The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE)

by John Benedict

  “You didn’t really, did you?” Victor said, sounding fairly earnest.

  “I wasn’t sure what to believe or who to trust.”

  “But, I told you I didn’t do it,” Victor said.

  “Who’s dense now, Victor? Why would I believe you, if I thought you were fucking me over? Besides, who’s getting the highest damn test grades now?”

  “Good point.” Victor paused, his brow furrowed in thought. “How about this, smartass: if I wanted to get you so bad, how come I haven’t turned you in for coming into work fried?”

  “What’re you talking about?” Chip’s head was thumping now, with this trip down memory lane. “Oh, get off it—just that once.”

  “Jesus, Chip. You come in wasted all the time.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yeah, you do.” Victor took a drink of his beer. “Even your new pal, Kristin, says you do.”

  Chip didn’t respond; he focused on playing with his beer bottle.

  “What’s up with that, anyway?” Victor asked, peering up from his mug.

  “Nothing. We’re just friends.”

  “Are you seeing her?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “I mean, I wouldn’t mind,” Chip said absently.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “She has a boyfriend, anyway.”

  “What happened to your standards?” Victor said, affecting a look of horror.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I mean, she’s got a nice little bod, but she’s no Michelle or Heather. Just saying.”

  “I think she’s cute,” Chip said, determined not to sound defensive.

  “She’s a bit bohemian.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know, hip-pee girl.”

  “Whatever.”

  “They say her dog is better looking.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Victor,” Chip said and stood up to leave.

  C H A P T E R 3 7

  Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

  Doug jolted awake. The dim light and unfamiliar surroundings were disorienting, but he soon realized he was lying on the couch in Mueller’s office. He checked his watch and saw he had only been out for about an hour. His alarm wasn’t set to go off for another hour. He sat up and massaged his stiff neck. What little sleep he had gotten didn’t make him feel any better; in fact, he felt worse, if that was possible.

  Doug resisted the urge to run back to the lab; Mueller had made it clear he preferred to work solo. Instead he lay back down on the hard sofa and tried hard to relax. It was impossible; his mind was engaged in a heated internal argument.

  The logical part of his brain, the medical, rational, unemotional part, kept whispering to him like some infernal devil inside his head, not giving him a moment of peace. Look, she suffered a massive fat embolus, went directly into right heart failure, was pulseless for twenty minutes while they did CPR. Not to mention her rib fractures and recent tension pneumothorax. Patients don’t survive that stuff. You know that. Yeah, she’s in good shape and all, but still. Patients just don’t survive that.

  Yet his emotional side refused to listen, clinging to hope. That was why he had agreed to the PML protocol in the first place. Sure, he and Laura had had conversations about death, as most couples do. They always said, “Don’t put me on life support if it’s hopeless. Just let me die, rather than end up as a vegetable on a ventilator in some ICU, languishing and lingering and dying a slow, agonizing death.” Easy stuff to say when everything’s honky-dory. Things were different now. Mueller had given him some small shred of hope—something to cling to. He simply couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.

  He put his head back down on the pillow, stared at the ceiling, and began to pray.

  C H A P T E R 3 8

  Sunday, 7:00 a.m.

  “C’mon in,” Kristin said, holding the screen door open for him. “Thanks for coming so early.”

  “No problem,” Chip mumbled, immediately struck by Kristin’s appearance—face puffy, eyes red, hair all askew—not bundled up securely in the usual ponytail. She had on a pair of faded jeans and an old Penn State sweatshirt. Her affect was way off, too—not the usual happy-go-lucky Kristin. He stepped onto the shiny wooden floor of her foyer. Real hardwood, he noted. A pleasant scent permeated the apartment; it was clear he had entered a female’s territory.

  “Let’s go sit,” she said, gesturing to the living room. “There’s something I’ve got to ask you.” Her intonation was flat—flatter than he’d ever heard it.

  “Sure.”

