Markel walked forward into what appeared to be the dining room. Same creaky hardwood floor. No one here, either. Was that dried blood on the floor? He could make out hallways leading to a kitchen and presumably a bedroom area. The shades were drawn here as well and the gloom pressed in on him. He called out to the emptiness in front of him, “Nick Chandler. This is the police. We have a warrant for your arrest.”
Suddenly, footsteps. A man came into view from the kitchen.
Markel flinched and his heart lurched painfully in his chest. He ignored the jolt of adrenaline and locked eyes with the man. “Nick Chandler?”
“Yes,” Chandler said calmly. “What can I do for you, officer?”
“Nick Chandler, you’re under arrest for the murder of Heather Lindstrom. Put your hands up where I can see them.”
Chandler took a few steps toward Markel.
“Don’t come any closer,” Markel said. Chandler stopped. He was about five feet away. This guy was a fuckin’ fruitcake, all right. He didn’t seem to show any outward sign of fear.
Markel figured it was time to bring Mr. Remington front and center, just in case Chandler hadn’t noticed it yet. He hefted the shotgun to a firing position and cocked it menacingly. A warning shot from Mr. Remington in this confined space, and this punk would be crying for his mama.
Chandler put his hands up. “No problem, officer. I’ll come peaceably.”
There, that was better. The double barrel of a 12-gauge in your face never failed to command respect. Cold steel diplomacy, he liked to call it. Markel began to read Chandler his rights, keeping a close eye on the perp.
Suddenly, with amazing speed, Chandler reached behind his back.
Shit.
Markel was ready for this, though. He quickly discharged the Remington above Chandler’s head. The big gun roared and the blast tore a ragged hole in the ceiling. Plaster rained down on Chandler like falling snow. Markel’s ears hurt, but it was a satisfying hurt, nonetheless. “You don’t want to fuck with me, boy. Now, put your fucking hands out—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Chandler leapt toward him, seeming to fly through the air. Markel managed to recock the Remington, but somehow it wasn’t fast enough. Chandler had erased the distance between them and was already on him, knocking him backward to the floor. Markel fired the shotgun again as he went down, but he had no real chance of hitting Chandler, who was now right on top of him.
Markell dropped the shotgun, useless in these tight quarters, and reached for his revolver. He’d make this bastard pay yet.
A knife flashed in Chandler’s hand. Markel frantically groped under his vest for his gun, but found only an empty holster. Shit! Before he could bring his hand back to defend himself, he felt the cold steel at his throat. Chandler grunted, and the blade went deep—real deep. Markel didn’t feel much else, other than a dull ripping sensation; everything was happening so fast. Then he saw and felt the blood—his blood—shooting out of his neck. He reflexively reached up and covered the wound with one hand, only to feel the blood spurt out between his fingers. He tried to call out to Yancy, but produced only a gurgle. He groped around the hardwood floor, now becoming slippery with his blood, for the shotgun. Gone. So was Chandler. He caught sight of his Glock, far away, on the floor across the room.
Markel scrabbled to all fours, intent on crawling to the Glock, but his vision started to swirl viciously around him. He could barely breathe; blood choked him and flowed freely out of his mouth onto the floor.
He could hear Yancy screaming over the police radio, “Officer down! Officer down! Need backup! Need backup, now!”
Next, he heard Yancy’s service revolver firing rapidly.
Then he heard the loud boom of Mr. Remington. Once. Twice.
Finally, as his vision dimmed to gray and he collapsed onto the bloody floor, the Glock still maddeningly out of reach, he realized Yancy’s gun had gone silent.
C H A P T E R 5 7
Wednesday, 12:20 a.m.
Kristin definitely had a case of the creeps, being back in the basement . . . alone.
