The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE)

by John Benedict

  He was in the room. His bloody hand grabbed the enlarger and flung it aside. He stared at her menacingly.

  She reached wildly for one of the plastic trays. Somehow, he beat her to it and swatted it away, the stop bath splattering all over the wall.

  He was on her in an instant, wrapping his hands around her neck and driving her against the wet wall. He towered over her and outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. His face was bathed in the red light and his eyes looked like glowing coals, radiating evil. She knew it was over.

  Suddenly, there was a vicious snarling noise and in a blur of fur and fangs, Smokey leapt onto Chandler’s back. The dog buried his fangs into the nape of his neck. Chandler shrieked in pain and released his death-grip on Kristin. He groped behind him, trying to get a good hold of Smokey. When that failed, Chandler spun around and slammed Smokey into the wall, knocking him off his back. The dog sprawled on the floor. Chandler’s hands went to the back of his neck and came away dripping with blood.

  Smokey quickly scrambled to his feet and came at him again, jaws snapping ferociously, saliva flying. The dog’s ears were flattened down and his lips were stretched back in a frightening grimace that Kristin had never seen before. Smokey went straight for Chandler’s throat. Chandler threw up his arms to protect his face and neck, warding off the dog’s attack as he maneuvered for position. Keeping Smokey at bay with his mangled hand, Chandler reached down with his other and grabbed the ruined enlarger. He swung it hard right into Smokey’s teeth; the dog yelped in pain.

  Kristin grabbed the tray of fixer and flung the contents at Chandler’s face. The liquid scored a direct hit to his eyes; he howled and rubbed them furiously. Smokey leapt again. This time, he found Chandler’s soft throat and clamped his jaws tightly together. Bright red blood spurted out from between Smokey’s clenched teeth. Chandler’s scream was quickly squelched by the dog’s viselike grip, but Kristin saw his eyes detonate with pain. Turning away from the gruesome sight, she ran out of the darkroom and raced wildly up the stairs. The steps were slippery—with blood? She went down hard and smacked her right knee, sending bolts of pain through her leg.

  In the kitchen, she grabbed her cell phone from the table and dialed 911. She could hear Smokey growling fiercely as the struggle continued downstairs.

  “Nine-one-one operator. State your name and the nature of your emergency.”

  Kristin was breathing so hard, she could barely speak. “There’s a man trying to kill me,” she got out in gasps. Just then, she noticed a bloody serrated knife on the floor under the table and shuddered.

  “Calm down, ma’am. What is your name and address?”

  Kristin told her.

  “Does he have a weapon?”

  “No. I don’t think so.” She glanced again at the bloody knife, striving to comprehend its meaning.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Are you sending someone now?”

  “Yes. Officers are on the way. Do you know the intruder?”

  “Sort of. His name is Nick Chandler. He was a patient at the med center.”

  “Where is the intruder now?”

  “In the basement. Fighting with my dog.” Although, at the moment, she didn’t hear any growling.

  “Sit tight. Help is on the way.”

  “I have to go check on my dog.”

  “Ma’am, do not go back to the basement! Under any circumstances. Do you hear me?”

  Kristin tossed the phone down and reached for the knife.

  C H A P T E R 3 4

  Saturday, 2:30 p.m.

  Kristin’s hands were shaking so badly, she almost dropped the steak knife. Fear swelled within her, threatening to engulf and incapacitate her. The only thought that drove her on was that Smokey was downstairs with that monster. And he might need help. Wiping the wooden handle of the knife on her jeans so it wasn’t so slick, she walked to the top of the basement stairs and listened.

  Silence. No more growling. No sounds of a struggle. Nothing. Maybe I should wait for the police? Or just get out of the house?

  She crept down the steps, trying hard not to make a sound, the knife held high, her breathing accelerating. The liquid on the stairs—definitely blood—was becoming tacky and her sneakers made a squelching noise, no matter how quiet she tried to be. She paused at the bottom of the stairs and listened again. Still nothing—other than the rushing of blood in her ears.

