Seeking Asylum

by Mallory Kane

  She didn’t pursue his mouth, but she didn’t pull away, either. It was as if she knew how fragile and fleeting the moment was, just as he did. And, like him, she didn’t want to do anything to break the spell.

  Her lips trembled.

  A thump and a scrape of metal on metal sounded above them.

  Eric jerked his head up and tensed. He took a step closer to Rachel, shielding her with his body, though what he could do in pajama bottoms and nothing else, armed with a nail file and a flashlight, he didn’t know.

  “It’s the service elevators,” she whispered nervously.

  Voices sounded on the other side of the door. Someone had entered the Medical Records room.

  “I thought your doctor friend said nobody came down here at night.” He felt her shrug.

  “He’s not my friend. And what he said was ‘unless there was an emergency or a new admission.’”

  The com units made it possible for them to talk with hardly a sound. Rachel’s breathy voice tickled inside Eric’s head.

  “Do you recognize the voices?”

  She shook her head. “I can barely hear anything.”

  Eric tightened his fingers around her neck as the voices rose. “Shh. I’m going to slide the door open a crack.”

  Beside him, he felt her stiffen.

  Carefully turning the knob, he pushed on the door and held his breath, listening.

  “Here it is.”

  It was a male voice, not far from the door.

  “I knew this chart had to be misfiled. So how’d your job interview go?”

  Eric couldn’t make out what the other person was saying.

  The voice near the door began to fade as the man headed toward the other end of the room. “Did you hear about the FDA investigation?”

  “Investigating the Meadows? No. Tell me.”

  “I heard Metzger’s latest new drug application was—”

  Wooden chairs scraping on concrete floors drowned out the rest of the words.

  “They’re sitting down at the computer workstations,” Rachel said. “They’re going to be here for a while, and it’s getting late.”

  He nodded as he slowly pulled the door closed and carefully released the knob. He held up the fingernail file, but as Rachel reached for it, he palmed it.

  She sent him an alarmed glance. “You can’t keep that. If they find it they’ll lock you up.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” he muttered, slipping the file into the loosely sewn drawstring waistband of his pajamas.

  Then he caught Rachel’s arm and led her quietly over to the exterior door.

  “What was that about an FDA investigation?”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “It would have to be linked to a research study, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Call Mitch when you get back to your apartment. Tell him what we heard and ask him to contact the FDA about anything concerning the Meadows, Metzger, Green or anyone else connected with this case.”

  He gripped her shoulders and placed her, back to the wall, next to the door. Then he eased the heavy wooden door open with agonizing slowness, finally peering out across the lawn.

  “It looks clear. Run back the way you came. And for God’s sake, be careful.”

  He took her face in his hands. Her blue eyes were barely visible in the inky darkness. He pressed his forehead against hers and spoke quietly. “Don’t cut me off again. Keep up our check-in schedule. Talk to me. And I swear, if you ever pull a stunt like this again, I’ll contact Decker and get you extracted immediately. Do you understand?”

  She nodded and put her hands over his. “Go. You’re going to get caught.”

  He knew she was right.

  He pressed on the small of her back and urged her out the door. “Run!”

  When he was sure she was safely across the open lawn and hidden in the underbrush, he locked the door, wound his way through the corridors and vaulted up the stairs.

  By the time he got back to the first floor service hall, Gracie was six rooms away, making her rounds. He listened as she opened a door and peered in, then continued on to the next room, where she did the same thing.

  He waited. At the third room from his, he heard a patient’s voice call her name as she pushed open a door. He angled his head around the corner in time to see her step inside the room. He slipped across the hall and into his room, heading straight for the bathroom.

  Checking the mirror, he saw cobwebs in his hair and smudges on his shoulders. His breath hissed out through his teeth in relief that he’d thought to duck into the bathroom. Grabbing a washcloth, he brushed it over his head and down his shoulders. He exited the bathroom just as Gracie opened his door.

