The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE)

by John Benedict

  There were no framed pictures of him and his beautiful family with a golden retriever at their feet. Because, of course, he didn’t have a wife or kids—or even a frickin’ goldfish. There were no bookcases crammed with novels or books—actually, there were no bookcases, period. His only reading material consisted of a few crusty Hustler magazines strewn about the floor. They would find his med center badge and quickly figure out he was one of the night shift cleaning personnel—if they didn’t know that already.

  Chandler’s hands balled up and he paced a little faster. He was done with that loser existence. No more cleaning up other people’s shit, wiping it up, mopping it up, inhaling it, running his hands through it, until it seeped into his very pores. He shuddered. This was, after all, how he had caught the fucking virus that had laid waste to his heart in the first place.

  Mueller’s lecture had been a real revelation; although Chandler still had many unanswered questions, he now had a starting point and a frame of reference on which to build. He stopped himself and marveled, Since when have I ever found any lecture remotely fascinating? Or even paid attention in a lecture? What’s happening to me? Clearly, he needed to pay Dr. Mueller a visit. This became his plan.

  Plan? Another bolt of insight jolted him. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was aware of planning a strategy. Was this how other people lived and thought? Is this how they always seemed to get the best of me? Lording their intellect over me and looking down on me like I’m a stupid pack mule, fit only for cleaning up their garbage . . . He squeezed his fists so hard they ached. No, he would never go back to that dead-end job. Bigger things were clearly in store for him. He couldn’t see the future, but he knew he was right on this score. Big changes were occurring inside of him.

  His fists relaxed. Things were finally starting to go his way; he’d been given a second chance. The beginnings of a smile crept across his face. Head up, shoulders squared, Chandler marched directly up to the drugstore entrance. The automatic doors whooshed aside as if anxious to get out of his way. He knew one other thing: things would be different this time around.

  C H A P T E R 1 7

  Friday, 10:15 a.m.

  “Mommy’s home,” Kristin said, closing the front door behind her and tossing her purse on the foyer table in between the big Boston fern and glossy peace lily. Passing by the rest of her potted plant friends, she entered the cramped kitchenette, where Smokey lifted his head from between his paws, and thumped his tail. Kristin unlatched the crate’s metal door (or the cage, as her father liked to call it) and Smokey squeezed out. She had to smile at the ridiculous sight.

  A year ago, when Smokey had finally moved on from his prolonged puppy chewing phase, where he basically gnawed anything in sight, Kristin had figured it was time to retire the crate. Besides, the metal contraption was unsightly and took up precious floor space in her kitchen. So one day, while Smokey was tied out back, she had folded up the crate and stuffed it in the hallway closet. When she let had him back in, the poor thing had wandered through her small apartment, searching for the crate. He had looked so lost and befuddled, wondering how he could possibly have misplaced it. That was bad enough, but then he’d started whimpering and crying. When she’d told him, “You’re a year old now. You don’t need the crate anymore,” he had responded with such sad eyes that Kristin had quickly caved, and put the crate back in the kitchen to keep the peace. Now, all grown up and tipping the scales at over a hundred pounds of pure muscle, the coal black Labrador retriever barely fit inside his crate anymore.

  Smokey went through his stretching routine, then approached her for some hands-on attention. She knelt and ran her hands through his thick coat, pausing to scratch around his ears, which he loved. He looked up at her expectantly and started to pant, and she knew he wanted to go for a walk.

  She eyed the door to the basement, where her darkroom was located. She’d hoped to spend some time there. She could lose herself for hours there, forget about the rest of the world—no crazed, murderous patients running about, no hideous dead bodies, no dead cardiac cells being revived. Then a wave of fatigue washed over her and she thought longingly of her bed. She hadn’t gotten much sleep the past two nights—visions of Chandler killing Heather kept playing in her mind. But the gorgeous day, coupled with Smokey’s insistence, ultimately won out. Besides, he threatened to break out the sad eyes. “All right, all right, we’ll go,” she said to him. “Go get your leash.”

