by Colin Gigl
The tires squealed as Charlie struggled to keep the car under control. Both he and Alice snapped against their seat belts as the whole chassis shuddered in its arm-wrestle against physics. Alice was screaming, having built it up in a gradual crescendo that was just now reaching its peak. The passenger side of the car kissed the concrete divider and kicked back to the left before coming to a full and complete stop. Somehow, aside from some dings in the paint, they were sitting in one piece. The trailing SUVs sailed past them before stopping on their own about three hundred feet down the road.
“Holy shit,” Alice said in stunned exasperation. “I don’t even . . . I can’t believe . . . What the fucking fuck just . . .”
“Couldn’t agree more. You all right?”
She looked at him, visibly shaking, but Charlie could see no obvious bleeding or misplaced bones. Generally a good thing, that. “Almost, uhh . . . spilled some water on my pants. Other than that, peachy.”
“You’re doing great,” Charlie said as reassuringly as he could, given the circumstances. He had already popped the car into reverse and was backing out onto Route 3. A stray car or two had sailed by slowly, obviously wondering what was going on, but none of them stopped to help.
He could see the reverse lights on the SUVs up ahead. If he got into a street race with them again, he’d inevitably lose. He needed to buy himself a little space. He continued to push the Jeep backward along Route 3, and with the SUVs following in the same fashion, it seemed like the cars were going to simply resume the chase in reverse. However, as soon as Charlie was sure the coast was clear, he whipped the car around in a 180-degree spin.
“What the hell are you doing now?!” Alice shouted. Apparently she didn’t much enjoy driving into oncoming traffic.
Charlie didn’t reply, focused solely on his rearview mirror. He floored the Jeep, hoping that the other two SUVs would buy it. “Come on,” he whispered to himself. “Come on . . .”
As the speedometer clicked past forty, Charlie got his wish. Both the chasers turned their respective cars around and quickly accelerated. Good—that was the first part of his revised plan. The second part would be just a touch trickier.
“Just a heads-up, this is about to get a little crazy,” he said.
“Oh, good, you mean it wasn’t already?” The car picked up speed. “This is it!” Alice yelled. “This is how we’re going to die!”
“Correction—you’ll die. Immortal, remember?”
His passenger did not seem amused. “You know, you picked a helluva time to start cracking jokes, smart-ass. Did it ever occur to you that maybe—just maybe—I don’t want to die in a horrific car crash?”
“Look at that. Sounds like we’re making progress already.”
“I meant that I don’t want to die in excruciating pain, you asshole, not that I don’t want to die!”
Charlie eyed the approaching underpass. He’d made a note of it before, back when they’d been driving in the proper direction. Now it was his best shot at losing their tail. A car whizzed by on the right, its blaring horn no doubt a poor substitute for the creative string of profanity the driver was yelling inside.
Just beyond the underpass to Charlie’s left of the highway was an exit ramp—a short, forty-five-degree uphill slope that ended with a stop sign. Across from the stop sign was an entrance back onto Route 3, allowing cars to get off and then right back on again. Charlie maneuvered toward it, the SUVs flying behind, closing in.
As soon as Charlie passed beneath the underpass, he threw the emergency brake and yanked the wheel to the left, causing the Jeep to drift in a tight arc. If Alice had a follow-up to her previous statement, it was abandoned in favor of screaming bloody murder.
While it was an impressive piece of driving by all accounts, it wasn’t quite perfect. Charlie had overshot it, spinning the car more than the 180 degrees he wanted. The Ferryman cursed under his breath as he ripped the wheel back around to the right and crushed the pedal to the floor. The wail of burning rubber filled the air. The now oncoming SUVs seemed to figure out Charlie’s course of action—they, too, swerved to their left, one sliding in behind the other to act as a safety net in case Charlie was bluffing.