  Squinting against the bright hall lights, he smiled at her. “Hi, sweetheart. Come to kiss me good night?”

  Gracie frowned. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  “Call of nature, my dear.”

  Gracie harrumphed, but she didn’t leave. “Stay in bed, Caleb.”

  Eric climbed into bed and turned over, feeling the sharp tip of the nail file pressing into his side. Its cool metal sharpness was reassuring. As soon as Gracie was done with bed checks, he planned to use the file to bend the metal flashing on the doorjamb so it creaked and dragged when pushed open. He couldn’t afford to have anyone walk in on him unannounced.

  “Say good night, Gracie,” he whispered.

  With another sniff, Gracie closed his door.

  Chapter Eight

  When Rachel got back to her apartment, she saw the message light on her phone blinking. The call was from Dr. Metzger’s secretary, informing her of an appointment with Dr. Metzger in his office, the next afternoon at 4:00 p.m.

  Rachel stood staring at the phone. She’d been so thrilled to be accepted at the Meadows. Ever since she’d first heard of Gerhardt Metzger, it had been her life’s dream to work with the famous neurologist. He was closer to a breakthrough on the treatment of schizophrenia than anyone had been in the past fifteen years.

  In the two months she’d been at the facility, she’d seen Metzger maybe three or four times. She’d never had the chance to speak to him.

  Now, because Caleb had kidnapped her, suddenly he was interested in talking with her.

  Why? To consult with her on Caleb’s condition? Or to find out what Caleb may have told her?

  Rachel fervently hoped it was the former. Her goal from the time she was old enough to understand what was wrong with her mother, had been to become a doctor—to defeat mental illness.

  Dr. Metzger was her idol. She had read all his articles and papers on schizophrenia and brain chemistry. She could not believe his intent was evil.

  She unloaded her pockets and saw that the cell phone the FBI had issued her had a missed call on it. She read the text message from Natasha.

  SpAg N. Rudolph: Dr. Harper, need to arng mtg to tx bps to u. UnID’d ctrl area in bsmt may be lab. Poss bmb shlt in 60s.

  “Eric?” she whispered into her com, but she heard only dead air. He’d turned his unit off. When it was on, she heard and felt the connection between them.

  “Eric, damn it!” He’d ordered her to keep her com on, but he’d turned his off? She wanted to growl in frustration, but then the implication hit her like a blow.

  What if he hadn’t made it back to his room? What if he’d been caught? Fear for his safety gripped her.

  “Eric, answer me!” But she knew it was futile.

  If Eric had been caught sneaking back into his room, Gracie would probably write it up as another episode of sleepwalking. Caleb had been known for sleepwalking through the halls at night. From what he’d told Eric, he hadn’t always been asleep.

  She looked at her watch. It was after one o’clock in the morning. She considered going back over to the main building to check on Eric. But her appearance would just cause more suspicion. And if he’d been caught—fear crawled up her spine. She couldn’t afford to take th
e chance.

  Her skin itched with frustration and sweat. She showered quickly and climbed into bed. She was going to be exhausted in the morning.

  Reluctantly she turned off her com unit. She stared at the ceiling, worry firing her nerves. With the com unit off, she felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. She clamped her jaw, deliberately closed her eyes and turned onto her side.

  She could not depend on Eric being there. Because once the FBI found the evidence they sought, he would be gone.

  LATE THE NEXT NIGHT, Rachel crouched in the tall grass, waiting for the guard and his dog to round the west corner of the building. Her nerves were raw. The entire day had passed with agonizing slowness, made worse by her dread of the afternoon meeting with Dr. Metzger. She’d marked each hour by turning on her com unit and trying to contact Eric, according to their plan. But he never answered.

  As the day had dragged on and on, her nerves had stretched as taut as a rubber band, until she’d felt as if she would snap. She’d found it almost impossible to concentrate on the problems of the women in the two group sessions she’d conducted and a routine clinical assessment on a new admission.

