The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE)

by John Benedict

  “Kristin lives there, by herself,” Chris said. “With her dog,” she added, undoubtedly trying to be helpful.

  “Yes, I know that,” Markel said, sounding irritated. “Do you know if she got her possessions out?”

  “Oh—yes. Her dad came by Saturday night and moved her out.”

  “Good,” Markel grunted and snapped his notebook closed.

  “Is it true, officer?” Chris said, suddenly sounding very distraught. “Was that man—the man who broke in—the one who killed that nurse? And did he really kill Kristin’s dog?”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Markel answered quickly. “I’m not at liberty to say—it’s an ongoing investigation. Besides, there’s privacy concerns at issue here.”

  Just then, Chip’s phone buzzed on his hip. Thank God he had silenced it. Who the hell would be texting me now?

  C H A P T E R 4 6

  Monday, 8:00 a.m.

  Kristin yawned again and forced her eyes open even wider. After Chip’s late night phone call in which he detailed his conversation with Dr. Landry, she hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. Ever since she had looked at those prints in the darkroom—ever since she’d had her run-in with Chandler—her mind had been churning with thoughts of strange creatures from storybooks and nightmares. Learning of Mueller’s death and hearing of Dr. Landry’s encounter with Chandler only amped up her fearful imagination. What the hell is going on?

  She jammed her foot down on the accelerator and her Honda Fit sped across the Walnut Street Bridge, heading straight toward the capitol building, its dome of newly refurbished green tiles barely discernable in the fog. She was playing another hunch.

  At the end of the bridge, she passed by the twin towers guarding the entrance to the city. Atop the towers were winged creatures—gargoyles or something. She had never paid them much attention, but now, with her mind on the fantastical already, she craned her neck to get a better view; they looked especially eerie in the swirling mist.

  She found a parking space, fed the meter, and walked up to the marble façade of the State Library building. With two hands, she heaved open the heavy door and strode inside. She felt as if she had been transported back in time fifty years; the architecture and library decor were definitely from a bygone era.

  Undeterred, Kristin navigated the labyrinth of narrow corridors deeper and deeper into the library. The marble floors in this section were worn by years of heavy use to a smooth concavity. Hopefully, she thought, she could find what she was looking for in the historical books section.

  After an hour spent poring over old and musty volumes in a forgotten alcove, Kristin flipped the page and her breath caught in her throat. There it was in front of her—an old daguerreotype from the late 1800s, showing two men standing in an old world study of sorts. To the left of the men was a huge world globe mounted in an ornate wooden floor stand with brass fixtures. In the background, by the fireplace, stood a suit of armor, its armored fist clutching an upright lance. Both men held tumblers of liquor, and one of them was puffing on a cigar. But what caught her attention was the halo rimming one man’s thinning hair. An aura. The other, taller man didn’t have one.

  She couldn’t really make out the features on the taller man’s face because the photo was cracked and damaged there. Perhaps water damage was responsible for her not seeing an aura? She studied the photo more closely. No, just his face was obscured; his thick black hair was clearly visible. She read the caption under the photo: Early photograph of two men from Corvinesti Castle, Central Romania, circa 1890. NB: The picture was developed using the Tesla methodology of electrophotography, a direct precursor of Kirlian photography.

  She scanned the text, trying in vain to slow her breathing. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a runaway train. The taller man was Baron Adrian Dobrogeanu. Her excitement turned to dread and she shuddered as she read the next line. It said he was long rumored to be a vampire!

  But then the rational part of her mind kicked in. Whoa, Kristin, hold on! Vampires aren’t real. They’re the stuff of movies and folktales. Chandler hadn’t tried to suck her blood, he had tried to kill her. But she couldn’t deny that the man in the photo didn’t have an aura—and he looked every bit alive. Maybe the photo had been altered? She checked the copyright on the book. It was printed in 1940. They didn’t have Photoshop back then.

