“In other words, what happens at Charon’s Ferry stays at Charon’s Ferry…”
Chapter Nine
Pre-Term Services
Lisa’s got it under control, Mark decided, and I’ve got to get some work done. Reluctantly, he closed the camera window and brought up his files for the California Goods and Services Tax. Regulations required him to submit various accounting reports to satisfy the bureaucrats that they were getting their pound of flesh.
Mark chuckled at the metaphor—and wondered what the reaction would be at the Department of Revenue if he really did send them a pound of flesh. Hey…it’s worth money. Just ask the dog food guy.
Most of the ‘organic products’ derived from the remains of the Ferry’s clients were either salvaged for sale to the medical research market, or sent to the incinerator, but Mark also had an arrangement with a local producer of fantastically expensive pet food. His ‘Spirit of the Wolf’ dog food and ‘Spirit of the Tiger’ cat food—sold refrigerated and fresh at only one Rodeo Drive pet store—were so expensive, only the richest pet owners could afford to feed it to their furry friends. The producer was willing to pay exceedingly high per-pound rates for certain ground meat ingredients that could only be had from the Ferry, with the understanding that if the source of those ingredients became known, bad things would happen to him.
Mark trusted him to keep that confidence. Most people were very careful to honor their business commitments when dealing with a guy who killed people for a living. Mark was more than willing to trade on the widely held—though untrue—urban legend that said Charon’s Ferry was a wholly-owned subsidiary of LifeEnders.
He had a close business relationship with them—they had in fact helped him to secure his Federal License to Kill under a franchise agreement—but like the dog food guy, he was careful to honor the terms of his arrangement with them. He paid a 5% commission to LifeEnders out of each termination fee, but other than that, they left him to run the Ferry as he saw fit. They didn’t get a cut on the organ or pet food sales and had no interest in that part of the Ferry’s operation.
In any case, the pet food deal was a revenue stream, and Mark often joked with Lisa that it allowed him to get a little payback for clients who somehow managed to piss him off. The payback was strictly symbolic, of course—the clients had no way of knowing their earthly remains might end up in some pampered kitty’s litter box.
He expected Lisa to be tied up for a long time with Moreno and Langsdorf, so he was surprised when they emerged from her office just fifteen minutes later, Langsdorf calling, “See you a week from Friday!” to Lisa as they departed. He looked at his screen to find a message box in the corner advising that a new contract was awaiting review.
He smiled and nodded to the two women as they passed the reception desk. Moreno was just tucking her tits back into the jacket, and she turned to Mark and blew him a kiss.
“See you later, stud,” she told him, flashing him a full front view before she zipped up. “Ms. Woods says you’re good at your job, but remember, it never hurts to suck up to the boss.” She made a show of licking her lips in case he was too dense to catch her meaning. With a grin, Langsdorf slapped her on the ass.
“C’mon, Sweet Cakes, quit messing with the hired help. Time to ride.”
Out in the parking lot, they shared a passionate embrace and a long, wet kiss before mounting their iron horses and heading out, amid smoke and thunder. Mark watched them go, then turned to find Lisa emerging from her office.
“I see you got them signed,” he said. “Any problems?”
“A few little wrinkles we’ll have to deal with. Might be a little tricky—couples always are.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s only 11, but how about an early lunch? We can talk about it now and still have plenty of time to get ready for your afternoon prospect.”
“Sounds like a plan…you go ahead, I’ll close everything up, and be there in a minute.”
She left, headed for the cafeteria. He closed his tax files, checked the security systems, and locked the building down—standard procedure anytime no one was at the front desk.
The Charon’s Ferry “corporate cafeteria” was a small facility for the size of the building, but it was more than adequate, considering that Mark and Lisa were usually the building’s only occupants—at least, the only ones with a reasonable life expectancy. The cafeteria had a tiny kitchenette, a coffee service station, and a dining area with just four small tables. Out of force of habit, Mark and Lisa always used the same table. An observant visitor would have easily identified it as having seen much more use than the other three.
He found Lisa at the table, already starting on a sandwich she’d made from whatever she’d found in the refrigerator. Grabbing a pre-made nacho pack from the fridge, he tossed it into the microwave, and poured himself a cup of coffee. Retrieving the nachos, he sat down to join her.
“So…” she said, without preamble, “the negotiations went fine. They didn’t even try to haggle on the price, even paid up front for some pre-term services. They had the money—charge went through without a blip. They’ll be back a week from Friday for termination.”
“That’s ten days…”
“I know, but they’re not going to bail,” she insisted. “They’ve been planning this for a while, saving the money, and they’re going to do it. They just want to take their bikes for a last ride up the coast to San Francisco. Langsdorf’s mother—the only family she’s got—is in a nursing home up there. Last stages of Alzheimer’s—she doesn’t even know her own name, doesn’t recognize anybody—but Langsdorf wants to say goodbye. After that, they’ll ride back down here, donate those fancy bikes of theirs to charity through the local Harley dealer, then come here and let us send them off on their last ride.”
“OK…a week from Friday, then.” He shrugged. “Just kind of unusual…most people are in a big hurry once they sign the contract.”
