by Mallory Kane
“You’d better get out of here. This is too dangerous. Besides, look at you. You’re exhausted. You need a good night’s sleep.”
She shook her head and some of the color returned to her pale cheeks. “Not tonight. I’m headed to the basement—to the Medical Records room. We can’t afford to lose any time.”
Her words shot through him like a spray of ice water, clearing his head.
“The hell you are!” He grabbed her wrist. “Remember what Decker said? I’m in charge here. You are not to go snooping around by yourself. It’s too dangerous.”
Her jaw clenched pugnaciously and she tried to twist her wrist out of his grip. Rather than take the chance of hurting her, he let her go.
“Have you forgotten what happened to Dr. Green?” he asked.
“No, of course not. But there’s no proof that he was murdered.”
“Laurel thinks so, and she’s one of the best forensics people I’ve ever worked with. She doesn’t make a statement like that without evidence to back it up.”
“What evidence?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know the specifics. The Division is following up on it now. They’re trying to contact the reporter Green spoke with, and Laurel is reanalyzing Green’s autopsy results. Even if they find irrefutable proof, they won’t approach local law enforcement until we can be safely extracted.”
“That’s great, but I can’t just sit around and wait. You can’t do anything with Gracie checking on you every hour. I’m stuck over in the Women’s Center. Night is the only time I can search. If I have to, I’ll do this alone. I have to find Dr. Metzger’s records.”
Her fierce declaration hung in the air between them. Eric stared at her, realization settling like a heavy blanket across his chest. He’d known the truth somewhere deep inside him, but he hadn’t let himself think about it.
“You only agreed to do this to prove Metzger is innocent, didn’t you?”
Her cheeks flamed. “I agreed to do it because your boss threatened to lock me up.”
Eric stared at her. “Give me the cell phone. I’m having you extracted right now.”
“No.” She held up her hands, palms out. “Wait. Please. I didn’t lie to Agent Decker. I just want the truth. I don’t want anyone else hurt.”
At that moment Eric couldn’t read her. The sedative, combined with the fact that neither of them had slept in more than twenty-four hours, was playing hell with his usual innate ability. He dropped his head wearily against the pillows.
“You’re lying. But as long as your agenda doesn’t get in the way of mine, we’re okay. I’m here to stop whoever hurt my brother and killed those patients and Dr. Green.” He clenched his fists at his sides. “If that turns out to be your saintly Dr. Metzger, then too bad. He’s going down.”
RACHEL SLIPPED INTO the alcove that separated the main hall from the service hall. She pushed through the double doors, preparing her excuse if she ran into anyone.
She would just say she was on her way to Medical Records to catch up on her dictation and sign some charts. Every doctor always had charts to sign.
Gliding down the hall to the service elevators, she stepped inside the ancient car and punched B for basement. The elevator doors opened into a narrow, dimly lighted corridor. The walls were a dingy, depressing green, and the baseboards and door facings were thick with coats of paint. This was the old original basement of the mansion, which had not yet been renovated.
Rachel’s tennis shoes squeaked on the mosaic tile floor as she hurried down the hall toward the door marked Medical Records.
And stopped.
The door was locked, its new stainless-steel knob connected to an electronic entry system. Rachel stared at the slot through which she would have to slide her badge to get inside. She’d done it before, when she was on duty and needed a returning patient’s chart, or needed to access an old record.
Her entry would be recorded somewhere, on some security computer. Her neck prickled as she stood there, frozen by indecision. Who checked the records of entries? And how often? Finally, holding her breath, knowing if she were confronted, she would not have a believable explanation, she swiped her badge through the card reader.
After a frightening instant of silence, she heard a quiet, electronic click. Relief and apprehension warred inside her. She pushed open the door and slipped inside, feeling along the wall for the light switch.
She was in. Now what?
