The Terminals Read online

  Lieutenant Gordon Handso was angry with himself. When Agnes had called, he’d been three minutes shy of The Frying Pan, driving the wrong way. He’d just finished a platter of flapjacks and one too many coffees. He’d relieved his bladder before leaving, and probably strode right past the killer with a nod of hello. If anyone found out, he’d be laughed out of town. But if on the other hand he arrested the most wanted man in the country, well, then he might just earn a parade. What he needed to do now seemed pretty darn clear.

  Handso practiced what he’d say during the media interviews sure to follow the takedown. Despite my lack of family, or perhaps due to that lack, I feel a special bond to Agnes. Like a sister. I had to act. Some people call that heroic, but I just call it risking my life to serve my country.

  In the diner’s lot were a white van, a battered Ford pickup, Agnes’s Chevy hatchback, and a Lincoln looking low-class with missing hubcaps. Handso bet heavily on the van being the killer’s.

  With the sirens off, he pulled into the vacant car dealership next door. Gravel crunched beneath the tires of his Dodge Charger LX. Those kids had disappeared at a diner not much different from this one. Dust filled Handso’s nostrils, filtered by a heavy mustache. His radio barked at him, Agent Volt calling the shots on what had become the largest manhunt in the history of the FBI.

  Volt was in over his head. Initially, the retirement-track agent had led a small team from the Critical Incident Response Group, but with the recent kidnappings, the Child Abduction Rapid Deployment Team had thrust their hands into the pie. Now, he coordinated about thirty agents, hundreds of state troopers like Handso, and nearly a thousand volunteer searchers.

  They’d had a tough time. Hillar seemed to move around more than most serial killers, slaughtered randomly—over eighty missing persons attributed to him—and even though he was deemed psychotic by every psychologist CNN could drum up, his thinking seemed orderly to Handso—no matter how many eyeballs Hillar popped out.

  Handso was first on the scene. He could make his name forever, here. At thirty-eight with no kids, and no wife, Handso had only his gun collection to educate. If he wanted a legacy, it wouldn’t be through twiddling his thumbs waiting for Volt while a killer shot up his cousin. Volt was conservative. The man had three months to make his twenty years of service anniversary and the full pension that went with it. While Volt desired safety, Handso craved action.

  Handso swung the car door open, feeling exposed with his Kevlar vest still in the trunk. Quiet had settled over The Frying Pan lot, and the glare of light reflecting off the windows made him uncomfortable; it also made the glass one way. If Handso approached from the front, the killer would have a view of him, but he’d be blind to the killer. Handso cursed himself for not asking Agnes where Hillar and the other patrons were sitting.

  Handso’s trunk popped open; he struggled into the vest, and then tightened the strap of his ankle holster. At a muffled shout from inside the diner, he snapped erect. The CB was growling for him, but he’d turned the volume low.

  He unsnapped the loop on his service revolver holster. The gun hadn’t cleared the holster in nine months. The last time had been to scare a young hood waving a knife; then, the gun’s safety had never moved. Now, he drew the Smith and Wesson M&P and flicked the safety off. Ready.

  “We need him alive,” the radio crackled. “He’s got eleven kids stowed away somewhere. Treat this as a hostage situation.” Handso smirked, wondering if Volt would call in HRT, too, and complete his law enforcement dictatorship. But Hillar had Handso’s cousin. And Handso had the element of surprise, for now.

  Heat already shimmered from the highway’s blacktop, breaking the town water tower into blurry panels. No convoy of black SUVs screamed up the strip. Not yet. Handso reached through the window to grab the handset.

  “This is Lieutenant Handso,” he whispered. “We’ve got an Active Shooter; I’m going ‘round back to secure the rear.” Procedure changed with an Active Shooter—he had a duty to make contact as soon as possible. “Advancing on threat.”

  He didn’t stay for the response. He didn’t dare turn on the radio stashed at his hip either—not while he crept up on a serial killer, not when his destiny was about to be determined. Given that the diner backed onto a warehouse and an industrial park, he would be better positioned to prevent escape via a vehicle by waiting where he was, but that wouldn’t help those inside. Volt had surely barricaded the highway.

