The Terminals (17 page)

Attila checked the time on his phone and swore.

“Julie Wilshire's ETA is fifteen minutes. I have to be on the helipad when she touches down.”

“You're supposed to meet her?” My eyes widened when he nodded. “Change of plan.”

Chapter 27

Gooseflesh bubbled up over Charlie's
skin. Although glad for the return of his hands, he rubbed at his skeletal arms to stave off the sudden winter. His fingers traced tendons made prominent by a death-camp physique. He wobbled on bony legs. Still, he felt stronger, buttressed by his love for Angelica. Snow surrounded him. It stretched out, a stark plain broken only by the stalks of last season's grass. His feet already ached in the snow. No other footprints penetrated the crust; he had simply appeared here. Wind whipped him, and he quaked in the impossible cold.

Hillar's footprints were also absent, but Charlie had to be sure before he named the next Archon; once through to a new deep, there could be no returning. The only sound was the scouring of snow streamers crossing the land, their crystals like tiny knives against Charlie's thighs.

He trudged to the top of a hillock and scanned the area. A distant wolf howled at the slate sky. A second voice returned the call, barking several times before lifting its voice again. Then another.

“Shit,” Charlie said, without shelter—and without a weapon. Hearing the thinness in his voice, he shuddered. He'd failed.

He turned his back on the calls and took several toddling steps, searching for a sign of Hillar's passage. The granular snow cut into his footpads, and the crust chafed his ankles and wasted calves, but this was little when compared to the pain of the bone-hook sea, and nothing when measured against his mother's accusatory stare. A dozen howls formed a gleeful pack that hooted as they gathered, still distant. Charlie took lurching strides up another hillock.

Before long he couldn't feel his feet due to the cold, but still he broke trail, at times the snow drifts to his groin. The yips and calls numbered in the hundreds now, a cacophony of wild, when suddenly it fell to silence. Charlie's heavy breaths coned in the frosty air. The howls were gone, but quiet hung just as menacing. From his nights in the wilderness of Vermont, Charlie knew that when at hunt, wolves cease to howl.

“Happy hunting grounds, indeed,” Charlie grumbled, trying to breathe through his nose to stop the burn of cold from entering his lungs. He whirled at the snap of dry grass behind him, but nothing moved except the wind. He trudged a few paces, tripped over a buried stone, and fell. Unable to feel where he placed his foot, he pushed hard on his knees to stand. The plain undulated slowly toward the horizon, its waves enough to hide a wolf or Hillar, but not enough to give hope that civilization might prevail beyond a ridge. Desolate. No life. No killer.

Charlie knew what was to come next.

In the final tally, would the pain and loss of his life be worth tracking his nemesis through hells, he wondered. It was Charlie's destiny. That is, if he truly accepted Jo's teachings. In the monastery, it had been easy to make his quest academic, a hobby pursued through books and not based on belief. The truth had been too twisted in his love for Jo and now Angelica. It had taken forty years, but he had to believe. He'd
felt
Hillar draw him. As he had … Angelica. And there it was. He no longer felt Angelica, but he still felt Hillar. No pull, no Angelica.

The prior deep
had
been illusion. His greatest fears and regrets lay bare. The deep had forced him to clear his conscience. Angelica wasn't dead. A nearby wolf barked, perhaps an eager young pup desperate with hunger and not yet mature enough to restrain his impatience. But while Charlie's body trudged in snow, his spirit lifted and walked on with a kind of lightness.

Still, his physical form weakened. Something dark lingered within, something he hadn't yet told himself. As his extremities numbed, his brain seemed to dull as well, driving out thoughts of death and faith and destiny. He lumbered like a dumb animal, sensing only the slender thread of his remaining life.

At some point the cold began to feel warm. When he toppled next, the wintery bed cushioned him as a blanket, the cold a pillow for his mind. His will to move ebbed. What had once been a clear sky changed, and snow was falling. Hell can do whatever the hell it wants with the weather, Charlie thought, before fading blissfully into unconsciousness.

A pinch roused Charlie, but he was helpless to the nips. Two wolves wrestled with a strip of gristle, and part of him knew from where it came. He wanted to scream the Archon's name, to have him fetched from this deep, but he was torn by the need to find Hillar. The snow had stopped. Blood splattered the fresh powder.