The Jeep’s wheels continued to spin, kicking up a plume of smoke as they floundered. “Go, goddammit!” Charlie bellowed as he pounded the steering wheel with his fist. As if waiting for that cue, the Jeep leapt forward, engine racing. The lead SUV barreled toward them, no longer attempting to get in front of them but instead trying to stop them head-on. Charlie ground his teeth as he kept his eyes on the onrushing car, his mind trying to gauge the distances. It was way too tight to call.
“HOOOOOLLLL—” Alice yelled in one long string. Their front wheels were on the ramp, but the black SUV charged on. Time seemed to stretch out like an elastic band being pulled to its limit. Charlie was no physicist, but if there was any contact now—even the slightest tap—it would surely end with them becoming intimately familiar with a concrete wall.
A deafening crash resounded through the night.
Charlie waited for the Jeep to spin, roll, flip, or otherwise explode in a blaze of glory, thereby signaling the ultimate termination of this little adventure of theirs. But then another second ticked by with the sky very much above, the ground very much below, and the car very much not destroyed. Charlie’s brain had to gently remind him that—while grossly unexpected—those were all good things. He chanced a glance in his rearview mirror to see the lead SUV finish crushing itself into the wall behind them. The front driver-side tire went flying past his window as car parts flew through the air like steampunk confetti. The entire front of the car was decimated, the body crumpling in on itself like a mechanical pancake.
Charlie knew that the passengers inside would be fine, at least eventually—they were immortal, after all—but there’d be no way to get them out of that kind of wreck without assistance. The question was, would the second SUV stop to provide it, or would it continue the chase?
Alice hollering “Charlie!” snapped his attention back to the road.
They were nearly at the top of the ramp now, approaching the stop sign at fifty and climbing. A souped-up Honda Civic was speeding across the overpass, tracking an unintentionally perfect intercept course. There wasn’t enough room to stop, given how fast they were both going. Without thinking, Charlie punched the horn and kept his foot pressed to the floor, urging the Jeep on.
Tires shrieked like banshees as the Civic locked its brakes. With mere seconds to spare, the Civic veered to the left. The Jeep caught air as it crested the ramp, the front driver-side wheel missing the oncoming hood by inches. Charlie and Alice flew over the street before landing on the opposite side. Charlie slammed on the brakes, causing the Jeep to slide to a stop where the ramp met the highway.
The pair sat for what seemed like a long while, Alice’s heavy and somewhat irregular breathing the only noise. Finally, they looked at each other, turning at almost the exact same moment. Charlie let out a playful exhale of relief. Alice looked ready to puke.
Fine margins and all that.
“So,” he said, “that just happened.”
Alice’s eyes had temporarily turned to glass. Her head swayed slightly from side to side. “Next time, can you just let me blow my brains out? I think it would be a lot less stressful than the heart attack you’re trying to give me.”
“That’s the weirdest way someone’s ever thanked me for saving their life—again—but you’re welcome.” Charlie accelerated back onto the highway, repeatedly checking the mirrors. For the moment, they appeared to be alone.
“And again, I didn’t ask for that or this. Just so we’re clear.” The quaver in her voice was slowly dissipating, though a trace of it remained.
It was a tough point for Charlie to counter. Despite the noble overtones, something about what he was doing for Alice felt selfish. He cared about the girl’s life—he wanted to be clear on that—but in a way, it was more symbolic than personal. He’d save
d her because he was given the choice to do so. Because he finally wanted to be on the other side of the universe’s perpetually balancing scales of life and death. Because someone had given him an opportunity and, consequences be damned, he’d chosen the path he’d always wanted to take.
Even with her protests, his objectives hadn’t changed. Charlie was going to make sure she was protected from the Institute, like it or not. Maybe that made him naive, an anachronistic holdover from a bygone era. Hell, maybe it made him just plain stupid. Didn’t matter. Charlie was going to see the girl safely on. If the moment she was released she wanted to step in front of a bus, well, that was on her.
“We’re clear. Very clear,” came Charlie’s reply.
Alice hesitated. “Good,” she eventually said. She made to say something else, but apparently thought better of it. The settled hum of the Jeep rolled on.
