The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE)

by John Benedict

  He tossed the keys onto the floor inside the door and they skidded several feet across the nondescript gray surface before coming to rest at the base of an old iron radiator. The landlord had insisted the flooring was hardwood, but it could have been made of anything. The only noteworthy thing about it was that it was slightly tacky.

  Chip flopped down on the sofa, sinking deep into its soft, lumpy bulk, and swung his feet over the sofa’s threadbare arm as he flipped on the TV. He had the whole weekend off for a change. No goddamn work. No goddamn school. What wasn’t to love? He should’ve been on cloud nine, except he wasn’t—because he had no goddamn plans, either.

  Did every girl have to have a boyfriend? Was that, like, an immutable physical law of the entire universe? Because it sure seemed like it. He tried to push his sneakers off by pushing on the heels with his toes; one got stuck and he had to pry it off with his hands. He flung it across the room. Oh well, he reasoned. Better he found out about Kristin now, before he got all wrapped up in her. One-year anniversary! What’s up with that? That’s like practically being married. Chip couldn’t recall ever going out with a girl for a year. Maybe six weeks. In fact, the last relationship he’d had, with Michelle, lasted only about six days.

  Chip had first noticed Michelle about a year ago; she’d been at the Hershey Fitness Center, working out like nobody’s business—a regular dervish on the elliptical machine. She was gorgeous by anybody’s standards. He remembered being completely mesmerized by the sight of her—her long brunette hair bouncing gracefully as she pumped her thighs up and down; her tight-fitting gym suit; her skin glistening with a light sweat.

  He had attempted to catch her eye, but it was difficult; Michelle always had lots of male attention. So he had contrived to use the lat pulldown bar just as she was finishing with it. But the best he could come up with was some lame small talk and all he discovered was that she was a PSU nursing student who hailed from somewhere around Pittsburgh.

  Finally, out of the blue, several months later, she actually spoke to him. He had been busy sucking down brewskis at a Christmas party in one of the student nurses’ dorms. He still recalled pretty much the entire conversation, even though he had been half loaded.

  “Hi Chip, it’s good to see you.”

  Chip fought the urge to turn around and look behind him for another Chip; he was shocked Michelle knew his name. “Hey Michelle. Great party.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Haven’t seen you much at the gym.”

  “No.” Chip knew Michelle didn’t miss many days at the gym. “It’s finals time and I’ve been hitting the books pretty hard.”

  “That’s good.”

  They both had to talk fairly loud to be heard over the stereo that was blasting out Christmas tunes along with the usual rock and roll. Right now, the Trans-Siberian Orchestra was cranked up.

  “Yeah.” As usual, Chip was at a loss for words around beautiful women. “Uh, the keg’s still going strong.” He nodded toward the sliding glass doors; beyond them, on the patio out front, the keg rested in a large metal bucket filled with ice. “Do you need any more beer?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “I think I need a refill.” Chip turned to head for the sliders.

  “Hang on, Chip.” She lightly touched his arm. “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  Chip froze in his tracks. “Huh?”

  “I’ve been studying hard, too,” she said. “We have a pharmacology final coming up this Tuesday and—”

  “I have one, too,” he said.

  “I’m having a tough time with it—you know, all the stupid drug names sound alike. It’s very confusing.” She tilted her head slightly and gave him a little lost girl look. She also proceeded to brush her fingertips up and down his arm.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said, swallowing hard.

  “Maybe you could teach me? You know, tutor me?” Her face brightened adorably.

  “I’d love to—I mean, I’d be happy to.” Chip wondered whether he was dreaming or maybe just had had too many beers. “Just tell me when.”

  “That’s so nice of you.” She took a sip of beer from the plastic cup she held, its rim smudged with her lipstick. “Hey, if you hear anything about our test, maybe you could let me know that, too?”

  “All right. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open.”