Although she had assured Chip she’d be fine, the actual experience was proving more difficult. A faint nauseating odor hung in the stagnant air, even though she had thoroughly cleansed all the blood—Smokey’s and Chandler’s—from the floor and walls with Clorox. The red light in the little room didn’t help, either; everything looked as if it was drenched in blood, and the darkness was suffocating. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
“Stop it!” she scolded herself, shaking her head to throw off the negative thoughts. She needed to buck up, see this through. She focused on her dead dog in an effort to gain strength. With grim determination, she carefully wound the film onto the plastic developing spool.
A loud noise—a creaking or banging—upstairs somewhere.
Kristin’s breath caught in her throat and she froze, straining to listen. Déjà vu, here we go, all over again. Silence. Was it just the shifting of the old apartment? Or the wind? Or just my shot nerves?
No new sounds followed and she returned to the film. With trembling hands, she put the spool in the developer tank and poured in the developer solution, spilling a little on the countertop. Careful. She didn’t want to screw this up—Chip was counting on her.
Her thoughts turned to Chip; his easygoing nature and his boyish good looks obviously didn’t tell the whole story. Cheating on an exam was serious business, no matter how you sliced it. And that wasn’t the extent of his dark side—she knew about his drinking, as well. But, she was touched that he had come to her to try a Kirlian photograph. Maybe he didn’t think she was a total loon after all.
She checked the temperature and noted it was close enough. She hooked up the wires to the brass electrodes on the outside of the developing tank. She flipped on the power transformer designed to deliver the correct Kirlian electric current across the film. The apparatus hummed softly and she activated the timer, knowing the next twenty minutes would pass like an eternity. She washed her hands, all the while wondering what she would do without her enlarger. The mangled remnants of it were visible in the trashcan and served as a stark reminder of what had happened just a few short days ago.
Another creak came from upstairs, louder this time. She didn’t dare open the darkroom door or the light would ruin the film. “Chip, is that you?” she called out, her voice sounding way too high and squeaky.
No answer. Her heart hammered in her chest, making it hard to hear. “Is anyone up there?” she shouted. Silence—only the rushing of blood in her ears.
Suddenly, her phone beeped a text message. She about jumped out of her skin. The message was from Chip.
Kristin breathed a long sigh of relief. Thank God. She typed back:
C H A P T E R 5 8
Wednesday, 12:20 a.m.
Chip stood and began pacing across the linoleum tiles, sometimes sliding his sneakers, leaving imprints on the dusty floor. The small waiting room of the Derry Township Police Department was no longer empty. An elderly lady was seated across the room in one of the plastic chairs, her hands neatly folded across her lap. What is she doing here at this time of night?
Chip checked his watch again. Too much time was passing and he had no idea what was happening. Should I go back to Kristin’s? Or call her? He was hoping to get word of Chandler’s arrest. He walked up to the window. Maloney was nowhere to be seen.
Next to the service window was a closed door that led to the interior of the police station. On the door was a placard stating Authorized Personnel Only Beyond This Point in bold letters. Chip approached the door and knocked. No response. The place seemed deserted except for the old lady, who was now eyeing him with disapproval. Chip hesitated, then tried the door handle; it was unlocked.
Suddenly, loud screams came in over the police radio, startling Chip.
“Officer down! Officer down! Need backup!
Need backup, now!”
This was followed by the crack-crack-crack of rapid gunfire, then two loud booms that sounded like shotgun blasts.
Chip’s blood ran cold as he listened to the anguished cries for help.
Outside, a patrol car screeched out of the parking lot with sirens blaring.
What the hell is going on? Chip opened the door and quickly sat down in Maloney’s chair. He clacked away on the noisy keyboard of the police computer. A minute later he had his answer. Shit! His phone was on the move again. Chip watched with growing horror as the red beacon moved away from Caracas Avenue, down the streets of Hershey—right toward Kristin’s apartment.
Chip snatched up the phone receiver and started punching buttons before he realized the phone was dead. There was no dial tone. Chip scanned the elaborate phone console, looking for a way to select a different line out. He pushed several buttons labeled with different extensions but nothing worked. Then he noticed a lock off to one side—minus the key. Maloney must’ve taken the key when he left. “Damn!”
