The Ferryman

by John E. Siers

  “They looked at the stuff Aaron’s people submitted, and they agreed we can use ability to pay as a criterion—we can even charge rich people more than we charge poor and middle-income folks, just as long as we can demonstrate we’re not charging more because somebody wants us to snuff a little kid. In other words, we can apply the same financial screening—to the parents—that we’ve always done.

  “We can even use our ‘insufficient credibility as to intent’ screening—as long as we apply it to the parents, not the kid—and we need to document that one with notes as to why in the future. In short, we have to provide proof.

  “What we are not allowed to do is judge whether the parents have a justifiable reason to kill their kid. The law doesn’t require it, and we can’t require it, either. We have to justify why we won’t do it, but the parents don’t have to justify having us do it. That’s the part that really scares me.”

  “The intent of the law was to permit euthanasia…” she began.

  “But the bastards didn’t say so when they wrote it,” he replied. “You see the kind of people we get here—people who are willing to kill themselves because they didn’t get invited to the right parties. For all I know, some rich son-of-a-bitch is going to walk in here wanting us to terminate his newborn because the kid’s got the wrong color eyes.”

  Mark’s rant was cut short by an incoming call on his pad. A glance at the screen showed Aaron Lebowicz as the caller.

  “Mark,” the attorney began without preamble, “my people have finished going over the written judgment with a microscope. Everything you and I discussed after the ruling still applies, but it looks like the court threw you a couple of bones.

  “For one thing, they set an arbitrary lower limit in one sense. You can accept a contract for any kid under 12, but they gave you more discretion for kids under the age of 7. In essence, you get to apply your judgment as to whether termination is ‘justified’ for kids six years old or less. Since the court said nothing about how you make that determination, that’s a free pass for you to turn it down.”

  “Great…so we still have to snuff any kid between 7 and 11 at the whim of a deranged parent, right?”

  “Pretty much,” Lebowicz didn’t look happy about it, “but they did give you flexibility on the money. You don’t have to do kids on the low-budget $2,000 terminations unless CSPC gives a referral; and from what you’ve told me, Eunice Mercer isn’t likely to send you any of those. That means we’re up in the five-figure minimum fee area.”

  “So now I only have to snuff kids at the whim of a rich deranged parent. My concern is there might actually be some of those out there.”

  “The other thing is, since the statute is a California law, you don’t have to accept any applications from out-of-state residents—and they’ll allow you to apply the minimum one-year residency the state requires for a lot of other ‘resident-only’ services.”

  “Oh, great…so now we’re down to rich, deranged parents who live in California. That still leaves a hell of a lot of 7-12-year-old kids at risk.”

  “Mark…you know I can’t legally recommend any course of action at this point, but I think there are probably ways you could…how do I say this…discourage parents from doing things like that. You have some powerful tools at your disposal. I mean…we all know who took care of business in the Lacrisha Jones case.”

  Mark looked at Lisa, who nodded in understanding. Lebowicz had two major clients—the Ferry and LifeEnders—which pretty well made him the leading authority on the legal aspects of contract murder.

  “Yes…I understand,” Mark assured him, “but I would prefer to be more pro-active at this point. It would be best if those deranged parents get the hint you’ve just given me before I have to ‘take care of business’ with them. I think I might have an idea…”

  Katie Kim was less than completely surprised when Mark’s call came in. She had been following the court case—as she did every potential story related to Charon’s Ferry—and she knew which way the judgment had gone.

  “So…would you like to come over and talk about it, Ms. Kim?”

  Is the Pope Catholic? She tried hard not to show her eagerness, but his smile told her she’d failed miserably.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Marshall…ah…can I bring a production team with me? Just a producer and camera tech?”

  “Fine—as long as they understand that recording starts and stops on my command. We’ll do it in our conference room, because I want Lisa to be in on it as well.”

  I think I’m about to have a journalistic orgasm, Kim decided. Her viewers went crazy over Lisa the last time, and her bosses had praised her handling of the interview. I don’t ‘handle’ the Ferry’s people—they handle me. All I have to do is hold on for the ride…

  True to Kim’s predictions, Mark Marshall had managed the interview to perfection, requiring little effort on her part. She had picked up her cues easily, asked the questions he obviously wanted her to ask, and he’d given her the answers that neatly made the points he wanted to cover. Then he’d turned it over to Lisa, who’d delivered a summary that was a perfect wrap-up for the piece.

  “I’m aware of what people think of me, Ms. Kim,” she’d said, “especially after you made me such a…popular personality with your first interview. Some think I’m a twisted version of Wonder Woman; others call me a murdering psychopath.

  “But first and foremost, I’m a woman. Someday, I’d like to settle down to a more conventional life, even have children of my own. Somewhere inside me, there’s a mother instinct, and it tells me that children are to be cherished and protected.

  “Euthanasia, I can understand. It may be a mercy to end the suffering of a child if there’s no other option. It will break my heart—yes, I do have one—but I’ll do it, because somebody has to do it, and killing is what I do.

  “But you do not want to bring a healthy, happy child in front of me and ask me to terminate that child…because that will bring out the real killer in me, and it won’t be the child who’s in danger.”