A wolf skulked toward him, yellow eyes aglow in the winter moon. Charlie saw no fear. Feral hunger on stained lips, but no fear. The terror that rose in Charlie was different, more distant, a primal urgency to survive that his cerebellum acknowledged and let loose. Charlie was a stray from the herd, a sick animal to be culled.

As the jaws opened, Charlie lifted his arm to club its snout, but the arm he swung was a ragged stump. He tried to cry out, but the jaws clamped at his neck, and it shook him savagely by the neck. The snarls of other wolves filled the crisp air, which misted red as they fought for their grips. He lifted from the snow, suspended by the teeth of wolves. He let his horror empty to the bloodied plain. He was food. A meal.

Adonaios!
he thought, giving in, and he was sure he heard a whimper before he was gone.

Intact once more. Charlie, dismayed. A body was only yet another chance to be flayed, hacked, or chewed.

At first, it felt as though Charlie's skin warmed, prickling with the heat as blood flow returned to numb limbs. He relaxed into it, drifting. The fetal darkness, the warmth, it suggested a great womb. Except that this womb had no comforting press of uterine wall. Its warmth moved. It writhed, making wet slippery sounds. His arms slowly cut through the mass until he broke free. He struggled to find purchase with his feet, and once grounded, he surged to a stand.

Charlie wore a robe and grasped its collar, pulling it down over the light that emanated from his chest. No longer was it a pale subtle light, but blue at its center, fading to yellow, orange, and red as it struggled through the ribs of his chest. It lit a mass of maggots roiling at his navel. Black slugs flipped and tumbled over one another. Charlie hauled his legs through the mass and came up against a black wall that glistened like a shard of obsidian, reflecting the light of his chest and the likeness of his nearly mummified form. Charlie was a desiccated carcass. He followed the wall and found it circular, holding him and the maggots in, with no sign of an Archon. Beneath Charlie, a muffled voice called something.

Charlie tried to kick out at it, but nearly fell as his foot passed ever so slowly through the gelatinous mass. A mound began to form in the centre and grow upward. Maggots took human shape, but wriggled and twisted. Hands reached up and clawed the goo from its eyes, and spat the slugs from its mouth.

“Hillar?” Charlie searched for the crystal, but it was either covered in maggots or missing. Hillar's hands passed over his arms and chest, unleashing a luminous red light that occluded Charlie's weaker blue. “Where's the crystal?”

Hillar lifted his hands to his shoulders in a shrug, and then shouted: “Horaios.”

He grimaced and then looked down at the maggots with disgust.

“This demon bitch is fucking deaf.” Between two fingers he caught a maggot and brought it up to his eye. Then he flicked it into his mouth and chewed. Immediately, he spat it out, face twisting in repulsion. When he regained control of his stomach, he shook his head. “Nasty.”

Charlie was still focused on the crystal. “Where?”

Hillar's hand swept over the surface. “I had her when I came in, you'd better start fishing, time's a-ticking.”

Charlie's gun was back in his hand.

“No forgiveness from a monk?” Hillar let himself fall into the mass, and the gunshot went long, raising a geyser of offal. Arms wrapped about Charlie's legs and he was pulled down beneath the tide of larvae.

Chapter 28

I stood out in the
scything rain as the chopper bearing Julie Wilshire touched down. The rain had brought evening early and saturated everything a dull gray. Pat was off-shift; Saba piloted the craft. I knew less of Saba than I knew of Pat, which wasn't a great deal, but I waved, bent over, and ran forward against the driving wind before the blades ceased to whirl. I'd made one stop before my dash for the helipad, and my mother's ruby tiara hung on my belt loop, bouncing against my hip as I ran. I drew back the door.

“Hi, Ms. Wilshire?” I did my best to sound familiar and friendly, while speaking loud enough to be heard over rotors, rain, and wind.

