwright? About him? Nothing. She was just another cocksure, arrogant kid, not having spent even thirty years on this planet yet convinced she knew it all. Didn’t she realize that if he chose wrong here, it would be her head on the block?

  Then Alice set her cup down and said: “I trusted you—trust you. I’d say it’s worked out okay so far. Well, except for that time you saw me naked.” Alice finally broke the eye contact she’d been sharing with Charlie and looked over at Cartwright. “Take a chance. Worst come to worst, we end up getting captured and experimented on or vivisected or something. And if you think about it, that really only matters to me, seeing as I’m the only normal one of you weirdos, and I’m fine with it.” A short smile crept across her lips before she nodded in Cartwright’s direction. “That, and he kind of reminds me of Gandalf, and Gandalf is awesome.”

  In the silence that followed, Charlie tried and failed to come up with anything even approaching an adequate response. The Ferryman bore a certain pride in the small number of times he’d been caught speechless throughout his extended life. It paid tribute to his quick wit, a facet of himself he probably cared a little too much about. Yet, what she’d said was so audacious, so ridiculous, and so unexpected that the sheer outrageousness of it had short-circuited Charlie’s accumulating anger and left him with a clear head. Saying that also took real courage, and, strange though it was to admit, he was proud she hadn’t held back. With the dangerous red filter removed from his consciousness, he heard her words objectively for the first time, recognizing them to be something he was absolutely not expecting: sound advice.

  Charlie trusted Cartwright implicitly, had for decades. Things were a little screwed up right now, but maybe there was a reason for it. The man had brought Charlie into the world of Ferrymen and had thus far shepherded him through it. Even if things had taken the proverbial wrong turn at Albuquerque, Cartwright was remarkably still there, still pledging his help. If the man had spent two hundred and fifty years pretending to be a friend just to set Charlie up, then fine. In a sense, Charlie was willing to concede defeat to something as monstrous as that.

  “I’m listening,” he said. “Just keep in mind that if this is some weirdly elaborate ruse involving tea or something like that, we’re leaving.”

  There was a disconcerting moment where Charlie became convinced that Cartwright was going to cry. He didn’t, but Charlie could’ve sworn he came pretty damn close.

  “Thank you,” Cartwright said. “I presently find myself at a loss for words. Thank you. Both of you.”

  He took a moment to recompose himself—a sip of tea, a check of his watch—before he spoke again. “Well, the show must go on, as they say.” He cleared his throat. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I assume your current plan of action is to find the president and make an appeal on behalf of Ms. Spiegel and yourself?”

  Charlie scratched the back of his head. “I’m not sure I’d call it a plan, necessarily . . .”

  “I thought as much. You cannot. Inspector Javrouche has detention units tactically positioned around the tunnel’s perimeter. It’s a rather daunting boundary, if I do say so, and I would think it nigh impossible to infiltrate undetected. It is also why I redirected
the both of you to this room—if you continued to follow the tunnel walkway, in all probability, you would have been surrounded and apprehended.”

  Oh, Charlie thought.

  “Here.” Cartwright produced a key ring with two ordinary-looking silver keys and tossed them underhand to Charlie. “At the end of the passageway behind me you will find a door. Beyond it, the city of New York outside of Javrouche’s established boundary. Those keys will give you access to a small apartment, 58 West Thirty-Sixth Street, the fourth floor. The location is a . . . holdover from an earlier era, but it will keep you safe. You will find further instructions there.”

  Charlie stared at the keys in his hand, wondering just what exactly he was getting himself into. Even so, he said, “I think we can handle that.”

  “I have the utmost faith you will.” Cartwright once again glanced at his watch. “Regrettably, I fear that time is once more against me. Other urgent matters hang in the balance. The best laid plans, as they say.” Cartwright stood, prompting Alice to do the same, and walked the pair to the entrance of the long, underlit passage. “This is where we must part ways, my friends. I sincerely believe you are out of harm’s way now, but it would not be the first time I’ve been dreadfully wrong this rather trying day.” He turned to Alice. “And remember, my dear: All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost.” With his hand drawn across his waist, he bowed slightly. “Be safe, and Godspeed.”

  Alice’s eyes lit up like a child meeting Santa Claus for the first time. “Wait, did you just quote Gandalf?” She spun in Charlie’s direction. “He’s not actually Gandalf . . . right?”

  Despite it all, Charlie couldn’t help but laugh. His intuition told him that this was all wrong, that he was walking into a disaster. He rarely ignored such a strong signal, but his options at that point were limited. Maybe that’s why he laughed—maybe he knew that the end was around the corner, and so he laughed just because he still could.