  “It would mean a lot to me.” She was now standing really close to him. She leaned into him—so far that he had to reposition his feet to keep his balance. He felt the softness of her breast pressing against him. Her fragrance washed over him. The room felt very hot. She caressed his arm again and stared seductively into his eyes. Then she whispered into his ear, “I really suck.” She pulled back briefly and pursed her lips into an oval. Then, smiling mischievously, she added, “At pharmacology, that is.”

  Alone on his living room sofa, Chip massaged his forehead, now pounding painfully; by now he should have known better than to stroll down that particular memory lane. Someday he would get that blasted memory out of his head. It always led to the inevitable, How could I have been so stupid? or, Did I really think she was into me? or, Am I really that weak?

  He distracted himself by trying to come up with something to do; anything to take his mind somewhere else. He ignored the siren call of his “friends” under the kitchen sink. Let’s see, what else? The meteor shower didn’t interest him anymore. He had seen every movie on TV. You could only watch Lord of the Rings so many times. Then he remembered it was playoff season and the Phillies were still on the hunt for a postseason berth. Last year, he’d followed baseball religiously, knowing all the latest player trivia and scores and standings. A lot of things had changed since last year. This summer, by contrast, the season was a complete blur to him. He checked his phone—the Phils were playing the Cards this afternoon at four-thirty. Perfect.

  Maybe he’d head over to Arooga’s and watch the game on the big screen? Kinda lame going alone, though. He could call Victor or Steve. But Chip didn’t feel much like hanging out with his old med school buds right now. They would still call from time to time and invite him to parties, but let’s face it—most didn’t want to associate with him anymore. And who could blame them?

  His new friends called to him again. He’d been seeing a lot of them recently. They weren’t very talkative, but what they lacked in social skills, they made up for in dulling pain and blurring memories. He sensed they were bad news and knew he’d have to part ways with them at some point. Just not now; he still needed their camaraderie. So it was decided: he’d settle in, have a couple of refreshments, and watch the game here in the cozy comfort of his apartment.

  His phone rang. Caller ID said it was his mom. “Hello.”

  “Hi, honey. Guess what? Your father and I are on the turnpike heading to Hershey.”

  Shit! Double shit! Images of recent ugly family scenes came to mind, with painful words like disappointment, disgrace, and embarrassment being hurled about.

  “We thought we’d take you out to celebrate your birthday.”

  “Oh.”

  His mother continued in her happy tone, completely unfazed by his total lack of interest. “It’s okay if you have plans. Let’s see—we’ll be there in about an hour. We can probably make a late brunch or lunch and have you back home by three. Or if you have a date, you’re welcome to bring her along. So, what do you say?”

  “Sounds great, Mom,” he said, resigned to his fate.

  Chip hung up and cursed his bad luck. Could the weekend get any worse? Soon, though, he realized he had some business to attend to in the kitchen. The half-empty bottles clinked accusingly as he retrieved them from underneath the sink. He carried his precious load to his bedroom, where he stashed the tequila, vodka, and whiskey bottles in the back of his closet—way back, behind his neglected running shoes and beat-up telescope—and tossed an old Phillies sweatshirt over them.

  Returning to the sofa, he flipped on the TV and hunkered down, waiting for his
parents to arrive and hoping his dad would be in better spirits than the last time.

  C H A P T E R 3 2

  Saturday, 2:00 p.m.

  “So son, how’s life treating you?” Chip’s dad was a big man; he served up a crushing handshake when Chip took his extended hand.

  “Good, Dad,” Chip said, extricating his hand.

  “Give your mother a hug,” he ordered.

  Chip hugged his mom, then led them into the living room.

  “Your place looks nice,” his mom said, although Chip could see her eyeing the plates stacked up on the end table. He and his mom sat on the sofa while his dad remained standing.

  “Job going well?” his father inquired.

  “Yep,” Chip replied.

  “Your mother told me about that nurse getting killed and you being a witness and all.” His father started walking about the room with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Yeah,” Chip said. “Very freaky.”