The front of the room was laid out for the convenience of the physicians. Banks of workstations with computers, telephones and dictation machines were lined up like office cubicles. Beyond them, in the back half of the room behind a work counter, were the stacks. The rows and rows of shelves that held archived medical records.
Rachel threaded her way around the workstations, wondering how long it would take her to find Caleb’s chart in this maze of files. The records were probably arranged alphabetically or by social security number.
She pushed through the swinging gate and stepped behind the counter. There was an eerie perfection to the shelves. The folders were crisp and new and perfectly aligned. Not a single dog-eared sheet peeked out. It was almost as if the files were props in a movie. As if no real work had ever gone on here.
The thought made her uneasy.
Her gaze swept the counter. The usual office supplies and machines were lined up like toy soldiers. Even the unfiled charts were stacked neatly on a rolling cart, in order by ID number.
As she glanced through them, she made a startling discovery, something she’d never noticed before. There were no patient names anywhere on the charts. The colored tab on the outside of each chart held an eleven-digit ID number. She’d seen the ID numbers, but they’d meant nothing to her. She’d figured it was one of those things she’d eventually learn.
It occurred to her that every patient chart she’d ever handled had been encased in a binder labeled with the patient’s last name. But what about the individual doctor’s order sheets? They had to be identifiable by patient to avoid errors.
She flipped through a few charts, but there was not a patient’s name anywhere—not on the doctor’s order forms or any other forms. Each sheet was stamped with that blasted ID number and nothing else.
She needed Eric to look at the numbers, to see if he could figure out the code.
Rachel’s gaze swept the spotless, pristine room, her jaw clenched in frustration. Somewhere there had to be unfiled records. In four years of medical school and two years of residency, she’d never seen a hospital that wasn’t behind on records filing.
She searched under counters and in drawers. Nothing. Then in the back of a file drawer, behind beautifully coordinated, jewel-toned file folders, she hit pay dirt. A crumpled bundle of forms that had probably been hidden at the end of a shift, then forgotten.
Rachel’s pulse raced as she grabbed the stack, and with a quick flip-through to verify that they were indeed doctor’s order forms, she stuffed them into her backpack and zipped it shut.
She checked her watch. She’d been here for fifteen minutes. Longer than she’d intended. She wondered if Gracie had finished her bed checks. If so, she’d be back at the nurses’ station near the side door.
As Rachel started toward the swinging gate, she heard an ominous sound: the faint swish of a name badge being swiped through the security card reader.
Her entire body went into fight-or-flight mode. Her heart rate tripled. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, heightening her senses. She was about to be caught.
As the doorknob turned, Rachel hurtled herself through the swinging gate and into the nearest computer chair. She pitched her backpack under the workstation as she grabbed the mouse and wriggled it, relieved when the monitor hummed and began to brighten.
The door swung open, revealing a man Rachel didn’t know. He was medium height, stocky, dressed in teal-blue scrubs. A surgical mask hung loosely around his neck and his shirt was spattered with blood. When he saw her, he halted, st
artled, then glanced quickly around the room.
Rachel slanted a look at the gate through which she’d just lunged, relieved to see it had swung into place and stopped. Then she leaned back in the ergonomic chair and stretched. “Hi,” she said with an exaggerated yawn. “I didn’t know anybody else worked this late.”
Eyeing her with frank curiosity, the doctor nodded. “Nobody does, unless there’s an emergency or a new admission. This place is like the tombs at night. My bipolar patient tried to fly and took a chunk out of his knee earlier. Eleven stitches.”
“Yikes. Sorry.”
“Yeah, so since I was here anyway, I decided to clear out a few charts. It’ll be hours before I can sleep.”
“I know what you mean.”
He sat down a few cubicles away from her.
She made a pretense of typing in an ID number. Of course, since she had no idea what she was typing, nothing came up.
She yawned again, aware of her companion’s scrutiny. “Well, my eyes are crossing.” She pushed her chair back and retrieved her backpack.