  Chip sat down on the leather sofa. It was new and clean; you could smell the leather—definitely several notches above what he was used to. Its soft texture proved irresistible. Chip began rubbing his hand over the arm of the sofa.

  Kristin took a seat in the wooden rocker across from him. “My dad helped me move my stuff out last night,” she said. “There’s no way I can stay here. I’m gonna stay with him in Halifax until they catch this guy.”

  “Makes sense,” Chip said, trying hard to imagine the extent of her ordeal, but also wondering why she had asked him here.

  She fell silent and stared at the oval throw rug, playing with her hair as she gently rocked.

  “Are you okay?” Chip asked. “I can hardly believe what you told me over the phone.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” she managed, but her chin started to quiver.

  “You don’t look it,” he said softly.

  “Thanks. Flattery will get you nowhere.” She cracked a thin smile, the first real sign that anyone was home. She absently brushed wayward strands of her long hair out of her face. Out here in the better light, she looked like she had been crying for a week.

  She took a deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you because you’re the only other person who’s seen what Chandler can do.”

  “You’re sure it was Chandler?” Chip asked.

  “Yes, of course I’m sure.” She met his gaze, and in her reddened eyes, he glimpsed a flare of anger. “I’ll never forget his face or his silver-flecked gray eyes.”

  “Me either.” Chip shook his head. “He definitely was one strange dude.”

  “What do you mean?” she shot back, leaning forward in her chair, shoulders rigid.

  Her tone startled Chip, momentarily confusing him. “Well, one minute he’s like, dead, then he runs out of the ICU. And his eyes—”

  “No,” she interrupted, staring at him intently. “You said was.”

  Chip processed this for a moment, wondering where he had gone wrong. “I thought you said Smokey killed him—you know, ripped his throat out, blood spurting everywhere.”

  “I never said he was dead. Smokey did rip his throat out and there was blood everywhere, but—”

  “You mean he’s not dead?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know.”

  “Where is he?” Chip shot several glances around the apartment.

  “I don’t know. He’s gone.” Her voice started to quaver. “There’s only one thing I know for sure—poor Smokey’s dead.” She began to cry.

  Chip absolutely hated when girls cried; he felt so helpless. “God, that’s awful. I’m really sorry about your dog.” An uncomfortable silence followed. Chip had no idea what to say to console her. Besides, he thought, isn’t that someone else’s job? Finally, with one hand running across the smooth leather and his eyes directed downward, he said, “I thought you were going out—you know, anniversary weekend and all.”

  “I told you,” she said, sniffling. “Chris’s mother got sick and he had to go home for the weekend—last minute.”

  “Right.”

  She stood and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

  Chip was thinking the same thing. “Look, I just don’t want to intrude, that’s all.”

  “You’re not.” More crying. “I needed someone to talk to,” she blubbered out.

  Chip wrestled with this for
a moment. “Kristin, I’ll stay and talk as long as you need.”

  She blew her nose and relief washed across her face. “Thanks, Chip. You’re a good friend.”

  “Thanks,” he said. Story of my life, he thought. “I’m always a sucker for scary stories.”

  She sat back down on the rocker and folded one leg under the other. “I didn’t even tell you some of the bizarre stuff yet.”

  “What’re you talking about? What else could you possibly add?”

  She blew her nose and said, matter-of-factly, “He took the prints.”

  “What prints?”

  “That’s what I was doing in the darkroom—developing my film.”

  “Oh.”

  “I think he came for the film.”

  “I’m not following you,” Chip said.

  “Remember? I told you I might have a picture of Chandler and I wanted to play a hunch.”

  “When you bugged out of the med center yesterday?”

  “Yes. Well, it turns out, I did have a picture of him. When I took a picture of you blowing out your birthday candle, I caught Chandler in the background.”

  “So, that was your hunch?”

  “No. I wanted to look at a Kirlian photograph of him.”

  Chip scratched his head and then it slowly dawned on him. “Because of what Mueller said about his weird EEG?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “So, what’d it show?”