  Kristin’s tiredness soon evaporated in the sunshine and light breeze of a spectacular afternoon, and the first mile flew by. Kristin’s sneakers barely touched the ground; she felt as if she and Smokey could walk forever.

  They came to a fork in the road and she chuckled—when you come to a fork in the road, take it, her dad always said. He had a saying for every occasion. Some were witty and profound; most were just silly Yogi Bearisms, as he liked to call them. Smokey tugged to the right, toward the longer loop, but Kristin pulled back on the leash. “I can’t spend my whole life walking you, you know. People have to do other things with their lives. Like hold down a job. Pay the bills. Meet people—that sort of thing.”

  Smokey tugged harder on the leash. “All right, all right. It is a beautiful day. You win.” She set off down the lane past the sheep farm, which added at least a mile to their standard three-mile loop. “So, let me tell you about this guy I met. His name is Chip. Actually, I’ve known him for a couple of months. He’s kinda cute.”

  Smokey pulled hard to the side of the road and mashed his nose down in some leaves, picking up the scent of God-knew-what.

  “Do you want to hear this or not?” Kristin said.

  Smokey turned and gave her an indignant look, which she translated as “Do you think I can’t sniff and listen at the same time?”

  “Well, anyway, I think he’s interested—a little bit. We’ve been talking recently at work. Because of the crazy guy. You know, the one I told you about yesterday, the one who killed the nurse. He asked me out for coffee—well, not actually out, but to get a cup at the med center. I said no, of course.”

  They paused at the edge of the sheep farm. Several lambs, some only a couple of months old, came out to greet them; most, familiar with the big black dog and his ponytailed companion, came right up to the fence and baaed. Smokey put his nose through the fence and calmly touched snouts with some of them, as if he were friends with them. Sometimes Kristin wondered if Smokey even knew he was a dog.

  They continued down the empty lane. “The more I think of it, the more I think I should stop talking to him. You know, nip it in the bud. I don’t need any more heartache in my life. Boys are nothing but trouble. He texted me right in the middle of a big lecture. Can you believe it?”

  Smokey just tugged on the leash, catching the scent of something up ahead. “You remember cheatin’ Andrew and how badly that went down, right? Chip seems different, though.” Smokey pulled even harder. “I know, I know—I always say that. He does seem kinda lonely. They say he flunked out of med school.”

  Soon they passed through a wooded section composed mostly of maples and poplars, their canopy arching over the road and providing a bit of shade dappled with sunshine. The cooler air here added an extra spring to Kristin’s step.

  Suddenly, a fox darted out of the underbrush, running directly across their path. Kristin cried out in surprise and Smokey started barking and tugging so hard on his leash that she almost lost him. Gripping the leash with both hands, she planted her feet squarely on the macadam. “No way, honey buns,” she grunted as she pulled him back. She peered after the fox as she knelt, tucked the leash under her knee, and rubbed the dog’s ears and furry head. “I’ve never seen a fox on this trail before. He might have rabies or something, to come so close to us.” Smokey stopped pulling but still craned his head in the direction the fox had taken, his panting interspersed with growls.

  She cupped his big head with both hands and forcibly turned it toward her. “Listen you—I’m not taking any chance
s,” she said, her face now inches from the dog’s moist, jet-black snoot. “You’re the only reliable thing I’ve got going, Smokers. Can’t afford to lose you.” The dog’s neck muscles relaxed and he no longer strained to see the fox. He looked calmly up at her, then licked her cheek.

  C H A P T E R 1 8

  Friday, 10:30 a.m.

  Chandler strode through the doors of the CVS pharmacy then stopped abruptly, staring at the newspapers displayed on racks just inside the entrance. The headline on the Harrisburg Patriot News proclaimed MED CENTER MURDERER STILL ON THE LOOSE. Underneath was a blurry black and white picture of his face, presumably lifted from his hospital ID badge. Guess that answers the question of Heather’s fate.

  Chandler walked up to the checkout counter at the front of the store. A young woman, probably in her twenties, stood idly at her register, texting on her phone. She was pretty in spite of her round face and plump figure. “Can you tell me where your nutritional supplements are?” he asked, studying her closely.