  Then, in the middle of Dr. Metzger’s office, as the receptionist had explained that Metzger was involved in an emergency and couldn’t see her, her com unit had come alive. Somehow she’d managed to suppress her relief at hearing Eric’s voice until she’d exited the office.

  Eric had instructed her to bring the FBI-issue cell phone with her and meet him at the back entrance at eleven o’clock. He’d cautioned her to hide in the grass and wait until he contacted her. Then he’d turned his com unit off.

  So here she was, waiting. She was worried about Eric. As relieved as she’d been to hear his voice, he’d sounded odd—stressed and tired.

  “Rachel? Are you here?”

  She jerked. The shadow that was the secret doorway shifted and she saw a pale figure.

  Eric. Her eyes stung with relief. There he was, whole and unharmed.

  “I can see you,” she said on a sigh.

  He lifted one arm.

  “Come on, hurry.”

  She glanced around to verify that no one was around, then dashed across the velvet carpet of grass straight into his arms.

  “Whoa,” he whispered as he pulled her inside and closed the door. “I’m glad to see you, too, but be careful.”

  For just a second she pressed her face into the hollow under his collarbone, until the urge to cry went away.

  Something was wrong. His body was hot, with fine tremors rippling through his muscles. She pulled back and looked at him in the almost non-existent light. There was a hollow, haunted look in his eyes.

  “Eric, what’s the matter?”

  He shook his head. “Did you bring the cell phone?”

  “Of course.” She was angry with him for not contacting her all day long. “You had no right to leave me for almost twenty-four hours with no contact. You were the one who insisted on regular check-ins.”

  “I was a little busy today. Now give me the phone. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  His voice was tight, his movements jerky—almost awkward. Something had happened to him. Judging by his demeanor, something bad.

  She dug the phone out of her jeans’ pocket and handed it over.

  “I need you to look at it anyway. There’s a text message from Natasha,” she said.

  Rachel watched his strong, elegant hands as he quickly manipulated the keypad. They trembled slightly, but he didn’t fumble.

  “‘Dr. Harper, need to arrange meeting to transfer blueprints to you,’” he read. “‘Unidentified central area in basement may be lab. Possible bomb shelter in the sixties.’” He looked up. “That’s interesting. You need to get those blueprints as soon as possible. Set up a meeting.”

  Rachel was taken aback by his abrupt tone. He sounded as if he was barely holding himself together.

  He raised his head. “Did you bring the flashlight?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “We need to search for Caleb’s records.”

  He turned and headed for the door to the Medical Records room. He pulled the fingernail file out of the narrow seam of his drawstring pajama bottoms and picked the lock, listening for a few seconds before slipping inside.

  Rachel followed him, her heart in her throat. What if one of the doctors was down here, like last night? Or an emergency situation required a chart?

  “How is this area laid out?” Eric asked quietly.

  “These are the stacks. There’s a counter up there, about twelve feet from the door, and beyond the counter are kiosks with computers, telephones and a dictating machine.”

  “Are the charts computerized?”

  “It’s a double system. The doctors can either use the computer or they can write or dictate notes the old-fashioned way, and transcribers enter the information. The Meadows keeps computer records and hard copies. You saw last night how perfect the files are. It’s hard to believe they’re real. Charts are usually pretty beat up, especially old ones.”

  “What did you tell me about the patient identification system?”

  “The first two digits represent the number of the first letter of the patient’s last name.” She explained the rest of the ID number.

  “Okay, got it. I can give you most of Caleb’s ID.”

  “You can?”

  He smiled wryly. “My birth date is the same as Caleb’s. And our social security numbers were issued at the same time, so his is bound to be close to mine.”

  “Of course. So your ID number would be 02—what?”

  He rattled off the number.

  Rachel repeated the number to herself. If Caleb’s number was close, it should be easy to find Caleb’s chart, as well as any of his unfiled records.

