Just then, they heard a lot of commotion coming from Room 237. Heather was screaming.
C H A P T E R 1 0
Wednesday, 11:00 p.m.
The time had come.
Every sense dialed up to the max, Chandler didn’t have to wait long. He heard Heather curse under her breath, then her chair creaked and paper rustled. A moment later, her heavy perfume stung his nostrils—she was standing beside him. Bingo. When she bent down close and touched his wrist, his adrenals squeezed a massive dose of adrenaline into his renal veins. Within seconds, he felt the effects of the hormone. He hoped his heart could tolerate the stress. The adrenaline raced through his brain, slamming his consciousness into overdrive like a pile-driver and obliterating any lingering effects of the sedative.
Chandler opened his eyes.
Heather’s eyes went wide and she screamed. But not for long. He reached out and grabbed her, his hand easily encircling her slender neck. With a strength fueled by massively increased blood flow and the adrenaline surge, he squeezed, compressing her windpipe and abruptly silencing her screams. Her eyes shot open even wider as he lifted her off the floor. He sat up and slammed her head against the wall with a sickening thud. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she stopped struggling. Chandler released her limp body and it crumpled to the floor, blood spreading from her head in a growing pool.
He yanked the tube from his throat, gagging violently in the process. But it felt incredibly good to breathe normally; he paused to savor a couple of sweet breaths before jumping out of bed. He tore off his monitors and ripped out his IVs and arterial catheter. Blood spurted from his wrist where the art-line had been, splattering the white bedsheets in an arc of bright red dots. He ignored the bleeding, something he knew he could easily control, and strode out of the room.
Directly in front of him, blocking his way, stood a tall young man with a half-eaten candy bar clutched in his hand. “What’re you doing?” the young man shouted. “You can’t leave. What have you done to Heather?”
Chandler hesitated for only a fraction of a second before grabbing a fistful of the young man’s shirt and flinging him out of his way as if he were a ragdoll—his adrenaline-enhanced right arm was still ridiculously strong. The young man hit the floor hard, his head banging against a cabinet.
To his right, a petite young woman made a run for it, ponytail swinging and the camera hanging around her neck bouncing off her chest. Chandler let her go. Stepping over the moaning young man, he went around behind the main desk and ripped all the phone cables out of the wall. Screams rang out from the far side of the room—another of the nurses. Ignoring her, Chandler scanned the room, found an exit sign, and trotted over to the stairway descending from the ICU.
He heard “Red alert” being announced over the hospital PA system as he made for the nearest door out of the hospital. He fled into the night, ignoring the pain as his bare feet pounded over the gravel-strewn macadam.
C H A P T E R 1 1
Thursday, 2:00 a.m.
Nick Chandler lay on the mossy ground in a little clearing, huddled under a pile of leaves, trying to keep warm. He wondered again if he had killed that pretty nurse—Heather. Probably. He would never forget the sound her head had made hitting the wall—a thunk like a big-leaguer smacking one out of the park. His arm had been unbelievably strong. And then there was the blood. But he surprised himself by realizing he didn’t really care. All that seemed to matter was that he was free.
He was vaguely surprised that they hadn’t searched for him here in the woods behind the med center, right under their noses. Maybe his luck really was changing. He shivered again. Although he didn’t think it would hit the freezing mark tonight, it would probably get close. He would have to find some shelter soon, or he would die from exposure out here. His home—a two-room, low rent shithole in the HiLo apartment complex just south of Hummelstown—was obviously off limits; they would surely be lying in wait for him there. Equally problematic was the fact that he had no food or water. Soon, he decided, after things cooled down a bit, he would have to risk being seen.
Chandler looked up at the dark sky and forgot momentarily about the cold. It was one of those super clear nights when the stars shone dazzlingly bright; he felt as if he could reach out and touch them. The starlit sky was a dead ringer for that fateful night so many years ago, when his life had changed. His mind drifted back to those earlier days, before he had dropped out of high school. Before his mother had finally left for good.
His best friend at the time—his only friend—was a medium-sized, scruffy mutt that had wandered into Nick’s yard one day. He had named the dog Toby, after a favorite Nickelodeon cartoon character. The two outcasts had bonded instantly. Nick and Toby spent many a summer night camped out under the stars in the backyard. It wasn’t exactly peaceful, with the big rigs rumbling down I-81, not fifty yards away, just on the other side of the concrete barrier. But it was nice, nonetheless.
Nick loved to look up at the stars or the moon and dream of better days ahead, or what it would be like to fly away and live somewhere else. Or even travel in a rocket ship to some alien world. And Toby was the perfect stargazing companion; he was always up for a night outside and never made fun of Nick or his dreams, like the kids at school did. The two would curl up together and keep each other warm. Dad would never let him build a fire—said he didn’t trust a lame brain not to burn the fuckin’ place down.
Then one beautiful summer night, things went bad—real bad. The stars were out in force that night. There was a gentle, warm breeze and Toby and Nick stayed up half the night, gawking at the sky. It was a night to remember, all right; they saw several bright shooting stars that zoomed halfway across the sky. Nick finally fell asleep with Toby’s head resting on his belly.
