by Colin Gigl
It was done. No more lives to ruin, no more false hope to give. It would just be him, alone with his thoughts, and he was already well acquainted with how vicious they could be.
The two men standing beneath the Judicator’s bench came forward as Javrouche quickly approached the bench, no doubt to quibble over the first check. Let him, Charlie thought, and a vicious, masochistic part of the Ferryman hoped the Inspector succeeded.
The men led him toward the courtroom’s exit off to the right of the room, the white hallway beyond beckoning. Having barely survived less than a day in Purgatory, Charlie was sure he’d be a broken man sooner rather than later. For all his upcoming misery, he took one last look around the room. It would be the last bit of . . . well, anything, really, he’d see for, at the very least, a year. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Satisfied, Charlie turned to the exit, ready to be led away.
Then a voice rolled in from the back of the courtroom.
“Excuse me? Am I too late for the trial?” came a distinctly British accent. “I’m afraid I heard most of it through the set of doors, but most regrettably, they were locked until moments ago.”
Charlie’s mind went blank. Slowly approaching the Judicator’s bench was none other than William Henry Taylor Cartwright IV.
The guards holding Charlie quickly released their grips in unison and moved toward Cartwright, but Dales was already holding up his hand to stop them. “No need for that. I know this man,” he said. Turning his attention to Cartwright, he said, “If you’ve been listening, then you should know that I’ve already reached my verdict. An appeal will have to be filed through the appropriate channels if you’d like to object.”
But Cartwright ignored the Judicator’s remarks and continued walking forward until he was standing behind the table reserved for the defendant’s counsel. Once there, he bowed politely.
“Before I say anything else, please allow me to sincerely apologize for my tardiness, Honorable Judicator Dales. I arrived as quickly as time would allow given the circumstances, and they are a most unbelievable, unusual set of circumstances, I can assure you.” Cartwright stood casually behind the table, hands folded neatly behind his back, a quiet air of self-assurance asserting itself in his posture. “While I understand you have already rendered a verdict, Sir Judicator, I believe under Provision W36D13L0, a defendant who has been deliberately misled may demand an immediate retrial. To that point, I believe there are very important elements to this case that need to be clarified in an effort to exonerate my dear friend Mr. Charles Dawson.
“First and foremost, I simply must correct a rather egregiously erroneous statement made by the defendant, one which I think has grounded his stubbornness and therefore falls within the boundaries of the aforementioned provision. He had stated, rather categorically, that he was responsible for the death of one Ms. Alice Spiegel. I am afraid that is simply untrue.”
Cartwright, the sly grin deepening underneath his twirled dark mustache, shot a quick sidelong glance at Charlie. “In fact, I daresay it is impossible, for the sheer fact that my new acquaintance Ms. Spiegel is very much not dead. She is alive and mostly well, undoubtedly due to some rather excellent medical attention. I would present her as evidence to this venerated court to confirm as such; however, I’m afraid she isn’t in any condition to be prancing about quite yet, so I regret that my word must do.” Cartwright cocked his head. “I am aware of the paperwork involved in convening a retrial, Honorable Judicator Dales. Perhaps then, in light of the new evidence, you might consider hanging your verdict—something, as I’m sure you’re aware, you are quite within your right to do—and resume the trial?”
Charlie realized his mouth was hanging open. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Apparently, he wasn’t alone there—Javrouche looked like he’d just been punched in the stomach.
Dales considered Cartwright’s statements. He sighed dramatically. “You’ve made a rather compelling argument, though I can’t say I’m surprised to hear as much coming from you. Very well. Let the record show that the court has hereby decided to resume the trial of Mr. Charles Dawson in light of new evidence to the case.”