  Kristin got up and checked her surroundings—no one in sight. She knew she wasn’t allowed to check the book out or even copy it—it was an old reference book. She whipped out her cell phone, quickly looked around once more, and clicked several pictures. Replacing the book on its shelf, she ran out of the library, her mind spinning with possibilities and goosebumps peppering her skin.

  C H A P T E R 4 7

  Monday, 10:00 a.m.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Kristin said.

  “Sure,” Chip said flatly, surveying the small coffee shop. Starbucks was doing its usual brisk business; the line was about ten people deep. “I got your text. What’s up?”

  “You okay?” Kristin asked, studying him.

  “Yeah, long night, that’s all.” Chip sat down across the small table from her.

  “I got you a coffee,” she said, pushing a cup toward him. “I didn’t know how you take it, so I didn’t put anything it.”

  “Black’s fine.”

  “Boy, do I have something to show you,” she said excitedly as she rummaged around in her purse.

  “What?”

  “It’s a picture,” Kristin said. “After you called last night, I got to thinking.”

  “Hmmm,” Chip said, taking a small sip of the coffee; it was still way too hot and he burned the tip of his tongue.

  She had retrieved her cell phone and was fiddling with it. “I went to the State Library in Harrisburg. Ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “It’s by the capitol.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. What’s the picture of?”

  She handed him her phone. “What do you make of that?”

  “What, two old guys in a study somewhere drinking whiskey? Not that exciting.” He tried to hand the phone back to her but she wouldn’t take it.

  “Look closely at it,” she said.

  “Okay.” Chip studied the image again. “One guy’s taller. When is this picture from? Looks old.”

  “Very good, Sherlock,” she said sarcastically. “Eighteen-nineties.”

  “All right, I give up. What’re you getting at?” Chip set her phone down on the table. He definitely wasn’t in the mood for twenty questions.

  “It’s a Kirlian photograph—one of the first of its kind.”

  “So . . .”

  “God, no wonder you flunked out,” she said, but quickly flashed him a smile.

  Chip put up both hands. “Hey, I don’t need this—”

  “I was just kidding. What’s gotten into you this morning?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Look, I’ll forgive you this time because you’ve probably never seen one—”

  “You’re right about that,” Chip said, trying hard to rein in his emotions.

  “The guy on the left has an aura and the other guy doesn’t,” she continued.

  “Seriously? I thought those were just watermarks or smudges in an old photograph. Here, let me see.” Chip took a third look at the image. “You can’t even see the one guy’s face.”

  “I know, I know—the photo’s not perfect. But clearly, the one man has an aura.” She reached across the table and pointed to the screen. “And the other doesn’t.”

  “All right, I guess I’ll buy it, if you say so.” He handed the phone back to her.

  Kristin let out a big sigh and settled back in her seat. “Okay, hang on, now, here comes the zinger.” She smiled and paused for effect. “The caption said the man without the aura was suspected of being a vampire.”

  “Vampire?” Chip blurted, almost spilling his coffee.

>   “Yes. Keep your voice down.” Several people at a neighboring table were now staring at them. “That’s what it said.”

  “That’s crazy talk,” Chip said, shaking his head.

  Her smile faded and she looked hurt. “I thought you’d be interested,” she said.

  “I don’t think I’m even buying all this Kirlian aura crap.”

  Kristin didn’t respond to that, but a frown darkened her face.

  “I stopped by your apartment this morning,” Chip said.

  Kristin raised her eyebrows. “Why?”

  “To check on something. It doesn’t matter.”

  “And?”

  “I saw Chris.”

  The color drained from her face. “Oh.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “What would you like me to say?” she said quietly, inspecting her fingernails.

  “The truth, for one thing,” Chip said, his voice rising further. People were definitely staring now. “Why on earth did you tell me Chris was a guy? Your roommate? Your boyfriend? One-year anniversary and all that bullshit.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, still refusing to meet his gaze.

  “I thought we were friends. That’s what you said, anyway.”

