Mark had no problem with it and had helped her do a thorough background check on the woman. “Lezzie Liz,” as Mark called her, was Lisa’s occasional visitor on Time Out nights. She’d offered to turn on a camera in her bedroom to let him watch, but he’d declined.
“Even a crazy exhibitionist like you needs privacy once in a while,” he’d told her.
“You let me run wild and free,” she continued, “and I love it, but I keep wondering how long it’s going to last. Am I just having a wet dream, and what’s going to happen when I wake up?”
In her position, she couldn’t see his face, and she held her breath, waiting for a reaction. He was silent for a moment, then nuzzled her hair with his chin.
“I love you,” he said at last.
OK…there it is, Mark thought. I finally said it. No going back now.
He’d heard her sharp, indrawn breath, but she didn’t move and said nothing.
She’s either totally stunned, or she’s trying to figure out how to tell me it’s not gonna happen, or…
“Yes…” she said. “It’s come to that, hasn’t it? I love you, Mark. I’ve known that for a long time.” She paused again to take a deep breath.
“I hoped you felt the same, but I wasn’t sure. I thought about telling you, but I was afraid you didn’t love me…I mean, you loved me, but not that way, not forever and ever, ‘Until death do us part.’
“That sounds pretty weird, considering the business we’re in,” her voice held a hint of amusement. “But you know what I mean…unconditional love, no limits. I wasn’t sure you’d feel that way, considering what I am, what you’ve seen me do.”
He wrapped his arms more tightly around her and kissed her neck, in that sensitive spot under her jaw. She shivered and snuggled in tighter.
“Lisa…I’ve loved you since the day we met,” he admitted. “It just took me a while to figure it out, what was making me all dizzy and stupid every time I looked at you. But why would you ever think I didn’t love you? How could I not love you, after all we’ve seen and done together?”
“I wasn’t sure any man—or woman—could love me.” She squirmed around to face him, and there were tears in her eyes. “I’m a fucked-up, bisexual, nymphomaniac bitch. Oh—and, by the way, I enjoy killing people.
“I know what I look like. I’m sure lots of men would like to fuck me, but they’d run for their lives if they knew what you know about me. You must be the only one on Earth who could ever actually love me.”
“Lisa, Lisa…” He took her face in his hands and kissed her tears away. “We’re a matched set. If you think you’re fucked up, then I must be fucked up, too. I like what you like, I do what you do…and I also enjoy killing people. Killing little Lacrisha bothered me—that’s why I put out the hit on her tormentors. But I still felt the thrill when I dropped her mother.
“Having sex with clients is part of my job, too, but I love doing it. As for your ‘flip side’…well, I’m not interested in guys, but watching two women together is a big turn-on for me. I’m still nervous about the bikers, but I’ll enjoy watching you with them—and I was tempted to let you turn on the cameras when Lezzie Liz was here.
“Lisa,” he said softly, caressing her cheek, “you said I’m the only one who could ever love you. Well, that works both ways, and you’re the only woman I could ever love.”
That brought a sigh of contentment, and she put her arms around him and snuggled in close. They lay like that for a while, her nose nuzzling the hair on his chest as he rested his chin on top of her head, one hand stroking her long blond hair, while the other fondled her perfect ass. Finally, he pulled away and looked into her beautiful blue eyes.
“I love you, Lisa—forever and ever, and yes, until death do us part.”
She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She let it out slowly, in a long sigh.
“Yes,” she said. “until death do us part.” She lay quiet for a moment, her fingers playing with his lips.
“I guess that means we’re married,” she told him with a mischievous grin. “You may now fuck the bride.”
The next morning, they sat at the table in Lisa’s kitchen, munching a breakfast of cold pizza. They had actually gotten some sleep—the sex had been wonderful, but they no longer felt the urgency that had driven them to all-night orgies in the past. They were going to be together forever. There was plenty of time.
Besides, they did have to go to work this morning. It was Saturday, but Mark had a 10 AM prospect appointment, and Lisa had one in the afternoon. The Ferry operated on no particular schedule, and they adjusted their workdays and hours to meet the needs of the moment.
“So where do we go from here?” Lisa wondered. “Do we move in together? Your place, my place, or do we just consolidate the three floors into one huge apartment? I mean, hey, we own the building. We can do whatever we want.”
With the exception of clients, prospective clients, and outside contractors called in—very rarely—to do maintenance or repair work, they were the only occupants of the Ferry’s six-story building, with over 60,000 square feet of interior space, not including the basement and small underground parking garage.
The Ferry officially occupied the basement and first three floors as its corporate operating spaces. The company books showed the fourth floor leased to Lisa, and the top two floors similarly leased to Mark as his personal residence.
“Actually,” Mark replied, “I was thinking we should keep it the way it is, and…I don’t know, maybe flip a coin to decide where we’re sleeping each night. I think everyone needs private space.”
“Besides,” he added with a grin, “we may agree on many things, but I don’t think interior décor is one of them.”