  The door to the darkroom was closed.

  A cloying, musty smell hung in the basement air. She almost slipped on the smooth cement floor; it was covered in blood, making footing treacherous. She couldn’t be sure, but didn’t remember so much blood being here on her way out. She approached the door and put her trembling hand on the doorknob, knife held in the other. How long had it been since she had called the police? Five minutes? Ten? Her time sense was all screwed up. Should I wait?

  She turned the knob gingerly and tried the door. It didn’t budge. She pushed and the door grudgingly began to open, but only inches. Something was blocking it. She peered in through the gap and, as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she realized Smokey lay on the floor with his back up against to the door. He wasn’t moving. She couldn’t see anything else in the room.

  Kristin pushed on the door again, sliding Smokey’s body farther across the floor. The door was now open a foot, but she still couldn’t see behind the door. She took a deep breath, her heart hammering painfully in her chest, and squeezed into the darkroom, knife ready as she carefully stepped over Smokey.

  No sign of Chandler.

  She quickly knelt down beside Smokey. His fur was all matted down and looked particularly eerie in the red safelight—it looked wet, but not red, as if he had just taken a dip in the creek. But she knew it was blood. She hoped to God it was Chandler’s blood.

  She set the knife down and ran both hands gently over Smokey’s body. She could feel faint evidence of breathing in the dog’s chest, but it was very shallow. She felt his heart fluttering beneath his ribcage; it was beating ridiculously fast. Soon, her hands discovered a large gash wound in his belly, and her heart sank. The bloodied knife now made sense.

  As her eyes adjusted further, she could see Smokey was looking up at her. She could read the fear and pain in his eyes. She gently put his big head in her lap and stroked his soft ears and face. She felt the tears come. “You’re going to be all right. You’re going to be all right, Smokers.”

  Smokey let out a faint whimper.

  “You saved me, Smokey. You saved me.”

  Smokey’s breathing became increasingly labored; he was taking only tiny breaths now.

  Where are the police? Shouldn’t they be here by now?

  “Hang in their buddy. Help is on the way.”

  Smokey gave her a sorrowful look, then closed his eyes.

  She caressed his big head.

  “I’ll take you for a walk,” she said softly.

  Smokey’s one eye opened a little at this.

  “As far as you want to go,” she said, her tears flowing freely. “You can chase whatever you want.”

  Smokey’s eye closed.

  “Even the fox,” she blubbered.

  The dog let out a shuddering exhalation and then stopped breathing altogether. “Don’t go, Smokey,” she pleaded, her face touching his. “Please don’t go.”

  His head went limp in her lap.

  “I love you, Smokey. I love you.” She hugged his big furry body tightly and wept uncontrollably.

  C H A P T E R 3 5

  Saturday, 5:00 p.m.

  “Why don’t you take a break?” Mueller asked.

  “I’m fine,” Landry said.

  “You don’t look so fine. And I caught you dozing right now.”

  “I was just resting my eyes.”

  “Listen, Dr. Landry—Doug.” Mueller touched his shoulder and pointed to the monitors. “Everything is stable right now. I’ve got this. Besides, you haven’t slept in God knows how long.”

  “Really, I’
m fine. I just need some more coffee.”

  “Listen, I have a sofa in my office. It’s right around the corner. You can lie down, just for a couple of hours. I promise to call you if anything changes or I need you.” Mueller took Landry’s elbow and escorted him to the door. Landry hesitated, worry still clouding his features. Mueller felt genuinely sorry for Landry and his predicament. He again put his hand on Landry’s shoulder. “We’ll be able to take better care of her if we both get some rest,” he said with as much reassurance as he could manage. “I’ll take a break after you,” he added, although he had no intention of doing so. “We can spell each other.”

  Reluctantly, Landry let himself be led to Mueller’s office.

  Before Mueller could disengage from him, Landry turned to face him. “Do you think it will work, Dr. Mueller? Do you really think she has a chance?”