Chip ran out to the waiting room, frightening the old lady. “Can I use your phone?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” she asked, flustered.
“Do you have a cell phone?” Chip asked, out of breath.
“No.” She was wringing her hands.
“It’s an emergency.”
“I don’t own one, young man,” she said, crossing her arms and looking away.
Chip sprinted toward the parking lot, figuring she wouldn’t have given it to him even if she had one.
C H A P T E R 5 9
Wednesday, 12:35 a.m.
After twenty minutes of agitating the film roll in the developing tank, Kristin turned off the power supply and disconnected the wires. Extracting the film roll, all curly and wet, she glanced at the film and saw she had images. Thank God. She dunked the film into the stop bath and gently shook it with her tongs.
She held the film spool up to the safelight. The stop bath dripped all over the table, but she ignored it. These were no moon shots. She recognized the ICU. There was a patient lying in a bed. She bent down closer and tried to make out details. Is that Laura Landry? The 35 millimeter negative was too small to make out anything; the size of a person’s head was only a couple of millimeters wide. If only her enlarger wasn’t in pieces in the trash.
Her thoughts were interrupted by more creaking from upstairs. Kristin felt her fear return with a vengeance; panic swelled inside her and her heart resumed its painful banging in her chest. Her mouth went dry, her palms sweaty. She wanted to run—needed to run. But the only way out was up the basement stairs.
Kristin gripped the countertop hard with trembling hands, anchoring herself. She squelched a nascent scream that was trying to break loose. With tremendous effort, she slowed her breathing and forced herself not to bolt. She needed to finish this somehow—for Chip. For Smokey.
She pulled the enlarger body out of the trash and examined it. There was one lens that wasn’t totally smashed; about a third of it remained intact. She tried to extricate the lens from its metal holder, but it was stuck fast. She yanked harder. She felt the lens pop free, but she also felt a burning pain in her fingers as the rough edge of the broken glass gouged her.
She held the crescent moon-shaped lens up to the film, ignoring her bloody finger. She held them both up to the light. Just as she had hoped, the lens worked to magnify the images. The first few frames of the roll were pictures of Chip, posing foolishly in his apartment. She looked closer. She could clearly make out an aura around Chip’s head, proving the Kirlian technique was indeed working.
Then she moved on to the pictures of the bed in the ICU. She could make out facial features now—a pretty nose and mouth and long black hair that flowed down around a woman’s face. There was no mistaking it—it was Laura Landry.
She moved the film closer to the light. She angled the broken lens every way possible and positioned it at varying distances from the film. Her movements were slow and deliberate at first, but became more and more frantic as she squinted at the film, searching. “Holy Mother of God,” escaped from her lips as a tortured yelp.
C H A P T E R 6 0
Wednesday, 12:35 a.m.
Victor Cohen settled in for a long, boring night shift. The ICU census was way down and the only three patients he had to keep tabs on tonight seemed pretty stable. He had his trusty thermos filled with coffee and some pathology notes to keep him company. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep like his loser buddy, Allison.
Of course, what was really on Victor’s mind was the student nurse mixer this Friday. A new crop of nurselets had just arrived from State College and Victor had his eye on a certain Sharon Enfield. She wasn’t the prettiest—okay, her nose was way too big—but she had these boobs that went on forever. And she seemed fairly naïve, which suited Victor just fine. To Victor, dumb was an asset.
A loud commotion from across the hall spoiled his daydream of Sharon and her boobs. Dr. Landry emerged from Room 237, waving his arms and shouting, “Call the MRI suite. Tell them I’m bringing down an emergency case and to clear the machine. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Jenny, the head ICU nurse, looked exasperated as she picked up the phone. After a brief conversation, she held the receiver to her chest and shouted back at Landry, “They need a diagnosis.”
Landry hesitated. “Okay. Tell them acute cerebral hemorrhage. Need to rule out a ruptured aneurysm.”
