The Terminals (5 page)

“Get out,” he whispered.

“Maybe he actually does take their spark, too.” I shrugged. “You'd know better than I.”

“Get out …”

“I'll be back in an hour,” I replied. “That is two percent of what these children have left.”

Outside the cell, I leaned heavily against the door. Footfalls echoed down the cloister's stone corridor. Someone had been listening—the general wouldn't like that. I ran fingers through my hair, palm grazing my cheek, numb with scar tissue. I pulled my hand quickly back as if burned.

The weight of my request struck. Secret government agencies, a demand to suicide, tacit confirmation of an afterlife, talking to the dead … it was a lot to swallow. Charlie's decision couldn't be easy. The general said everyone had his price, and I wondered what Charlie wanted more than the months of pain he had remaining.

Dusk streamed through the arched windows that looked out upon a garden. Pebbled paths circled a gnarled tree, and on a branch, a goldfinch sang. I shuffled to rest against the cool sill of a window and leaned into the garden, smelling the rich, humid air.

“Are you prepared to die today?” I asked the bird. It angled its head and hopped further along the branch. I wondered just what I was trying to prove to myself. Music and the flicker of candlelight meandered through the waxen leaves of the tree. Coaxed by the light and the desire for distraction, I walked around the quad and stopped at a twin set of doors leading to the chapel.

Beneath the vaulted frame, one door was ajar. I pressed my palm against the thick, iron-studded wood and leaned in. A rare dual monastery that shared the chapel if not the cloister, the monks' and nuns' chanting echoed without accompaniment, a melodic cadence, rising and falling. The interior smelled of candle wax and lemon-scented furniture polish. The light beyond the window glowed blue through the stained glass, and the candlelight cast warmth over the cowl-framed monks lining the pews on one side and made moons of the faces of nuns the other. I listened, mesmerized; so seldom had I entered a church, let alone attended a service, that it seemed as mysterious as the ritual of any secret cult. I stared at the brass cross, ablaze in the light.

My vision blurred, and when I blinked, bodies were strewn over the altar, and in the glow the black-and-white tiled floor looked the same as the floor in the pictures from the diner. I gasped at sightless eye sockets and exploded soldiers, both my own crimes and Hillar's meshing into one. Now the burning cross appeared as the haft of a sacrificial knife.

I looked away and down at the crosses that scarred my wrists. I'd cut them both, digging horizontal and vertical incisions over my skin, the blade biting deep and sure. If not for the nearby military hospital, I would have never survived. Charlie hadn't needed concern himself with my ability to complete the task. I had nothing to prove. I had my own orders and I would follow them or be damned, likely both.

“I am,” I answered for the little yellow bird.

The vibration of the iPhone interrupted my reverie, and I snatched it from my pocket to find a message from Morph.
Dying for a reason is a good reason to keep living.
It was a twist on the code the Terminals lived and died by, which sounded better in Latin:
causa moriendi est causa vivendi.

The phone slid back into my pocket. Only twenty minutes had passed, but I decided that the kids didn't have an hour to waste. And listening to silence was dangerous to my health.

Chapter 7

After she had worked the
gag from her mouth, Ming probably should have stayed quiet.

“Please stop,” Ming begged. “Stop hurting us.” The woman toiled in lantern light and silence. Her teased hair, streaked blond, hung over her face and hid her reaction.

Ming waited for the woman to respond. When she didn't, Ming's voice broke as she added, “Please, miss, let us go.” Listening to the echoes of her plea, she gathered herself. “My daddy's gonna help us.” Ming glared, wishing the woman would look up and see the conviction she held for her father.

Still silence.

“My daddy,” Ming warned. “My daddy's going to hurt you.”

Their captor stood slowly, stepped around the lantern to Ming, and retrieved the gag she'd spat out. Ming whipped her head back and forth, but the woman calmly stuffed the cloth back into Ming's mouth, fingers easily evading her teeth.

Then, humming a tune, the woman returned to the circle of light and knelt back over the small body, a boy named Nate.