Early the next morning, his dad kicked him awake. “How’d he get out of the yard?”
Nick shrugged and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Huh?”
His dad kicked him again. “Goddamn barrier is a piece of shit.”
Nick sat up, alarmed. Something was wrong—way wrong.
“Who the hell gave you permission to take my dog out with you?” his father demanded, towering over him.
Nick could tell his dad was awful mad, so he didn’t say anything. He also knew better than to correct his dad and tell him it was he, Nick, who fed and watered and took care of the dog. And that he had spent many a night camped out here in the backyard with Toby. His dad had never shown any interest in the dog.
“That dog’s been nothing but trouble.” His dad waved a finger at him. “I warned you.”
Nick looked around for Toby, but didn’t see him anywhere. His mom was standing on the back porch in her robe with a sad look on her face. Was she crying?
“Well,” his father said, “the goddamn police are here—showed up at the front door at seven in the morning and got my sorry ass out of bed—”
“Is he okay?” Nick asked, worry twisting his stomach.
“Okay?” his father said. “No, he’s not okay.”
“Where is he?” Nick pleaded. “Where’s Toby?”
His father just stood there watching him—for once, he didn’t have anything smart to say.
Nick turned and shouted, “Mom, where is he?”
His mom was silent too.
Suddenly frantic, Nick ran around the backyard, looking and calling for Toby. Toby was nowhere to be found.
Finally, his mom called out to him, “Toby’s dead.”
Nick’s heart sank and he fell to his knees. He grimaced, fighting back tears.
Dad found his smart voice. “And what were you doin’ while my dog was getting pancaked by that goddamn tractor trailer?”
“Nothing,” Nick mumbled, his head down low. Tears streamed down his face. “I guess I was sleeping.”
His dad walked over to him. “You ain’t cryin’ now, are you, boy?”
“No.”
“’Cause I didn’t raise no sissy.”
“
I’m fine,” Nick said and roughly wiped the back of his hand across his face. He saw his mother go back inside.
“And how many times did I tell you?” His dad’s voice rose. “You’re not supposed to let him run free.”
“I didn’t,” Nick said, finally meeting his father’s eyes. “I tied him up. With that rope.” Nick pointed helplessly to the rope lying on the ground.
“I ought to give you a licking.” His dad raised his hand, about to hit him—as he had done countless times before.
Nick cringed and prepared for a blow—but it never came. Nick peeked up at the man. He would never forget the look of pure disgust on his dad’s face.
“Do you even know how to tie a knot?” his father asked, slowly lowering his hand.
Nick hung his head again.
“All the lickings I done give you,” his dad shook his head, “and they don’t seem to make no difference.”
The lump in Nick’s throat was now big and painful. He didn’t care about a licking; in fact, he would have welcomed one. And he wasn’t sad for disappointing his father; he had long since given up on any kind words from the old man. All Nick could think of was Toby—poor Toby. And how much he’d miss him.
“The police have the dog’s body,” his father said. “What’s left of it, anyway. You can bury it here in the backyard. I ain’t paying those fuckin’ township bloodsuckers to dee-spose of it.” With that, his dad turned and walked back into the house, probably to fetch his first beer of the day.
A cold breeze swept through the trees, rousing Chandler from the memory, though the recollection of Toby and his father was still vivid in his mind as he tried to burrow down deeper in the leaves. Chandler rarely thought of his father these days; he had died of pancreatitis five years ago at the ripe old age of fifty-six—the alcohol had finally caught up with him. Funny, Chandler thought, he couldn’t even pronounce the word “pancreatitis” five years ago. Now, thanks to some bizarro access to his own cellular blueprints, he believed he understood the physiological basis of the goddamn disease. Chandler shook his head and shivered again. One thing was certain—if his dad hadn’t died, Chandler would be making a special trip to see him and put his super-strong arms to use, strangling the living shit out of him.
C H A P T E R 1 2
Thursday, 9:10 a.m.
Chip squelched a yawn as he hurried toward the lecture hall. He hadn’t gotten much sleep last night—he had spent half the night at the Hershey Police Department and the rest tossing and turning, trying in vain to get the grisly image of Heather’s body out of his mind. He couldn’t forget that look in Chandler’s eyes, either—right before he tossed him into the cabinet. Talk about chilling. And how could anybody be that strong?
He paused and surveyed the lecture hall from the back door. The speaker had already started and the lights were dimmed for his slides, but Chip soon spotted Kristin’s ponytail. Unfortunately, she was sitting way up front. He slunk in and slipped into the back row.
After briefly debating what to do, Chip pulled out his phone and texted Kristin’s number.
Her phone beeped and she jumped. She quickly silenced her phone and looked around for him unsuccessfully. It was hard to read her expression, but she didn’t appear to be overly thrilled to have received his text.
She turned around again. She sure looked like she was scowling now as she searched for him. She couldn’t find him in the darkened auditorium, against the glare of the slide projector’s light, and soon gave up.
