The Edge of Death: (Sequel to ADRENALINE)

by John Benedict

  Chip walked slowly over to Doug. “I thought you shot him,” he murmured to Doug.

  “He tried,” Chandler said.

  Chip’s look of confusion turned to one of betrayal.

  “Mrs. Landry had a different idea,” Chandler said.

  Laura began to move on the floor, groaning. Doug found he could breathe easier. The frigid cold was easing, as well.

  Chandler studied Chip for a moment. “I do believe you saved our lives just now, Mr. Allison. The quench switch was brilliant.”

  Laura sat up on the floor and looked around, taking in the situation.

  “Laura, why?” Doug asked her.

  She didn’t respond; she was staring at Chandler.

  “I told you we needed to talk,” Chandler said to Doug.

  “I’ve got nothing to say to you,” Doug said. “Just leave us alone. We won’t come after you.”

  “You know too much, Dr. Landry. But I have something to say to you. And more importantly, so does your wife.”

  Doug watched in stunned horror and disbelief as Laura got up and walked over to Chandler. Chandler handed her the gun.

  “Laura, shoot him!” Doug shouted.

  Laura still didn’t say anything. She gently shook her head. She was beginning to tear up.

  “You must,” Doug pleaded.

  “She won’t,” Chip said. “I’ve been trying to tell you—she’s become like him.”

  Doug refused to believe this.

  “Go ahead, Laura,” Chandler said.

  Laura raised the gun and took aim at Doug’s chest.

  “Laura, what are you doing?” Doug said, horrified, even as understanding finally sank in.

  Her arm began to tremble.

  “Think, Laura—you don’t have to do this,” Doug said, but his plea was only half-hearted. He felt as if he deserved his fate; he had failed to protect Laura from this monster.

  “Do it now,” Chandler ordered.

  Laura’s arm now shook and tears rolled down her face.

  “Remember what we have become,” Chandler said to her. “I have chosen you.”

  “Think of the boys, Laura,” Doug said, trying to lock eyes with her.

  “I have given you the gift,” Chandler said, worry suddenly glittering in his usually flat, dull eyes.

  “I didn’t ask for the gift,” she said, her face twisted in anguish. Finally her gun arm sagged and she said, “I can’t. I love him.” Without warning, Laura quickly put the gun to her own temple. Before Chandler could stop her, she pulled the trigger.

  Doug screamed.

  C H A P T E R 7 0

  Wednesday, 1:20 a.m.

  Kristin could hear the wailing of the magnet alarm through the small service door. She stood there for a moment, pressed up against the door, gathering her courage. Chip had warned her that Chandler was at the med center—not captured—and she felt certain that the bastard was here.

  She keyed in the code and heard the lock click open. She took a deep breath and with her heart in her throat, entered the room. The piercing alarm was much louder inside, disorienting her. The room was also bitterly cold, though she found the air breathable. A blinking red light on the magnet’s back control panel indicated that someone had activated the emergency quench switch. Not good.

  She inched forward, straining to hear . . . anything.

  Voices, speaking loudly above the racket of the alarm.

  “Remember what we have become.”

  Chandler! Kristin involuntarily cringed and her knees went weak.

  “I have chosen you,” Chandler continued.

  “Think of the boys, Laura,” came Dr. Landry’s voice, thick with fear.

  “I have given you the gift,” Chandler said.

  “I didn’t ask for the gift,” a woman’s anguished voice answered—no doubt Laura Landry. “I can’t. I love him.”

  A gunshot made Kristin flinch so hard, she bit her tongue.

  A scream. Dr. Landry.

  Kristin quickly edged up to the front of the magnet and peeked around it, her ears still ringing from the gunshot. There was Laura Landry, lying on the floor not two feet away, with a bullet wound to her head, blood pooling on the floor beneath her. She still grasped the gun in her motionless hand. Chandler was at her side, reaching for the gun. Across the room, Dr. Landry and Chip stood like statues, their faces horror-stricken.

