Terminal by Robin Cook Read Free Book Online

up his coat. Dressed in a simple housedress covered by a worn apron, Anne looked considerably older than her fifty-four years. After her long, repressing marriage to the hard-drinking Brian Murphy, her face had become permanently drawn, her eyes generally tired and forlorn. Her hair, which she wore in an old-fashioned bun, was naturally curly and although it had been an attractive dark brown, it was now streaked with gray.
    “Brian’s here,” Anne said.
    “I guessed as much.”
    Sean went into the kitchen to say hello to his brother. Brian was at the kitchen table, nursing a drink. He’d removed his jacket and draped it over a chair; paisley suspenders looped over his shoulders. Like Sean, he had darkly handsome features, black hair, and brilliant blue eyes. But the similaritiesended there. Where Sean was brash and casual, Brian was circumspect and precise. Unlike Sean’s shaggy locks, Brian’s hair was neatly trimmed and precisely parted. He sported a carefully trimmed mustache. His clothing was decidedly lawyer-like and leaned toward dark blue pinstripes.
    “Am I responsible for this honor?” Sean asked. Brian did not visit often even though he lived nearby in Back Bay.
    “Mother called me,” Brian admitted.
    It didn’t take Sean long to shower, shave, and dress in jeans and a rugby shirt. He was back in the kitchen before Brian finished carving the pot roast. Sean helped set the table. While he did so, he eyed his older brother. There had been a time when Sean resented him. For years his mother had introduced her boys as my wonderful Brian, my good Charles, and Sean. Charles was currently off in a seminary in New Jersey studying to become a priest.
    Like Sean, Brian had always been an athlete, although not as successful. He’d been a studious child and usually at home. He’d gone to the University of Massachusetts, then on to law school at B.U. Everybody had always liked Brian. Everyone had always known that he would be successful and that he would surely escape the Irish curse of alcohol, guilt, depression, and tragedy. Sean, on the other hand, had always been the wild one, preferring the company of the neighborhood ne’er-do-wells and frequently in trouble with the authorities involving brawls, minor burglary, and stolen-car joy rides. If it hadn’t been for Sean’s extraordinary intelligence and his facility with a hockey stick, he might have ended up in Bridgewater Prison instead of Harvard. Within the ghettos of the city the dividing line between success and failure was a narrow band of chance that the kids teetered on all through their turbulent adolescent years.
    There was little conversation during the final dinner preparations. But once they sat down, Brian cleared his throat after taking a sip of his milk. They’d always drunk milk with dinner throughout their boyhoods.
    “Mother is upset about this Miami idea,” Brian said.
    Anne looked down at her plate. She’d always been self-effacing,especially when Brian Sr. was alive. He’d had a terrible temper made worse by alcohol, and alcohol had been a daily indulgence. Every afternoon after unplugging drains, fixing aged boilers, and installing toilets, Brian Sr. would stop at the Blue Tower bar beneath the Tobin Bridge. Nearly every night he’d come home drunk, sour, and vicious. Anne was the usual target, although Sean had come in for his share of blows when he tried to protect her. By morning Brian Sr. would be sober, and consumed by guilt; he’d swear he would change. But he never did. Even when he’d lost seventy-five pounds and was dying from liver cancer, his behavior was the same.
    “I’m going down there to do research,” Sean said. “It’s no big deal.”
    “There’s drugs in Miami,” Anne said. She didn’t look up.
    Sean rolled his eyes. He reached over and grasped his mother’s arm. “Mom, my problem with drugs was in high school. I’m in medical school now.”
    “What about that incident your first year of college?”