The Ferryman

by John E. Siers

  “Oh, and by the way, we gave you the ‘buy two, get one free’ after all. Corporate decided we owed you one for the help on the Maroney hit.”

  After the call, Mark pulled up the local news station’s web page, went to the ‘Trending Local’ section, and selected the story. The image that came up showed the anchor’s grave expression, with a typical ‘crime scene’ video behind her.

  “A brutal triple murder in Southside last night, a man and two women gunned down near Jimbo’s Blues Bar on Vermilion Avenue. We’re told that the man, 30-year-old Rockwell ‘Rocco’ DeSantis was murdered in the alley behind the bar. The two women, identified as DeVonne Taylor and Tiffany Billings, both 19, were reported to have been killed inside the bar.

  “We spoke to Lieutenant Joe Brown at the 12th Street police precinct and were told this was a LifeEnders hit. Lieutenant Brown told us the agent who killed the three left a card behind with a note on the back. The note gave the name of a local girl, Lacrisha Jones—who apparently died this year at the age of 14—and the notation ‘Rest in Peace.’

  “We have not been able to obtain any more information at this time but will continue to investigate. The police, however, told us that having confirmed with LifeEnders that this was in fact a legal ‘hit,’ they have closed their investigation.”

  Mark copied the link to the news story, dropped it into an email, and sent it, with no other comment.

  I shouldn’t feel good about this, Eunice Mercer thought, but I do. Three people have been brutally murdered, and I’m glad they’re dead. In fact, I hope they’re burning in Hell.

  And you, Mark Marshall…she looked again at the email that had brought her the link. I guess Lacrisha got to you, too. Thank you for doing what I couldn’t. Don’t know if Lacrisha will really ‘rest in peace,’ but I’ll sleep better tonight.

  Chapter Eight

  The Bikers

  Mark and Lisa’s relationship worked because they didn’t push it. They didn’t engage in sex during working hours—at least, not with each other. But their working life—sex with clients, executions, dealing with the messy aftermath—and their after-hours passion for each other added up to a wild ride. To calm things down and avoid getting too tightly wrapped, they came up with a simple rule: Mondays and Thursdays were Time Out days.

  Today was Monday, and though they’d spent a wild Sunday night together, Time Out started when they stepped off the elevator into the office. They would work together as usual during the business day and would then lock up and go their separate ways. They wouldn’t share a meal, have sex, or even see each other after hours. They each had their own apartments—Lisa had the entire fourth floor of the Ferry building, Mark had the fifth and sixth—and could do as they pleased within their own walls or go out on their own if they chose.

  They didn’t schedule client meetings or terminations on Time Out days. Lisa had an upcoming interview with two prospects Tuesday morning. Mark would be talking to another in the afternoon. Today they would spend the morning working together in the conference room, reviewing a dozen applications received in recent days.

  They rejected three applicants for “Inadequate Financial Resources”—a euphemism for “You can’t afford our services.” Two more were rejected for “Insufficient credibility as to intent.”

  That usually meant “we don’t believe you really want to do it,” but it also covered cases where they suspected the applicant’s motives. One was a notorious social-media daredevil who put himself into all sorts of supposedly life-threatening situations so he could promote himself by blogging and tweeting about how he’d survived such-and-such. Mark was sure he could stack the deck so the guy didn’t survive, but it wasn’t worth the trouble.

  The second reject was a woman whose website and media pages were a virtual crusade against both Charon’s Ferry and LifeEnders. She’d declared that she would give her own life if her sacrifice could bring an end to the “horrible atrocities committed by the soul-stealing demons of the contract-murder companies.”

  Mark’s concern was that she might actually go through with it, leaving behind some kind of manifesto that would spotlight her death and cast it as martyrdom. It wasn’t worth the damage to the Ferry’s corporate image.

  They accepted the seven remaining applications. The applicants were now prospects and would be asked to schedule a personal interview. They’d already paid a substantial non-refundable application fee, which was part of the screening process, but many who paid it had a change of heart when asked to show up in person.