Javrouche looked between Cartwright and the Judicator sitting above him. “What—”
But then Cartwright was continuing again. “I sincerely thank you, Sir Judicator. Now, in addition to the information about Ms. Spiegel, I would also like to corroborate Mr. Dawson’s claims about the unusual nature of Ms. Spiegel’s case. I’d like to admit this letter, signed by the acting president of the Institute, as evidence, which states that the defendant was in fact given the choice he described moments ago. That choice, however, was classified under the highest level of secrecy available to the president, which is why its record doesn’t exist.”
The Inspector’s voice cut through the air like a rusted knife, his eyes darting back and forth like an overeager dog. “Excuse me, Sir Judicator, for interrupting, but would anyone care to explain to me why this man isn’t being promptly escorted from these chambers?”
Cartwright leaned forward and looked across at his counterpart. “My sincerest apologies,” he said politely. “My dear friend Charles was being judged without counsel. Under the articles of the Ferryman Institute Fair Trial Act, I am merely providing that. This wouldn’t be my first time in such an environment, if I do say so.”
“You’re missing my point.” Javrouche waved impatiently. “I want to know who you are, exactly.”
Before Dales could speak, Cartwright was talking again. “My word, how rude of me. Please allow me to introduce myself. I go by William Henry Taylor Cartwright the Fourth. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Inspector.”
The recognition of the name slowly appeared on Javrouche’s face. “Cartwright? But that’s impossible . . . ,” he said. The Inspector’s eyes narrowed perceptibly, as if he sensed he’d been placed in a trap but couldn’t quite figure out what would set it off.
“Really?” Cartwright said. “I find that rather remarkable given that I’m presently standing directly in front of you.”
Javrouche gave a derisive sneer. The formality he’d maintained throughout the trial was beginning to wear thin. “Allow me to rephrase. My office has been very interested in a person going by that name. In fact, I have a few questions for him.” Then he turned to the Judicator. “Honorable Judicator, I humbly request your permission to arrest this man.”
Dales went to interject again, but Charlie noticed he stopped when Cartwright gave him a look. Instead, Cartwright replied. “Allow me to explain,” he said. His cadence had changed to that of a man who was suddenly done with witticisms. “Cartwright is not my given name. However, you would have known that had you not invoked a Ferryman Affairs Privacy Consultation Override without the Institute’s consent.”
“I acted well within the scope of my position,” the Inspector countered.
“After being repeatedly ordered over the course of several years to leave Mr. Dawson alone? I think not.”
At this point, Charlie felt as if he might as well have been lying in the fetal position sucking his thumb for all the good he was having on the conversation.
Javrouche straightened his posture, eyes still focused on Cartwright. “And let that man wander around, doing as he pleases, breaking cardinal rule after cardinal rule? Do you expect me to sit and watch as he brings about the end of the world? You’ve come here preaching, but what is more dangerous than a man who threatens to reveal our organization to the world, monsieur?”
Cartwright’s voice cracked back in rebuttal. “A man who uses that as an excuse to abuse his authority! You’ve received multiple orders from the highest echelons of this organization to cease all interactions with Mr. Dawson, and yet you’ve thoroughly ignored them all. I doubt not the love you have for this institution, Inspector, but don’t insult me by insisting this case is being pursued purely in the interest of its protection. If you cannot see the personal grudge in all this, you have blinded yourself to
it.” Charlie had never heard Cartwright raise his voice, let alone speak with such a harsh tone. “While I’m on the topic of abuse of authority, Inspector . . . would you care to explain the mysterious warehouse where you conduct your ‘advanced’ interrogations?”
“I don’t see what relevance that has to the matter at hand,” Javrouche replied.
“You don’t, Inspector? I find that peculiar. Perhaps Mr. Dupine and Ms. Johnson would find it peculiar as well? After all, you only left them dangling over a vat of hydrofluoric acid.”
He did what? Hydrofluoric acid? Charlie had never even heard of that.
Javrouche stared at Cartwright in apparent disbelief. “Where did you hear that?” He looked too shocked to be angry. “Who the hell are you? Really.”