“I see your point,” she said with a grimace. “I love to look at naked women, but I don’t think I’d like bumping into one every time I turn around, especially if she’s made of stone.”
That was a reference to Mark’s love of classical sculpture, which had caused him to fill his apartment with a lot of statuary, mostly female nudes. Not all of them were stone—he also liked bronze works, ranging in size from foot-high coffee table pieces to a lovely seven-foot representation of Aphrodite in the outdoor garden on the fifth-floor balcony.
“And I don’t think I’d care for a half-mile hike each morning to get out of bed,” he told her. “That playground of yours should have its own zip code.”
She chuckled at that but then gave him a serious look.
“I guess…” she said, with some hesitation, “that means we should probably keep the Time Outs, too.”
“Yeah,” he said after a moment’s thought. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. It’s been working for us so far. Like I said, everyone needs their own private space, and private time as well.”
“You’re right.” She nodded. “We live a crazy fast life, but we have to slow down and catch our breath.”
“Look at it this way,” he winked at her, “at least Lezzie Liz won’t have to file for unemployment. What…? You didn’t think I was going to take away your favorite toy, did you?”
“Of course not,” she gave him an indignant look, “but next time I am going to turn on the cameras, so you can get your rocks off while you watch us.”
“Better yet, you could record it…add it to your collection,” he told her. “Then I can watch it on the ceiling while we’re doing it ourselves.”
Lisa’s “collection” included the finest in video pornography. They often watched it on the screens in her bedroom, including the 120-inch flat screen mounted on the ceiling. That one was Mark’s favorite, since Lisa liked to be on top. Of course, there were cameras up there as well, so the screen could double as a mirror, letting them watch themselves in action.
“Yeah, well, maybe I should record some of you and me,” she told him with a wicked grin. “Liz likes to watch the big screen, too.”
“Hey,” he protested, “quit talking about stuff like that. Makes me want to jump back i
n bed, and we do have to go to work. We may wind up with two more terminations before the bikers return next week.”
Chapter Fourteen
Vanessa
Charon’s Ferry had come into existence when the politicians, forced to admit that the suicide epidemic was a real problem, had done what politicians usually do. They passed a federal law, declared the problem solved, and walked away.
The law simply made suicide a crime. The legislators had given some thought to the question of how to punish a successful suicide and had come up with a solution—one that generated revenue for both the Feds and the local government in whose jurisdiction the crime occurred. Suicides had their estates seized, leaving the heirs with little or nothing. The law even allowed the local courts to seize assets they owned in common with a spouse or partner or had transferred to others within the two years preceding their suicide.
It hadn’t been long before a suicidal individual of some wealth and social position got the brilliant idea to have someone else hire LifeEnders to kill him. The plan succeeded, resulting in a court battle over whether the government was entitled to seize the estate. The case went all the way to the Supreme Court, which ruled that the anti-suicide law did not apply if an individual had himself killed by a duly licensed murder operative.
LifeEnders was not pleased. Feeling they had been duped into participating in the scheme (and having been drawn into the ensuing court battle), they declared that they would not accept what they called “First Party Commissions”—in other words, they would not do suicides. Further, they would “look with disfavor” on any attempt by a third party to act on behalf of a suicide. Since being looked upon with disfavor by LifeEnders was generally considered hazardous to your health, there were few such attempts from that point forward.
Where a demand for services exists, someone will always step up to fill it, and where corporate indignation exists, it only does so in pursuit of revenue. Mark Marshall had connections with LifeEnders and could probably have gone to work for them as a Shooter.
Instead, he conceived of the idea of Charon’s Ferry and chose to go into business for himself. Once the financials were settled with LEI—that is, once they got their cut—Mark obtained his federal license-to-kill in exchange for a non-compete agreement, by which Charon’s Ferry agreed to take only those commissions which LifeEnders refused—specifically, suicides. Everybody was happy.
Compared to LifeEnders, the Ferry was a small operation. Located in an upscale Los Angeles suburb, its only building bore a distinctive logo for all to see.
But Mark had judged the market well. Southern California was cursed with a bumper crop of suicidal rich people. From the day it opened, Charon’s Ferry hadn’t had an unprofitable quarter.
“Mark, Vanessa Stone is here to see you.”
“Thank you, Lisa. Send her in please,”
Vanessa might have been moderately attractive if she’d worked at it, but at the moment she was wearing drab, shapeless clothes—expensive clothes, but drab and shapeless all the same—that covered most of her short, plump body. Her unbrushed brown hair hung limp over her shoulders, with scattered strands sticking out here and there. She was only 30 years old, but she carried herself like an old, worn-out grandmother.
Grandmother…no, actually, Granny looked more alive than this one. But she certainly looks like a potential Ferry client, Mark mused.
He’d seen pictures of her in the background check, but the reality was something else. She’d inherited significant wealth from her parents, who’d died in an air crash. She lived in an upscale suburban neighborhood, had been in and out of several relationships, but was currently living alone. She had almost no presence on social media, no job, no membership in any known organizations. In the loudmouthed and self-centered society of Southern California, she was the invisible woman.