Music suddenly filled the car, the staccato pluck of violins punctuating every beat. Then the lyrics came, the beginnings of a story woven through them, framed by the acute loneliness of the melody.
The sound was so unexpected that, had it not been for his seat belt, Charlie would have had a good chance at putting his head through the soft-top roof. His eyes immediately began scanning the mirrors again for signs of trouble.
Alice, however, was already furiously searching the car for something. “It’s my phone, my phone! Where the hell is it?”
That made a bit more sense. Charlie looked down at his lap—its previous location—but the cell was gone. Not surprising, given the stunts they’d just pulled. “It was on my lap, but I don’t see it anymore.” Then it dawned on him. “That might be Cartwright!”
“More likely my dad.” She was searching the floor by her feet. “Check by your feet, would you? It should be lit up.”
“I’m doing eighty on a highway meant for fifty. For your sake, no.”
Alice’s phone rang on, the ringtone still playing, the namesake woman in it waiting, waiting, but for whom, the song wondered.
Charlie shook his head. “You have a very depressing ringtone,” he said, trying to keep one eye on the road and the other searching the interior of the car. Without warning, Alice was climbing over the shifter, sticking her head in between Charlie’s legs. “What are—”
“Don’t crash right now and kill me, please and thank you,” was all she said as she scurried onto the driver-side floor.
Her body pressed against his as she slid farther underneath the seat, the sense of urgency clearly overriding any of Alice’s demure sensibilities. First her stomach, then her hip, finally her thigh all snaked along his right leg while she spelunked deeper into the cave of underdriverseatopia. Though he’d eased off the speed, Charlie still had the car doing sixty—more than enough to kill her should they get in an accident. Charlie was desperately trying to keep his eyes on the road, but Alice’s butt was waving around in front of him, like that of a regal house cat in heat. He opened his mouth.
“So much as a word right now and I will rip your tongue out,” she said. Apparently, Alice had assumed the worst of Charlie. He was about to tell her how offended he was by that when she preempted him again. “I see it!”
There was a subtle key shift as the chorus arrived, another minor chord, the very barest hint of urgency wrapped around the lyrics as they asked a different question now.
“Got it! Stupid thing was facedown.” With a triumphant grin she clambered out from underneath him with an impressive amount of dexterity and dropped back into her own seat. She stared at the phone while fumbling with her seat belt. “Blocked number?”
Of course it would be—if Cartwright was calling, that made perfect sense. “Answer it, before he hangs up.”
The last bars before the chorus, the same question about to be asked, the string quartet building—
He could make out her eyes on him in his peripheral vision, no doubt wanting to ask a question. Instead, she slid her finger across the phone’s touchscreen and placed it against her ear. “Hello?” She listened. Her eyes widened slightly before relaxing. “Yes, this is Alice Spiegel. I’m sorry, who is this? Uh-huh. And how did you get this number?” Charlie motioned for her to put it on speaker, but she was staring at the floor. She was listening again. “No, I’m afraid I don’t want to do that. Listen . . . yes, listen, I don’t want to. I don’t care. I’m sorry. Good night.” Alice lowered the phone.
Charlie blinked. He couldn’t believe it. She’d just hung up on Cartwright. Who else could it have been? It wasn’t conceivable that Cartwright wouldn’t call back.
It had to have been Cartwright.
Right?
His anger bubbled just below the surface as his brain forced him to entertain the possibility that Alice—egocentrically suicidal Alice—had just deliberately sabotaged his attempt to save her. He liked to think that would be out of character for her, but in reality, how well did he really know her?
“Please tell me you didn’t just hang up on Cartwright.” He was careful to maintain a relaxed tone, but his knuckles whitened around the steering wheel.
Alice looked over at him, evidently confused. “Cartwright?” Then, realization hit. “Right . . . Cartwright.” She hesitated. “That depends. Does Cartwright call himself Stephanie, give away free, all-expenses-paid cruises, and sound like he’s mainlining nitrous oxide? If yes, then you have my sincerest apologies.”