Cartwright went to speak, but this time Dales interrupted him. “I believe under the Ferryman Bylaws I am required to perform this part, Mr. . . . Cartwright, was it?” Though Cartwright looked eager to argue the point, he instead sighed in resignation and merely nodded.
Dales said: “Inspector Javrouche. What do you know of the Ferryman Council?”
“Again, I don’t see what that has to do with this case whatsoever,” he replied. As per the question, Charlie had to admit he was wondering the same thing.
“You will momentarily,” Dales said. “Now then, my question, please.”
Javrouche looked at Cartwright, then Dales, then finally Charlie, where his eyes seemed to linger just a bit longer. When he began to speak, his gaze still bore down on the Ferryman. “I don’t know anything about the Ferryman Council. They’re a made-up story that gets repeated to new Ferrymen to give context to their new lives.”
Dales grimly shook his head. “You are incorrect about one salient point.”
The Inspector sighed. “Of course I am. And what part would that be, exactly?”
The Judicator leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “The part where you called it a made-up story.”
It was tough to say, really, given that he couldn’t see himself, but Charlie had a sense that he looked just as dumbfounded as Javrouche right then. However, the Inspector recovered quickly.
“And what of it?” Javrouche asked, his voice dipping into indignation. “What does the Ferryman Council have to do with this case? Mssr. Dawson has already admitted his guilt. There is nothing left to discuss.”
Dales turned to Cartwright with a pensive brow. “Would I be correct in assuming that Mr. Dawson is directly under your supervision?” he asked.
“You would be,” Cartwright replied.
The Judicator turned his attention back to Javrouche. “The arrival of Mr. Cartwright has cast this case in a new light. Inspector, I regret to inform you that you should have both announced your invocation of a Privacy Consultation Override and followed it up with the president’s office. That would have saved us all some grief tonight.”
“I don’t understand—” Javrouche began, but Dales stopped him.
“Nor should you. I’ll explain. Had your plans to initiate a PCO been known, you would have received strict orders from the president of the Institute to stop them at once. The reason is that Mr. Dawson has been placed under direct supervision of the Ferryman Council. That is unbeknownst to you and even to him, or so I assume. Once such an action takes place, it is the Council’s responsibility to discipline him for misconduct. Furthermore, that is why PCOs must be cleared first. That is also why you’ve already received several official requests on behalf of the president not to pursue Mr. Dawson. Now—regarding the existence of one William Henry Taylor Cartwright—I can say—”
“The Fourth,” interrupted Cartwright. He smiled courteously. Dales rolled his eyes.
“William Henry Taylor Cartwright the Fourth—I can say that you won’t find him in the Institute records. The reason being that he doesn’t officially exist. The man standing in front of me is, in fact, one of the original founders of the Institute, whom I met upon being sworn in as a Judicator, and whose identity I am sworn to protect. This man’s true name is Virgil.”
Charlie looked at the man standing to his left. Virgil. As in one of the cofounders of the Institute. The mythical Ferryman who was immortalized in Dante’s Inferno and superseded in importance only by the first Ferryman, Charon. Cartwright—the man who spent an inordinate amount of time sipping tea and whipping elegantly sarcastic remarks in Charlie’s direction—was the Virgil.
What the fucking fuck was going on here?
“Well,” Cartwright—now Virgil—said sheepishly, “technically Vergilius, but Latin endings seem so out of fashion these days. Virgil works rather nicely, I think. Wouldn’t you agree?”
ALICE
* * *
I DREAMED A DREAM
This couldn’t be happening. It was impossible. Alice surveyed the room. Sure, the stark white walls, ceiling, and floor were unusual, as were the white blanket and sheets that rested on top of her. But those were all plausible things that followed logic—someone found her and put her there. Even though the interior design was monochromatic to the point of strangeness, that set of circumstances made sense.
The fact that her late mother was sitting at the edge of the bed, looking healthy and spry, did not.
White room filled with lots of white things: sense.
Dead mother no loner dead: no sense.