  Mueller saw the fear in the man’s eyes and again pitied him. What it must be like to have such a relationship, he could only imagine. He weighed his words carefully, not wanting to give the man any false hope. “She’s a strong woman, in good health. If anybody has a chance, she does.”

  Landry appeared satisfied. Mueller turned to go.

  “Dr. Mueller, wait—one last question.”

  “Yes, Doug,” Mueller said, trying hard to remain patient.

  “You don’t think she’ll turn out like the last one, do you?”

  “No. I think he was—uh . . .” Mueller searched for the right word. “An aberration. His MRI was quite unique.”

  Landry was already lying down on the couch. “Okay, good.”

  Returning to the lab, Gunter Mueller took a generous sip of coffee from his mug, adjusted his bifocals, and examined Laura Landry’s monitors. She had gone on cardiopulmonary bypass around noontime and things were proceeding smoothly—in spite of her husband’s unwanted presence. Her core temp was now registering a frosty 25 degrees Celsius. Dark blood drained from her right atrium via large clear tubes as big as garden hoses—the venous cannula—and flowed into the heart-lung machine. Here, a series of centrifugal pumps acted to generate sufficient pressure to perfuse her entire body. Finally, Mrs. Landry’s blood passed through the membrane oxygenator, and the resultant bright red arterial blood, freshly resupplied with oxygen, was pumped back into her body via the aortic cannula.

  These next twenty-four hours would be critical; Mueller would not leave her side for a minute, no matter what he had told Landry. The pathologist drained his coffee. The daunting task that lay ahead, with the prospect of many more cups of coffee, didn’t bother him in the least. Nerves tingling with excitement, body brimming with energy, he was fully engaged. To say he loved this part would not have been far from the mark. This was no dull autopsy report detailing the cause of death. He was, for the first time in his life, practicing real medicine where the results actually mattered. Hopefully, if all went well, he could begin the rewarming process tomorrow afternoon. And then would come the tricky wean from CPB and the attempt to restart her heart.

  What Mueller didn’t need was any interference—however well-intentioned—from Dr. Landry, who was proving to be one stubborn fellow. Health care providers and their families always made the worst patients. With any luck, Landry—who looked totally exhausted—would soon be fast asleep and out of his hair for a while.

  Mueller turned away from the monitors and gazed at the patient in front of him. She appeared very peaceful, but he knew this was not the case. She was actually deeply unconscious in a thiopental-induced coma; her brainwave monitor was practically flatline. However, all the tubing and equipment could not hide the fact that she was a striking woman. Landry was a lucky man, Mueller thought. Or at least he had been.

  C H A P T E R 3 6

  Saturday, 6:00 p.m.

  Chip walked into the smoky, dimly lit room and was immediately assaulted by the familiar noise level—all standard fare for this establishment. Welcome to Arooga’s Sports Bar and Grill, he thought, and paused to let his eyes adjust while he looked around for Victor.

  “Hey, Chip,” Victor called, rising from a nearby table to wave him over.

  “Hey, Victor,” Chip replied, walking over to slide into the booth across from Victor.

  “Good to see you,” Victor said.

  “Yeah, you too.”

  Arooga’s was doing its usual brisk business—cheap beer by the pitcher never failed to draw a crowd, all ostensibly there to watch sporting events on the multiple TVs mounted around the room. The Phils and Cards were going at it on the high definition flat-screen on the near wall.

  “Wasn’t sure you’d show,” Victor said.

  “You said it was important,” Chip said. “Besides, you rescued me from my parents.”

  “Glad to help out.”

  “So, what’s the big news?” Chip asked. “You ace another test?”

  “Very funny,” Victor said, frowning. “You’re gonna want to hear this. Trust me.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “Just listen. I was here this past weekend with a couple of buds watching a Flyers game. It was Anderson’s birthday and we were doing shots.”

  “Fascinating,” Chip said. Ryan Howard was up to bat.

  “Well, your old anatomy lab partner shows up at the next table.”

  “Gorman?”

  “Yes, Gorman. So anyway, he joins us and we drink some more.”

