by Mallory Kane
Rachel. He’d dreamed about her. As he quickly showered, he let his brain replay the dream. She and Caleb were hanging by their fingertips from a cliff. Below them, fiery waves broke and sizzled against red glowing rock, and the tide was rising. Eric only had one rope, and it wasn’t long enough. Even if he climbed down the rope himself, he could only save one of them.
He lifted his face to the warm flow of water, trying to wash away the startling images and the leftover drowsiness from the sedative. It didn’t take a psychiatrist to interpret the dream. He felt responsible for both Rachel and Caleb, and he was worried that he couldn’t protect them both.
It weakened his knees anew each time he thought about Caleb, locked away all this time. How could he not have known that his brother was alive?
He closed his eyes, searching for the connection he remembered from his childhood. The sense that he wasn’t alone.
With a pain as sharp as a knife piercing his heart, he realized that he had never been alone. He’d spent his childhood trying to protect his brother. Then, when he’d been told Caleb had died, he’d felt ripped in two. To discover, twenty years later, that his brother was alive had been a brutal shock, but also a relief.
He’d spent all that time nearly paralyzed by fear that the whispers in his brain and the odd dreams were precursors to schizophrenia.
He shook his head under the shower spray. Now he knew. The odd formless whispers he’d always endured were from his brother.
Caleb had always been there.
He tried to search, to connect with Caleb in a more concrete way, as they’d occasionally done as children. But he was distracted, probably because of the medication.
Plus, his brain was suffused with Rachel’s face. Her melodic voice in his ear last night had stirred him, even in his sedated state. By the time their conversation was over, her sexy bell-like murmurs had swirled around him like fine perfume and he’d ached with restless wanting.
Now, just thinking about her, his body sprang to life. What the hell was the matter with him? Suddenly he was reacting like a randy teenager. He hadn’t done much of that, even when he was an adolescent. Those years had been spent in grief and guilt, missing his brother and traumatized by his death.
With a groan, he turned off the hot water and quickly finished under icy spray.
As he exited the bathroom, he glanced at the clock and pressed his ear, activating the com unit.
A movement in the mirror startled him. He looked up and froze. He hadn’t realized how much he looked like Caleb. The new, shorter haircut made all the difference. He glanced down at his ragged fingernails, then back up. Deliberately he forced a dark, fearful glare into his eyes.
Paranoid. Angry. Haunted.
“Eric?”
The word hummed like a harp in his ears, breaking the spell. He glanced down at his nakedness.
The sounds he’d heard last night, the splash of water and quiet sighs as Rachel had showered, painted an erotic picture in his mind: Rachel, nude, her creamy skin glistening with droplets of water, her midnight hair plastered to her head, her brilliant blue eyes surrounded by wet, spiky eyelashes.
He watched himself grow hard.
“Yeah?” he croaked.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Where are you?”
“At the Women’s Center. I’ll be here all day.”
He tossed the towel aside and opened a drawer. Gritting his teeth, he pulled on underwear and jeans and grabbed a T-shirt. “I’m meeting with Metzger. What will he want?”
“He’s probably fishing to see what you told me. What you—what Caleb—told the FBI.”
“Is this unusual or does Metzger meet with his patients a lot?
“I think he has private sessions with his schizophrenia patients at least once a week. Eric, last night Gracie mentioned a list. I’ve never heard that before. She told me she’d had to call Security because Caleb is on the list.”
“That list may be a group of special patients, the ones Caleb said Metzger experiments on. Have you talked to Natasha?”
“Not yet. I’ll call her in a few minutes.”
“Make the call quick. Tell her we need a recent aerial photograph of the building. Tell her to overlay the original blueprint, and then mark every single spot that doesn’t exactly match. I don’t care if it’s a new window shutter. And tell her about the list.”
“Okay. How will she get the information to us?”
“You may have to leave the grounds to meet someone. Pretend you’re going out to dinner or something. I’ve got to go.”
“Eric, your brother is a charmer and a smart aleck. Mezger will expect you to talk back to him and to question everything. He’ll be watching you closely.”
“Okay. Thanks. Open your com unit every hour on the fifteen-minute mark for about five minutes, but don’t speak. I’ll talk to you when I can.”
He toggled the com unit off and wiped a hand down his face. There was no way he could concentrate with her voice in his head all the time.
Looking back at the mirror, he watched the haunted look return to his eyes. Deliberately he smiled, raising his brows in a sardonic slant. Did he look like a smart-ass?
He winked at his reflection, thinking that it would be easier for him to endure a slow, long torture than to be charming. He headed for the dining room.
GERHARDT METZGER scratched his mutton-chop sideburns and frowned as Caleb Baldwyn left his office. The young man’s attitude had been one of irritation and wariness.
During the forty-eight hours Baldwyn had been away from the Meadows, something about him had changed. Metzger couldn’t pinpoint the exact difference, but it was there.
Even though Baldwyn had eyed Metzger the same way he always had, as if trying to reverse their roles, his entire demeanor was different today.
For one thing, he was stiffer, more controlled. Metzger pulled a legal pad toward him and picked up his fountain pen.