  Suddenly Chandler whirled to face her. “I know you’re there,” he said, looking right at her, his silver-flecked gray eyes flashing with menace.

  With Chandler’s back turned, Doug and Chip erupted into action, leaping forward toward Chandler, tackling him to the floor. Chandler went down hard, but an instant later, a spike was in his hand. Doug and Chip wrestled frantically with him, trying to subdue him without getting stabbed. Chip was on top, straddling Chandler; Landry was off to the side, keeping Chandler’s hand with the spike pinned to the floor. Chip punched Chandler in the face several times, then wrapped his hands around his neck and squeezed.

  Kristin pried the gun out of Laura Landry’s lifeless fingers and took a step forward. Chandler was only a foot away now. She bent over and took aim. But Chandler was thrashing about so much beneath Chip and Landry that she couldn’t get a clean shot.

  With a roar of rage, Chandler sat halfway up, throwing Chip off to the side. Landry still had his spike hand pinned to the floor. But with his free hand, Chandler smacked Kristin square across her face, knocking her backward.

  Kristin’s head hit the magnet housing hard and she crumpled to the floor. The room swam before her eyes; she squeezed them shut against the nauseating vertigo and the pounding in her head. Weakness flowed through her limbs. She felt the blackness beckoning, reaching out for her. It would have felt so good to rest—just a brief rest . . .

  She almost surrendered to the blackness.

  But then Kristin fought back; with everything she had, she fought to cling to consciousness. She forced her eyes open and ignored the dreadful pain beating a path through her skull. The struggle a few feet away drew her gaze.

  Chandler was once again on his back, with Chip’s knees planted firmly on his chest. Chip’s hands were wrapped around Chandler’s neck, and he looked like he was riding a bucking bronco as Chandler repeatedly heaved his body off the floor, trying to throw Chip off. Landry stubbornly kept Chandler’s spike hand pinned down, but it seemed to take every ounce of his strength to do this. Chandler swung his free arm wildly about and landed a couple of blows to Chip’s face; blood streamed from Chip’s nose. It would only be a matter of time before Chandler broke free; he seemed stronger than the two other men combined.

  Kristin had to do something—and quickly.

  She commanded her mind to function, to shake off the rippling vertigo. Time to make this bastard pay. Her hands curled into fists, and she realized she still had the gun in her hand.

  Struggling to her hands and knees, still so pathetically weak, she started to crawl toward Chandler. Chandler didn’t seem to notice her; he was too focused on freeing his spike hand and shaking off Chip.

  Kristin closed the distance.

  Suddenly Chandler’s eyes widened and his head snapped toward her. He cocked his free arm to knock Kristin away again. Chip quickly rolled off his chest, covering Chandler’s arm with his body, saving her. But Chandler, free now of Chip’s weight, tried to sit up again, neck muscles bulging as he strained against the two men holding his arms. He brought his body up to a forty-five degree angle. Kristin watched in horror as Chip’s entire body was lifted off the floor. She tried to take aim at Chandler’s bobbing skull.

  Chandler howled again, freeing his spike hand from Landry’s grasp.

  Chip screamed, “Watch out!”

  Before Chandler could bury the spike in Landry’s chest, Kristin quickly put the muzzle of the gun up to Chandler’s skull. “This is for Smokey!” she shrieked as she pulled the trigger.

  The far side of Chandler’s head exploded in a mess of blood and brains. His a
rm with the spike dropped lifelessly to the floor.

  “Heal this, you bastard!” Kristin screamed and pulled the trigger repeatedly. She continued firing long after the ammo was exhausted, until the revolver made a series of dull clicking sounds.

  Chip gently took the gun from her hand. “He’s dead. For real, this time. You can stop.”

  Tears streamed down her face. Kristin bowed her head and leaned into Chip’s shoulder. He wrapped both arms around her and hugged her tightly as she wept.

  C H A P T E R 7 1

  One week later

  There was a knock on the door.

  Chip set his backpack down on the floor and jogged across the foyer in his socks. He almost slipped as he came to a stop before the door. “Thanks for coming over,” he said as he swung the door open. “C’mon in.”