  “Did you know her?” his mother asked.

  “No, not really,” Chip said.

  “Did they catch the son-of-a-bitch?” his dad asked, his square jaw set.

  “I don’t think so,” Chip said.

  “Hmmm.” His father paused, appearing uncomfortable. Apparently he was at a loss for words, which was unusual. “Hey, I’ve been talking to some people and, uh—”

  “That’s good,” Chip muttered.

  “They might be able to help you get back into school. Med school. You know, next year, after all this blows over.”

  “Sure.” Chip didn’t share his dad’s feelings that a cheating scandal like his would blow over anytime soon.

  He stared at Chip and looked as if he wanted to say more, but again, uncharacteristically, he held his tongue. Finally he said, “I need to use the head.”

  “It’s down the hall, to the right,” Chip said.

  After his dad left the room, his mother, never a big fan of open confrontation, said in a hushed voice, “Why is it so hard for the two of you?”

  “I don’t know, Mom.”

  “Can’t you at least try to get along?”

  “I am.”

  “He’s trying to help you. Don’t you see that?”

  “Yes.”

  “You hurt him quite a bit when you—”

  “Yeah, I know, Mom.”

  “Your father loves you, Chip.”

  “I can tell.”

  His mom frowned, then changed the subject. “Meet any new girls yet?”

  “I’m working on it.” Chip cracked a fake smile for her.

  “Well, Auntie Jean just told me about a niece of hers—Jennifer. Sweet girl. And unattached. We have to get the two of you together, when you come home for Thanksgiving. You are coming home, right?”

  “Yes, Mom, I’m coming. You don’t have to fix me up with girls, you know.”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  His father returned. “So, did you two decide where you want to go for dinner? I’m partial to the Hershey Country Club, myself.”

  “Sounds good,” Chip said, fighting back a yawn.

  His mother nodded. “Sure.”

  “Helen,” his father said, “why don’t you go down and wait in the car. Chip and I will be down in a minute.”

  Oh shit, Chip thought. He watched his mom’s face squirm with anguish, but Chip knew he was on his own here. She would never try to intervene when his father used that tone of voice. She shot Chip a worried look as she left. Chip figured he was in for it; his dad would surely lay into him without his mother around to be the buffer. At least it looked like Chip wouldn’t have to wait long to find out the particulars.

  His father straightened to his full six foot two height, leveled a stare at him, and cleared his throat. He tried and failed to sound nonchalant. “You’re not drinking anymore, right?”

  There it was, right out of the blue, on the table. His dad had never been one to mince words. He was one of those “say what you mean and mean what you say” kind of guys.

  “No, Dad. I’m good.”

  “I mean, we talked about this, right? I don’t want to go sticking my neck out for you, if you’re—”

  “No. It’s not a problem anymore.”

  His father cleared his throat again. “I saw some beers in the fridge.”

  Chip looked at the floor and squeezed his fingers together so hard they hurt; he was intent on not smiling. His intuition had been dead on, concerning his dad’s snooping habits.

  “Do you think this is funny?” his dad asked.

  “No,” Chip said, biting his lower lip.

  “No more hard stuff, right?”

  “No, Dad. Just a little beer now and then.” Chip lifted his head and locked eyes with his father. “To go with the Phils.”

  Several expressions played across the older man’s face as he worked to digest this. Finally he settled on a weak smile. “We should go to a game. Just the two of us, like old times.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Chip said, trying to add as much sincerity as he could muster.

  “If the Phils make the playoffs, I’ll buy us some real sweet seats on StubHub and we’ll go.”

  “Sounds good.” Chip breathed a sigh of relief—ugly family scene averted. “That is, if I can get off from work. I can’t screw up this job.”

  “Right.” His dad dropped the hard stare and took a seat across from the sofa. “Look, Chip, I can see that you’re hurting. Things will work out. It’s time to move on—time to stop beating yourself up over this.”