“Ordering physician?”
“Me. STAT, okay?”
Jenny completed her conversation and hung up the phone. “They’re finishing up a scan now and should be ready by the time you get there.”
“Great,” Landry said.
“I don’t have a spare nurse at the moment,” Jenny said. “Becky should be back from break soon.”
“We can’t wait.” Doug turned to the policeman standing guard outside Laura’s room. “Help me push the bed—we’re going to the MRI. She needs a scan.”
Officer Dodson grunted as he hauled himself out of his chair; he was a large man—not overweight, just big-framed, and standing at least six-four. His eyes were half open slits; he had no doubt been dozing. Several magazines and two empty vending machine coffee cups sat on the floor by his feet.
“Is something wrong, Dr. Landry?” Victor said, now on his feet, unable to contain his curiosity.
“No,” Landry replied. “Just precautionary.”
That sure sounded bogus, and Landry definitely looked worried, but Victor knew better than to challenge attending physicians. “Her rhythm’s rock stable now,” Victor added.
“Yes, I know. Thanks for your concern, but we gotta move.”
He was getting the brush-off, that much was clear.
After Landry and the big cop rolled the heavy ICU bed with Mrs. Landry in it down the hall, Victor whipped out his cell phone. After several rings, Chip’s voice mail message announced, “You’ve reached Chip’s phone. Obviously I’m busy. Leave a message, if you feel like it.”
“Chip, it’s me, Victor.” Victor paused a moment to look around before continuing in a hushed voice, “You said to let you know if anything weird was happening with Mrs. Landry. Well, I’m not sure what to make of it, but Dr. Landry just whisked her away to the MRI for an emergency brain scan. Get this—to rule out a cerebral aneurysm. She seemed fine to me, but hey, what do I know? Anyway, I promised I’d call.”
C H A P T E R 6 1
Wednesday, 12:35 a.m.
Chip hopped in the Camry, fired it up, and jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The old four-cylinder coughed in protest, threatening to stall, but finally revved up to speed. Although lacking the horsepower or torque to peel out like the police cruisers, the Toyota flew across the parking lot nonetheless. Chip ignored the stop sign at the lot exit and barreled right out onto Hockersville Road. The light up ahead at the intersection with Chocolate Avenue quickly came into view—it was red. Traffic was virtually nonexistent, so Chip rolle
d through the light, going about thirty, tires squealing in protest as he made a right turn.
Five seconds later, a car sped right by him in the passing lane, startling him. It was an older model silver Impala headed in the direction of Kristin’s apartment.
Chip floored it and gave chase. The Impala was several hundred yards ahead, passing the Giant now. The Camry’s speedometer nudged up past sixty. Chip’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He was gaining on the Chevy.
All of a sudden, less than a hundred yards in front of him, the silver car made a screeching U-turn, right in front of the Rite Aid. What the hell!
C H A P T E R 6 2
Wednesday, 12:35 a.m.
Doug and Officer Dodson cleared the ICU automatic doors and proceeded out into the main hallway. The heavy bed bumped as it rolled onto the carpeted hallway; Laura’s oxygen cylinder rattled against the headboard and her eyelids fluttered but then closed again.
“We need to take the main elevator down to the basement and then head to the MRI suite,” Doug said to the policeman. The bed was much harder to push, here on the carpet.
“Whatever you say, doc,” Dodson said, more alert now. “You’re in charge.”
“Okay, great,” Doug murmured. He was actually glad to have Dodson along. First, he seemed more personable than some of the other members of the Hershey PD. And, of course, Doug wouldn’t deny that he also found the service revolver on his belt reassuring.
“Do you think she’ll be all right?” Dodson asked, nodding toward Laura.
“I sure hope so,” Doug said.
“She seems pretty out of it,” Dodson said, looking worried.
“I gave her some sedation for the scan,” Doug said, surprised by the big man’s perceptiveness. “She gets claustrophobic.”
The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE) Page 21