  “Look, Chip, it’s complicated. Let’s not get into it here.” She nodded in the direction of their nosy neighbors. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “You lied to me. That has to do with me,” Chip said, loud enough now for everyone in the coffee shop to hear.

  “Okay, you’re right. I was going to tell you.”

  “Right,” Chip said in disgust. He stood. “I don’t like people playing games with me. I already went down that road once.” He shoved his chair back under the table and stalked out.

  C H A P T E R 4 8

  Monday, 11:30 a.m.

  Back in his apartment, Chip flopped down on the sofa and loosened the metal screw cap. What a hassle, he thought. What a fucking hassle! Everyone treated him like he was a criminal or something. He wasn’t breaking any laws; he knew his rights. The checkout lady at the State Store had eyed him with such unvarnished disdain and disapproval that he had been tempted to call her on it. Mind your own fucking beeswax. Then, she had taken her sweet time inspecting his license, alternating long looks between his photo ID and his face. Shaking her head the whole time, she had finally rung up the sale and stuffed his new acquisition in a narrow brown paper bag. Nosy bitch.

  For a while, he stared at the fifth of vodka gripped in his hands—cheapest stuff money could buy. Should he? Where was all his righteous resolve bullshit from yesterday?

  The bottle didn’t waste any time speaking up: Look, champ, you can still keep all those promises you made to yourself. You can still get your life back. Don’t sweat it. This is just temporary. Doesn’t mean a damn thing. You just need a little smidge to help you through this rough spot. Then it’ll be right back on track. Stick to the plan, Stan.

  There’s still plenty of time before work. Besides, just think, it’s not even your fault. Why did she have to lie to you, anyway? Did you make her lie? I didn’t think so. She’s just like Michelle—only not as good-looking. You’ll forget about her soon enough.

  Besides, look on the bright side—you only bought one bottle. That took guts right there. So, it’ll be all right. Plus—and you can take this one to the fuckin’ bank—you dumped the shit out once, you proved you could do it. It only gets easier—everyone knows that. Better hurry, though—time’s running out. And don’t forget, vodka usually doesn’t give you those nasty headaches like that tequila shit.

  Chip clutched his head for several minutes. Finally, with trembling hands, he quickly screwed the cap back on and tried to set the bottle on the side table. The bottle came down crooked, on top of a stray ballpoint pen, and almost tipped over onto the floor. He caught it and repositioned the bottle, safe and secure on the tabletop. Shit, that was close. He flipped on the TV, hoping to distract himself.

  C H A P T E R 4 9

  Monday, 7:00 p.m.

  “Late, as usual, Allison,” Victor said, shaking his head in exasperation.

  “Sorry, Victor,” Chip replied, trying not to slur his words. He set his backpack down and took another large slug of his coffee.

  “I got a life, too, you know.” Victor slid out of the monitor watcher’s chair and picked up his computer bag from the floor. “All right, here’s the deal. They’re all pretty much the same. Except 237 is now in sinus rhythm.” He pointed to the trace. “Seems much more stable than yesterday.”

  “Go figure.”

  Victor shouldered his bag and turned to leave. “Oh, and one more thing. This cleaning lady has been spending a lot of time in 237. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yeah, I got it,” Chip said. He set his coffee on the countertop and prepared to sit, but he had to stop and steady himself on the wooden railing as he swayed on his feet.

  “You okay?” Victor asked, his voice rising in alarm.

  “Yeah, don’t worry about me.” Chip made hushing gestures with his hands. “I’m fine.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Victor exclaimed. “I knew it.” He dropped his voice down to a harsh whisper. “You’re drunk again. I thought you said you had it under control. That you were done with all that shit.” Victor shot glances all around. “You’re going to get us both fired. And me kicked out of school. Like you.”

  “Chill out, man. I got coffee here. I’ll be fine. Just go.”

  “I’m done with you, Allison. I’m going to have to report this, you know. It’s not my fault.”

  “Whatever,” Chip muttered.