“Old Mother Twitchett had but one eye,” the woman rhymed as she worked. “And a long tail which she let fly.” Her hand reached to the ceiling as she pulled the thread. “And every time she went through a gap—” Her voice acquired a tone of merriment, as if delighted by her wit. Ming regretted her outburst, believing it had added to the woman's enthusiasm. “A bit of her tail she left in a trap.” The woman waited until her words repeated to nothingness, and then she began again. “Old Mother Twitchett had but one eye …”

Bound to the cage that ringed a ladder leading upward, Ming wished they could be freed from this woman; that she would just stop and leave.

If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,
her father would say.

She chewed on her gag, trying to work it out of her mouth again so she could talk to the others, all similarly silenced. But a gag didn't stop tears, and the other children made mewling sobs in the darkness. Ming was out of tears. She felt the slow prickle of fear as her turn approached.

The psycho with the jagged sideburns and pale, drained eyes had already been gone for hours and hours when the woman started chattering to herself, debating the start of her little sewing project. She had climbed the ladder, and when she had reached the top, Ming had caught the faintest whiff of fresh air. After a minute, the woman had descended, and the debate over the sewing project had ended and a new one begun: who to start with and which eye.

Nate moaned and the woman passed the rag over his mouth. The pungent scent of chloroform filled the chamber. The first time they'd used the drug on them, it had left everyone vomiting when they woke tied to the ladder.

A lantern flickered beside the woman, illuminating Nate's face and the stitches. His eyelid pulled back as her hand lifted and then stretched out as it dipped. Try as Ming might, she couldn't process the horror before her. All she could think about was who might be next.

Ming surveyed her friends: Luke to her left, Cordell on her right, all part of their church fieldtrip to President Hoover's birthplace.

Someone whined in the dark, and Ming strained to see Alistair. He was so thin; this was his first year in the church, smart as a whip, but totally ignorant of some things. His mother had homeschooled him and passed along her strengths and weaknesses.
Hoover?
he'd said, when the deacon told them about the field trip.
Isn't that a vacuum cleaner?
The memory died, replaced by an image of him, pale and thin, wearing scuffed penny-loafers, replete with shiny penny.

Alistair had held Ming's hand on the bus. When the woman had pulled a knife to encourage their cooperation, Ming had told Alistair she'd protect him. He'd squeezed her fingers in response. They'd clutched one another, all the way, until the killer had stopped the bus, then blindfolded, drugged and bound them. But Ming had lied to Alistair. She couldn't protect him. Hanging from the bar, fear bloomed in her belly and climbed into her throat. And she couldn't protect herself.

The woman clucked her tongue as she inspected her needlework and nodded. She dragged Nate by the handcuffs to where he had hung on the ladder beside Alistair. As Nate passed, Ming got a good look at her friend. If not for the sutures and the blood that coagulated thick and black in his eyelashes, the constant look of surprise might have been comical. Luke's moaning was muffled by his gag. The sound of the cuffs snapped tight, and Nate vomited, choked and vomited. At his gurgling, the woman removed the gag until he recovered and moaned. Then she stuffed the rag back into his mouth.

Ming clenched shut her eyes as if she could save them. A rising whine filled her ears, followed by a great slap and a whimper. The whine began again and the woman stomped back over to slop more chemical over a rag. She wore jean shorts and a tank top clingy with the sweat and humidity of their prison. Ming drew a deep breath as the woman passed, wishing to be drugged so that she wouldn't see what happened next. She only caught the thin line of the woman's mouth and the concentration of an artist in the midst of her work.

The woman hauled Alistair by the arm until his head lay within the circle of lantern light. Alistair's jaw was slack and his eyes closed, for now.

“Old Mother Twitchett had but one eye.” The rhyme began again, and again the needle dipped.

In the mind-numbing horror, it was difficult for Ming to do what she knew she must. The side-burn psycho would either return and kill them all, or this witch would sew them into some freakish doll collection. Ming had to come up with a plan; after all, she was the governor's daughter.