  Handso skulked to the side of the restaurant, keeping clear of the windows, near silent as he stepped along concrete pads. He stalked, gun up. Another yell came from the restaurant, and the rear door thwacked shut. Pebbles crunched under heavy boots.

  The man who chugged around the corner was red-faced, with cheeks puffed out and his chest heaving. Grease spattered his otherwise white chef’s jacket. He grunted when he stared into the barrel of Handso’s gun and his feet slid out from under him so that he landed on his ass. What little breath he had left blew from his lungs.

  Handso used his revolver muzzle like a finger, placing it to his lips. The cook gave a quick nod, eyes wide as he climbed to his feet and ran. The trooper continued around the restaurant, creeping in through the spring door; the door groaned as it retracted. He eased it shut. Black smoke from a burning quick-fry steak stung his eyes. In the dining area, someone whined.

  “Now hold still,” a man said. Distant. On the far side of the restaurant.

  Handso crawled to the stove. The order counter above would offer him a view of two-thirds of the diner. His empty palm mashed through raw bacon strips and hash the cook had strewn over the floor.

  “No, no, I wanna try something.” A grunt of frustration and a shriek of pain—Agnes.

  Handso stole a glance. Hillar the Killer was thick-set with strange sideburns. He wore a wife-beater that strained against muscle and tendon. While his gun pressed against Agnes’s forehead, his other hand hauled her hair downward, forcing her chin up. Handso would have ducked, but Hillar was too intent on his victim. Two patrons hid beneath their table, a third huddled in the corner, holding a butter knife and a cell phone. With any luck, she’d be recording a video and the takedown would soon be on YouTube.

  “Thatta gal, now look me in the eye.” Agnes did as she was told. A smile spread across Hillar’s face. “Yeah, yeah, wider.”

  The smoke streamed upward from the skillet, and Handso’s vision blurred. A cough itched in his throat, and he fought it off by swallowing.

  Hillar closed the distance between Agnes’s eyes and his own. When his face was inches from hers, Handso shouted.

  “Police! Put the gun down!”

  Hillar didn’t move, but he didn’t freeze. Relaxed and loose, he stared straight into Agnes’s eyes.

  “Remove the gun from her head,” Handso ordered.

  But Handso appeared to be background noise. Agnes began to wail, the long shriek only broken by sobs for air.

  “It’s there, I see it coming!” Hillar shouted, the grin spreading. “It’s like … it knows.” Drool strung from his lip.

  The shot rang out. Handso registered the acrid smell mingling with burnt steak, and then he was moving.

  He burst through the swinging kitchen door and hooked his legs over the counter, catching a cake stand with his foot. Black forest chocolate smeared across a tabletop.

  “On the ground!” Handso hollered. “On the ground!”

  Hillar the Killer lay on the cold, white, and black-checkered tiling with a smile on his face. Handso had aimed for the shoulder but struck a good twelve inches above, nearly taking off the top of the killer’s skull.

  Beside him, Agnes was on her knees, clutching her throat, eyes bulging.

  “You okay?” Handso asked, not removing his focus from Hillar.

  “No,” she told him, stunned. “It’s like he tried to take my soul.”

  Agents and officers crashed in
through the doors. Patrons screamed as if suddenly given voice. Handso’s hands went up, gun dangling from his thumb. Agnes buried her face in her palms. The FBI held their positions until Volt pushed past the group. He stopped short at the killer’s body.

  Without a word, Volt bent over, checked for a pulse, and shook his bald dome.

  “Do you know how long a child can last without water, Officer Handso?” The agent’s tone was cold and tight.

  Handso chewed his cheek. He knew the rule of thumb.

  “Three days in good conditions. That leaves at best seventy-two hours to search the whole goddamn state of Iowa.” He made a sound that underscored his opinion of the lieutenant’s work. “You just traded the life of your cousin for the lives of eleven kids. I’d steer clear of the governor if I were you.”