“Come in, Ms. Stone,” he said with a smile. “Have a seat.”
Lisa winked at him and retreated, closing the office door. Vanessa sat down, clasped her hands in her lap, and looked down, refusing to make eye contact with him.
“My name is Mark Marshall,” he told her, “and I’ll be your primary contact here at the Ferry. Do you mind if I call you Vanessa?”
“No…that’s fine,” she said, still not looking up.
“Vanessa, I’ve reviewed your application, and I’m assuming you want to end your life…because that’s what we do here. We kill people who want to die. Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” she replied, in a soft but steady voice. She still kept her eyes down.
“OK,” he said. “I’m not going to try to talk you out of it. I’m not even going to ask you why you want to do it. But if you feel like talking about it, I’m here to listen.”
He waited for a long moment. He was about to continue, when suddenly she looked up.
“I just can’t do it anymore,” she said.
“Somebody once said, ‘Life sucks, and then you die.’ All I want is for the sucking to stop. Everybody I’ve gotten close to has died, gone away, abused me, or stabbed me in the back. Now I’m alone, but it still doesn’t help. I just want it to be over.”
“I understand,” he told her.
That was a lie, of course. He had no way of knowing what she felt, nor did he care. He just wanted her to sign a contract for termination, but she wasn’t finished.
“Look at me,” she demanded. “I’m fat and ugly, but men tell me I’m beautiful, and I believe them. They’re only looking for an easy lay or a Sugar Babe to give them some fast cash…but I fall for it. Then I feel bad when they kick me to the curb. I figured only men could be such bastards, so I tried women…no difference.”
Mark nodded sympathetically. She’s expecting failure and disappointment at every turn, he thought. At this point, she wouldn’t know love and understanding if it bit her on the ass. OK…let’s cut to the chase.
“So you’ve decided to call it quits,” he told her. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“Yes.” She lowered her eyes again, but he heard determination in her voice.
“We’ll need you to pay the full fee—which is non-refundable—and sign a contract. I assume you have the funds.”
He knew she did. Client financials were always part of the Ferry’s background check. Vanessa wasn’t as rich as some Ferry clients, but she had more than enough to cover the price of a contract.
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “That’s one thing I have plenty of. Funds…”
“OK…there are a few contract provisions the law requires me to tell you about.”
He went through the usual list, which drew no reaction from her.
“Do you have a problem with any of that?”
“No…” her voice held no emotion, “doesn’t matter anyway.”
“Fine. I’ll draw up the contract for you to imprint, and we’ll charge your account. After that, you can go home for the waiting period—it’s three days minimum, but you can specify up to ten.”
“Don’t need the waiting period,” she insisted. “Can’t we just get it done today?”
So eager to die…he thought. “No, I’m sorry. The law requires us to wait at least three days. We can schedule you to come back on Tuesday. That’s the earliest we can legally do it.”
“OK…” she said, still with no emotion. “Let’s get it done.”
He collected her ID and put it into the scanner. The system added her personal details to the contract and issued the charge to her account.
“Do you have any specific method in mind by which you’d like to be terminated?”
“Method?” she blinked. “You mean…?”
“Is there any special way you’d like us to kill you? We don’t do drugs or poisons. Environmental regulations for storage, handling, and disposal are too much trouble.
“Likewise, local regulations keep us from using fire. We don’t do anything involving animals, so you can’t go out like Cleopatra—let a venomous snake bite you on the brea
st.
“Other than that,” he shrugged, “we’ll try to accommodate any requests. Is there any method you’d prefer?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” she admitted. “I figured you would do it whatever way you usually do.”
“We don’t have any set method, but we can make recommendations. Do you prefer fast or slow, painful or painless?
“Let me explain.” He held up a hand to stop her instant reaction. ‘Fast’ means loss of consciousness within five seconds and clinical death in less than a minute. ‘Slow’ means as long as you want it to take, up to thirty minutes—we won’t do more than that, maybe less, depending on the method you choose.”
“Painless means nothing more than momentary shock or discomfort. Painful means as much as you want it to be, again depending on the method.”
“Does anybody ever choose slow and painful?” she asked.
“Surprisingly, yes,” he told her. “Some do. In that case, we give them a trigger word. If it gets to be too much, they just say the trigger word, and we end it immediately.”
“I’ll stick with fast and painless. What do you recommend?”
“I’d suggest hanging. More clients choose that than any other method.”
“I don’t know…” She gave him a doubtful look. “I wouldn’t think being strangled is fast or painless.”
Why does everybody think that? he wondered. I always have to explain—maybe we should just give them a pamphlet when they walk in the door. ‘The Truth About Hanging…’
“Hanging doesn’t strangle you,” he said patiently. “It breaks your neck, severing the spinal cord. Loss of consciousness is almost instantaneous. The body may continue to react for a minute or so, but you can’t feel anything, because your brain is disconnected. Lights out.”
“Fine. Hanging it is, then. Three days from now, I’ll be dangling on the end of a rope. All done, no more sucking.”
The Ferryman Page 10