Medicine Cup Read Online Free PDF

on the other side. At the far end, he could see the steel doors of the storage room. He headed toward the doors, flattening himself against the wall until he reached them. He slipped out his credit card. Despite the chill of the hall, beads of perspiration dripped of his nose. As before, he easily jimmied the lock open. Holding his breath, he slipped inside and turned the flashlight on. Millions of dust specks danced in the beam of light.
    Paul’s heart was racing as he swung the light across the room. It was more expansive than he had been able to see the night before. The beam cast an eerie glow across numerous file cabinets, antique bureaus, trunks and old boxes on both sides. He located the trunk he was interested in, between two stacks of luggage. With some difficulty, he managed to make his way over to it. He slid a small box off the top and shined the light on the trunk’s dusty surface. He took a deep breath and looked at the brass plate on top. He recognized the initials: C.A.B.-- Charles A. Baxter . The same man as in the pictures he’d seen in the hall.
    A metal latch, partially rusted, connected the top to the trunk. Paul pulled on it and it came loose easily. The lid creaked as he opened it, and he felt his body flush. Ever since he was a small boy, he liked looking through old things. Once, while playing, he found a treasure trove of old stamps in his grandparents’ attic.
    But this was the granddaddy of them all.
    Inside the trunk, the top shelf was thick with correspondence, pictures, and all sorts of official looking documents. All very, very old.
    Paul picked up a photograph off the top and blew the dust off. It was a picture of a small boy. Someone had written in the corner: Charles Baxter, age 11 . He continued leafing through the pictures until he found another that caught his interest. The picture showed a jungle in the background and a group of men standing near a river. A tall blond man stood in the foreground next to Charles Baxter. Paul recognized Baxter from the photograph in the hall. Several pygmy natives stood around them, holding a huge snake they had apparently just killed. Paul flipped the picture over. It read: Dr. Charles Baxter and Hans Olsen, Amazon 1934.
    Paul was continuing to look through various papers and documents when he came across a small book. It was bound in aged brown leather and tied up with some sort of twine. Paul pulled on it and the ancient string snapped easily. The entire book was stiff and brittle and he gently opened it, reading the first page: The Chronicles of Charles Baxter, September 5, 1933.
    Paul felt his pulse quicken. He couldn’t believe what he’d found. Was it possible no one else knew about this? He turned the next page and read the first entry:
This disease has about got me. The only thing that keeps me comfortable is the morphine, which I must inject five to tentimes a day. It’s a horrible existence, but one of which I have no choice. I have begun to plan for what will be mylast trip.
C. B.
    Paul heard a noise down the hall and his heart nearly came to a stop. If he got caught in here, he’d be fired for sure. He closed the trunk and realized he still had the diary in his hand. He wanted to finish reading it and obviously no one would miss it. He sucked in his stomach and jammed it in his waistband. He pulled his shirt down and made sure it wasn’t noticeable. Racked with fear, he grabbed his flashlight and worked his way back to the entrance, pressing his ear to the door. After he was satisfied it was clear, he slipped out and gently closed the door.
    Halfway down the hall, he heard it.
    Footfalls following close behind him. There was nowhere to go except the stairwell, so he dove behind the door and waited. He could only hope whoever it was would pass by.
    He waited for what seemed like an hour before looking out. Finally, it was quiet and Paul hurried back to his room and collapsed on his bed, exhausted.
    He’d forgotten all about the