Chapter 8

I strode back around the
cloister to confront Charlie Harkman and startled a nun coming through Charlie's door. I reached for the phone and brought it around like it was my Beretta.

“Excuse me,” I said, attempting to keep alarm from my voice, while my thumb activated the camera feature.

The nun fidgeted, glanced back into Charlie's cell, then down the hall. When she looked at me, I snapped her photo. Tiny divots pocked her cheeks as if she'd suffered from terrible acne. The veil stretched across her forehead and the creases at her eyes gave the impression that she was the one with cancer rather than Charlie.

“What's your name?” I asked before she could recover.

The nun looked as though I'd taken something personal rather than a simple picture. Her eyelids twitched and eyes filled with tears.

“Don't take him,” she said, and turned and ran.

I swore as I sent the image on to the general along with a message,
What do we do with possible security leaks?

Charlie didn't look over when I entered. He stared at the ceiling and fingered the injection site of the IV that trailed up to the bag of fluid behind him.

“Sister Angelica,” he said. “When she arrived, she still trembled from withdrawal. But she's a good woman and a good nun. The cloth is a haven both for those who care too deeply and those who have been too tempted by worldly sin.”

“She seems aware that you might be leaving here,” I accused.

“She won't tell anyone.”

“You just implied to me she was a drug addict.”

“Still is. Addictions don't disappear. But she's a nun and no one would believe her anyways.” Charlie regarded me. “However, Colonel Kurzow, I haven't given you my decision.” He held up a restraining palm. “Four days ago, I had twenty to thirty years to live. Three days ago that was reduced to six months, or so. Allow me some time to mourn my loss of life.”

I shifted uncomfortably and suddenly felt so tired. I wondered how doctors did it. How did they deliver these diagnoses? I tried not to care. This was simply a man who was dying, and he could help others by forgoing a few months, or so, of life. The decision from my perspective was simple. If necessary, I'd shoot myself to prove my point. Why not? The guy could hardly say no with my brains blown out over his door.

“Those who know about my disease come to me and say, fight it,” he continued. “You can do it. Come on. Miracles happen every day.” He flushed. “I hated them—there is dignity in going quietly without a fight, because it's not a battle you can win or lose. Right?” He looked up and he must not have seen any agreement in my eyes because he looked away and went on. “The outcome is determined even if we don't know it yet. I will treat this cancer and see how far that takes me, but I will not rage against it. It is a part of my body overexcited about growing.” He shook his head. “But what you're asking, that
is
quitting. I won't throw the race, either.” His chin lifted suddenly and I was caught by the fire in his eyes. “Life is sacred, Christine. I could never be that example to the other monks and nuns.”

I had the years of army-speak to thank for making my tone crisp: “You will die of a disease, sir; no one will know.”

“I will know.”

“There's a hundred percent chance you will die of your pancreatic cancer, and it's a painful death. That death will happen; it is inevitable. Your friends will mourn your passing, but it will have little impact besides.” I managed to keep the threatening quaver from my voice. “This is something you can change. By going terminal, you have the power to save eleven lives. You're an expert on Gnosticism. We need your help now.”

“How convenient.” His eyes smoldered, and I could see him reaching for reasons, hurriedly erecting shields to block my executioner's axe.

“We didn't know we needed you until today.”

He squinted as if peering into shadows. “I was only diagnosed three days ago.”

“We couldn't have known.” I met his stare, relieved when he turned back to the ceiling. I let the silence extend between us, fighting an urge to fill it.

“If I'm dead, how can I tell you the location?” he asked.

A smile played at my lips and I hated it.

“We have a way—a medium.” Back on firmer ground, my resolve strengthened. This was a game. What did he want? What was his desire? Was it absolution for his darkness? Find the answer, and then give it to him.

“Why not just use this psychic to talk to the killer?”

I had asked the question myself. “Because, Brother Harkman, Hillar doesn't
want
to talk to us. Someone needs to trick him into giving up the information.”