  Eric nodded toward the stacks. “I’ll keep watch while you retrieve Caleb’s file. We won’t take the chance of trying to hack into the computer. I’ll leave that to Natasha if it becomes necessary.”

  Rachel turned on the high-intensity flashlight and began searching the stacks for Caleb’s chart.

  She heard quiet beeps as Eric keyed a number into the cell phone and walked a few steps away from her.

  “Mitch.”

  Rachel stopped, shamelessly eavesdropping.

  “Yeah. Kind of rough. Today, especially. No, she’s doing great. Not totally convinced that she’s doing the right thing, but she’s committed. Keeping her promise to help. Pretty resourceful, too.”

  Rachel raised her brows as warmth flowed through her. Doing great. She had no doubt that if Eric thought otherwise, he’d say so.

  She directed the light across the tabs until she came to the section of ID numbers that began with the number two for B, the second letter in the alphabet. They were on the far side of the shelf nearest the back wall.

  “No, I’m okay. What about Caleb? He hasn’t woken up, has he?” Eric’s tone changed when he asked about his brother. It was at once hopeful and disheartened, as if he already knew the answer to his question.

  “Yeah. I could tell. I’m getting some help. A sense of direction that helps me get around. A vague understanding of where things are. An instinct about how to act. Nothing specific, but then I never was able to hear—” His voice faded to silence.

  What was he talking about? An oppressive blanket of unnamed fear and caution enveloped her, similar to how she felt when she visited her mother.

  She shivered.

  “I know. We’re in the Medical Records room now, looking for his records. Apparently, Metzger has a few specific patients he uses for his experiments. Natasha contacted Rachel. Have arrangements been for Rachel to meet an agent to get the blueprints? Good. I’ll talk to you when I can. Meanwhile, Rachel’s got the phone if there’s any change in Caleb’s condition. Thanks.”

  Rachel scanned the folders in the section marked B, but she didn’t find Baldwyn anywhere. There was a Baldwyn, first name Anne. She pulled it out and glanced through
several pages, just in case.

  “Rachel, have you found anything?” Eric asked.

  “No. The chart isn’t back here.”

  “Are you sure?” He walked over to her side. She felt the trembling in his limbs. “Could it be misfiled?”

  “I doubt it. He’s about to be arraigned for attempted murder and kidnapping. His chart is probably in police custody, or at the very least in the chief medical director’s office.”

  “There has to be something here that we can use.” His voice was harsh. “Look again.”

  “Eric, what’s wrong with you tonight? What did Mitch say? Is Caleb no better?”

  He shook his head.

  “I’m so sorry. I wish I could be more help. I can’t believe we’re having such a hard time finding anything.”

  “Obviously someone has gone to a lot of trouble to hide the evidence.”

  “If there’s anything down here referring to Caleb, it would have to be in that bin of unfiled forms.”

  “Great. Where is the bin?” He wiped a hand down his face.

  She grabbed his muscled wrist.

  He looked down at her and his throat moved as he swallowed.

  “First you tell me what’s wrong. What happened to you today?”

  “I’m fine. We don’t have a lot of time here, Rachel.”

  “I deserve to know why you didn’t contact me all day.”

  He took the flashlight from her, rechecking the shelf she’d just looked at. She knew his action was just something for him to do to keep from looking at her.

  “This morning, the big registered nurse, Thomas, who seems to have it in for Caleb, came in with an orderly. He gave me my regular daily injection.” He paused, wiping a hand down his face. “Then he told me I was going for a ‘procedure,’ and the orderly held me down while Thomas gave me a second injection. I guess they thought I might fight it, but I didn’t.” He took a shaky breath. “It was a strong sedative.”

  Rachel took a sharp breath. “What had you done?”

  He sent her an irritated glance. “I hadn’t done anything. About five minutes later, Thomas returned with another orderly and they strapped me to a gurney and took me—somewhere.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “I tried to keep my bearings, but I was too drowsy. I know I was taken on an elevator.”