  “Aisle five,” she said, barely looking up. “Over there, near the candy section,” she added, waving her arm in the general direction.

  He gazed into her mind. She had no idea who he was; there was no flicker of recognition—she was way too preoccupied worrying about her missed period and what the hell she would do if she were pregnant. And what her father would do. The only fleeting thought that registered about him was that he looked awful grungy and smelled bad, too.

  Chandler mumbled a thanks and picked up a shopping basket.

  Aisle five was a frickin’ goldmine. He scooped lots of Powerbars and Zone bars into his basket, unconcerned with the few that fell on the floor. He hefted two six packs of Ensure protein shakes and chucked them into his increasingly heavy basket. Halfway down the aisle, he stopped at the vitamin section and grabbed some multivitamins and some extra B vitamins for energy and C and E vitamins for healing. As he approached the back of the store, he spied the energy drink section and crammed some Red Bull and 5-hour energy drinks into his overflowing basket.

  If he’d had any money, he would’ve simply purchased the items. He supposed he could steal them easily enough, but he didn’t want to create a ruckus—not yet, anyway. So instead, Chandler went into the men’s room, ignoring the sign that read No store items in the restroom, and locked the door. He paused only long enough to inspect the room for surveillance cameras, found none, and began his feast. He tore into the Powerbars and devoured three of them as fast as he could. He popped a bunch of vitamins and washed them down with some Ensure shakes—chocolate, vanilla, and double-dutch chocolate. He almost gagged on the sweetness, but gorged himself anyway. Finally, he sucked down some Red Bull and 5-hour energy drinks until his stomach felt ready to burst. Finished, Chandler threw the wrappers and empty cans in the trash, flushed the toilet, and walked out with his basket, now considerably lighter.

  Across the store, he spied an elderly couple standing in line at the pharmacy counter. Perfect, he thought, and sauntered over to them, stopping to pretend to read the self-help book titles in a rack nearby. He picked up How Forgiveness Changed My Life Forever: A True Story and leafed through it.

  “May I help you?” the pharmacy tech, a skinny girl probably in her teens, said to the couple.

  The old woman nodded. “We’re here to pick up his prescriptions,” she said, patting her husband’s arm.

  “Name?” the tech asked with all the warmth of an icicle.

  “Ed Kopenhaver,” the woman said.

  “How many?” the girl shot back.

  “Three,” Mrs. Kopenhaver replied. “Blood pressure, diabetes, and heart medicine.”

  “Don’t forget the sugar pill, Erma,” Mr. Kopenhaver said loudly to his wife.

  “I didn’t,” Mrs. Kopenhaver told him.

  “What?” Mr. Kopenhaver bellowed. He had to be pushing ninety.

  Mrs. Kopenhaver raised her voice. “I told her, Ed. It’s all taken care of.” The tech was busy rolling her eyes.

  “Is there a problem?” Mr. Kopenhaver asked.

  “No, everything’s fine.” Mrs. Kopenhaver shushed her husband with her hands.

  The girl retrieved the prescriptions and rang them up. “That will be $104.65,” she said, finally cracking a smile.

  “Sakes alive.” Mrs. Kopenhaver fussed with her wallet and produced a credit card. She handed it to the tech, muttering something about Medicare and donut holes.

  “Did you say donuts?” Mr. Kopenhaver said.

  Mrs. Kopenhaver shook her head and a sad smile crept across her face as she waited for her receipt.

  Chandler had trouble suppressing his own smile. This would be a piece of cake. All he needed was a home address, which he easily obtained from Ed’s befuddled brain.

  The Kopenhavers moved so slowly toward the exit that Chandler thought they might never get there. He waited until they finally cleared the automatic doors before he followed.

  Suddenly, a woman came out from a nearby aisle, walking fast, and almost collided with him. He was about to say something to her, but the angry words stuck in his throat. The sight of her jarred something deep within his mind. A memory? A dream? Something about her looked eerily familiar, but he couldn’t say what. She had long black hair that reminded him of Carol Sue, but that wasn’t it.