  Now Chip was at a loss for words. He sat there and played with the loose stuffing in the sofa arm. He didn’t think he had ever seen his dad in this caring father mode. But his dad wasn’t finished.

  “I understand that a woman can be hard to resist—almost impossible. I get it. You may find this hard to believe, but I was young and foolish once.”

  Chip had to admit he did have trouble imagining this.

  “Let me tell you a little story. Once, a long time ago, I snuck off the base—I was stationed at Fort Bragg at the time—in the middle of the night to meet up with your mother. We went out for a midnight drive and then grabbed a late night snack at a downtown bar. I was lucky—we didn’t get caught. They would’ve thrown me in the brig and probably court-martialed me.”

  “I never heard that story before,” Chip said, genuinely impressed.

  “There was a time,” his dad continued, a distant look coming into his eyes, “I would’ve done anything your mother asked of me.”

  Chip wasn’t sure, but it seemed that his dad’s eyes were becoming moist. Or maybe it was just the light? Chip was definitely sure he had never heard his father open up like this before.

  “Luckily, we were never tempted to do anything else against the law.” They shared a smile at this. His father placed his hands on his thighs and stood. “Well, we need to get going—can’t keep your mother waiting forever. She’ll think I’m beating the tar out of you, by now.”

  “Right,” Chip said, rising.

  “One last thing, Chip,” his father said as they headed toward the front door. “Next time, just make sure you’re in love.”

  C H A P T E R 3 3

  Saturday, 2:00 p.m.

  Kristin tensed and held her breath, straining with every fiber of her being to listen. Another creak of the steps. Was it Smokey? No. It sounded like a person—no clattering of nails on the wooden steps. Besides, the dog would scamper down the stairs, not slowly descend. Kristin tried desperately to keep her cool and figure out what to do. She reached out and locked the door, but didn’t feel much safer, cooped up in a darkroom not much bigger than a large closet. She heard footsteps approaching and the hair rose on the back of her neck.

  There was a loud knock on the door. She jumped and a small cry escaped her lips. She stood there motionless.

  “I know you’re in there,” a man’s voice said on the other side of the door. She didn’t recognize the voice. “Open the door. I just want to talk.�
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  The voice sounded mellow, not the voice of a crazed house intruder bent on murder. “About what?” she said, trying hard to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  “Your interest in photography,” he answered. “I share your interest.”

  What? How bizarre is this? Let’s just have a casual conversation about hobbytime with the man who broke into my apartment. “What do you want?”

  “I want your film.” The doorknob rattled. “Open the door, Kristin.”

  “No, I won’t. Go away. How do you know my name?”

  “We’ve met before. Don’t you remember? In the ICU.”

  The ICU? Could it be? “I’m calling the police,” she lied. “Who are you?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Just go away,” she said, her trembling now uncontrollable as her fear amped up exponentially.

  “I will. But first, I need the photograph you just developed—the one with me in it.”

  Holy Mother of God! Kristin could hardly believe her ears. It’s Chandler. How is that possible? How could he possibly know what I’m doing here? Am I going crazy?

  “I’m waiting.” His voice no longer sounded mellow.

  She frantically looked about the room for a weapon.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “Just like the nurse in the ICU,” she said, her voice ranging into the hysterical. She picked up the enlarger and hefted it.

  “I won’t hurt you. Now, open the door.”

  She didn’t answer, but adjusted her footing and gauged the distance to the door. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  A fist smashed through the door, splintering the old wood.

  Kristin screamed.

  His hand groped for the handle and locking mechanism.

  She swung the enlarger, still plugged in, and whacked his hand with it as hard as she could. Glass lenses smashed and blood flowed from his hand. Chandler howled in pain, but amazingly didn’t withdraw his hand. She hit him again. Somehow, he still managed to unlock the door and then turned the handle. She screamed again.