“Actually,” she said, “we’re probably better off with the extra time to plan. I haven’t exactly figured out how we’re going to do them. They don’t care how we do it, as long as it’s quick. Don’t even care if it’s painful, as long as it’s over soon. And they don’t care what we do with their bodies—when I read them the ‘property of Charon’s Ferry’ clause, Moreno said we could just put them in the dumpster if we wanted to.
“Anyway, we still have to deal with the tricky part. They want to get naked and have a nice little party—smoke a joint, a little wine, a little cheese, and probably a lot of sex. They want us to do them in the middle of that party.
“The tricky part is that they want it to be a surprise. They don’t want to know how we’re going to do it until it happens—they literally don’t want to see it coming. If possible, they want to be dead before they can even think about it, though I told them we couldn’t guarantee that—they might end up with a little warning. I promised them it wouldn’t be more than five seconds.”
“I don’t see why we even need five seconds,” he told her. “We’ll set up a little party nest in the northwest corner of the x-room, nice bed, table for the wine and cheese, soft overhead lighting, music, whatever they’d like…”
“Yeah, I have a list of that stuff, what kind of wine they like, what kind of cheese. For a pair of wild bikers, they’ve got pretty fancy tastes. They want classic 20th-century rock for the music, by the way. They’re partial to Led Zeppelin, but they also like the Eagles—specific request for Hotel California.”
He chuckled at that one. “If I could have picked one song that’s totally appropriate for the occasion, that would be it. No problem—we’ve got all that stuff in the music system already, probably some of my own favorite tracks. Yours, too, as I recall.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I figure we get them set up there…just make sure we’ve got the walls hung with the ballistic drapes to stop any stray bullets. Then while they’re having their party, you and I can go up on the balcony with the sniper rifles. We’ll keep t
he rest of the room dark, so they won’t see us up there. They’ll be dead before they hear the sound of the shot. Less than 20 yards with an illuminated target, can’t miss, as long as they’re not moving around too much.”
In his Marine Corps days, Mark had been trained as a sniper. He’d spent considerable time in the Ferry’s basement shooting range teaching Lisa the Art of the Rifle. Unsuspecting targets with no cover at 20 yards would be like the proverbial fish in a barrel.
“We’ll wait until right after they have an orgasm. People who’ve been together for a while usually manage to have their orgasms together…as you well know, my love.” He slipped his hand under the table to squeeze her thigh.
“Now, now…save it for tonight!” She brushed his hand away with a giggle—the musical sound only excited him further. “I think you’ve been watching too many tattooed tits this morning.”
“Guilty!” he declared. “But I was only admiring the tattoos…and besides, they were clients, so they don’t count.”
“Understandable,” she conceded. “Truth is, I was admiring them myself. What’s weird is, I was more interested in Langsdorf’s—which were mostly covered, but obviously had a nice shape. Guess I’ll get to see them when they come back, but…
“Anyway,” she suddenly sobered, “you plan isn’t going to work.”
“Why not?”
“It’s about those pre-term services we promised them—well, actually I promised them. Wine and cheese aren’t the only things they want. They’re also expecting a threesome…with me.”
Sitting in his office, waiting for the prospect to arrive, Mark was still wondering how they were going to do Pepper and Lightning. How do we kill them while they’re having sex with Lisa? Most importantly, how can we do it with absolute assurance that Lisa won’t get hurt?
He kept coming back to the one answer he didn’t like. Lisa will have to do it herself. I can be standing by in case something goes wrong, but to get it done right, she’ll have to take them out—both of them—without me there to help her.
Lisa had killed a lot of clients without his assistance, some while having sex with them, or immediately after. But she’d never done a pair of heavy-duty lesbian biker chicks at the same time, let alone while having sex with both of them.
He didn’t doubt that the two women wanted to die. They’d spent a lot of time and money preparing to do just that. But he’d seen some clients do crazy things in the last seconds before death. Sometimes their self-preservation instincts kicked in and they tried to save themselves at the very moment of execution. He had learned to anticipate such things, taking measures to be sure they couldn’t back out, couldn’t escape once the final imprint was on the contract. The handcuffs he and Lisa put on hanging clients were a perfect example.
But this time there won’t be any handcuffs. They’ll be hot, sweaty, sexually aroused, and maybe a little drunk. They’ll be naked, but Lisa will be naked with them. This is going to take a lot of careful planning.
He was still wrestling with the problem when Lisa knocked on his door. He’d seen the client come in the building entrance—dropped off by a chauffeured limo that bore the logo of a local five-star hotel. The limo driver had helped the old lady to the door, and Lisa had come from the desk to help her cross the foyer. The woman actually appeared able to navigate quite well, assisted only by a cane, but she had a grandmotherly look that made people want to help her. Lisa had gotten her to a comfortable chair in the waiting area, gone through the formality of checking her ID, then had flashed Mark that they were on the way.
Chapter Ten
Granny
“Can I get you anything, Ms. Peterson?” he asked, as he settled the elderly woman into the chair. “Coffee? Tea? A glass of water?”