“Aren’t you Rachel Harper?”
She let a small, rueful laugh escape her lips. “Yes, that’s me. I guess I’m famous now, after the whole kidnapping thing.”
He smiled. “Bill Dobson, Psychiatry. It was the most exciting thing that’s happened around here in a while, well, since Chuck Green’s suicide.” He shook his head. “At least the guard is out of the woods.”
“Darrell is going to make it? That’s wonderful. I hadn’t heard.”
Rachel felt a profound relief to know that Caleb wouldn’t be charged with murder. “How long have you been here, Bill?”
“Two years next month. I like it. I don’t usually get called out in the middle of the night.”
“Two years. Wow. You can help me then. Explain these darn ID numbers to me. They must mean something.”
He laughed. “Yeah. It took me a few months to get them straight.” He came over to stand beside her chair. “Who are you looking for?”
She gave him a name of one of her psychiatry patients.
He leaned over her, but she neatly slid out of her chair and snagged her backpack. “Go ahead and sit.”
“Here we go. I’ve pulled up your patient by name, Marsha Middleton. There’s the ID number. The first number is the number corresponding to the first letter of the patient’s last name. For M, it’s thirteen. For A it would be zero one. The next four are the last four digits of her social security number. Then the four-digit birth year. Then the first three digits of her social security number, then the birth day. And see, in her case, her birth day is the fifth, so it’s zero five.”
Rachel shook her head as she committed the information to memory. “Wow. I’m glad it’s not too complicated,” she said sarcastically.
Bill laughed. “It’ll make sense.”
“Yeah, eventually. Thanks, Bill. I’d better head home. So, I’ll see you around.” She hooked her backpack over one shoulder and headed for the door. “’Night.”
She felt the doctor’s eyes follow her as she exited. Outside the door, she blew out her breath. She felt as though she’d been holding it ever since he’d opened the door. A shiver passed through her.
Now she had to get out of the building. Maybe she could walk back out the front door, past the new security guard. Or hide in the service hall until Gracie had to answer a call button.
She rode the service elevator back up to first floor, cringing at the groaning of the ancient wires and chains that echoed through the long narrow corridors.
When the doors creaked open, Gracie stood there.
Rachel almost shrieked.
Gracie was obviously just as shocked to see her. “What are you doing here?” the nurse demanded.
“Gracie, hi. I was in Medical Records.” Tell the truth whenever you can.
The petite nurse’s black eyes snapped as she waited for Rachel to finish her explanation, but Rachel didn’t say anything more. She wasn’t used to lying, so she figured it would be best to keep her mouth shut. She tried to slip past Gracie, but the nurse stood her ground.
“You’re not assigned here.”
“That’s right. I’ll be working day shift over at the Women’s Dependency Center.”
Gracie’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Dr. Metzger told me to report to him if you tried to see Caleb.”
Metzger was having her watched? A pinprick of betrayal stung her. “Look, Gracie. I know I’m not supposed to be here. Dr. Patel read me the riot act earlier. But I need my notebook computer. It’s still in my locker.”
Gracie frowned and opened her mouth, but Rachel took the offensive.
“Gracie—” She took a step closer and bent to whisper near Gracie’s ear. “Did you tell Dr. Patel that I asked you about Caleb that night?”
Gracie’s throat moved as she swallowed. A glimmer of guilt shone in her eyes and she backed away a step. “That’s not what I said. I told him I called you when I discovered that Caleb was sleepwalking.”
Rachel didn’t believe her. “And then you called Security after I told you not to. None of this would have happened if you’d only listened to me. I had the situation with Caleb under control.”
“You’re blaming Darrell’s shooting and your kidnapping on me?” Gracie’s face distorted in anger. “That’s not fair. I was only following orders. Caleb is on the list.”
“List? What list?”
Gracie bit her lip. “Never mind. I have to get back to the nurses’ station.”