  Mark and Lisa sent out the notices, then broke for lunch. As they sat down at the table in the little cafeteria, Mark raised the subject of the next day’s schedule.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to take the morning interview?” he asked.

  “Why would I?” she replied with a grin. “They’re lesbians.”

  “Yeah, but there’s two of them, and they look pretty rough to me.”

  “They’re still a couple…shouldn’t be any problem.”

  The Ferry sometimes got applications from couples, gay or straight, who wanted to die together. That meant simultaneous termination of two people who almost always wanted to die in each other’s arms, sometimes during or immediately after sex. Couples usually had specific requests as to how they wanted to die—the method, the setting, some pre-termination services. These sometimes required creative solutions.

  “I can manage it,” Lisa assured him. “Might need some planning and setup, but that’s my specialty anyway.”

  He had to agree. Lisa was incredibly good—and often outrageously creative—in setting up executions to meet client wishes. That was one of the reasons he’d brought her in as a partner to begin with.

  “OK—I’ll play the lowly clerical in the morning, then we can switch out in the afternoon for the old lady’s interview.”

  “Should be an interesting day,” she predicted.

  “Right,” he agreed. “After looking at the files, I can’t wait to actually meet these people.”

  The prospects arrived the next morning, rolling into the front parking area on a pair of choppers—custom Harleys with extended forks, high pipes, gleaming chrome, and airbrushed artwork covering every non-chromed surface. From the amount of noise that accompanied their arrival, Mark guessed they were probably in violation of a few motor vehicle and environmental regulations, but nobody bothered bikers. People—including law enforcement people—tended to look the other way and pretend they didn’t exist.

  The two women who dismounted in front of the building were clad in the usual riding leathers, so form fitting there was no doubt as to their gender. They removed their helmets—wearable works of art that were either a grudging acknowledgment of regulations, or an indication that they at least had common sense—and left them on the bike seats as they headed for the building door. Like most upscale office buildings, The Ferry’s small parking lot was fenced and gated to keep vehicles from being stolen, looted, or stripped to the frame by increasingly bold thieves who invaded even the most affluent suburbs.

  Crime was rampant in Southern California. Intelligent business owners like Mark simply shrugged and implemented their own security measures, setting up complex and expensive systems aimed at preventing crime rather than lamenting the failure of overworked and understaffed police departments to control it.

  This morning’s prospects obviously trusted Charon’s Ferry to have such systems in place. Or maybe they just trusted the old ‘it’s a bad idea to mug or rob people who carry a License to Kill’ thing, but that presumed criminals possessed even a modicum of logic. In any case, they left their bikes unattended without hesitation, and Mark activated the additional systems that allowed them to enter the building. He already knew a great deal about them from the investigation files, but he studied them with interest as they crossed the foyer toward the reception desk.

  Maya Moreno was a stocky, well-endowed woman about five feet tall with an ass-length mane of flame-red hair
. Known as “Habanero” (or sometimes just “Hot Pepper”) to the biker crowd, her Hispanic heritage had endowed her with a dark-eyed, honey-skinned beauty that was just reaching its peak at 27 years of age.

  Unfortunately, that peak would be short-lived. She was dying of pancreatic cancer that had spread to other organs, and the doctors had told her she wouldn’t live to see her 28th birthday. She’d obviously seen a lot of life, though, and Mark noted most of that honey-colored skin—what he could see, at least—was covered with artistic ink that must have involved many hours under a tattoo needle. In fact, he could see quite a lot. Coming through the doors, she’d opened the zipper of her sleeveless riding jacket to just below her navel, revealing an absence of undergarments.

  Her companion, Lara “Lightning” Langsdorf, was a tall, slender woman with an equally long mane of platinum-colored hair that accentuated her pale complexion. The top of her jacket was open as well, but she wasn’t showing nearly as much cleavage as Moreno. With her slim build, she had less to show anyway, but Mark noted that she was also decorated with a considerable amount of ink. While Moreno’s smile was sultry, Langsdorf’s tended to be frosty, almost intimidating. Despite appearances, she was the younger of the two at just 24 years of age.

