“Mr. Marshall…” Kim’s face wore a look of frustration. “You’re right. My ‘superiors,’ as you call them, did tell me not to bother coming here, that you would say just what you said now. In fact, I’m surprised—and pleased—that you spent this much time talking to me.
“I would just like an opportunity to talk to you. Forget about Honey Ryder—I won’t mention her again—I just want to interview you. Everybody talks about Charon’s Ferry, but nobody knows anything about it. Let me have a little of your time, talk about anything you want to talk about, and maybe—if you feel like it—tell me a little bit about the Ferry, what you actually do here, how and why you do it.
“I’m not a big-time media personality,” she admitted. “It would mean a lot to me to do a story that nobody has yet been able to do.”
Mark muted the connection and looked at Lisa.
“Why not?” She shrugged. “Give the kid a break. You don’t have to tell her anything you don’t want to, and maybe you can improve the Ferry’s image a bit—if they run the story at all.”
“They’ll run it—anything about the Ferry is news because we’re such a mystery to everybody. My only concern is they’ll butcher it up, twist it, spin it…but hey, what do I care? They already think this place is Dracula’s Castle.
“I’ll have to change clothes—not going to see her in this outfit—but I have what I need in the office closet. Can you keep her busy out front for about ten minutes?”
“Sure…” She winked at him. “Go make yourself handsome. Hey…she’s pretty hot. You might even end up getting laid.”
“Or you might,” he told her with a grin. “She might be a lesbian, or maybe she just has a flip side like you. Easy to find out…just undo that top button on your blouse.”
Lisa admitted Kim by the front door, noting that the woman was carrying two long cases, which the security system identified as tripod-mounted cameras, currently inactive. The system also advised that she was wearing a miniature bodycam disguised as a jeweled brooch on the lapel of her jacket—and that camera was active and recording.
Lisa smiled. She might be leaving without that one…depending on how this goes. For now, though, we’ll just pretend not to notice she has it.
“Have a seat, Ms. Kim.” Lisa directed the reporter to one of the comfortable chairs in the reception area. “Mr. Marshall will see you shortly. In the meantime, I’m Lisa Woods, the Ferry’s Executive Director. If you like, I’ll try to answer some of your questions while you wait.”
“Executive Director? And Mr. Marshall is…?”
“Chief Executive,” Lisa replied. “Though honestly, the titles aren’t very descriptive of what we do—just something that looks good on a business card.”
“So…” Kim picked up on the cue immediately, “what is it you actually do here? I mean you, as ‘Executive Director.’”
“Oh, I handle some of the administrative work—takes a lot of that to run a company like this—but I also interact directly with clients and prospective clients. I interview them, determine their needs, prepare contracts, and get them signed. And when the time comes, I execute those contracts.” She locked eyes with Kim, waiting for the other woman’s reaction.
“You mean…” Kim stammered, “You…you actually help people commit suicide?”
“No, I don’t help anyone,” Lisa told her. “I kill them.”
The color drained out of Kim’s face, giving her Asian features the look of a porcelain Kabuki doll. She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t get the words out.
“Relax, Ms. Kim,” Lisa gave her a little smile. “This isn’t LifeEnders. You’re not in any danger here. We only kill people who ask us to do so. I just want to make sure you understand something about the Ferry, something most people don’t seem to grasp.
“People don’t come here so we can help them kill themselves. Suicide is against the law, and even if it weren’t, most people who want to die don’t have the courage to actually do it. Instead, they come here and sign a contract to have themselves murdered…and we carry out that contract.”
“And…you actually do that—kill people?” Kim was breathing again, but her voice was noticeably quiet. “I mean you, personally? How do you…?”
“I’m not going to talk about means and methods,” Lisa replied. “That’s a matter of confidentiality between us and our clients. Let’s just say that—within limits—we try to accommodate the client’s wishes as to how he or she wants to die.”
“And yes…” she locked eyes with Kim again, “I do it myself, with my own hands.” She held up her hands to emphasize the point.
Kim was white and speechless again. Lisa’s pad pinged with a message from Mark.
Ready—you can bring her in if you haven’t already scared the shit out of her. Ask her to turn off the body camera until I say she can use it again.
Lisa chuckled at that. Mark had obviously been watching the proceedings on his screen while he dressed.
She advised Kim of his request, and the reporter reached up and fiddled with the brooch.
“No…I mean really turn it off, Ms. Kim,” Lisa said after checking with the security system. “Let’s not play games. You’ll lose.”
Kim went white again and fumbled with the jewelry piece. Lisa nodded as the system told her the device was no longer active.
“Right this way…” She motioned the other woman toward the hallway. “Mr. Marshall will see you in his office.”
“I didn’t create the suicide epidemic, Ms. Kim,” Mark said. “If you want to find fault with me—with Charon’s Ferry—fault us for making a profit from what was already a problem well before we were in business.”
He’d welcomed Kim into his office, then waited while she set up her two cameras—one focused on him behind his desk, the other on her. It was a minimalist setup as such things go. If her producers had thought she was going to get a really good story, they would have sent camera people with her.