“You can't just contact some other dead Gnostic to do the job?”

“No, the connection to the dead dissipates over time, within a few months, sometimes as little as a week or a few days, then the connection is gone.” This was the armor of my atheism. I believed that wherever the terminals went, it was a mental construct, a lingering energy that linked to other energy, which vanished as the energy died away. If there was an afterlife, it was transient. Some found solace in the role of the terminal; I sought oblivion.

“What about you, Colonel. How do you feel about murdering your terminals?” he asked, and I felt the barb like a bullet.

“I haven't … You'd be my first.”

“First person you've killed?”

Images of soldiers' bodies lying in a hard-pack alleyway flooded my mind and made my burn itch. “No, Brother—not that.”

Charlie shrank under his woolen blanket, pulling it to his Adam's apple that bobbed as he swallowed. I felt no victory at the change, having expunged the sparks from his eyes.

“The truth is,” he whispered breathily, but in the quiet of the monastery the words were clear, “I knew you were coming.” I bit my lip in confusion. “I've felt this guy—his joy and frustration. He scares me.” From beneath the blankets, he pulled a large leather-bound scrapbook. In it were numerous yellowed clippings and photos. I recognized some of the newer items, they were the same ones I'd laid on his bed, but most of it was old, decades old.

“I'm afraid I don't understand, Brother.”

“It may be that this isn't the first time the world has run across Hillar McCallum.” He drew a deep breath. “And it would not be the first time I supposedly faced him, either.”

“You've met him?” I struggled with the turn of events. I reminded myself that we were dealing with a foreign religion here, a religion that was evidently just as valid as any other.

“It's mysticism and I'm still not sure I believe it all, but, yes. The first time his name was Seth. The year was 156 A.D.”

“Excuse me—156?”

“Anno Domini.” My eyebrow lifted but he simply raised a hand for patience. “Hillar was not just a Gnostic; he was a Borborite. A Gnostic sect almost two millennia old.”

“How can you possibly know this?”

He folded his hands in his lap and sighed. “Jo. Jo Wentworth. She was my ...” Charlie swallowed and he looked like he'd be sick again. “Jo was my mentor. I learned it from her, but it wasn't until recently that I believed it could actually be true.”

I started in with another question, but he cut me off.

“Let me explain. It'll be clearer after I explain what Jo told me.”

I nodded, and he continued.

“As I said, Hillar was a Borborite. In Roman times, the deeds of the Borborites were so heinous that they went unrecorded in the Roman registry.” As Charlie spoke, he opened the tome in his lap to various pages. The first was an illustration of a robed monk with a cowl covering his face, standing before an altar. He held a serpentine blade that pointed above a human sacrifice. Notes in the margins were written in different hands and languages. “Only after their expulsion from Rome in 80 A.D. did tales of orgy and magic come to light. The Borborites believed that experience was the ultimate manifestation of godhood, and by the satisfaction of all carnal desires they could perpetuate their lives for eternity.” He paged through scenes of sex, feasting, torture, and drunkenness.

“After their exile, reports of their experimentation continued, but no proof of their whereabouts emerged. The disappearances of village children, the shift in slave routes to include a stop near Nag Hammadi, Egypt—all were ignored in the larger context of the Roman Empire's glorious expansion.” Charlie unfolded a map, frayed and yellowed with age. On it was a red line that traced down the Nile and into the Mediterranean. His fingertip covered a village on the edge of the Nile.

Charlie glanced up and must have registered my bewilderment, because he let out a deep breath and chewed his lip before continuing.

“The Borborites were just one Gnostic sect, others were good. The Valentinians left Rome to found a monastery in the desert. Little did they know that they did so in the shadow of the Borborite stronghold. The Valentinians sought gnosis as well, but their days were filled with fasting, prayer, and labor dedicated to the discovery of their inner knowledge: their divine spark.”

“Gnosis?” I asked. “What's gnosis?”