  Mark smiled at them as they approached the reception desk.

  “Ms. Moreno, Ms. Langsdorf,” he nodded to each of them in turn, “we were expecting you. I’ll need to see your UIDs…just for the record.”

  Langsdorf produced her ID without comment, but Moreno gave him a sultry, pouting look. “Well, if you really must…” she purred.

  She reached into an inside pocket of her jacket, slowly pushing it aside and revealing her left breast in all its glory, decorated with a colorful tangle of roses and thorny vines.

  “Oops!” she said. “Peek-a-boo…”

  Mark’s reaction was predictable, but the desk blocked her view of the sudden tension in his pants, and he managed to maintain his professional composure.

  “Very nice,” he told her. “I love the ink.”

  That produced a sexy smile, her full lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth. She extended the requested ID but made no move to cover herself. Langsdorf stepped forward at that point and draped her long arm over Moreno’s shoulder, her hand reaching down to fondle the exposed breast.

  “Forget it, stud,” she said, showing equally perfect teeth in a smile that held a surprising amount of humor. “This belongs to me, and I don’t share.” She bent to nuzzle Moreno’s ear.

  “I’m incredibly jealous,” Mark told her as he handed back the IDs. In fact, he hadn’t needed them since the security system had done face-recognition on them and had also scanned them for weapons. They each carried a folding knife and a multi-tool, but nothing more.

  If they’d had firearms, they would have been stopped between the inner and outer doors and asked to deposit them in the security cabinet, to be returned upon departure. The guns would have been illegal—no private citizen in California was allowed to own or possess one—but it wasn’t the Ferry’s business to enforce the law. Mark and Lisa were allowed to own, possess, and carry guns, anywhere and at any time. That was part and parcel of their Federal license to kill people and was not subject to restriction by any state law.

  He made a show of checking his screen. “I believe Ms. Woods is ready to see you now,” he told them. He was sure Lisa had been ready the moment they walked in, had probably been watching the whole thing, but it was part of the show they put on for clients.

  He got up from the desk, trying not to display the effect they’d had on him. Leading them down the short hallway, he stopped at the door that bore the legend Lisa Woods, Executive Director. His own office door was directly across the hall, but its nameplate was covered. This morning he was the lowly clerical assistant, and Lisa was the Big Dog. He knocked on the door before opening it.

  “Ms. Woods…Ms. Moreno and Ms. Langsdorf are here for their meeting.” He stepped back to let them into the office, blushing as Moreno’s hand gave his crotch a little pat on the way in. Apparently his arousal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  “Thank you, Mark.” Lisa got up to welcome them. “Hold my calls, please. I’ll let you know if we need anything.”

  He nodded as he closed the door. In this age of voicemails and text messages, no one needed to have their calls “held,” but it was still a common way of letting business clients know that their meeting was important and not to be disturbed. He went back to the reception desk and brought up the cameras in Lisa’s office to watch the proceedings.

  “Ms. Moreno…Ms. Langsdorf…please come in, have a seat.”

  Lisa waved them to the chairs that faced her desk, then went around the desk and sat down herself. She watched as Langsdorf peeled off her jacket, revealing a tight-knit top that proved beyond a doubt she didn’t believe in bras. Moreno unzipped her own jacket all the way, displaying leather pants that were cut so low as to reveal a tuft of flame-red pubic hair peeking up well below her navel.

  Moreno reached into that same inside pocket, once again displaying the same lovely breast, as she pulled out a cigarette and proceeded to light up. Langsdorf sat down in the chair to Lisa’s right, tossing her own jacket onto the other chair. To Lisa’s surprise, Moreno sat down on Langsdorf’s lap, rubbing her shoulder against the taller woman’s breasts as she pulled her jacket aside to put both of her own on full display. She took a drag on her cigarette, then reached up to offer it to Langsdorf, who also took a long pull on it.

  “Ummm…make yourselves comfortable. Smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em,” Lisa offered belatedly, pushing an ashtray across the desk.