I imagine they’re going to get a hell of a surprise when they see what she brings back. Since the Ferry opened its doors, this was the first time Mark had allowed the media inside the building. In fact, his only encounters with any of the media had been the occasional “No Comment” when they showed up at the gate.
“Suicide is now a socially acceptable means to escape failure, oppression, pain, or whatever trials life brings,” he told her. “It’s promoted on sites run by existentialist wackos who advise others to end it all, but who never seem to have the courage to take their own advice. It’s a tenet of faith for online mystics who claim it’s the next step to a higher level of existence.
“Charon’s Ferry doesn’t promote suicide, Ms. Kim. Social media does that for us. We just accommodate people who already want to end their lives—and they prove that by paying large amounts of money for our services.
“We also take care of people who are in desperate need but can’t afford to pay. If you don’t believe that, talk to Eunice Mercer at the California Suicide Prevention Center. In fact, you should talk to Eunice, if you want your story to be complete. She would like to put me out of business, but she’s smart enough to know that she can only do that by attacking the problem at its source—by lessening the demand for what we do.
“Here…” He gave her Eunice’s business card. “The first thing she’ll probably tell you is that I’m her enemy…or at least her opponent in a game that involves people’s lives. I do to people what she’s trying to prevent them from doing to themselves. But if you talk to her long enough, she just might be willing to admit that sometimes I’m doing them a service.
“Some of the lives we take are just rich people for whom money can’t buy what they need out of life. Others are people who can’t find a place for themselves in society. But some of them are also what used to be called ‘mercy killings’—terminally ill people whose last months would otherwise be filled with suffering.
“And every now and then, we get a client who’s fleeing from some cri
me or outrageous act—a person without whom the world would be a better place anyway. By taking the client out, we’re actually doing a service to society.”
“Like maybe Honey Ryder? No…” She held up her hand as his expression changed. “I’m sorry. I know I promised not to mention her again.”
“Her or any other specific person with whom we might or might not have had dealings,” he told her, sternly. “If you’re ever to be granted access to the Ferry again, that’s one topic that’s strictly verboten, not to be discussed.”
“Am I?” she looked at him, hopefully. “Am I ever going to be granted access again, that is?”
Mark sat back and smiled at her.
“Turn the cameras off, Ms. Kim, and I’ll answer your question.”
She did so, and his security system confirmed it.
“Will you be granted access? That depends on you, Ms. Kim. I know what a prize this interview is for you, what a boost it could give your career. You did what no journalist has been able to do—you got inside the Ferry and lived to tell about it. Whether you’ll be able to do that again depends on how this particular interview is presented.
“If you present it just as we gave it to you—straightforward and factual—I might call on you in the future and provide you with stories that will be to your benefit and mine. I might even let you in here occasionally to answer more of your own questions. In short, you might have exclusive access to the Ferry that will make you a most valuable asset to your employers.
“But…if you try to spin the story, try to make us look like something we’re not or turn public opinion against us—or even if you try to sensationalize the story, like ‘What goes on in the bloodstained halls of Charon’s Ferry’—you’ll never get through that gate again.”
“Mr. Marshall, I…” She started to reply but paused as he held up a hand.
“I know—you have to answer to your superiors, and some of them may try to spin the story, enhance it, load it up with emotion, or whatever. I just don’t want to see you doing that. When you’re on screen, on camera, I expect you to simply present facts—facts you’ve checked and verified—and let your viewers draw their own conclusions. Can you do that for me?”
“I can do that—or at least I can try my best.”
“Then maybe we’ll see you again.” He got up from his chair. “Let me help you pack up your gear—I think you have enough for today. Don’t forget to talk to Ms. Mercer at CSPC.”
Kim departed, and Mark and Lisa decided to call it a day. It was still Time Out, so they would go to their own apartments tonight. As they got on the elevator, Mark shook his head.
“Wonder what’s going to come of that interview. Think she’ll play it straight?”
“I think she’ll try. The real question is whether her bosses will play it straight.”
“I told her to dangle the carrot of future interviews in front of them. If they piss us off, they’ll never get another chance. If she’s as smart as she seems, she’ll figure it out.”
“She seemed to like you,” Lisa said with a smirk, “you handsome devil…”
“Maybe, but I still didn’t get laid.”
“Neither did I,” she replied. “Kind of think maybe I scared her a little.”
“You were great—just short of over the top. I almost asked her to leave the body cam behind, but I didn’t. I’ll bet they use that footage. ‘I don’t help anyone. I kill them.’ What producer could pass up a shot like that?
“Besides…you looked soooo hot when you said that,” he added with a leer.
“Still Time Out,” she reminded him. “By the way…Liz will be coming tonight. Turn your screen on…and eat your heart out.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Legal Issue
“I’ll pay you $25,000—not a penny more,” he insisted.
Mark sighed. “You’ve already paid us $50,000 as a deposit. Are you saying you’ll only pay $25,000 more, or…?”