Charlie's brow furrowed in concentration. “Gnosis is what we seek. It is knowledge so powerful that to earn it is to gain power over eternity. Transcendent knowledge.”

I noted his use of
we
. “All right, so the Borborites tried for gnosis through experience and the Valentinians through introspection. Two paths to the same goal.”

“Yes, the Valentinians traded with villagers, but kept to themselves, shunning outside contact.” His finger traced from the village into the desert to the site of an oasis.

“But eventually the good that lay within them and the evil that lay without the walls of their monastery forced the Valentinians beyond their gates. In the desert they discovered evil so rancid that the sand had been soaked with blood. The founding members of the Borborites—their leader Seth and the Keeper of Secrets Theudas—they both neared the end of their natural lives. They would do anything to extend them.”

“So the Valentinians and the Borborites exist today as well?” I interrupted.

“Though few would call themselves such,” Charlie agreed. “Very few.”

“But you said, you've met Hillar.”

“Yes. You see, the Borborites believed that by finding gnosis they could reincarnate, allowing them to live on and continue their depravity across millennia. The leader of the Valentinians, Valentinus, saw this future where Seth and Theudas became murderers and military leaders. He bound his spirit and that of Pius, his follower, to the spirits of Seth and Theudas. They gave up the Pleroma, what you'd call heaven, in order to protect the Earth from the Borborites until they could stop the cycle of rebirth and move on themselves. And so it has continued across time, the good reincarnations battling the evil reincarnations: pirates, Nazis, dictators, and serial killers.”

Brother Harkman held my gaze for a minute before I realized he waited for a response. The monastery was entirely silent. The music done. Night had come.

“You're a Valentinian?” I asked. “You're not just an expert on Gnosticism, but actually Gnostic?”

Charlie appeared to hunch under a great burden and flushed with embarrassment.

“I am Gnostic, and if I'm to believe my mentor, I'm Valentinus himself.”

I struggled to understand. How did he know?

“So this Jo Wentworth, she was a Valentinian and told you all this?”

“Her name almost two thousand years ago was Pius. My job is not only to track the reincarnation of evil, but to train the good.”

“So you're telling me that you met Hillar … Seth, whatever, when you weren't Charlie Harkman but Valentinus?”

“Jo told me that we confronted Seth in his lair just as he was murdering his partner Theudas and in so doing, discovering the secret of a very twisted gnosis. I can barely believe this myself. But maybe I can break the cycle and enter the Pleroma.” Charlie fingered the IV in his arm. “I think I've always felt Hillar McCallum—part of me knew he was my duty, I suppose. Now you're here.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly, trying to understand the full scope of the stakes. “By helping us, you think you might be able to prevent his reincarnation?”

It was moments like this that made it easier to be atheist.

He flushed.

“So … you'll do it.” I'd discovered what he wanted, and although I should have been pleased, I couldn't take pleasure in killing the man, no matter how many kids he might save. “This is your chance at whatever you call it … gnosis, too, isn't it?”

I realized that his embarrassment was not due to the strange belief that he thought he was the reincarnation of some two-thousand-year-old mystic, but rather shame. His arm lay like its own little corpse, impaled and limp on the sheet. The lives of some eighty souls hung about his neck.

After a moment, I looked the monk in the eye—my understanding didn't matter—this was irrelevant to the orders. He appeared to sadden further.

“You were meant to do it. You've been doing this for millennia.”

His eyes flared. “I—”

“Eleven children, Brother Harkman, versus the few weeks you have left.” The words tumbled in a rush, and my voice rose too loud for the confines of the cell and monastery beyond.

He regarded me. “
Months
I have left.”

“Do the other monks know all this?”

The light in his eyes diminished again. I can relate to guilt. I know guilt. My own guilt would kill me, as it would kill him. Duty and guilt, so closely linked, but for a soldier this came as no surprise—what is patriotism but the repayment of debts owed to your country?

“Why'd you keep your beliefs a secret? As a monk, isn't belief all you have?” I asked.