  A shudder crept along Handso’s spine and it wasn’t due to missing kids, or the fact he’d just killed a man.

  It was the look in Agnes’s eyes.

  Chapter 3

  I kept the bullet as a souvenir. A .45 caliber, it fit my handgun. No doubt I’d use it soon, but two days after first meeting the general I still wasn’t dead, though the trip to New York had been almost enough to finish me. The general had gone on ahead while I had another session of dialysis, and so I ended up on a return flight with a group of soldiers who’d completed their tour.

  I’ve never felt more ashamed. Not only had I caused the death of many of my men, but I had also shirked the completion of my duties. Given it was my fifth tour, I had nothing to be ashamed of, but I couldn’t share the camaraderie, the elation of returning home, the anticipation of seeing family; worse, I cast a pall over it. Luckily, due to the loss of blood, I was too tired to stay awake long and slept my way to Germany.

  We landed at the same base from where I’d deployed, but I was quickly shipped out on a civilian aircraft and promised that my personal effects would follow. My uniform earned light applause when I boarded the plane, and I was grateful for the lack of blood or I would have flushed.

  The combination of renal failure and flights caused my legs to swell to the point I could mould my flesh with my thumbs, leaving deep indentations. I asked the flight attendant to cut the laces off my boots, but they didn’t have anything aboard sharp enough. After twenty-four hours in transit, I reached the New York Veteran’s Hospital, the confidential base of the Terminals, and the pain was so bad I was tempted to find a secure washroom and blow my brains out.

  Instead, I fainted in the entry and woke in a hospital bed to the smell of pizza and three old men tossing cards on my stomach. One appeared to be purposefully aiming too high or too low.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I asked as a randy old Indian groped a card from my right breast.

  “Respect, Sundarshan.” My white knight was in his eighties with a neatly trimmed moustache, wire-rimmed glasses, and a religious collar. He spoke as he studied his cards with bright eyes. “Don’t mind him. My name is Arthur. We’ve been keeping you company. We like to include the other palliatives in our games, no matter their playing ability.” His eyes met mine.

  Another card dropped near my crotch and I swiveled my hips, spilling half the cards on to the floor along with the slim box that had been lying across my thighs.

  “My pizza!” The third man leaned slowly down to collect it.

  “Name and rank, soldiers,” I said, still too feeble to sit up.

  “Captain Arthur Collins, U.S. Army chaplain.” Arthur snapped a salute.

  “Corporal Sundarshan Rangan.” The Indian’s hazel eyes sparkled. “Friends call me Sunny.”

  “And we all call him Sundarshan,” Arthur noted.

  “Sergeant Major Francis Richmond, Army,” Francis said between bites of a salvaged pizza slice. Francis was rail-thin and looked as though he needed to eat continuously to remain upright.

  “You’re using a Lieutenant Colonel as a table. Colonel Christine Kurzow, active duty.”

  Sundarshan whistled. “I’d heard they were letting girls command.”

  Francis leaned forward. “We’re active duty, too. Recalled.”

  I paused in thought, letting Francis’s comment register. These men were like me, waiting for a final mission. Terminals.

  “But they better find me a mission quick,” Sundarshan said. “I’m not getting any younger.”

  “You’re terminals—”

  “Ahem!”

  I turned at the cough. A slight Indonesian woman sporting a hijab entered the room, wearing heavily applied lipstick.

  “Sorry to steal your table, boys.” She pushed my bed, smiling down at me. I began to wheel away from their chairs. “Nice to see you awake after your grand entrance.” The look on her yellow face told me to be quiet. The men snatched at the cards before I was out of reach, and I had to slap Sundarshan’s hand twice before he gave up on his real target.

  “Don’t mind them; Arthur and Francis are actually very handy if you need to know anything about a particular religion or advice in general. Sundarshan …” She lifted an eyebrow. “He’ll be useful someday.”

  Once in a hospital room, she shut the door and leaned against it, drawing deep breaths.

  “They call me Morph,” she said, turning her forearms over so I could see the needle tracks running up her arm. “I’m your handler; at least I was supposed to be until yesterday.”