  “Chandler didn’t have an aura.”

  “No aura. Is that bad?”

  “Of course it is. Everyone has one—unless they’re dead. You have one.”

  “Can you show me?”

  “I told you—he took the prints.” She ran her fingers through her hair, attempting to impose some sort of order. “I’m convinced he came for them.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. How could he possibly have known you were developing these pictures? You weren’t even sure you had any pictures of him.”

  “I don’t know.” Kristin began braiding her hair. Several rubber bands had appeared from nowhere, and were now held in her mouth. “But there’s more,” she mumbled.

  “Go on.”

  Her ponytail quickly took shape; she took the rubber bands, one by one, out of her mouth and snapped them into place. “You know the part where I tried to throw the solution at him?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “You said he pushed it out of your hands.”

  “I didn’t tell the police this—or my dad—but he frickin’ smiled at me right as he pushed the tray away.”

  “So what? He’s got a sense of humor?”

  “No, don’t be silly. It’s almost as if he knew I would grab for it.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying, something weird happened.”

  “Like what? Like he saw the future??” Chip said incredulously.

  “Maybe, or else—” She stared across the room.

  “Kristin, I think your imagination’s getting the best of you.”

  “Or else, he saw the intention in my mind before I acted.”

  “What? He read your mind? Look, I know you’ve been through hell here, and I get that, but—”

  “Chip, you’re not listening to me. I know I’m upset, but I’m not kidding or delirious.”

  Chip didn’t know what to say.

  “I’m telling you,” she said, “he knew I was going to reach for the tray and he was showing off—taunting me.”

  “Maybe it was just a lucky guess. I mean, what else were you going to use as a weapon?” Chip did know he wasn’t ready to buy into her crazy mind-reading theories.

  “I’m serious, Chip. Look, I gotta show you this part—that’s why I wanted you to come over here.” She took his hand and led him over to the basement door. She stopped at the yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed across the doorway and looked up at him. She was trembling. “Now, all of a sudden, I’m scared to go back down there.”

  “We don’t have to.”

  “Yeah, we do. I have to show you this.” Her face was set with determination.

  “All right. How about I go first, make sure it’s okay.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Sergeant Markel said we shouldn’t go down there—that they’d be back today to do more forensic crime scene analysis.”

  “I can hear him saying that.” Chip took her hand. “We’ll be careful not to touch anything.”

  They ducked under the tape and he led the way down the stairs. Chip had to admit the basement was plenty creepy. And he was pretty sure he could still smell the blood on top of all the Clorox.

  She pointed up to the small, shattered basement window. “There,” she said. “He climbed out that window.” The window was at least eight feet off the ground with no obvious objects to stand on. She fixed him with a hard stare. “How do you explain him climbing out of that window after Smokey ripped his neck apart? He lost a ton of blood.”

  Chip had to admit he couldn’t really explain how anyone could reach the window, let alone break it and climb out. “Look,” he said, scrambling to come up with something, “sometimes a little bit of blood looks like a lot. I’ve seen traumas in the ER and—”

  “Damn you!” she screamed at him. “You frickin’ med student know-it-all!”

  Her reaction surprised him and he took a step back. “I’m just saying, sometimes—”

  “You flunked out, Chip. Remember?”

  That one stung and he just stood there, looking at the floor.

  “I saw Smokey’s jaws clamped around his neck, all right?” she said, the shrillness in her voice intensifying. “Blood was pouring out of Smokey’s mouth. And I’m talking bright red blood—arterial blood—must’ve been from his frickin’ carotid artery. He should be dead!” She came up to him and started pounding his chest with her balled fists. “He should be dead.” She began to sob and buried her face in his chest.

  “You’re right,” he said and awkwardly put his arms around her shaking body. “He should be dead. It doesn’t make sense.” Up close like this, he couldn’t help but notice the scent of her hair; it was clean and fresh and had some meadow flower overtones—lilac or something. “Hopefully Chandler wandered off and died in a ditch somewhere.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, her breaking voice muffled by his shirt. “I have this creepy feeling that he’s alive. I just know it somehow.”

