The Terminals by Michael F. Stewart

N .
    â€œThe authorities are doing all they can, but they need information. Volunteers for the search. And for everyone to report sightings of abandoned school buses.” The Asian man’s only accent was the hand slicing through the air to mark each item. “School buses can’t hide. I want my daughter back. And time is running out. Thank you to those who have already helped, and thank you for listening.”
    Brother Harkman reached down the far side of his bed and retrieved a stainless steel bowl. When it was in his lap, he breathed heavily over it.
    â€œDamn chemo’s making me sick,” he said. A fleck of spittle straddled his lower lip.
    The use of a swearword caused me to start, and I felt as though I intruded on a private show of weakness. But I had no time for courtesy.
    â€œBy expert estimates, Brother, these children have as little as a day left, at most two-and-a-half. Depending on the temperature of their prison and exposure, they might be already near death. We really can’t know for certain.”
    He waved his hand for me to wait, seemingly annoyed, and then retched. When he had composed himself, he flexed his jaw muscles and turned back. He had aged years since I arrived.
    â€œHow do I know you are for real? You listed as the Center for Disease Control or something?”
    I mourned the loss of his good nature and wondered if other Euths would see me like this, forever the bearer of unpleasant news until my case turned up. The alternative was beginning to seem more attractive again.
    â€œNo, sir, we do not have a cover, nor are we recognized by the government. Only three non-terminals know of our existence. The heads of the CIA, FBI, and State.”
    â€œState. The president?”
    â€œCorrect.”
    He shut his eyes, leaning back against a pillow and the stone wall.
    â€œThe Terminals were active in Iraq and Afghanistan. We’ve foiled bioterrorism plots, a dirty bomb left over from the Cuban missile crisis, and found missing planes and submarines with onboard nukes before our enemies could.” It was much the same pitch the general had given me. But while he had convinced me to live, I was now using it to convince a monk to die. If hell existed, I had a clear pass through its gates.
    â€œSounds grander than a serial killer.”
    I frowned. “Eleven kids have disappeared with the kidnapper dead.”
    â€œBet one of them being the governor’s kid has something to do with it.” Charlie spat into the bowl. The reek of bile was stringent in my nostrils. I wanted to leave.
    He squinted at me, pinioning me where I stood. “You said you’d be going yourself if not for the religion mismatch.”
    I nodded.
    â€œSo, what are you dying of?”
    â€œI’m not. I’m doing this for my own reasons.”
    â€œAn actual suicide, then.” He worked himself further forward and cocked his head. “No going terminal about it.” When I didn’t respond, he continued. “You can understand why it would be difficult to be convinced by someone who could not follow through with their own suicide?”
    He regarded me, listening to the silence. I always thought priests could do that better than soldiers. Soldiers ordered silence, it was a discipline. Priests listened to it, as if learning from it what needed to be said and plucking it out like a ripe carrot. It made me realize how much silence I had in my life. I just never listened to it. I’m not sure I wanted to hear what it had to say.
    â€œWe all have a darkness in us that we regret,” he said. From the hang of his head these were obviously not mere words. And I wondered if his darkness could be the Achilles heel I needed to convince him to join the Terminals. “But you need not let it consume you.”
    â€œI’m not here for counseling,” I said.
    He rubbed his stubbly bald spot. “Do you know how much time I have left?”
    â€œThe