Before he even realized what he was doing, Charlie ripped his eyes from the road and glared at her. God help you if you are fucking with me right now, they said, very clearly. The thought raced through his head in all its malevolent splendor, his sense of humor razed in the wake of the phone call’s implications. Though his thought went unspoken, Alice heard every word through his eyes. She shrank back slightly into her seat.
“I swear to God I’m not lying,” she said. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
Charlie held the edge of fury for a moment longer before it deflated like a busted blow-up doll. A neutral observer would probably have pointed out that Cartwright could call any second now, but Charlie, removed from such an enviable position, knew the truth. How, he didn’t know, but he was so completely sure of it that it frightened him.
There was no phone call coming. Though a small part of Charlie certainly had wondered about Javrouche’s accusations, he mostly had held on to the belief that it was all a misunderstanding, that Javrouche was somehow terribly mistaken. That conviction now disappeared. It was a mirage, just the shimmer of heat playing on the sand while Charlie struggled through the desert.
The truth, it seemed, was that Cartwright had abandoned him.
Charlie was on his own.
CLAUDE
* * *
THE DEATH OF YOUR HERO
Dawson! Mr. Dawson!”
It was initially the sound of the high-pitched voice, thick with a Manhattan accent and a slick cadence, rather than its words that caught Claude Toulouse’s attention. A young man—a boy, really, probably no older than seventeen or eighteen when he’d been recruited into the Institute’s ranks, by the look of him—was scrambling through the mob of people bustling around the control room floor.
“Mr. Dawson, can I get a quick word with you? It’s an emergency!”
It was only after that particular outburst that Claude noticed the other man, the one the youngster was trying to stop. He recognized the Ferryman immediately.
Charles Ronald Dawson. In the flesh.
Despite his sixteen years of service as a Ferryman, Claude had never actually run into the Institute’s most legendary employee, let alone met him. Even with their nonacquaintance, to say that he admired the man was to understate it somewhat severely. He’d gone through and studied almost all of Dawson’s cases—the Benderman Affair in 1793, his pioneering work with young children during the mid-1800s, and even his recent work handling celebrity cases. Dawson was a revolutionary, and Claude wanted to emulate that as closely as he could.
From his very first days in its employ, Claude had
immersed himself in the world of the Ferryman Institute with a gusto that bordered on fanatic. He worked at his trade with zealous dedication, seeking the pinnacle of the craft clearly marked by where Charles Dawson stood. Though most saw his ethic as excessive, if not slightly frightening, it was perhaps understandable when viewed as the long-sought dream it represented for him, now finally come true: it was in almost every sense a new beginning. The place had come to be his paradise, his Avalon. The Institute had unveiled itself as a fresh start for Claude, and with that came the chance to finally mold himself into a person whom people admired and respected.
What better person, then, to choose for the template of his new life than the universally revered Charles Dawson.
Even if Claude hadn’t met him personally, the Ferryman record Dawson had amassed was nothing short of extraordinary. It was impressive even to the average employee, but to someone well versed in the difficulties of Ferryman service, as Claude fancied himself, it was positively staggering. But while he’d heard much about Charles Dawson’s exploits—he’d been the Institute’s crème de la crème for over 175 years, so what employee hadn’t, really—the man himself was notoriously reclusive. Yet here he was, heading directly toward Claude at a brisk pace.
The facial expression the Ferryman currently wore seemed slightly bemused, but it was clear the look was an overlay hiding his true feelings underneath.
“I’m sorry, but I just finished for the day,” Dawson said as he continued walking on, his pace picking up just enough to be noticeable. A few people turned to look at him as he brushed by but most ignored or, more likely, didn’t recognize him.
The young man chasing him, however, wasn’t so easily turned away. “I understand, but like I said, it’s an emergency. Please! I need your help.”
Just as Charles Dawson made to walk past Claude, who was standing idly by his own desk, being done for the day as well, he stopped and turned to face the young man. For an instant, Claude swore he saw a look of utter dismay cross the Ferryman’s face, but perhaps not.