The pen scratched reassuringly against the paper as he quickly wrote his assessment of Caleb.
“Alert. Calm. Appeared tired, but not ill. Respiration normal, color normal, no indication of schizophrenic symptoms, except mild paranoia. Less communicative than usual. Healthy.”
Healthy.
Metzger stared at the word.
Too healthy. The young mental patient had been receiving the solution of extracted brain chemicals daily for seven years, making him Metzger’s longest continuously running experiment. In all that time, there was only one documented incident of a missed dose—a nursing error during one of Caleb’s transfers to the Independent Living Center. Within twelve hours, he’d become increasingly paranoid and had experienced several episodes of difficulty breathing. As soon as he’d been given a booster of the solution, his vital signs had returned to normal.
“No evidence of withdrawal from the mixture,” Metzger wrote, then tapped the cap of his fountain pen against the paper.
He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, checked the time, then keyed in a familiar number, a number in Germany.
“James, my friend.”
“Gerhardt, I was just about to leave for the day. Has your patient been returned to you?”
“Ja. And in good health.”
“Really? How many injections did he miss?”
Metzger nodded in satisfaction. True to form, James knew immediately the source of Metzger’s biggest concern.
“Two. He was gone for forty-eight hours. He should have gone into respiratory arrest.” It was always satisfying to talk to the one man who understood the importance of Metzger’s work and the gravity of the situation.
Dr. James Farmer, a Nobel Laureate in medicine, had been Metzger’s friend and mentor for many years. It was Farmer who had discovered an important pathway in the brain that had led him to his controversial theory of mental illness as an autoimmune disease. A theory his protégé Metzger shared.
“Didn’t you tell me he kidnapped a psychiatrist?”
“Ah, yes, the young woman who is so devoted to you.”
“To our theories. Her background and training combined with a personal crusade to cure mental illness made her a good choice to replace Dr. Green.”
“And she was with the subject for how long?”
“Approximately twenty-four hours. They both were hospitalized at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D.C., for observation, then brought back here.”
“What was her assessment?”
Metzger tapped his fountain pen. “She noticed what she termed ‘slight’ respiratory depression. Said it came and went. Essentially the same information I got from the hospital where he was taken. There’s something wrong.”
“I agree. Is it at all possible that Baldwyn has developed a resistance to the respiratory effects over the years?”
“I don’t believe so. Only eighteen months ago, a nurse missed administering his daily injection and he reacted as we would expect. Difficulty breathing, increased paranoia, reduced oxygen levels in his blood.”
“Ah. Have you continued experimenting with the refining process?”
“Yes. In fact, in the past three months, I’ve refined the process again. I’m comparing mass spectrograph tests of the current solutions to the prior ones.”
“You still believe it could be a contaminant that is causing the respiratory effects?”
“I hope it is. If I had the time and the freedom to do the experiments I’d like to do, really push the dose up to the patient’s maximum tolerance level, I’m sure I could isolate and eliminate the ingredient.”
“So how soon will you be able to complete your plan to move your laboratory over here?”
Farmer had lived and worked in Germany for the past twenty years. Metzger had chosen to practice in the United States, hoping to be able to win approval of his refined drug from the FDA. But he had never been able to meet their stringent standards.
“I have more than one problem right now. As you know, the FDA has once again disapproved my application.”
“You did not indicate that your chemicals were human in origin, did you?”
“Of course not. But apparently they have some significant questions about my process for manufacturing the synthetic drug. But that’s not my biggest worry. Because the incident with Baldwyn was a kidnapping, the FBI became involved. I have no way of knowing what he may have told them.”
“Your pet subject is getting uncomfortably close to the truth.”
“Yes. It’s been easy so far to blame it on his paranoia, but eventually someone is going to believe him. And this Dr. Harper is young and filled with idealism. A practiced manipulator like Baldwyn could easily convince her of his suspicions.”
“And the FBI, have they questioned you?”
“Only marginally. They apparently consider the matter closed, since Harper was not harmed, and Baldwyn was brought back here. He’ll be arraigned in two weeks for the shooting of the security guard. I’d like to be out of here before then.”
“Are you still planning to bring Baldwyn with you?”
“Of course.” He had already signed the necessary papers. “I’ve arranged for him to accompany me to a ‘symposium,’ then once we land in Germany—”
“What about his arraignment?”
“He’s been released back into our custody. All the paperwork is in order for him to make a short trip out of the country.”
“Good. I have arranged for you to disappear. All you have to do is get yourself and your patient through security and customs. Gerhardt?” Farmer paused for an instant. “What about Dr. Harper?”
Metzger pushed back from his desk and walked over to the window, looking out over the grounds, scratching his sideburns. Frustration ate a hole in his gut. “Ever since the incident with Baldwyn’s friend Misty, he’s become increasingly obsessed with the idea that she was murdered. He still raves about evil experiments.”
“You’re certain he told Dr. Harper of his suspicions.”
“Yes. She alluded to his paranoia and delusional thinking. Still, it’s unfortunate that she was involved in the incident. Now she’s the unknown quantity in my plan. She’s only been here two months, so I can’t depend on her loyalty. That makes her a liability.”