The woman inside wore a Yankee ball cap pulled tight down over her face and bleached blonde hair, a jean jacket, and an assortment of clothing that looked a decade out of fashion. I couldn't see past the bridge of the cap, but it nodded, and she took my proffered hand. Her nails were bitten back nearly to their beds. After unclipping the harness, Julie ducked as she climbed out of the helicopter and hunched in the rain.

“I'll take care of her from here,” I told Saba, who offered me a sidelong stare. Rain ricocheted from the windscreen.

“Where's the general?” the pilot asked. “The general normally makes these pickups.”

“He charged Attila with it and he's awaiting my orders, Corporal.”

“You're taking Ms. Wilshire to see the general.” He fingered the radio button.

“Yes, Corporal.” I straightened, letting the top of my coat fall open. I'd purposefully donned my Army Greens for extra authority should I require it. He saluted, and I returned the gesture.

I pulled Julie Wilshire to the edge of the helipad, then glanced back. Saba's mouth kissed the radio as he spoke into it.

I jerked Julie forward by the elbow and ushered her through the rain. Beyond the stairs was an elevator used to transport patients to the ER. From the rooftop it could be overridden, offering an express trip to the first floor. I was depending on this as we passed the threshold out of the weather and hit the down button. The external steel door snapped closed, and the weight of the quiet was heavy. The only sound was the throb in my throat, Julie's labored breathing, and boots scuffing on steel as someone climbed the stairs.

“Don't do it, Christine,” the general called from several flights below. By pressing the button, I'd forced him to make the climb.

Julie gave me an odd look. It was the first time I'd seen her face, although still shadowed by the cap, and a wave of recognition struck me, déjà-vu, but I surely would have remembered where I'd seen a woman with such bleached eyebrows. The elevator arrived and I indicated for her to enter the car, but she didn't move.

“Hello, Ms. Wilshire, this is General Aaron, we spoke on the phone,” the general's voice rasped but held a congeniality I didn't recognize.

Standing straight, Julie was only five-two, and she slouched. She took a hesitant step backward, shaking water loose from the beak of her cap. A puddle had formed where we stood.

“General,” she said over the landing, with a slight drawl, which immediately made me think she'd side with him. But we were both women. That had to count for something.

“Ms. Wilshire, do you want to live?” I asked in a hush.

Her dark eyes shone with intelligence, and she gained another inch in height. “What kind of question is that?” The drawl was gone.

“I am prepared to pay for your bypass surgery. Seventy-five thousand dollars, no questions.”

The slow ponderous ascent of the general rang out. Oddly, no flare of hope ignited in her eyes with my proclamation. Julie only looked confused, frightened, and uncertain.

Her gaze shifted up and to the left, as if she searched for the right lie. “You know my job?”

“I know you're a nurse, Julie. Ask the questions you've got.”

“I'm self-employed. Not easy, working for yourself—no medical, no benefits,” she said. “If I can't work. No money.”

“I'll pay you more,” I said, contemplating her all-denim attire, the slight build. This woman did not fit my image of a nurse. The nurses I knew were decisive and straightforward. “The surgery, plus another two hundred thousand to keep a roof over your head while you convalesce.” The tiara was worth double that. She could take it and run.

“Convalesce,” Julie said.

The general's chortle morphed into a wheeze. “Not quite the five million we're paying you, hey, Julie?”

I stepped forward and held Julie's wrist, my fingers reached all the way around, and I felt her quick pulse at my fingertips.

“But life, Julie, you're young, you could have kids still.”

She returned a blank stare. I had reread the file; she wanted children. I was certain, but why wasn't it registering with her?

Her eyes darted left and right, resting briefly on the general whose age-spotted hand gripped the rail.

“Tell me how much you need.” I couldn't match five million.

“This will get expensive for you, Christine,” the general announced. “If you keep saving Euths, they'll grow scarce. The less supply, the greater the price. But know this. I'll always find a new one.”

“Julie's sick, not dying.” My eyes never left Julie's, who hesitated. “And she's not a commodity.”

“If you wanted to change the healthcare system, you should have joined the Democrats,” the general said, cresting the final stair. “Without money to pay for the operation, she's terminal.”

“I don't want the cash,” Julie said. “I can't.”

“What do you mean, can't?” I was puzzled. What was stopping this woman? Where did I know her from? Why the fake accent? “You're not going terminal.”

