The Ferryman Institute by Colin Gigl Read Free Book Online

winding his way through people and pleasantries, Charlie arrived at a neat, slightly weathered desk with an outdated computer, even by Charlie’s standards, on top. A gold plate that read DAWSON / DUPINE /JOHNSON in bold black letters sat on the right side of the desk. Dirkley moved past Charlie, dropped his papers on the desk, and hopped into the waiting chair with the sort of enthusiasm generally reserved for newborn puppies.
    â€œGood to be back,” Dirkley announced, more to himself than anyone else, Charlie guessed. While the control room always made Charlie feel a little uneasy—probably something to do with the volume of people—to Dirkley, it seemed, there was no place closer to home.
    With a deft flick of the navigator’s wrist, followed by a quick volley of typing, the computer hummed back to life. The machine itself bore no significance—it was merely the conduit through which Dirkley did his part for the team. As far as Charlie understood it, each navigator chose the form of his or her navigation instrument. The criteria that the navigators used to choose their particular instrument all boiled down to personal preference—the information the navigator received was the same regardless of what physical object actually relayed it. For Dirkley, that meant an original 1977 Apple II personal computer.
    The machine now up and running, the navigator pulled open a drawer, removed a headset, and fitted it over his head. He turned to say something to Charlie, only to stop abruptly. His eyes widened; his jaw clenched.
    Charlie didn’t have to guess why. A subtle hush settled around the area as nearby employees suddenly lowered their voices, so much so that Charlie could hear the footsteps close behind him.
    One. Two. One. Two. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. They sounded against the tiled floor like practiced breathing.
    â€œGood evening, gentlemen.” It was a male voice, not overly deep but certainly on the lower range of the spectrum. The words were crisply enunciated, to the point of being stern and emphatic,like a military salute. Reluctantly, Charlie turned to face the speaker.
    Inspector Javrouche stood a few inches shorter than Charlie, but with a posture that tried to compensate for it. There was no hint of facial hair on his clean-shaven face, nor could Charlie ever remember a time when there had been. The Inspector’s brown eyes were sharp, piercing things whose focus constantly shifted around the room with a keenness that suggested a fair amount of practice at such a task. In contrast, an offhanded smirk never seemed far from his lips, a snarky grin perpetually living on the edge of a sneer. The combination made for an unsettling look, as if Inspector Javrouche always knew someone’s darkest secret and couldn’t wait to share it with the world. It was an arguably fitting air for the Institute’s foremost police authority.
    â€œInspector,” Charlie replied, his expression completely blank. It was a talent Charlie had honed over the years for just such occasions, particularly given how lousy he generally was at masking his emotions. Dirkley merely nodded, trying his best to seem small and inconspicuous. For a man with Dirkley’s disposition, it wasn’t terribly difficult.
    â€œMonsieur Dawson,” he said, his eyes narrowing in a barely perceptible movement. Both his French and English accents were flawless. “I see the rumors of the prodigal son’s return were true, after all.”
    â€œIn the flesh,” Charlie said matter-of-factly, holding out his arms in a here I am gesture. “When are we going to slaughter the fatted calf to celebrate?”
    â€œUnfortunately we’re short on fatted calves at the moment. That, and there were concerns your ego wouldn’t fit in any of our prospective venues, so right now it’s tentatively scheduled for some time around never.”
    Charlie scratched the back of his head. “That’s