“Just like Charles Green,” Farmer said.
Metzger sighed. “Right.”
“How much do you think she knows?”
“Unfortunately, at this point, it doesn’t matter. Anything is too much.”
Metzger said goodbye and disconnected. He stood, staring out the window at the manicured lawn.
Rachel Harper was in his way. She had to go.
“ERIC?”
It was Rachel. Eric almost shouted in relief to hear her bell-like voice in his ear. He was sick of sitting in the beautifully decorated day room with recovering victims of stroke, brain injury and early onset Alzheimer’s. Why had Caleb, a psychiatric patient, been housed on a neurology ward? And how many of these patients were being treated by Dr. Metzger?
“Hmm?” He didn’t want to speak any louder than a quiet hum. The orderlies had been watching him all afternoon. One burly guy had even accompanied him to the exercise room and stood, arms folded in the classic these-are-my-impressive-biceps stance for the entire hour Eric worked out.
“I guess you can’t talk. I’m in my apartment.”
Eric stood and walked over to the wide paned-glass window, as if he were looking out over the grounds. He felt the eyes of the orderly on him. He made an affirmative sound deep in his throat.
“I talked to Natasha,” Rachel continued. “I gave her your message about the aerial photo. She said they were already on it. She found something in the blueprints. There appears to be an old servants’ entrance on the back side of the building. She said the basement is underground in the front, but the ground slopes downward toward the back.”
“North?” Eric mumbled.
“Yes. The north side. Also, I was able to review the records. The ones I grabbed were older, six months or more. Some had Dr. Green’s signature. But none of the actual records have names on them. Just those ID numbers. Remember what I told you last night?”
“Yeah. Let’s talk about that later.” Eric glanced to the side, to be sure no one was close to him.
“Okay. Eric? How did your session with Dr. Metzger go? Can you tell me?”
Her worried voice warmed him. “He’s suspicious.” He covered his words by reaching up and rubbing at an imagined spot on the sparkling-clean glass. “Can you get in past security tonight?”
“I’m going to try that basement entrance.”
“No!” Crap. He’d spoken too loudly.
Before he could even turn, the big orderly was beside him. With an internal sigh, cursing his knee-jerk response to the thought of Rachel wandering the grounds alone, he prepared for a performance.
“No!” he said again, rubbing harder at the spot on the glass.
“Eric? What’s the matter?” Rachel’s voice sounded panicked. He wanted to say something to reassure her but he couldn’t, and he certainly couldn’t risk the orderly hearing the quiet hum of her voice. He reached up and pretended to scratch his ear as he switched off the com unit.
“Okay, Caleb,” the man said, right behind him. “What’s the problem?”
Eric glared at the guy’s broad, tanned face. “What kind of housekeeper are you? There are spots on the window. Spots.”
The orderly sent him a disgusted glance. “At it again, I see. I guess your little vacation didn’t do you any good, did it?” He gripped Eric’s arm with a viselike fist.
Eric jerked, but his strength was no match for the bigger man, and he didn’t dare use the martial arts tactics that had been a part of his training for the Division.
“Brawn before brains,” he said sarcastically, not really knowing where the compelling urge to taunt the orderly came from, but it felt right, so he went with it. “I gue
ss you keep your brains in those magnificent biceps.”
“Shut up, Baldwyn, or I’ll give you another taste of what these biceps can do.” The orderly jerked Eric toward the door. “You remember the last one, don’t you?”
Eric had to clench his teeth at the orderly’s reference to having used his muscle against Caleb in the past.
“I think you need to spend the rest of the afternoon in your room.”
Fine with me, Eric thought. It would give him a chance to talk to Rachel.
The orderly pushed him through the door into Room 3. “I’ll tell Thomas you need a little cocktail.”
As the door slammed shut, Eric pressed on the com unit. “Rachel?”
“Eric, what happened? Why did you turn your com unit off?”
“What’s a cocktail?”
Her soft intake of breath echoed through him as if she’d blown in his ear.
“Did they give you a cocktail?”
“No, but they’re talking about it. What is it?”
“It’s a mixture of drugs. Often a sedative, or an anti-psychotic. Despite the name, it doesn’t have to be in liquid form. It can be tablets or an injection.”
“I’m already getting one damn shot every day.”
“I know. That’s supposed to be the fenpiprazole.” Her voice sounded worried. “Are you noticing any effects?”
“Nothing except that I’m learning to hate needles even more than I already did. Rachel, is there anything I can do to keep them from giving it to me?”
She was silent for a few seconds. “Are you in your room? Then this might work. Lie down. Pretend to be asleep when the nurse brings the dose in. Maybe she’ll leave you alone if you’re asleep.”
“Thanks. Do not go wandering around alone. Promise me.”
“But—”
“Promise!” he said fiercely.
“I’d better go. You’ve got to convince them you’re asleep.”
The seductive buzz in his ear went silent.
“Damn it, Rachel,” he muttered. His muscles bunched with need for action. She had deliberately refused to promise him that she wouldn’t go out alone.