“I don’t suppose you have any Scotch on that counter over there…” She gave him a sweet, grandmotherly smile as she glanced at the cut-glass decanters on the sideboard.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “Will Dewar’s work for you?”
“On the rocks, please.”
He prepared the drink and presented it to her, pulling out the sliding shelf from the front of the desk and putting a coaster on it so she could set the glass down. Pouring one for himself, he placed it on his desk pad as he sat down again to face her.
Sylvia Peterson looked like the stereotypical image of somebody’s grandmother—or maybe great-grandmother—even with the glass of Scotch in her hand. Her wrinkled face framed twinkling blue eyes over a button nose and a prim, sweet smile. She was slim, probably only about a hundred pounds with her clothes on. She stood just 5’2” tall, probably a bit less with her slightly stooped walk. Her thin, wrinkled hands showed prominent veins, as did her skinny legs—what he could see of them below her lavender-colored mid-calf skirt. She wore a white long-sleeve blouse with a frilly front under a jacket that matched the skirt.
Her only concession to youthful style was her hair—silver gray, but arranged in a long, full braid that fell to the small of her back. She wore what he thought of as “granny glasses”—wire-framed half-height readers down on her nose so that she mostly looked at him over the top of them. She took a dainty sip of the Scotch and nodded with approval.
“That’s very good,” she told him. “I’m partial to Johnny Walker Black, but this is very smooth.”
“Glad you like it,” he told her. “Now…I’ve read your application, but it doesn’t tell me very much. What brings you to Charon’s Ferry today?”
“Why…I want you to kill me, of course.” She looked at him with surprise. “Knock me off. Snuff me out. That is what you do here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Mark said, surprised by her candor. “They call it ‘assisted suicide,’ but most of our clients don’t expect us to help them kill themselves. They want us to do it, to ‘snuff them out,’ like you said. But we seldom get clients as…mature as you are. I’m just curious as to why you want to do it.”
“As old as I am, you mean. You don’t have to tiptoe around it, young man. I’m proud of how many years I’ve racked up.”
“Well, that’s my point.” He looked at her in puzzlement. “If you’re proud of it, why do you want to stop racking them up? You don’t have to tell me—the contract doesn’t require it—but I’m curious. Just personal, nothing to do with business, so if I’m out of line, just tell me to shut up and get on with it.”
“Well, you know, I haven’t really told anyone about it, but you seem genuinely concerned, so let me see if I can figure out how to tell this story.
“I’ve had a good, long life—been just about everywhere and done more things than you could imagine. I’ve outlived two husbands, and even had a couple of kids along the way. Husband Number Two left me a pretty nice pile of cash, and also left me the vineyard and winery, with some good people to run it, so the money kept coming in faster than I could spend it. Was still in my fifties when the last kid left home, so I went back to just having fun.
“You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I was still a pretty hot number in those days. These…” she patted her modest bosom, “were still up there, not sagging a bit, and I could wiggle my butt with the best of ‘em. Could always find some young stud willing to jump in bed with me, but I stayed away from any serious hookups. I was out to have fun, and long-term relationships are just too much work.
“Anyway, I traveled all over the world, saw some amazing things. Stood on the Great Wall of China, saw the Taj Mahal and the Eiffel Tower, even went to Rome to see all that beautiful artwork the Pope keeps locked up in the Vatican. While I was at it, I chased the local boys around more than a few hotel rooms. Came to the conclusion that men are men, wherever you find ‘em—and that’s not a bad thing, mind you. I’ve got no complaints.
“I’m sorry…” she apologized. “I must be boring you with my life story. When you get old, young people usually don’t want to hear how it was back in the day…”
“Please!” he begged her. “I’m fascinated.
You’re a gifted storyteller, Ms. Peterson. Please continue.”
“Well, don’t call me ‘Ms. Peterson’—sounds way too formal. My given name’s Sylvia, which you probably know from the application, but nobody calls me that. Why don’t you just call me Granny, like they do up at the vineyard?”
“I would be honored to call you Granny,” he assured her. “But please, finish the story.”
“Hmmm…where was I. Oh, yes…my wild and crazy world travels. Kicked around England, spent some time in India, lived in Australia for almost a year. Eventually, my looks started to fade, but there were always young boys around that needed a real woman to show ‘em what to do with their peckers…heh, heh, heh.
“I’ve slowed down a lot now—too many miles on the old chassis, and I’m starting to appreciate staying home and sleeping in the same bed every night. Finally quit driving about five years ago—sold the Corvette, much to the relief of the local police department. Town revenue probably suffered though—no more speeding tickets for Granny.
“So now I figure the clock’s winding down. Hmmm…do they still make wind-up clocks? Anyway, I’m coming to the end of it, but I figure I’ve got at least one more adventure left in me, and that’s why I’m here.”
“Adventure?” Mark looked at her in wonder, “You’re here for an adventure?”
“Well, not exactly,” she admitted. “I’m here because I’m gonna die soon anyway, and I want you to make it an adventure. I heard you people do stuff like that. Don’t know if that’s true, ‘cause of course I’ve never talked to any of your satisfied customers, heh, heh, heh…”
The Ferryman Page 7