  “You walk up those steps everyday?” Kristin asked breathlessly. She had on a light blue stretchy top that matched her eyes, over a pair of tight jeans and sneakers.

  “Pretty much,” he said. “Unless I just stay in bed.”

  He ushered her into the small living room. “Here, have a seat.” He indicated the worn sofa. Although he had cleaned the place before her arrival, even getting out the rarely used vacuum cleaner, he was still nervous about having a female guest. No dishes or cups strewn about. No beer bottles. To her credit, Kristin didn’t even wrinkle her nose at the sofa as she sat down.

  “How are you holding up?” he asked.

  “Good. The investigation is winding down—with you and Dr. Landry backing me up on everything, they’re okay with the self-defense angle. Justifiable homicide is what they’re calling it. And no one is pressing charges.”

  “Good.”

  “They seem anxious to put an end to all the craziness. And I think they’re relieved that Chandler’s dead—being a cop-killer and all.”

  “But are you okay?”

  “I guess so.” She looked down and her chin stared to quiver.

  “What?” Chip said softly.

  “It’s just—I never thought I’d shoot anyone.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

  Chip put his hand on her shoulder. “You did what needed to be done. He would’ve killed all of us—you know that. You saved at least three lives, probably more.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and looked up at him. “How’re you doing?”

  “Fine.” Chip tapped the bandaged bridge of his nose lightly with a finger. “My nose still hurts, but other than that, I’m fine.”

  “The whole thing seems unreal to me,” she said wistfully.

  “Me too.”

  “Did it really happen?” She sounded as if she hoped he would tell her it was all a bad dream.

  “I’m afraid so,” Chip said. “And sadly, no one will ever believe the real story.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She paused to pull the rubber band from her hair and redo her ponytail. “Except Dr. Landry. Have you heard how he’s doing?”

  “I talked to him a couple of days ago,” Chip said. “He’s keeping pretty busy with his kids. Sounded kinda numb, though. I don’t think it’s sunk in, what really happened.”

  “Probably not.” A pained smile appeared on her face. “I can relate to that.”

  “The funeral’s this Wednesday. Are you going?”

  “Yes, of course. We need to support him.”

  “I agree,” Chip said. “It’s going to be tough for him.”

  She nodded. “How many kids does he have?”

  “Three—all boys.”

  “Being a single parent is never easy.”

  “Absolutely,” Chip said. “But it’s more than that. I think he’s going to be lost without her.”

  “I’m sure most people would say that,” she said.

  “True, but I believe they were deeply in love with each other. More so than most.”

  “Why do you say that?” She cocked her head to the side.

  Chip sat down on the sofa beside her. “It’s just that every time he talked about her, he had this faraway look in his eyes. And his voice would change . . . I dunno—soften. And he was always so concerned about her well-being—he was obsessed with it.”

  “It must’ve killed him to see her like that—you know, what happened to her.”

  “For sure,” Chip replied sadly.

  “And then taking her own life,” she added.

  Chip didn’t say anything. They stared across the room in silence.

  Finally, Chip cleared his throat. “You know, the last couple of days I’ve been thinking about our whole encounter, ordeal—whatever you want to call it—with Chandler. About your Kirlian photographs, the mind-reading, the healing, the strength. I started to wonder about some things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Remember you talked about a soulless creature? How you thought maybe Chandler had lost his soul and this accounted for his powers? And we even brought vampires into the discussion.”

  “Well,” she said, “some of us did, anyway.” Surprisingly, she didn’t sound the least bit bitter; in fact, she smiled before continuing. “Usually that was where you would say it’s crazy talk, or be polite enough not to say anything.”

  It was good to see her smile. “Maybe I was wrong,” Chip said.

  She lifted her eyebrows. “Go on.”

  “I Googled vampires and did some reading. I came across some amazing coincidences.”

  “Like what?” She leaned forward and locked her pretty blue eyes with his.

  “Well, every kid knows that vampires suck blood from their victims, right?”