  The delivery had been perfect—ice cold, Angel of Death. It had chilled Kim to the bone, but she’d locked eyes with Lisa and said nothing, giving her only a small nod of acknowledgment. She’d waited a few seconds, then given the producer a hand signal: Cut. That’s a wrap.

  …and I will personally spay or neuter any editor who cuts even a microsecond of this piece.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Cindy

  Spring morphed into summer, accompanied by Southern California’s usual parade of natural disasters. Floods and mudslides gave way to drought that spawned wildfires, punctuated by the occasional earthquake that rattled windows, cracked foundations, and—in one case—ruptured a gas pipeline, causing fires and evacuations.

  None of these disasters touched the Ferry directly. Mindful of nature’s hostility to humans in the region, Mark had made careful choices for his company headquarters. The building was as earthquake-resistant as a six-story structure could be. It was on high ground, but not anywhere near a mudslide-prone hillside. It was also in the open, away from the tinder-box forests, and protected by state-of-the-art fire suppression systems.

  A tank in the basement held 5,000 gallons of fresh water to feed the building’s plumbing if the public water system failed. The backup for that was a deep well that didn’t appear on any of the official building plans, nor was it listed in any state or local government records. The Ferry used—and paid for—the usual public water supply, but Mark tested the well pump weekly to make sure it was in working order.

  In addition, a solar panel array on the roof maintained the charge for a battery bank that could power the entire building for a month without recharge. A backup generator with a week’s worth of fuel stood by in case the solar panels failed. Mark and Lisa maintained a supply of fresh food, but a storage room also held a year’s worth of military field rations with a shelf-life of a century or so.

  The building’s security sys
tems were designed not just for the casual intruder or thief, but to hold off a full-on assault by anything less than an armored battalion. And of course Mark and Lisa were armed—with an arsenal that contained far more than just the weapons needed to terminate the occasional client who wanted to be shot. Being federally licensed, California’s gun control laws were of no concern to them.

  Natural disasters were of little concern, but they did have one effect from a business standpoint—an increase in new applications for termination. Each catastrophic event proved to be the last straw for some of the survivors, either because they’d lost someone in the disaster, or because they’d lost the fruit of a lifetime of labor, a cherished home, a business. Faced with the prospect of rebuilding, some simply used the insurance proceeds for a Ferry application fee and deposit.

  These were not the normal Ferry clients. They were—or had been—well off, but not obscenely rich, not members of the multi-millionaire elite to whom the Ferry’s normal 5-figure or higher fee was just pocket change. For these clients, Mark offered a special rate, provided they could show that their desire for suicide was due to a natural disaster or some other catastrophic event in their lives. The low-cost termination came with some limitations. There were no pre-termination services, and the client waived all choice of means and method. They were only promised a quick end by whatever method Mark and Lisa found most expedient.

  In the course of a month, Mark shot six people in his office within seconds of their imprinting the contract after the waiting period. The bodies went into the tank minutes after they expired. Cleanup took another twenty minutes, and the office was ready for the next client.

  Lisa shot four clients in her office with similar efficiency, including a middle-aged couple who had lost everything they had in a wildfire. In that case, she’d gotten up and gone to the sideboard to pour herself a cup of coffee. On her way back to the desk, she’d shot both of them in the head, less than a second apart. They’d never seen it coming.

  With the addition of three “standard” terminations—not disaster related—by hanging, it was a busy month. They barely found the time to process the dead clients, harvest organs, and do all the other tasks that kept their business running. Neither of them found time to cook, and they lived on fast-food delivery for most of the month.

  They almost forgot about the “retroactive abortion” ruling. Their public relations ploy with Kim seemed to have gotten the message across, and for a long time, nobody showed up with a healthy child to be terminated.

  But, as Mark had learned years before in the Marine Corps, there’s always somebody who doesn’t get the word…

  “Welcome back, Ms. Jurgens,” Mark said, standing up to greet the woman and the little girl who had come into the office. He didn’t smile, and his voice didn’t convey much actual welcome, but the woman didn’t seem to notice. He waved them to the two comfortable swivel armchairs in front of his desk. Jurgens, a plump but attractive long-haired blond in her late thirties, took the chair to Marshall’s right. She waved her nine-year-old daughter to the one to his left.

  “Since you’re here on schedule, I assume you’re ready to complete the contract.”

  “Yes,” she replied, nervously. “What do I have to do?”

  “All the fees have been paid,” he shrugged, “and we’ve now satisfied the mandatory waiting period. All I need are Universal IDs—yours and Cindy’s—and your imprint to confirm today’s date. Then we’ll be ready to go ahead.”

  The woman produced the ID cards. “Now the imprint,” he said, extending the clipboard holding the printed contract.

  She hesitated, a stricken look on her face. Then she took a deep breath, licked her index finger, and pressed it down on the indicated square. As usual, the square turned green, indicating a good fingerprint and DNA sample. She settled back into the chair, but still looked nervous.

  “That’s all we need.” Mark gave her a reassuring smile and touched an icon on his screen. A few seconds later, Lisa came into the office.

