On page one of Brian Keene’s TERMINAL, self-described white trash foundry worker Tommy O’Brien has just been told – at the age of 25 – that he has cancer and roughly one month to live.
Already in deep debt to more collectors than he has cancer cells, O’Brien can’t bear to tell his wife and son the tragic news, but he does want to secure their future. Desperate and with no other options after he’s laid off, the mostly law-abiding citizen plots to rob a bank with this two loyal buddies.
The novel’s second half covers said robbery, which quickly spirals out of control, like DOG DAY AFTERNOON-bad. Though the trio had pledged no bloodshed, unforeseen circumstances put a tragic crimp in those well-meaning plans. But there’s a glimmer of hope – and a hard right into Dean Koontz territory – when an elderly bank customer is saved from a heart attack by the healing touch of a little boy. But only a glimmer, as TERMINAL crashes toward its inevitably harrowing conclusion.
Keene excels at making you sympathetic to O’Brien’s plight early on; despite the man’s fascination with gangsta rap and calling his friends “dog,” you truly feel for the guy. But what gives TERMINAL its kick are the scenes after the main action, with the hostages in the bank vault – among them, a welfare mom and an overweight comic-book geek – acting as a microcosm for society. Strangely, this allows Keene’s gritty little crime thriller to address issues of religion and tolerance (minus the preachiness) while also working in some surprising comic timing.
Some of the dialogue – particulary between Tommy and his own son – rings false, but this is mitigated by the introduction of the supernatural aspect. Also helping is the idea that real-life horrors are far scarier than any imaginary ghosts or demons. The closing pages offer a real O. Henry-style kick to the groin, capping an already great read. So why in the hell didn’t Bantam issue this in hardcover?
As a bonus, the book closes with a preview of Keene’s forthcoming novel THE HOLLOW, the opening line of which may be literature’s best since Kafka’s METAMORPHOSIS: “It was on that first day of spring that Big Steve and I saw Shelly Carpenter fucking the hairy man.”
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