  Victor stomped off, leaving him alone to stew in his own thoughts. Chip kicked his backpack out of the way and rolled his chair into a better position. He was pissed at the world. He was also mad at himself for coming to work drunk—almost as mad as he was at Kristin.

  Several hours into the shift, Chip needed to hit the bathroom. All that damn coffee had to go somewhere. Although he had finally calmed down and sobered up, his head hurt in spite of the four Advils he had dry swallowed an hour ago. Would Victor really turn him in? He didn’t know the answer to that. What he did know was that he couldn’t afford to get fired from this job, especially for drinking. His dad would kill him.

  “Jenny,” Chip called over to the charge nurse sitting at a nearby desk. “Can you cover me for a minute? Gotta use the B-R.”

  “Sure, Chip.” She rose and walked over to his telemetry station. “Night’s slow. Take a break. I’ll watch things for you.”

  “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.”

  Fifteen minutes later, as Chip made his way back to his station, he noticed a cleaning cart parked outside Room 237. He would’ve sworn that wasn’t there when he’d gone on break. The door to the room was now closed. And the shades were drawn. Strange. Perhaps they were doing a procedure on Mrs. Landry? Didn’t explain the cleaning cart, though. What was it Victor had said about the cleaning lady?

  Chip bent down and peeked through a crack in the blinds. What he saw filled him with fear and dread.

  He quickly retreated several steps, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed.

  “Hello,” came a sleepy voice.

  “Dr. Landry,” Chip said, breathing fast. “You better get in here. I think Chandler’s in the room with your wife.”

  “What! Are you sure?”

  “No. I went out for a break. When I came back, he was in the room. He’s dressed like a cleaning lady. With gray hair. But I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Listen, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Get him out of there. No, wait—call security. Maybe they can catch him.”

  “Will do,” Chip said, and hustled back to his station.

  Chip peered over the bank of monitors into room 237 as he dialed security. He waited while the phone rang. Pick up, damn it, pick up!

  The door t
o 237 opened.

  “Security. How can I help you?”

  “Come to the ICU, right away,” Chip whispered, his heart hammering in his chest.

  The cleaning lady stepped out into the hallway, paused at her cart, and looked around.

  “What seems to be the problem?” security asked. “I can barely hear you.”

  “Just come,” Chip hissed into the phone as loud as he dared. “Intruder alert. Bring a gun if you have one.”

  The cleaning lady suddenly bolted across the ICU, passing right by Chip’s station. She locked eyes with him briefly, her upper lip curled up in a sneer. Chip’s hair stood up on the back of his neck as he gazed into Chandler’s flat gray eyes. He tensed, ready for a fight, but Chandler headed straight for the exit door, opened it, and disappeared.

  Chip resumed breathing and ran into Room 237, afraid of what he might see. Thank God—Mrs. Landry seemed fine. Still unconscious, but her vital signs were all stable. Through the window, he caught sight of a man running across the north parking lot. The man jumped into a parked vehicle—an older model Chevy Impala or Caprice, maybe, and some shade of silver or light gray; it was hard to tell the exact color in the lot’s arc lighting. The Chevy lurched back out of the space, then sped forward. As the car roared by, close to the building, he got a good look at the driver. Although the wig was gone, there was no mistaking it—the man driving the car was Chandler. Chip couldn’t make out the license plate.

  “Hold it right there, young man!” growled a stern voice behind him.

  Chip jumped, then spun around to find himself face to face with a large security guard. The guard’s feet were planted, and he gripped a revolver in shaking hands. The gun was pointed directly at Chip’s chest.

  C H A P T E R 5 0

  Tuesday, 8:00 a.m.

  “Here, let me buy you breakfast,” Dr. Landry said, stifling a yawn. “As a thank you.” After spending half the night on the foldout sofa in his wife’s room, Landry definitely looked worse for wear. Prominent bags sagged under his eyes and he had a serious case of bed-head, which was only to be outdone by the rumpled nature of his clothes. Clearly he hadn’t gotten much sleep.