Authors: Kathy Disanto
How does that old song go? “It’s
all coming back to me now?” As I sat waiting for Jack, it all did.
The Ferrymen. My not-so-magnificent
obsession for more than a year. Only a cataclysm could have made me forget.
I guess you could call them hitmen.
You could also call Einstein a math whiz. Think ruthless. Think unstoppable.
Think killers so proficient “caught the ferry” was fast replacing “bought the
farm” in common usage, and you have the Ferrymen in a nutshell.
They made their debut about eighteen
months ago, taking out a cardinal as he enjoyed a private dinner with the Pope,
in the Pontiff’s apartments on the third floor of the Vatican. A month later,
they knocked off the capo of the Ferramo family, despite the fact that he had
been closeted in his private retreat, a penthouse ninety-five stories up and
accessible by a single, biometric elevator nobody but Gino himself could
operate.
The Ferrymen had racked up more than
a dozen kills since. Nobody was safe. Not the cardinal or the capo or the
Afghan warlord. Not scientists or businessmen or the Secretary of the Air
Force.
Their methods were as varied as
their targets. Causes of death catalogued so far included designer toxins that
had been ingested, inhaled, even worn. A marble-sized chunk of plastic
explosive that assembled itself out of nanobots embedded in aspirin, then blew the
quarry inside out. One victim’s death was logged as “an apparent case of
spontaneous combustion caused by an unknown chemical reaction.”
Evidence was a pipe dream. All the
cops had were bodies, means, and a fistful of dead ends. If it hadn’t been for
the obits, nobody would have guessed the murders were linked. But within a
minute of each hit, up popped this obit. Always on some small-town news site—I
figure there must be fifty thousand of them in Tri-America alone—always the
same design. A ferry ticket made out to the victim and listing his or her
“time of departure” to the minute. Above that, a sketch of Charon—that’s
right, the Grim Reaper himself, right down to the black hood and skeletal
grin—surrounded by a shadowy collection of similarly garbed homeboys. Each
clutched a coin, a Greek obolus, in boney fingers. Payment for ferrying a soul
from this world into the next. Hence, the Ferrymen. Or, as they were
sometimes known, Hell’s Boatmen.
I had been snapping at their heels
since the first calling card showed up in the WaKeeny, Kansas,
Weekly
Watchman.
Between contacts in law enforcement and sources on the street, I
managed to stay neck in neck with the federal task force. Even sniffed out
some of their secrets. Like, for example, the fact that the press hadn’t seen
all the obits, because CIIS managed to intercept three before mass media got
wind of them. I got that gem off the record, of course, and promised to keep
it off. Why? Because a) I understood the feds had to hold back a tidbit or
two, in order to weed out copycats and cranks; and b) my source promised me an
exclusive when they were ready to make the information public.
I put word out on the street, and
that word spread quickly. A.J. Gregson was offering cold, hard credits for
leads. A hundred per. But the information had to be solid. CIIS offered
financial incentives, too, but let’s face facts. Certain types don’t get
nearly as nervous about talking to a reporter as they do talking to the Man.
Especially if the reporter in question has been known to go to the wall to
protect her source. Which I have. More than once.
Credits for confidences usually
works for me, but this time I got zip. Either nobody knew anything, or they
were too scared to talk.
Okay,
I thought,
nothing is going to
happen unless I make it happen.
And I got an idea.
I ran it by Maxwell, together we ran
it by the network brass. Convinced them to turn up the heat with a full-court
press. We took the hunt to the people, started a public crusade with a
million-credit reward “for information leading to.” We didn’t actually expect
anybody to take us up on the offer, but we hoped the attention would get the
pot simmering. My editorials practically wrote themselves.
Meanwhile, nobody was more surprised
than me when the million netted us a nibble.
I got a call. From whom? Search
me. All I saw was a talking-head-in-a-hood in front of a solid black
background. Electronically modulated voice. So no way to gage height, weight,
or gender. He or she never used words that would raise red flags with
government eavesdroppers. I wasn’t crazy about dealing with the Masked
Marauder but decided to go along for the ride and see where we wound up.
We spent the first few weeks feeling
each other out. Me to verify the caller was on the level, the caller probably
trying to decide if I could be trusted. I guess I passed the test, because I
finally got the whole, sad story.
I didn’t know. Swear to God, I
didn’t. I’m not a crook, okay? Strictly on the up and up. You know, law-abiding.
I don’t even cheat on my taxes, for God’s sake!
About five years ago, I went into
business for myself. Overnight courier. Gypsies, they call us. Most of my
runs were penny ante—delivering rush orders for local vendors, prescriptions
for old ladies, stuff like that. Sure, I would wangle an uptown gig once in a
while. Like manna from heaven, those jobs. Delivered a bunch of uncut
diamonds once, made enough to get new thrusters. But most of the time? Most
of the time I was just getting by.
Until one day, this guy calls. Nice
suit, big office, the whole nine yards. Says he got my number from one of
those uptown clients I told you about. Hears I’m reliable and discreet,
willing to take the odd job on short notice.
“I would like to offer you a
contract,” he says.
“With who?” I ask.
“I’m afraid that’s classified.,” he
says.
Classified. Has to be the
government, right?
“What would I have to do?” I ask.
“Remain on call for the occasional
rush delivery,” he says. “Vital cargo. We’re prepared to offer substantial
compensation if you’ll agree to drop whatever you’re doing when we call and
take the jobs with no questions asked.”
And I think to myself, “Only a dope
would turn down a deal like this.” So I sign on.
