She paused in thought. “I don’t really believe in vampires either.”
She sounded sincere. “Thank God,” he said.
“But what about the lack of aura in Chandler?” she said. “And in that picture from the library?”
“A coincidence?” he offered.
“I doubt it. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought.”
“Uh-huh.” Chip had no trouble believing this part.
“I want to deal only in the facts, though,” she said. “Let’s try to square the facts with what happened.”
“Now you’re talking,” Chip said.
“We know Chandler was extremely sick when he came in,” she said. “His heart and organ systems were trashed.”
“Right.”
“Then essentially, he coded one too many times and died.”
“Well, I don’t know if you can say he died,” Chip said. “He was near death.”
“Okay, near death. Near enough to death that he earned a trip to Mueller’s PML.”
“Correct,” he said.
“And you remember what Mueller said about his EEG—an absence of signal . . .” Kristin stared off into space. Chip had begun to associate these looks with her intuition kicking in. “What if . . .”
“What?” Chip was afraid to hear what she might come up with now.
“What if he doesn’t have a soul?”
“What?”
“What if his soul departed?” she said.
“What? I thought we left the fairytales and make believe things behind?”
“I’m serious, Chip. Hear me out. I’m not talking fantasyland here. Many people think that the aura shown in Kirlian photos is physical evidence of the human soul.”
Chip knew he wasn’t one of those people, open mind or not.
“And,” she continued, on a roll, “what if his not having an aura fits with the absence of a high frequency signal on his EEG that Mueller had never seen before?”
“Okay,” Chip said, “for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right. But you said dead people don’t have auras. I’ll buy that their soul is gone. But Chandler’s obviously not dead.”
“Yeah, but for a time, he was—for all intents and purposes, he was dead. Maybe his soul left him—I mean, think about it: when does the soul leave? You heard Mueller. The body dies in parts—different organs die at different times, not all exactly at once. So, does the soul leave when the heart dies? The brain? The kidneys or liver? Who knows?”
Chip didn’t know what to say to this.
“Maybe,” she continued, “his soul left him—was triggered to leave as death came upon him—in a normal, end of life scenario. But then in a freak of science, Mueller pulls him back from the edge and resuscitates his body. Except his soul has already left.”
“I doubt that’s possible,” Chip said.
“A couple of days ago, we didn’t think people could read minds, either. Now we’re considering it.” Kristin checked the thermometer again. “They didn’t think people could land on the moon, either.”
“So you’re saying he’s alive, but has no soul?” Chip ran his hand through his hair. “Great—so we’re done with vampires, but have moved on to zombies?”
“Chandler’s no zombie, Chip. Besides, what does anyone really know about a soulless being, anyway?”
“Nothing,” Chip said. “That’s the point—they don’t exist.”
She was staring away again. “Maybe the soul exerts a limiting influence on the human brain.”
Chip didn’t respond, but watched her closely. Even though he didn’t agree with her, he admired her creative thinking.
“Maybe the brain is capable of so much more,” she continued, speaking rapidly now. “What if the soul acts like a governor of sorts? Remove it, and the brain is free to rev up, hit new levels. Maybe this would explain the healing, the strength, the mind-reading. Nothing really contradicts the laws of physics here.”
Chip whistled. “You’ve got one heck of an imagination there, Earthgirl.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Hey, do you have your phone with you?” Chip asked.
“Yeah. Why?”
“I want to check to see if Chandler’s car has moved yet.” She handed him the phone. “How long will it take to develop the film?” he asked.
“A half-hour or so, I’m afraid. That is, if my equipment still works. Of course, my enlarger is trashed.”
“Oh shit!” Chip said, looking at the phone.
“I’ll try to go faster—”
“No. His car isn’t at the med center anymore.”
“What?” she asked. “Where is it?”
“Seems to have stopped at—wait, let me blow this up.” Chip manipulated the phone screen. “Looks like Caracas Avenue in Hershey. Listen Kristin, I’ve gotta go to the police and show them this. Maybe they can pick him up.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Chip said, heading for the door. “Why don’t you finish developing these and call me when you’re done. Wait—I don’t have a phone. Never mind, don’t call.”
“That was a smart move, putting your phone in his car, by the way,” she said.
“Thanks.”
“Brave, too.”
Chip felt himself blush and was glad she probably couldn’t see it in the dim light. “I’ll call you from the police station in half an hour.”
“All right, sounds good,” she said.
“Will you be okay here? Alone?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’ll go as fast as I can and then scoot. I need twenty minutes to apply the electrical current to the film before I develop it.”
“All right—be careful,” he said.
“I will. You too.”
C H A P T E R 5 5
Tuesday, midnight
Chip stepped up to the counter. A rotund policeman, mid-fifties, a sergeant by his stripes, was seated off to one side, typing at a computer. He could have been Detective Markel’s brother except he had more hair; it was slicked back in an old-fashioned Brylcreem style.
Chip coughed.
“I’ll be right with you,” said the policeman without glancing up from his screen.
Chip looked around for help; there was no one. Finally the man spun his chair around and looked in his direction. “I’m Officer Maloney. What can I do for you, son?”
