Free The Terminals by Michael F. Stewart Page B

live.”
    â€œYou’re doing this for the kids, not me.”
    â€œI’m dying based on a three-day-old diagnosis and the slim chance that I can redeem myself in death—you’re my insurance policy. There’s no guarantee that I’ll be successful or that the children are still alive, or even if you’re telling the truth. I save you now, it’s a good start.”
    So it all came back to insurance. “Why care about me?”
    â€œIt’s a trade. An eye for an eye. How else can I rationalize this?” He leaned forward and the timbre to his voice deepened, giving another glimpse of the man inside. “No suicide.”
    I shrugged and lifted a mocking eyebrow. “No suicide.” What did I care? Discover what he wants and give it to him.
    Charlie ripped the IV from his arm as if I’d written an oath in blood. “In all my life, I couldn’t be certain I’d ever saved anyone.” He smiled. “To get the chance now,” he shrugged, “perhaps it makes sense.”
    I ignored his remark and tried to shake off the lethargy that flooded through me. “Let’s go.”
    â€œGive me half an hour.”
    â€œYou don’t need to pack for this trip.”
    â€œChristine.” His annoyance slackened and the kind, calm countenance I’d first encountered upon my arrival faced me. “I need a moment to say goodbye.”
    â€œYou can’t tell anyone.” I held back the word else .
    He tucked his feet into sandals that lay beside his bed and eased upright. He stood half-a-head shorter than me and brushed past.
    Once through the door, I hung back, but followed as he made for an alcove deep set into the garden border. In the gloom, it was filled with shadow. Singing—Evensong, I guessed—filtered into the quad. Offering Charlie privacy, I dwelled in my own darkness, sitting on the cold stone of a bench. I’d texted the pilot, Pat, to ready for the flight and thought I could hear the distant whine of helicopter engines.
    When Charlie returned, his face was wet. I sensed his tears were not for himself, rather for the pain he’d caused another, and I wondered how far Sister Angelica’s and Charlie’s relationship extended beyond the fraternal.

Chapter 9
    â€œIs your name Charles Harkman?” Doctor Deeth asked.
    I watched through the one-way pane as Deeth administered the lie detector test. The baseline questions had droned on, but now he neared the end. Charlie sat forward on the bed, a black strap around his stomach and chest, electrodes taped to his hands, and blood-pressure cuff over his slender arm. It was his second time through the questions, surprise not being allowed in a polygraph, and the clock indicated they’d eaten into another hour. I couldn’t help thinking that, somewhere in Iowa, kids hadn’t been fed for a day or more.
    â€œWere you born in Los Angeles, California?”
    â€œYes,” Charlie replied tonelessly. Through the questions I’d learned that Charlie had had a younger brother killed in a traffic accident. He’d lost his father to Alzheimer’s and his mother to a heart attack. He was a dissatisfied, guilt-ridden man, the admission of which the general suspected had succeeded in landing him here. I didn’t like being congratulated by the general, and certainly not for killing a man.
    â€œYou understand the doctrine of Gnosticism?” Through the intercom Deeth’s words sounded distant. The indicators of heart rate, blood pressure, respiration and electro-dermal activity zigzagged on Deeth’s laptop screen.
    â€œYes, and I believe in it, Doctor,” Charlie said. On the white bed, in his dark robe, he wrung his hands and then looked apologetically at Deeth.
    â€œYou passed,” Deeth replied.
    â€œNot sure I want to pass.”
    Deeth snapped the laptop closed and gave the thumbs up to the general and me.
    â€œâ€˜Bout fucking