  “Okay,” Chip said. Victor never could tell a short story. A waitress with some hard to ignore cleavage came over and Chip ordered a beer from her.

  “Well,” Victor continued, “Gorman gets pretty drunk and starts talking.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Just wait. Guess who he’s seeing now?”

  “I dunno,” Chip said, seriously rethinking his decision to come here. “The man in the moon?”

  “No. Michelle.”

  “How nice,” Chip said, hiding his surprise. “I’m happy for them.”

  “He said he’s really into her.”

  “Victor, so what! Tell me something I care about.”

  “Okay, try this. Remember Jill? Michelle’s roommate?”

  “Of course I do,” Chip said.

  The waitress brought his beer and leaned over more than necessary to set it on the table in front of him. Chip obliged her with a stare. “Need anything else?” she asked.

  “No, we’re good.” Chip turned back to Victor. “Jill and I both got tossed. For cheating.”

  “And you might also remember,” Victor said, “that Jill got a hundred on the pharm final. How do you think that happened?”

  Chip shrugged. “Beats me. Look, I’ve been through this a thousand times.” He took a large gulp of his beer, hoping to ward off a headache.

  “Humor me here,” Victor said. “First off, why don’t you tell me what you recall from that day.”

  “All right,” Chip said with resignation. “The day before the nursing pharmacology final, they passed out the test to the med students to let us see it. Then they collected them at the end of class.”

  “Right,” Victor said. “That’s the way I remember it too.”

  “Not realizing they had numbered the copies,” Chip said, “I foolishly decided to keep mine, so I could show it to Michelle.”

  “So you could sleep with her.”

  “You don’t know that,” Chip said, quickly becoming irritated. “I admit my intentions weren’t the noblest. Do you want to hear this or not?”

  “Go on,” Victor said, his smile a tad smug.

  “I gave her the test that same night and—”

  “Did she sleep with you?” Victor asked.

  “No.”

  “Blow job?”

  “No.”

  “I heard she gives monster blow jobs.”

  “Give it a rest, Victor. Anyway, the next day, after the final, thanks to an anonymous tip—” Chip paused to stare at Victor “—I get called into the dean’s office. They find a copy of the test in my anatomy book and I get
tossed. End of story.”

  “Except you haven’t explained how Jill got a perfect score.”

  “I’m guessing that after I gave the test to Michelle, she must’ve shown it to Jill.”

  “Wrong,” Victor said emphatically.

  “What do you mean, wrong? How would you know?” Chip’s head was starting to ache.

  “Turns out, I do know,” Victor said. “Gorman told me.”

  Chip digested this. “What did he say?”

  “That he gave the test to Jill.”

  “What? Why would he do that?” Chip exclaimed, although the implications were beginning to sink in.

  “Getting the picture?” Victor said. “Turns out, you weren’t the only one who lifted a copy of the test that day.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” Chip said. “Gorman feeds Jill the test—she’s dumb enough to memorize the answer key exactly, including the bogus cheater question. Then Gorman plants the test in my anatomy book—would’ve been easy enough to slip it in during a lab session. He tips them off and I get caught red-handed. Jill and I both get tossed. The rest is history.”

  “You got it,” Victor said. “Told you you’d be interested.”

  “That fucker,” Chip said, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Guess what Michelle got on the test?”

  “I don’t know,” Chip said. “How would you know?”

  “God, you can be dense—try to keep up, here. Gorman fucking told me. She got a 92, just making the cutoff for an A.”

  “Holy crap,” Chip said. “Man, was I played. Michelle gets her A, Gorman gets BJs for life, and Jill and I take the fall.”

  “Clever, huh?” Victor said. “Answer me this, though. How come you never turned Michelle in?”

  Chip thought for a moment. “Good question. I’ve asked myself the same thing—many times. It wouldn’t have changed anything. I mean, the fact is that I cheated. And I got what I deserved.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  Chip took another large swig of beer. “And here, all these months, I thought you were the one who ratted me out.”