“I need to speak to a detective.”
“Hang on. Let me get the proper form.” Maloney leaned forward and rummaged around underneath the counter. After several grunts, he came back up with a sheet of paper. Slightly out of breath, his face red, he nodded at Chip. “Okay, go ahead.”
“My name is Chip Allison and I—”
“Is Chip a nickname?”
“Yes.” Chip leaned in through the little window. “Listen, this is urgent.”
Maloney ignored this. “Real name?”
“Charles.”
“Last name?”
“Allison.”
“One or two Ls?”
“Two.” Chip took a big breath, trying to remain calm. “Listen, this really is urgent.”
“Just a couple more questions, Mr. Allison. Are you a Derry Township resident?”
“Yes.”
“And what is the nature of your concern?”
Finally. “I have information about the man who killed that nurse.”
“What? Why didn’t you say so?” Maloney regarded him seriously for the first time.
“I think I know where Nick Chandler is—now.”
Maloney’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know his name?”
“Look, I work at the med center,” Chip said, speaking rapidly. “I was there the night Chandler killed her. I know him. I called in a tip last night about the late model sedan he’s driving. I saw the car again tonight at the med center and called you guys an hour ago with the make, model, and license number. They said they’d be sending officers.”
Maloney eyed him susp
iciously, then hoisted himself out of his swivel chair with a groan. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
Chip ran his hand through his hair and paced around on the worn linoleum floor.
Maloney came back after several minutes with a manila file folder in hand. “Okay, Mr. Allison. I have your folder.” He smacked the folder on the countertop. “My officers just reported in. They found no ’69 Chevy Impala at the med center.”
“I’m trying to tell you—his car isn’t there anymore.”
“Where is it?” Maloney asked, impatience clipping his words.
“Fifty-nine Caracas Avenue in Hershey.”
“How could you possibly know that?” Maloney said, his voice rising. “We’ve been searching for him all-out for days now.”
“I tracked my phone.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I put my phone in his car, and tracked it to that address.”
“Is this a joke? If this is a joke, son, we don’t take these things lightly. You’ll be—”
“It’s no joke. My phone has an app on it that allows you to locate it. You’ve got to believe me.” Again Chip looked around for help.
Maloney’s eyebrows knotted together and his lips compressed in a pained expression. “Son, if I wake up the captain at home for some bullshit story—”
“It’s the truth,” Chip insisted.
Maloney shook his head, then picked up the phone on his desk and dialed. After a pause, the policeman said into the phone, “It’s me, Maloney. Sorry to bother you at home, sir, but—” Maloney’s face reddened again and Chip could hear yelling coming from the other end. “Just past midnight,” Maloney said sheepishly.
More loud chatter from the other end. Maloney took a deep breath before replying. “Some kid here—” he glanced down at the form “—Charles Allison. He says he knows where Chandler is holed up.”
Maloney gave Chip a penetrating look while holding the receiver tightly to his ear. After several moments, Maloney said, “Fifty-nine Caracas.” Maloney paused again to listen, tapping his beefy fingers on the desk, then answered, “Markel and Yancy—out on patrol.” Maloney’s eyes widened briefly and then he said, “Yes, sir. Right away.”
He hung up the phone and turned back to Chip. “Okay,” he said with a shrug, “the captain’s trusting you.” Evidently Maloney didn’t share that trust.
Maloney swiveled his chair around to the police radio behind him and snapped a couple of toggle switches. Mounted on the front panel and tethered to it with a thick black coiled cord was a microphone. Maloney grabbed it, thumbed the transmit button on the side of the mic, and barked out several terse orders.
Maloney turned back to Chip and looked him square in the eye. “Do not go anywhere near Caracas Avenue,” he said sternly. “We’re sending officers to apprehend the suspect. I repeat, do not go anywhere near there.”
“Are you sending a SWAT team?” Chip asked.
“What?” Maloney asked, irritation now obvious in his voice.
“You really should send a SWAT team,” Chip said.
“No time for that, son,” Maloney replied. “This is known in the business as actionable intelligence. We have to act now, before he slips through our fingers. Don’t worry—we’ll get him.”
“Listen, you need to warn the officers.”
“Do you have reason to believe he’s armed?”
“No,” Chip said. “I mean, I don’t know. But he’s dangerous. You must warn them.”
“We appreciate your concern.” Maloney lapsed into talking-to-a-moron speak. “We know he’s dangerous. He’s a murder suspect. We’ll be careful.”
Chip ran his fingers through his hair again. This was proving much more difficult than he had anticipated. How could he make him understand? “Look—he’s also very strong—super strong. He tossed me aside with one arm and I weigh close to two hundred pounds.”
“I read your statement.” Maloney pushed his chair back from the desk.
“No, wait—you don’t understand. There’s more. He’s also extremely smart.”
Silence, followed by a cough.
“Look,” Chip said, “I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just say it. He’s so smart, it’s like he knows what you’re going to do.”
“Come again?” Maloney asked.
“He seems to know what you’re going to do before you do it.”
“All right, Mr. Allison,” Maloney said, and stood. Apparently he had heard enough. “Thanks again for the tip. I’ll be sure and pass it on to our detectives. Have a good night.”