  Chip disagreed with her again, but this time decided to keep it to himself.

  “Poor Smokey,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s gone. I miss him.” She broke down into fresh sobs.

  “He was a great dog—we’ll sure miss him.” Chip wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands, so he gently patted the small of her back while she buried her face deeper into his chest.

  After several minutes, she pulled back and looked up at him, eyes swollen and face tear-streaked. “You know,” she said, her voice trembling, “Chandler tried to kill Smokey before he came down to the basement to get me. He stabbed him with a damn steak knife.”

  “What? I wondered how Chandler got by him—Smokey’s a good watchdog.” Although Chip didn’t actually have a clue what kind of watchdog Smokey had been, it seemed like the right thing to say. “Wait—so you mean Smokey attacked him down here, after he was stabbed?”

  “Yep,” Kristin said, tremendous pride radiating from her. But her face also bore the look of a freshly broken heart. “Smokey came back down to protect me.”

  “I’ll bet Chandler didn’t expect that.”

  “You got that right.” She smiled weakly through her tears, but when she spoke again, she sounded stronger, almost defiant. “You should’ve seen the look of surprise on that bastard’s face when Smokey jumped on his back and sank his fangs into him.”

  She put her head back on his chest and stayed that way for several minutes, arms loosely surrounding him. Finally, she pulled her head back and looked up at him. “Chip, I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “What? About the tears?”


  “No,” she said, sniffling. “The med student comment.”

  “It’s okay. Really, I don’t mind.”

  She disengaged from him. “You didn’t deserve it.”

  Chip studied his sneakers. “It’s okay.”

  “Thanks for listening.”

  “No problem,” Chip said and smiled thinly. “That’s what friends are for, right?”

  C H A P T E R 3 9

  Sunday, 7:30 a.m.

  Dr. Gunter Mueller made himself another cup of coffee from the Keurig coffeemaker installed in his lab. He added a generous amount of half-and-half from the lab fridge and tossed the empty Dark Magic K-cup into the trash. Although he was physically tired, his mind remained alert. He didn’t have that much longer to go—hopefully this afternoon they could start weaning Mrs. Landry from the heart-lung machine. He had just sent Dr. Landry on a breakfast run to the hospital cafeteria.

  A noise from behind startled him. Was Landry back already? Mueller turned. An elderly cleaning lady stood in the doorway, staring at him. Why was she here now? There was something odd about the woman, besides the red bandanna she wore over her gray hair. There was also something familiar about her.

  “Do you know who I am?” the woman asked in a deep voice, coming closer to him.

  Sudden recognition sent chills through him. “Yes, I believe I do.” He could never forget those gray eyes with the silver flecks in them—Chandler. “W-what are you doing here?”

  Chandler took another step toward him, mouth open to answer, but then collapsed onto the floor. Mueller quickly knelt by his side and felt for a radial pulse—it was very weak and thready. A makeshift bandage clumsily wrapped about Chandler’s neck was saturated with blood. Mueller carefully removed the bandage and gasped. There were several large, hideous gashes practically encircling his neck. Some still oozed fresh blood. He looked closer. Are those bite marks? In any case, the wounds looked like they should’ve been fatal; he was surprised Chandler had been able to walk in here under his own power. “What in God’s name happened to you?”

  Chandler murmured incoherently.

  Mueller retrieved some supplies from a nearby supply cabinet and frantically worked on starting a large bore IV. This man desperately needed fluids before irreversible hypovolemic shock set in—if it hadn’t already. Chandler’s lips were very pale and he looked chalk white. No doubt what he really needed was blood. But Mueller didn’t have time to wait for a crossmatch from the blood bank. Lactated Ringer’s would have to suffice until he got the man admitted to the ICU. After securing the IV, he poured in the fluids as fast as they would go.