Chip pocketed his phone and tried to focus on the lecture, though it was difficult to concentrate on anything other than the horrendous events in the ICU last night. The speaker was some guy named Dr. Landry, an anesthesiologist from Mercy Hospital in Lancaster. Something about airway management; it seemed kind of boring, anyway. But, Chip thought, you’d have to be pretty dull to go into a field like anesthesia. Not much patient interaction there. If he ever got back into med school, he wouldn’t make that mistake.
After the lecture, Chip waited for Kristin out in the hallway. She stomped up to him, arms swinging at her sides, her petite body moving mechanically. “Way to embarrass me in there,” she said, planting one hand firmly on her hip. Even though she was nearly a foot shorter than him, she somehow appeared to be at eye level as she glared at him.
“Sorry,” he said.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Hey listen, I tried to talk to you last night, but you had already left.”
“Yeah, go figure. Spending half the night at the Derry Township Police Department wasn’t my idea of fun.”
“When did they let you go?” he asked.
“Around one. How about you?” She relaxed her arm from her hip.
“A little after that,” Chip said. “I gave my statement and then some detective—Markel, I think his name was—kept asking me the same questions, over and over.”
“I know who you mean—the fat one. He talked to me, too. He made me feel like I was the suspect, not a witness.”
“Exactly. So, what do you think?”
“You mean about Heather?” she said.
“I guess—Heather—everything.”
“I feel so horrible for Heather.” Her voice was a notch higher than it had been a minute ago. Her chin started to quiver and she blinked rapidly several times. “To think she’s really dead.” She began to cry.
“I can’t believe he killed her.” Chip reached out to touch her, to comfort her in some small way, then thought better of it. He ran his fingers through his hair instead.
“Did you see her body?” Kristin said through her tears.
“Yeah.”
“And that look on her face?”
Chip nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“And the blood all over the floor?”
“I saw it.” He looked around helplessly while she cried.
After several minutes, she pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “Sorry,” she said. “This thing has me pretty shook up.”
“Me, too.”
She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue.
“What about the guy—Chandler?” Chip asked tentatively. “What did you make of him?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, visibly trying to get a grip on her emotions.
“Did you see the look in his eyes?”
“Sure,” she said. “He came right at us.”
“But, did you think he looked crazy? I always thought people like that—you know, someone who smashes someone’s head against the wall—would have this crazed, bloodthirsty look or something.”
“No,” she said, eyes drifting as she thought back. “He didn’t look that way at all.”
“That’s what I thought too. In fact, it looked like he was almost enjoying himself—he had this smirk . . .”
“Right.”
“Did you see him throw me?”
“No. I guess I had already run. Sorry, I kinda panicked.” She looked away.
“He picked me up with one arm and tossed me into the desk.” Chip pushed his hair aside. “Check this out.”
“Yikes—nasty bruise.”
“I don’t think they’ve caught him yet,” Chip said. “It’d be all over the news if they did.”
She grimaced. “I sure hope they get him soon. I’d sleep a lot better.”
“Me, too.”
They both started to walk down the hallway toward the main entrance, neither saying anything more.
Three-quarters of the way down the hall, Chip broke the silence. “But here’s the real question. How do you explain that he was supposedly dying one minute and the next, he’s pulling his tube out, strangling poor Heather, then running out of the ICU?”
“I can’t,”
she said, eyes on the doorway up ahead.
“Hey, do you want to grab some coffee?” Chip asked. “I could sure use some.”
She stopped walking and regarded him briefly. “I could too, but I have to get home and let my dog out. Thanks, though.”
“Smokey?”
He watched her face soften. “How do you know his name?”
“You talk about him all the time,” Chip said.
“I guess I do,” she said, lips curving sheepishly.
“Well, some other time. Hey, I hear Mueller’s giving grand rounds tomorrow on his resuscitation techniques. We should go and hear what he has to say. Maybe it will help shed some light on things.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she said. “Is it at nine?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there. That is, on one condition.”
“What?”
“No more texting,” she said sternly.
“No problem.”
“See you tomorrow,” she said and turned to go, but not before he saw evidence of a tiny smile sneaking across her face.
C H A P T E R 1 3
Friday, 7:00 a.m.
Gunter Mueller stared at the shiny MRI prints arranged neatly on the x-ray viewbox in his office and shook his head. There it was, in black and white—no sense denying it. A hint of a structure in the brain that shouldn’t be there, right there in the hippocampal/amygdala region. What it was, he couldn’t begin to imagine. A vascular shadow created by new blood vessels? A tumor? Parasitic cyst? Did this have anything to do with the strange EEG he had recently obtained on his most recent patient?
Gunter leaned forward for a closer look. Artifact? Maybe, but he didn’t think so. This was, after all, the third subject in a row that had exhibited this shadow. Being a man of science, Gunter didn’t really believe in coincidences. What Gunter did believe was that he was finally onto something extraordinary. His instincts told him this, positively screamed it at him. And it was about fucking time. After all, he’d put in his time, slogged out twenty years in the trenches of academic medicine in the decidedly unglamorous field of pathology. Anyone who needed further proof of this need only look as far as his office, which was plunked down in the basement, for god sakes, sandwiched between the morgue and the dog lab. That kind of said it all, didn’t it?
The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE) Page 4