“Gracie, wait—” Rachel reached toward her, but Gracie backed away. “I need to know about the list. Who else is on it?”
“Never mind about that. I have to give my one o’clock medications.”
Rachel assessed the nurse. Rachel didn’t intimidate her. She was worried about someone else. Dr. Patel? Dr. Metzger?
“All right, Gracie. I’m just going to get my things.” She gestured in the direction of the women’s lockers.
Gracie checked her watch. “I’ll walk with you.”
“No,” Rachel blurted. “I mean, I’m sure you’re busy. I’ll just be a minute.”
But Gracie walked with her down the hall past Caleb’s room and through the double doors. And she waited, her arms crossed, while Rachel grabbed her laptop computer from the locker. Thank goodness she’d told the truth about that.
Her chest tight with frustration, Rachel slung her backpack over her shoulder and her laptop under her arm. She couldn’t afford to open her backpack or Gracie would see the wads of paper from the Medical Records room. Rachel headed for the side entrance.
It was obvious Gracie wasn’t going to let her out of her sight until she’d left the building.
Rachel wondered if she dared to mention Dr. Green. It was obvious the staff knew about the hours she’d spent as Caleb’s hostage. So it was reasonable to assume that Caleb had told Gracie of his suspicions, as well.
As they reached the exit, Rachel shifted her backpack and turned to Gracie.
“How well did you know Dr. Green? The psychiatrist who was here before me?”
Gracie’s dark eyes widened in wary surprise. “Not well. He worked here in neurology sometimes.”
“Do you know why he left?”
Gracie swallowed. “I think he was fired.”
“That’s what I heard. Why was he fired?”
“I believe it had something to do with him revealing confidential patient information to a reporter.”
“What happened to him?”
“Didn’t he have an accident?”
“He died. Of a drug overdose. Do you think he killed himself?”
Gracie hunched her shoulders and stuck her hands into her pockets. “I have no idea. We’re not supposed to talk about the staff. It upsets the patients.”
“There are no patients around right now. What happened to Dr. Green?”
The call button rang, startling both of them. Gracie glanced back toward the nurses’ station. “You sh
ouldn’t be nosing around here. It’s not safe.”
“What do you mean?”
Gracie stepped around Rachel and opened the exit door, an explicit invitation for Rachel to leave.
Rachel had no choice but to step through the door. As she started her descent down the concrete steps, Gracie’s voice followed her.
“You watch yourself, Dr. Harper. Dr. Green asked too many questions, and look what happened to him.”
AT HER APARTMENT in the staff housing unit on the other side of the grounds, Rachel climbed wearily into bed. Her body ached with exhaustion.
After a quick shower, she’d retrieved the doctor’s orders from her backpack and spread them out on her kitchen table. She’d stacked them, brushing out the wrinkles, and tried to read a few, but after squinting at several sheets, she’d been forced to admit she couldn’t focus. The hot shower had drained the last of her energy.
It had been more than twenty-four hours since she’d had any real sleep. Tomorrow she’d get up early, study the papers and take another look at the blueprints. Surely, in a building as old as the main building of the Meadows, there was a way to get inside without alerting Security. Maybe through the basement.
She yawned and groaned quietly. She was almost too tired to sleep.
She closed her eyes and tried to relax, but Eric’s face rose in her mind and her heart squeezed in compassion. She’d seen how hard he’d struggled to maintain control, despite the drugs. He was obviously unaccustomed to being helpless.
She turned over restlessly and plumped her pillow. She couldn’t afford to let herself feel too responsible for Eric. He was a specially trained undercover agent. He could take care of himself. Her concern was for her patients.
And yourself, a tiny voice whispered in her brain. She’d only known Eric for a little more than twenty-four hours. But from their first eye contact, she’d felt a connection between them, an awareness that went beyond their mutual concern for Caleb. She saw his integrity, his commitment to his job, the protectiveness that was obviously a part of his makeup.