  “Hi, Cindy,” she said with a cheerful smile. “I’m Lisa. I need you to come along with me while Mr. Marshall takes care of some business with your mother.”

  “Go along with the lady, dear…” Martha Jurgens directed, still looking at Mark. The girl obediently got out of the chair and followed Lisa out the door.

  “So…what happens now?” She gave Mark a nervous smile.

  “She’ll be taken care of,” he replied, “but you and I have one more item of business.”

  “You mean she’s going to be…how do you say it—terminated? Like, right now?” The stricken look was back on her face.

  “Yes.” Mark gave her a cold look. “Lisa’s going to put a bullet into her chest, right between her nonexistent breasts.”

  He pressed a hidden switch, and she looked startled, as restraining bars came out of the arms of her chair and encircled her waist. The chair also elevated and tilted back, lifting her feet off the floor so she couldn’t get up. At the same time, the top compartment on his desk slid open.

  He reached in and retrieved an exceptionally large pistol. He didn’t often use the .50 caliber Desert Eagle—the gun was just too big and heavy for regular carry and represented serious overkill for most jobs. In this case, however, he had chosen it for the intimidation factor.

  For that matter, he rarely used the chair restraints. Usually he just shot the client before he or she had a chance to react. But this time he wanted to have a little chat with Jurgens first.

  “You, on the other hand,” he told her, taking aim at her chest, “have nice tits. I’ll try not to mess them up too much when I shoot you.”

  Her eyes had gone wide with horror at the sight of the gun. She made a couple of squeaking sounds before she found her voice.

  “Wait! You…you can’t do this…!

  “Oh, but I can,” he insisted, lowering the pistol for a moment. “You really should have read the contract before you imprinted it…but then, none of our clients ever do. For most of them, it doesn’t matter.

  “You signed up to have us kill Cindy, but according to the contract, you also want us to kill you. Poor Martha…life was too tough, so you decided to end it and take your little daughter with you—couldn’t let her suffer going through life without her dear, sweet mommy…”

  He raised the pistol again and took careful aim.

  “No! Wait!” she shrieked. “I didn’t…I…”

  He lowered the gun again with a sigh. “Yes, you did. You hired us to kill your own daughter. You gave birth to that sweet little child…and now nine years later you want to dispose of her because she’s an inconvenience in your new-found lifestyle? First your mother-in-law, then your husband, now her?”

  Mark had done his research. Martha Jurgens was a very wealthy woman—recently wealthy, having inherited the wealth of a husband who had been murdered by a LifeEnders operative, less than a week after his mother had suffered a similar fate. Social media hinted that Martha had arranged both hits, though some said her husband had offed his mother first to inherit her estate before Martha did the same to him.

  Of course, LifeEnders never revealed the identity of their clients. In any case, Martha had become the beneficiary of a cascading fountain of wealth and had embarked on a high-profile and rather wanton lifestyle—one for which a nine-year-old daughter was just an encumbrance.

  “You’re a heartless bitch, Martha, and now you’re going to pay the price. I hope you burn in hell.”

  He raised the gun, then lowered it again. He sniffed the air.

  “Did you just shit yourself? You aren’t supposed to do that until after I shoot you. Probably wet your panties too, didn’t you?” He looked at her with disgust.

  “I’m going to give you one chance to redeem yourself…” He watched as a flicker of hope appeared in her eyes.

  “We haven’t killed Cindy yet. Right now, she’s having ice cream with Lisa in the cafeteria. If you insist that we kill her, the law says we have to
do it…but then, you won’t walk out of here alive.

  “On the other hand, if you and Cindy both walk out of here, I’ll just write you off as a no-show, and you can live happily ever after. I’ll keep the money you’ve paid us, of course—consider it your penance for even thinking about killing her.”

  “You can have the money,” she begged, “just please, let me go.”

  “Two conditions.” He gave her a cold, hard stare. “First of all, your life depends on Cindy’s continued good health and happiness. If anything should happen to her—you’re dead. If lightning strikes her, if she dies in a flood, an earthquake, or from exposure to some pandemic disease—you’re dead. If she becomes disabled or suffers any catastrophic injury—you’re dead.

  “If something happens to her, I’m not going to ask the cause, I’m just going to assume it happened because her mother didn’t protect her—as a normal mother should. When she turns 18, you might be off the hook, but I wouldn’t make any assumptions about it.

  “You’ve got plenty of money. If she’s in your way, you can send her off to some elite private school, some fancy summer camp…just make sure you always entrust her to someone who will keep her happy and safe. If she comes back here during her teen years and wants to commit suicide…well, you’d better start getting your own affairs in order.

  “Second condition: if you ever tell anyone what happened inside these walls, you’re dead. Your imprint on this piece of paper,” he held up the contract, “means that your life is mine. Don’t ever forget that.”

  “Nicely done!” Lisa finished reviewing the video of Mark’s meeting with Jurgens. “I don’t care what Katie Kim says, you’re just as scary as I am when you want to be. It warms my heart to think of her driving that Lexus all the way back to Malibu with her panties full of shit.”