The general had his hands at his waist. It could have been to catch his breath. It could have been to grasp his pistol.

“Sure she is,” the general wheezed. “She already knows about us. She wants to go. Just ask her.” It took him three breaths to finish.

“I'm paying for her operation.” I stepped protectively between the general and Wilshire.

“And who's going to save those trapped kids?” the general demanded.

“Me,” I said, glad that Attila wasn't listening or I might not have had the strength to say it with such conviction. “I know most of the Archon names. I'll find some reference books, give me two hours.” With Coumadin on board, I was dead anyways.

“It won't work, and I want to save those children,” the general said. “Sometimes I wonder if I want to save them more than you do.”

“Then I guess I'll just die.” I could at least give Julie a head start.

“You're real good at killing things, I'll say that.” His hand left his hip, and he cocked his head toward the stairs. “All right, if it has come to this, I agree. You give it a shot. You want two hours, you've got them.”

“No,” Julie began to protest, but I tightened my grip. Why did this chick want to go terminal so badly? Most Euths would be second-guessing to the end, like Siam. I was offering Julie her health back. Her life. Or was I?

I wavered between Julie and the general. “You'll let her go,” I said, pointing at Julie.

“Of course, I'll let her go.” The general huffed. “Think this is some big secret club where those who want out are killed?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “That's what I think.” I pushed Julie toward the open elevator. “Go, Julie. Leave the hospital, and then move.”

“What about Charlie?” Julie asked. Her cap was off, making visible long blonde hair with dark roots. In the elevator, the fluorescent light revealed the pockmarks scarring her cheeks.

I stumbled a bit and eyed her. “What the hell?”

A hitch of concern entered the general's tone. “I'll release her when you've found the kids. If your going terminal doesn't work, Julie's next.” The general's expression clouded, and his hand went to his holster.

“I know you,” I said to Julie, wrenching her forward and pushing her chin up to the light. “You're not Julie Wilshire. You're the nun. Charlie's nun. And there's no way you're dying today.”

Both the general and the nun stood while the doors of the empty elevator shut with a thump.

“Save the kids,” Julie said, the confusion gone. “Or I go next.”

Despite the weakness I'd initially supposed, her voice didn't falter.

“Deal,” the general replied. “When Christine fails, you can fill her boots and collect your five million dollars.” To me, he said, “I'll page Deeth. You've got two hours.”

“But Julie isn't—” I started.

“You wanted a chance, you have it. Let me worry about what a terminal is. After you're dead, you don't care. You know it and I know it.”

The nun regarded the puddle we'd made on the floor. I released her wrist.

“Your real name,” I ordered her.

“Angelica Wilshire,” she said, head bowed and hands overlapping in a stance that would have identified her as a nun even had I not known.

“Why do this, Angelica?” I shook my head, went to punch the down button, but stopped. What was the point? The general could track a nun down. “Charlie wouldn't agree to go terminal until he realized he had to.”

Angelica rubbed at her forehead.

“He told you about Valentinus and Pius?” she asked. “Seth and Theudas?” I nodded. “My reasons may not seem so strange to you then. When the general called, I had already sensed that something was wrong. I can't speak to the dead like your medium can, but used to be able to feel Charlie and Hillar, too. Charlie was my mentor; fate drew me to the monastery. The day you came, he told me the whole truth, made me see the truth. That if he was Valentinus, then I am the incarnation of Pius. If Charlie is lost, then I must help him, and maybe I can prevent the reincarnation of the killer.”

“No, Angelica, I can't let you do that, and if I know Charlie at all, he would agree with me.” I didn't see dissuasion in her eyes. “I go. What you do afterward is for you and your god, but I would think Charlie would want you to track Hillar down and kill him in his crib, or better yet, try to influence him somehow so he doesn't do evil this time round.”

The force of my response surprised me.

Angelica shook her head. “I'm sorry. But if you fail, I will take your place.”

A sudden chill swept through me as the general grasped her wrist and drew her down the steps.

The general's disembodied voice loomed up from the stairwell. “Welcome to Purgatory, Angel.”

I couldn't fail, not again.