  Good thing those chairs are strong. Like the ones in Mark’s office, Lisa’s visitor chairs were built to support the most obese clients and prospects in comfort. Lisa could probably have climbed up with them and had a threesome without pushing the chair’s limits.

  She sniffed the air. OK…at least it’s only tobacco. She didn’t smoke herself—except for an occasional joint, and never during working hours. Tobacco was gaining in popularity again as medical science had finally conquered lung cancer, but nicotine was still a highly addictive drug. Lisa kept the ashtray on her desk to oblige clients and prospects who couldn’t go a couple of hours without a smoke break. As a federally chartered facility, the Ferry was exempt from California’s indoor smoking restrictions.

  “Just out of curiosity,” Langsdorf said, her arm snaking round Moreno to fondle the exposed breasts once again, “…that stud out front is pretty hot. Is he any good?”

  “Mark?” She shrugged. “He’s good at his job. Not too bright sometimes, but the clients like him. And he’s very good after hours.” Lisa’s smile turned naughty. And I’m pretty sure he’s watching, have to get a little payback for that hard-on he’s getting, staring at Moreno’s tits.

  “Hmmm…I guess that means you’re straight,” Moreno said. “Too bad…you’re pretty hot yourself, and I’d love to see you naked. I’m sure the three of us could have a real party.” Looking straight into Lisa’s eyes, she slid her hand down her own belly, sliding her fingers into her pants.

  “I’m not that straight,” Lisa told her. “I’m sure I’d love to party with you…”

  And I’d probably enjoy helping you two make a Lisa sandwich, she thought.

  “…but you came here for a reason. I’ve read the application, and I know your situation. I’m sure you know what we do here, and that’s why we’re having this meeting. I think we should just put our wet dreams on hold for the moment and talk about it.”

  “Yeah,” Moreno admitted. “We probably should.”

  “No, don’t stop,” she told Langsdorf. “I can still talk while you twiddle my tits. Helps me remember why we’re doing this.”

  “We’re doing it because we love each other,” Langsdorf said. She bent to kiss Moreno on the cheek and continued to fondle her while her free hand slid down to join Moreno’s inside the older woman’s pants.

  “So y
es, let’s get on with it,” she said, lifting her head to meet Lisa’s gaze.

  “Right…” Lisa nodded. “We’re here to talk about a contract. In exchange for the fees you pay us, we agree to terminate your lives. I don’t care for word games, so let’s call it what it is: we will kill you, in whatever manner you choose to die, at whatever time you choose to do it.”

  The two of them were looking at her with serious expressions now, but neither of them flinched.

  “But it’s a legal contract, and I need to go over some parts of it to make sure you understand them. It’s pretty straightforward, but I have to explain these things to keep the lawyers happy.”

  “Fuck the lawyers,” Moreno said. She moaned at Langsdorf’s manipulations.

  “See what I have to put up with?” Langsdorf winked at Lisa.

  “You know you love it,” Moreno replied. “Continue…”

  “You want me to continue? Or her?” Lisa chuckled.

  “Both of you…”

  “OK…so fuck the lawyers, but I still have to explain this, because I want to be sure you’re OK with it. First, we don’t allow any witnesses. You can’t invite a bunch of bikers to come around and drink beer while they watch you die. No friends, no family. Nobody sees it happen except the minimum number of Charon’s Ferry people needed to make it happen. Normally, that would mean just me, but because there’s two of you, I might need some help to get it done properly. I’ll probably bring in that hot assistant of mine, if that’s OK with you two.”

  “Bring him on,” Langsdorf said. “He gets hard looking at Pepper’s tits anyway. He’ll probably enjoy the party.”

  You have no idea…Lisa thought.

  “Next,” she said, “if you want to send any messages to anyone or let anyone know you’re dead, you have to do it before you’re dead. We don’t send out notices, publish obituaries, or otherwise let anyone know you died—except, of course, for the required notice to the state of California’s Department of Human Services. And DHS doesn’t publish anything, either, though they will send a death certificate if someone asks for it.