C H A P T E R 5 6
Tuesday, midnight
The unmarked patrol car fishtailed dramatically on the dry pavement, complete with squealing tires, as it roared out of the medical center parking lot.
“Take it easy, Paul,” Detective Markel said from the passenger seat. The force of the turn had him pressed against the door. The driver, Paul Yancy, who couldn’t be more than twenty-two, hair high and tight, was sitting bolt upright behind the wheel, gripping it tightly with both hands. Markel still wasn’t so sure taking a rookie along was such a great idea. Yancy was plenty amped up for this—probably too amped—but his experience was basically nil. “No need to alert the perp we’re coming.”
“Sorry,” Yancy replied and eased up on the gas. A traffic light on Route 422 by the Friendly’s stopped them. Yancy checked the rearview mirror for the hundredth time. “So, you think he’ll go easily?”
“I dunno,” Markel replied. “You heard the briefing the other day. He’s a nut job—you know, looney-tunes. All bets are off with these guys.”
“He killed that pretty nurse in cold blood.”
“I know,” Markel said.
“Maybe we should shoot first, ask questions later?” Yancy shot him a look. He was smiling, but Markel could tell he was plenty worried.
“Yeah, good idea.”
“What’d you make of that message from Maloney?” Yancy asked.
“Well, we’ll know soon enough whether this is another effing goose chase or not.”
“No, I mean the stuff he said about Chandler.”
“You mean telling us the perp’s dangerous?” Markel forced a laugh. “Ya think?”
“Yeah. Duh!” Yancy eased his grip on the steering wheel a bit. “And like, he’s super smart.”
“Whatever. I brought some extra firepower along.” Markel patted the shotgun in the rack behind them. “A little insurance.”
“Good thinking.”
Markel tapped his forehead. “Makes us smarter.” This time, his laugh was genuine.
Soon they turned onto Caracas Avenue. Yancy swung the patrol car to the curb and jammed on the brakes. Markel was thrown forward in his seat hard; the shoulder restraint belt locked and held him. Jesus, Yancy. The kid was amped up, all right.
Yancy was already opening his door. Markel quickly reached over and put his hand on his shoulder. “You wait here. I’ll go to the door. You back me up from the car.”
“How come you go to the door? I thought I would—”
“Trust me,” Markel said, “it’s better this way. You man the radio.”
Yancy looked crestfallen, but to his credit didn’t say anything.
“Don’t worry, kid. Your time will come.” Markel unfastened his seatbelt and checked his weapon, a Glock 23 that he carried concealed underneath his Kevlar vest in a shoulder holster.
“All set?” Yancy asked, trying to sound upbeat.
“Yep.” Markel put the gun back in its holster. He opened his door and suffered a moment of indecision. He recalled the mayhem at Swatara Regional several years back. He would never forget the bloodbath he had found that night—the night Senator Pierce almost died. It didn’t pay to underestimate the criminal element. “Mister Remington’s going with me, too.” Markel retrieved the shotgun from the rack.
“You know that’s against protocol.”
“Jesus, Yancy!” Markel said, shaking his head. “Fuck pr
otocol. Protocol ain’t going to the door—I am.” He grabbed some cartridges and fed them into the shotgun’s breech.
“Yeah, sorry. Fuck protocol.”
Markel stepped out of the car onto the sidewalk.
“I got your back, Frank,” Yancy called after him.
Markel surveyed Caracas Avenue; it was well lit by streetlights. Other than the wind whistling through the trees lining the street, it was a very quiet residential neighborhood. Everyone had long since turned in. A full moon was also shining brightly overhead and he felt conspicuous with the shotgun at his side. This was Hershey, after all, Chocolate Town, USA, not freaking downtown Chicago. Nonetheless, he felt strangely on edge—this guy was a murderer. Best not to forget that.
He walked down the sidewalk a couple of houses until he came to the right address; the number 59 was stenciled on the top riser of a small cement staircase. He climbed several steps onto a wooden porch. A painted sign near the door read The Kopenhavers: All Friends Welcome! He knocked on the front door and tried to ignore his heart pounding in his chest.
No answer.
He peered in the window, but the shades were drawn. He saw an enclosed staircase on the side of the building and made note that the upper floor was a separate apartment. Good. One less floor to worry about.
He looked back at Yancy and had to smile. He was crouched behind the patrol car, gun drawn, as if he were ready to shoot it out with Bonnie and Clyde. Yancy was a good kid; not the brightest, maybe, but willing to work and learn. Markel gave him a thumbs-up and turned back to the door.
He knocked again, louder. “Mr. Nick Chandler. This is the Derry Township Police. We have a warrant for your arrest. Open the door.”
Again, no answer. Markel tried the door and to his surprise, found it was unlocked. He swung it open, trying to be quiet about it, but the hinges squeaked loudly. Markel entered the foyer, the hardwood floor creaking under his feet. The interior was poorly lit; a solitary lamp shone feebly from the living room, off to the left. A terrible stench hung in the air. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the light. No one in sight. The living room appeared empty. He listened and didn’t hear anything other than his own heavy breathing.
The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE) Page 20