  “Right.”

  “This is what got me to thinking. Remember how Dr. Landry told us that Chandler originally tried to bleed Mrs. Landry?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Why did he do that? He wouldn’t have done it to kill her—he could’ve done that any number of easier ways.”

  “True,” she said, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “What if he was trying to take her to the edge of death? You know, so her soul would leave. And then revive her, transforming her into a soulless creature.”

  “Like what happened to him?” she asked.

  “Exactly. You said yourself, her picture had no aura, just like his. And she took Chandler’s side and seemed to communicate with him.”

  Kristin nodded. “I’ll buy that.”

  “There’s more,” Chip said.

  Her eyes widened with anticipation.

  “I still don’t believe in vampires,” Chip said, then held up a hand to stop her from interrupting, “but what if, in the past, there existed soulless creatures that were created naturally by some sort of freak of nature?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Somehow, someone got injured in some fashion—you know, earthquake, flash flood—so that they were almost dead. Then at the last second they were revived, but their soul had already departed.”

  “I suppose it could happen,” she conceded. “Once in a million, if the timing were perfect.”

  “Well, think about it. Those beings would possess enormous powers, like Chandler—strength, rapid healing, mind-reading—and would seem almost immortal. Like vampires.”

  “Right,” she said, drawing out the word thoughtfully, obviously warming to his theory.

  “The creatures themselves would quickly recognize their abilities, and perhaps try to propagate their kind. One of the easiest ways to do this would be to bleed someone else, thereby taking them close to death. Thus, the whole bloodsucking theme of vampires.”

  “Makes sense,” she said, nodding again.

  “And the holly stake through the heart notion just represents the overwhelming type of death necessary to kill such a creature.”

  “Right.”

  “So maybe the legend of vampires has its basis in the existence of soulless creatures throughout time.”

  “I do believe you’re onto something,” she said, her voice tinged with admiration.

 
; “And of course, the legend gets embellished over time to include such things as bats, coffins, aversion to sunlight.”

  “You have quite an active imagination there, Chip,” she said, smiling and patting his arm.

  “Learned from the best,” Chip said, returning her smile. He threw a glance at his backpack.

  She paused to look around the room, her ponytail swinging from side to side. A blank look had come into her face, which he recognized as her intuition kicking in.

  “What is it?” he said.

  “You just made me think of something.”

  Chip glanced at his backpack.

  “This past weekend,” she continued, “I was in church—I’ve been spending a lot of time in church recently—and . . .” She paused, collecting her thoughts.

  “Go on,” he gently prodded.

  “The gospel reading was about casting out demons and unclean spirits from crazed people.” She looked at him. “Maybe those afflicted people were the soulless creatures of the day, and when Jesus and his followers went about casting out demons, they were actually restoring souls to these individuals.”

  “Wow,” he said, “I like it. You really are a creative thinker.”

  Suddenly, Kristin yelped, jumped up from the sofa, and backed away. “Your backpack,” she said, pointing. “It’s moving!”

  “Oh, that,” Chip said nonchalantly. He walked over and knelt by the pack.

  “What’s in there?” she asked, curious now.

  “Let’s take a look.” Chip unzipped the main compartment. He carefully lifted out a golden retriever puppy that was small enough to hold in one hand. He set the pup down on the carpet and the pup sat still, eyes wide as saucers. He looked overwhelmed.

  “Oh my God,” Kristin exclaimed. “He’s adorable. Ah—he’s trembling.” She knelt down and began to gently pet the puppy, trying to soothe him. “It’s okay, little one. No one’s gonna hurt you.” She turned to Chip. “When did you get him? What’s his name?”

  “I just got him two days ago,” Chip said. “He’s eight weeks old. But I don’t know what his name is yet.”

  She gave him a puzzled look.

  “Because he’s yours,” Chip said.

  “Seriously?” Kristin scooped the puppy up, tears coming to her eyes. “He’s so soft,” she said, her voice breaking. She held the pup up to her face and nuzzled it. The puppy licked her nose.