Which led Alice to her next conclusion. “Holy shit,” she said as her mother tenderly stroked her hair, “I’m dead, aren’t I?”
Her mother shushed her gently. “Don’t be silly. You’re just dreaming, sweetheart.”
Alice looked up at her mom. Actually, that made a little bit more sense, even if it wasn’t quite as satisfactory. “So am I having one of those Harry Potter moments where you tell me you’ve been in my heart this whole time and this dream is really just a way for us to reconnect? That would be so awesome.”
Her mother smoothed out the sheets with her hand. “I didn’t think it could be possible for a child to read too much—especially with your generation—but I’m beginning to wonder about that.”
Alice frowned. “You always said I watched too much TV.”
“You did,” her mother said as she brushed an errant strand of hair out of Alice’s face. “But you always had a very addictive personality. You did too much of everything that interested you at one point or another. God, remember your Lisa Frank stage? You must have had fifteen binders filled with stickers of pink unicorns and purple dolphins.”
Alice’s heart seemed to jump forward a beat as the nostalgia took hold. “And Friendly’s Cone Head sundaes.”
Her mother laughed. “Grilled cheese sandwiches and Cone Head sundaes, every single time.”
“Why didn’t you ever make me try something new? I got the same thing at Friendly’s for like twelve years.”
Mrs. Spiegel shrugged. “It made you happy. Your sisters never took to that place like you did, so it was kind of fun to have our own little thing. Besides, it’s not like we ate there all that often, especially as you got older.”
Alice propped herself up on the crisp white pillows behind her. As she sat up, she had a chance to really comprehend the space she was in for the first time. It was definitely disorienting being in a place that was so . . . blank. Alice didn’t often remember her dreams, but even so, she felt sure she’d never had an experience quite like this. It was like her brain forgot to load the color when it booted up into dream mode.
Her mother, on the other hand, was a painfully familiar sight. A few wrinkles were scattered across her baby face, the one that had always made her appear ten years younger than her driver’s license said. She was petite, yet somehow always managed to fill a room with her personality, one of the many things Alice admired about her.
“So it seems like you’ve had an interesting couple of days,” her mother said casually. Alice gave her a raised eyebrow in return. As if sensing the question behind the expression, her mom continued, “This is your dream, remember? I know everything that’s
happened.”
“Right . . . ,” Alice said, nodding slowly. She stopped, trying to recall everything that had happened thus far. Some of the details were a little hazy, but she felt like she got most of it. “It’s definitely been a trip.”
Alice’s mother stroked her daughter’s hair. “You were going to kill yourself.”
That was one of the few things Alice had no trouble remembering. She wasn’t necessarily ashamed about her suicide attempt; she just felt that there was something inherently weird about talking about it with her dead mother.
“Thank you for the blunt recap,” Alice replied with a huff.
“Again, your dream.”
Alice straightened up in the bed some more and tried to kick the sheets off, but after four kicks they were still covering her legs. “Yeah, well,” she said as the blankets kept getting more tangled around her feet, “that doesn’t mean I get to control what happens.” Finally, she just tried to pry her lower half free with her left hand, but somehow the sheet was twisted around her left leg, so she needed to roll over first. “See? Like this shit! I mean, stuff. Like this stuff. And to top it all off, you’re here—my mother, who I’ve been missing terribly since the day she passed away, is right here, right next to me, finally, and yet emotionally I don’t feel anything . . . I don’t know, what’s the right word? Special? It’s like you never even left. I guess because I’m dreaming this, it all just seems normal, which, frankly, isn’t fair. On top of that, I know the moment I wake up, I’ll realize it was all a dream, and I’ll be so sad that I just never want to get up and out of whatever ditch I’ll inevitably find myself lying in.”
With a yell of frustration, she gave up trying to get the sheets off of her and flopped back onto the bed. “It’s like, this whole thing has been so surreal. So . . .”
“Hollywood?” her mother offered.