Only pretty soon, I’m smelling a rat
in the woodpile, you know? I mean, maybe a top-secret government agency would
get its packages at an abandoned farmhouse a hundred miles northeast of
Podunk. Or a half-gutted warehouse down by the docks.
Maybe
.
But would the feds set up an
off-shore account for me? Would they shell out this much dough? Substantial
is substantial, but brother, these fees were
fat
! When you’re in business for yourself, you
learn. If a job seems too good to be true, there’s gotta be a catch.
So I start to look for it. The
catch, I mean. I pay close attention, and what do you know? I spot a pattern.
Dates. It was all about the dates.
What do I mean? Well, it was like this. I make a delivery, less than a week
later, a major player catches the ferry.
I didn’t know about those ads—the
ones with the Grim Reaper?—yeah, those. I didn’t know about them until I
caught your show one night. That’s when I finally put it together. I almost
had a heart attack when I realized I was working for these guys! I was afraid to
call the cops. What if they didn’t believe me? What if they thought I knew
the score all along? I could end up in the jug. Isn’t that what they call
prison? The jug? I decided to call you instead.
I no sooner reached that stretch of
Memory Lane, when my inner radar registered a bogey in my room. I tensed.
“Who’s there?”
“Jack.”
“Perfect timing,” I said, relaxing.
“Pull up a chair, and I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”
“So the tip about the van was
supposed to prove your source was righteous. Then he or she would come in and
talk to us.”
“That was the idea. But honestly?
I only half-expected to get that far. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I didn’t
have a crackpot on my hands. I passed the information onto Ito, because I knew
I couldn’t afford to guess wrong.”
“Sounds like you feel guilty for
doubting this character.” I shrugged. “Aren’t you forgetting an important
detail?”
“Like what?”
“Like your ‘innocent’ courier set us
up. Set
you
up.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Because?”
“Because of two messages I got right
before the explosion.”
“Messages?”
“Um-hm. The first was a photo. Of
a corpse.” I shook my head slowly. “I’ve been to crime scenes. Seen more
than my share of bodies, including vics who were beaten up, hacked up, and shot
up. What I haven’t seen in person, I’ve seen in CSI photos. But I’ve never
seen a corpse reduced to raw meat. It looked like … I swear, Jack, it
looked like the victim had been skinned alive. You could barely tell it was human.
The caption said, ‘This is what we do to traitors.’”
“What did you do?”
“Threw up all over myself. Twice.
I was on the verge of a comeback when the second message came in.”
“Another photo?”
“No, text. ‘Same goes for
inquisitive reporters.’ Or words to that effect. The sender suggested I take
my nose for news elsewhere. That’s when it hit me. The Ferrymen knew what the
courier told me. They had to know I would take that information to the
Service. I’d had a wrong feeling all night, but I kept shaking it off. Sat on
my hands until I got those transmissions. By then Cuey and Michaels were
inside the van. I tried to warn them ….
“I told you. What happened to them
wasn’t your fault.”
“I know what you told me. I’m still
trying to believe it.”
“Try harder. And remember. If not
for you, we wouldn’t be this far.”
“How far is that?”
“Well, we know the Ferrymen
outsource. Deliveries, for sure. That might give us a clue about their
organizational structure.”
“Like it could be extremely
compact?”
“Right. A tight nucleus of operators
farming odd jobs out to bit players. Subcontractors kept in the dark, probably
contacted through a series of virtual cutouts. If an errand boy gets picked up
or turns, he doesn’t know enough to do any damage.”
“So the breach is self-sealing.
Makes sense.”
“We’ve been working on that angle
since you first brought the information to Ito. Put some agents undercover to
fish for contracts or hook up with a courier who already has one. Like I said,
the subs won’t know much, but every piece of the puzzle helps.”
“Too bad we can’t locate the body in
the photo. Forensics might be interesting.”
“Forensics haven’t helped us so
far. And the Ferrymen have gotten rid of the corpse by now. I know I would
have.”
“I wonder if they destroyed the
image they sent.”
“Probably, but we’ll sweep the Cloud,
to make sure.”
“At least I know the pilot was the
real deal.”
“Not necessarily. You’ve been
riding this Ferrymen story hard for more than a year. Your one-woman crusade
really put CIIS in the hot seat. Pressure on us means more pressure on the
Boatmen. Your snitch could have been on the company payroll, tasked with
drawing you out so they could take you out. This bunch is long on tying up
loose ends and short on conscience; they wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of an
asset that’s outlived its usefulness. So there’s no know way to know for sure.
I’ll tell you what we do know.”
“What’s that?”
“You got their attention.”
“So I noticed. I wonder what
happens now?”
“They try may again, but I think
they’ll wait and see for a while. You know we leaked word that you have
amnesia?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, as long as they believe that,
you should be fairly safe.”
“
Fairly
safe.”
“Like I said, they may decide to
finish the job. Especially if you pick up where you left off.” Pause. “So
maybe you should leave it alone.”
Leave it alone when two agents were
dead and two children fatherless because of information I supplied? Leave it
alone while the Ferrymen were still in business? Not in this lifetime! Of
course, I wasn’t dumb enough to tell him that.
“At least I have time to figure out
my next move,” I said.
“What’s to figure? You need to drop
out of sight for a while.”
“Hah hah. Very funny.”
“I’m serious.”
“You said I was fairly safe.”
“Fairly isn’t good enough, and an
ounce of prevention never hurt.”
“I guess I could spend a couple
weeks at my parents’ place in the foothills. I’ll need at least that long to
get up to snuff again.”