“No! I want half the deposit back. I don’t see how you people think you can charge such an outrageous amount of money for your service. I’ve heard you do it for free for those…people on public assistance.”
He’d been about to say something else, possibly a politically incorrect reference to some ethnic group. Mark didn’t care about that, simply accepting it as confirmation of the man’s typical upper-class hypocrisy.
It was Friday, coming off a Time Out Day, and Mark had no patience. He wanted to just get rid of the guy, close up shop, and let Lisa take care of him for the rest of the day. He figured she still owed him for what was going to happen tomorrow.
“Mr. Simpson, we never do it for free. We sometimes give consideration to a client’s financial situation, but you have a net worth of…” he consulted the NorthStar report on his screen, “…91 million dollars, of which 37 million is currently accessible through accounts that can be charged.”
NorthStar had seen fit to comment on that, noting that it was an unusually high degree of liquidity for someone of Simpson’s wealth.
“Now…I’m not going to waste any more time with you. If you wish to take out a contract with us, the price is $250,000—for a basic contract with no options. If not, your $50,000 deposit is non-refundable, as noted in the terms and conditions you agreed to when you paid it.”
Simpson was staring at him, shocked to find that his financial situation had been discovered.
“Besides,” Mark couldn’t resist reminding him, “if you sign up, none of that money will mean anything to you three days from now. I should charge you twice as much. Why do we charge so much? The answer is simple; we’re the only game in town.
“So what’s it going to be? If you really want to die, you’ll pay our price. If not, you’re out $50K. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”
Mark sat back and studied the prospect. Warren Q. Simpson was a blueblood, born rich and made even richer through use of his wealth as a weapon to squeeze even more money out of lesser mortals. He had a reputation as a vulture capitalist, a guy who bought control of struggling companies, then tore them apart and sold the parts for salvage value. The practice had doubled his net worth in just three years.
But for some reason, he was here asking Mark to give him a Ferry Ride—for cheap. Despite his bluster, his desire to haggle over the price, Mark could smell fear, could sense a nervous attitude, the furtive manner of a man with a hellhound on his trail.
Reminds me a little of Honey Ryder…damn! I hope I don’t have another child molester on my hands. It didn’t seem likely—NorthStar had not seen any indications of an interest in anything other than money. Simpson’s high-roller crowd was more Wall Street than Hollywood.
“Well…uh…since you put it that way, let’s talk about how much I want to die.”
Suddenly, he seemed defensive. Mark sat up and waved a hand, encouraging him to continue.
“Fact is, I don’t want to die. You want to earn $250,000? Fine. I’ll pay it, sign your contract, and then I’ll just…go away. You’ll send the death notice to Human Services, or wherever you send it, and if somebody comes looking, you’ll just show them the contract and say you…what’s that word you used? You ‘terminated’ me. How does that sound?”
Aha! Now we’re down to the truth—the real reason you came here—and you’re an even bigger asshole than I thought you were. Fake your death? Well, that explains why you’ve got so much ready cash on hand. Wonder which third world government you’re planning to pay off so you can disappear in luxury.
“First of all, if you knew anything about Charon’s Ferry, you’d know that we will never ‘show the contract’ to anyone, nor tell anyone about anything to do with our clients. If we did that, the people looking for you would immediately be suspicious. Anyone who comes looking will get what everybody else gets from us—No Comment.”
“Fine…that’s just as good. Keep ‘em guessing…”
“They should stop guessing once they check with DHS and find out you
’re dead,” Mark reminded him.
“Yeah, right—so we’re good with this? We can do it today?”
“Not quite. There’s a three-day mandatory waiting period.”
“So, OK…you wait three days and then you send the death notice. I’ll be far away by then.”
“No, it doesn’t work that way. I need you to come back here three days from now and imprint the contract again. I need that to prove I’m in compliance with the law. And I’ll also need to collect your Universal ID—more proof for our records.”
“Can’t we just do that today? You know…post-dated or something. I’ll give you the ID right now.”
Which means you’ve already got a phony identity set up—and you’re ready to hit the road as soon as you leave here, but I’m about to spoil your plan.
“No. The system verifies the date and time of the imprint using the NOAA timeclock—to keep us from doing exactly what you’ve just asked us to do. The waiting period verification has to be imprinted on that date or later. And we don’t do these things on Monday—so you’ll have to come back Tuesday at the earliest.”
“All right…I’ll come back. I can use the extra four days to get stuff ready, anyway. So what do I have to do?”
“I have the contract prepared. As soon as you give us the imprint, we’ll charge your account. Once the charge is verified, you can go…wherever, and we’ll see you on Tuesday. But first, there are some legal disclaimers and contract provisions I’m supposed to go over with you…”
“Screw all that. Where do I imprint?”
For a guy who’s trying to keep a low profile, you’re not doing very well—parked the damned Lamborghini right in front of the door.
Mark watched him depart on the security cameras. He’d advised Simpson to use the side entrance to the underground garage when he came back on Tuesday. Wonder if he’s planning to use the Lambo as his getaway vehicle. If so, he’s even dumber than I thought.
The Ferryman Page 17