  “What do you mean?” The bed had stopped in full view of a mirror. My wan face looked three days dead. I poked at my cheekbones and blood flowed briefly into my formerly dusky complexion.

  “Those men don’t know why they’re here,” Morph said. “Only that America needs them, that we’ll pay them active duty wages, and that their cost of living and medical care is free. I don’t know how you convinced the general to let you in on all this, but I’m glad you did.”

  “Why aren’t you my handler?” Not that I objected; the woman was friendly but obviously an addict.

  “Doctor Deeth had some blood tests run and—”

  “Hold on, who’s Doctor Deeth?”

  Morph’s gaze measured me. “He’s the watchdog. Makes sure no one dies who has more than six months to live and never sends anyone into an afterlife they don’t understand. Deeth makes sure no one goes terminal who shouldn’t.”

  “Huh.” I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. Sure he does.

  “Anyways, your kidneys aren’t in as bad a shape as they originally thought. They’re healing. You’re not going to die of renal failure.” When I failed to show any exultation, she continued. “We’d like you to become a handler.”

  “Not part of my deal.” I wondered where they’d put my sidearm and spotted my rucksack.

  “Don’t get me wrong.” Morph sniffed. “This could be temporary—and looking at you, that seems likely. If you can convince Deeth, you’ll have your mission, but in the meantime, my ticket’s coming up, my liver disease is progressing rapidly and I need to be replaced by a terminal with a later best-before date.”

  I hesitated.

  “Either way you have to wait for your mission. Your options are to stay out here and play pinochle with the grumpy old codgers while you kill time, or join the group in Purgatory.”

  “Purgatory?”

  “That’s what we call it … beyond the security door where the magic happens.”

  “Cute.”

  Morph shrugged, and in the slow motion of her shoulders and loll of her head I could tell she was very ill, or very doped. “Your job will be to explain to new terminals what their tasks are and then try to save America from whatever it needs saving from.”

  “Right, with what the dead tell us.” I scratched my head, thinking of the USS Bush.

  She nodded. “What’s it going to be?”

  “Molested by old men or playing the shade of death?”

  “That’s about it.” Mo
rph smiled, and the room brightened.

  “Oh, I do death fairly well,” I said, with no hint of humor.

  “Great!” She grinned, and I knew I’d been manipulated. “Can you walk?”

  I didn’t know. I’d made it to New York. I swung my legs over the bed, annoyed to see I hadn’t woken when someone had changed me out of my clothes and into a hospital gown. I placed bare feet on the cool linoleum. I stood, the room fading to black before returning again. At least the edema was thinning from my calves.

  “They did another round of dialysis on you while you were out. In a week or so, you won’t need it at all. They’re pretty surprised how fast your liver’s healed,” Morph said. “The boxes from your army storage locker arrived from the airport—”

  “Where?” I demanded, staggering toward her.

  Morph winced, and I realized that I must look like a shambling zombie.

  “The boxes, where are my boxes?” I asked.

  “We moved them into a room in Purgatory,” Morph replied. “Your room.” She placed a hand on the doorknob.

  “Clothes first,” I said. “Then my gear. And then this handler business.” I needed to take back some measure of control. “I’m not yet convinced.”

  Morph gave a sloppy salute. I stumbled to my duffel bag and pulled out my desert uniform. Stepping into it, I almost fell over and decided to sit down on the floor to change. After lacing up my boots, I stood too fast and my vision tunneled. Morph didn’t notice, only grinning at my outfit, and then she was out the door and heading down past the common room where the wise men were playing atop of a new table, a turbaned man so frail that he looked part of the bed itself. Cords from his respirator were pulled taut, trailing to one of the dozen rooms that flanked the hall. He looked on the way out, and I wondered how the general would be able to tell him his mission.

  With all the weight I’d lost over the last month, my BDUs hung at my hips. I felt small and fragile under the gaze of the men. As I strode past the card game to meet Morph at a heavy security door, Sundarshan worked his way to his feet with the aid of a cane. His complexion deepened.