  The striking woman headed to the checkout counter up front. He tried to follow her, but his feet seemed rooted to the floor, so he just stared after her. She paid for her items and left the store. Chandler broke his paralysis and practically bolted after her.

  He stopped out in the parking lot, shading his eyes from the bright sun, and watched her drive away in the Ford. He couldn’t shake the thought—the conviction—that their paths would cross again.

  Chandler slowly turned toward the Kopenhavers, who were still there, working on getting Ed into the passenger seat of the Impala.

  C H A P T E R 1 9

  Friday, noon

  “You were right,” Laura Landry called back to Doug, close behind her. “This road is sweet.”

  They were pedaling down Route 443 on their way to Fort Indiantown Gap. “Thought you’d like it,” he shouted back.

  The racetrack, with the new Hollywood Casino, flew by on the right. The roadway abruptly widened. Doug loved this new stretch of road; it had recently been paved and sported a shoulder wide enough for two bikes. He pulled his Trek road bike up next to Laura, careful not to crowd her; they were making better than twenty miles an hour on the flat. “We should check out the casino sometime,” said he suggested. “It looks pretty nice; might be fun.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Doug could tell Laura’s heart wasn’t in it. She didn’t care much for the drinking/gambling crowd. He glanced over at the Appalachian ridge, several hundred yards to their left. It was still early October and the leaves were a blaze of reds and yellows. The stretch of nice weather continued, with temperatures in the seventies, low humidity, and barely a cloud in the sky. Laura had been right—the day was gorgeous. Perfect day for a bike ride.

  “How much farther to the lake?” she asked.

  Doug checked his odometer. “Three or four miles. We’re making good time. Fifteen minutes at the most.”

  “Great.”

  “How’re the pedals working out?” Doug asked, still marveling at Laura’s “surprise” for him.

  “I love them.” She smiled at him.

  “Just be careful,” he said.

  “I will. I feel like I really can go faster.”

  “You are really moving. I can barely keep up with you.” Doug had to admit he was nervous when Laura greeted him with new clipless pedals on her bike. But she had insisted. ‘Look,’ she had said, ‘If we’re gonna do this biking thing seriously, I want to do it all the way. Besides, you use them. Why shouldn’t I?’ Checkmate. And now, seeing how well she handled her bike, new shoes clipped securely to her pedals, he began to relax about it.

  A loud shriek overhead distracted him; it was followed by
an even louder metallic burping noise. Doug looked up in time to see two A-10 Warthog jets dive over the ridge on their practice bombing run at the National Guard base at the Gap. The distinctive noise came from the A-10s’ Vulcan machine guns letting loose at several thousand rounds per second. Impressive. Glad not to be on the receiving end of that, he thought.

  Soon the entrance to Memorial Lake came up on the right and he and Laura turned in. They parked their bikes and strolled down to the lake.

  “This is really nice,” Laura said, taking his hand. “I’m glad we had time to do this.”

  “Me too. Gotta love a schedule with Friday afternoon off. I brought some snacks.” Doug fished some granola bars out of his bike jersey. “Want any?”

  “Sure.”

  They settled side by side on the top of a beat-up picnic table, munching on the granola bars and sipping on Gatorade as they gazed across the lake. Doug thought the term “lake” was a bit optimistic. The Army Corps of Engineers had constructed an earthen dam across a small stream and the resulting body of water was not much bigger than a large pond. But the name Memorial Lake had stuck with the local fishermen who frequented it. Their small rowboats dotted the lake, and he could even hear some of the conversations clearly, carried over the surface of the water. Doug knew some of these same fishermen would be out here ice fishing in mid-January. Talk about dedication.

  “I’m glad your lecture went so well,” Laura said. “This sabbatical of yours can really be a new start for us.”

  “Yes, it sounds good,” Doug said, eyes on an adventurous teenager trying his hand at windsurfing. There wasn’t any breeze to speak of, though, and the boy didn’t get too far.