Seeking Asylum (8 page)

Indignation swirled through her. “That is not true.” She sat up. “Caleb was already awake and very agitated when I got there. Surely you know how sleepwalkers can be when they’re awakened. Gracie wanted to call Security, but I told her not to. I’d handle it. But she called them anyway. Caleb was almost ready to go back to bed when Darrell showed up.”

Patel shrugged. “Mrs. Jones has worked here for eight years.”

“And I’ve been here two months. What are you saying, sir?”

“I just cannot imagine why one of the Meadows’s most loyal and trusted nurses would lie about something like that.”

“Neither can I.”

Dr. Metzger appeared at the door. “I’ve given Mr. Baldwyn a sedative and ordered him placed on hourly bed checks throughout the night.”

His words almost stopped Rachel’s heart. She’d expected them to sedate him, at least the first day, but hearing Dr. Metzger confirm it sent terror shooting through her as she imagined Eric’s intense, vital body limp with drugs.

“Hourly bed checks? You think he’s suicidal?”

Metzger glanced at Patel, who leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk, and scrutinized her. “He did shoot someone, Dr. Harper. Is there a problem with your level of emotional involvement with Mr. Baldwyn?”

Rachel felt as though the walls were closing in. Both doctors stared at her.

“I just need to be sure he’s all right,” she blurted.

“We have competent staff, Dr. Harper. Are you quite sure
you
are all right?”

“He’s been through so much. He trusts me,” she mumbled. “We have a good relationship.”

“He actually became quite disturbed when I mentioned your name.”

Rachel frowned at the neurologist. “What did you say to him?”

Metzger sent her a quelling glance, then raised a brow at Patel.

The look that passed between the two physicians told Rachel she was facing a united front.

Dr. Patel shook his head. “I’m afraid Dr. Metzger and I agree. Caleb needs constant observation right now, and we aren’t sure what seeing you might do to him. He will be arraigned in two weeks for the shooting of Darrell Freeman, and until that time, we are treating him as potentially violent.”

“Please,” Rachel said desperately. “Let me be assigned to him. I can help him. I know I can.”

Metzger glanced at Patel, then at Rachel. “Dr. Harper,
we need to understand Caleb’s state of mind. Why he became violent. What his reasoning was for kidnapping you.” He scratched his bushy sideburns. “I’m certain that, as a psychiatrist, you observed and evaluated his behavior. I know you haven’t had time to make a report, but give me an assessment.”

“Time to—” Rachel almost laughed. Her feet had barely touched the ground before they’d rushed her in here to grill her.

Metzger watched her closely as he slid his fat, black fountain pen up and down in his lab coat pocket. There was a small ink stain on the bottom seam of the pocket.

“An assessment,” she repeated. What did they want to hear? What would help Eric in his role as Caleb? “I don’t believe Caleb is violent. When Darrell rushed him, Caleb felt cornered. All he’d wanted to do was to get back to his room, and Darrell was between him and the door.”

Metzger shifted in his chair and a look of irritation crossed his face. “No, no, Dr. Harper. We know what happened in the sunroom. We have Mrs. Jones’s account. I need to know his symptoms. Physical, neurological.”

“But Gracie’s account was not—”

“Please, Dr. Harper,” Dr. Patel interjected.

Rachel swallowed the retort that struggled to escape her throat. She had to cooperate. If she were labeled difficult, it could hurt her chances of getting to Eric.

“Caleb was highly agitated. He expressed genuine remorse for shooting Darrell, and I had the definite impression that he grabbed me and ran simply because he was afraid of what would happen to him.” She didn’t mention his determination to find his brother.

“He knew exactly where he was going, so he wasn’t out of touch with reality. He directed me straight to his grand
mother’s house.” She paused, considering her next words carefully. “I got the impression that it may have been his grandmother’s death that upset him. Wasn’t she the last of his family?” She held her breath.

Patel’s dark eyes flashed as he glanced at Metzger then back at her. “Ah, Dr. Harper. Interesting assessment. His grandmother’s death as the inciting incident. What do you think, Gerhardt?”

“His physical symptoms, please.” Metzger pulled off his glasses and cleaned them with a handkerchief, seeming completely uninterested in the mention of Caleb’s family.

Rachel shifted in her chair. What was Metzger fishing for? The respiratory distress? His paranoia? How far could she go without mentioning Eric?

“I thought his physical symptoms were odd, considering his medications.”

Metzger relaxed visibly as he pushed his glasses back onto his nose. “Odd?”

She nodded, pretending to fuss with the bandages on her wrists. “He grew increasingly paranoid and he seemed to have difficulty breathing.”

“Please explain.”

“He exhibited symptoms of shock—pale, clammy skin, heightened respiration, sweating. A couple of times I thought he might stop breathing altogether.”

Metzger leaned forward. “He never did?”

She shook her head. “No, although he did struggle at times. I was worried that he might be having a severe allergic reaction.”

“Indeed? How did you treat his symptoms?”

Rachel shrugged. “I was bound most of the time. I encouraged him to lie down and to breathe slowly and deeply. Luckily, the FBI had EMTs on the scene.”

“Luckily.” Metzger rose, sending a look toward Dr. Patel. “I will make arrangements to talk with you later, Dr. Harper. I have rounds.” He left the office.

“Dr. Patel? May I see Caleb?”

“Dr. Harper—Rachel.” Patel shook his head regretfully. “If it weren’t for Dr. Metzger’s vehement defense of you, you would be facing termination. This is the first incident of patient violence involving a psychiatrist at our facility. It is grounds for immediate dismissal. However—” he shrugged and plucked a tissue from a box on his desk to blot his upper lip “—Dr. Metzger stepped in on your behalf. He apparently believes that you are a good doctor. He thinks you have a certain fascination for Caleb Baldwyn right now—because he kidnapped you and because you spent so much time alone with him.”

Rachel stood, straightening her back and lifting her chin. “I’m not
fascinated
with him. I am a physician. The moment Caleb Baldwyn took me hostage, I became responsible for him. I took care of him. I know him now, and I should be with him. I’m a familiar face. He responds to me.”

Patel’s eyes shuttered and his expression turned stony. “The issue is closed.”

“Issue?” she broke in. Her relationship with Caleb was viewed as an
issue.
“So you’re telling me you don’t trust my judgment?”

The chief medical director’s face reflected his irritation. “The next two weeks, while we wait for Mr. Baldwyn’s arraignment, will determine that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“How extensively were you questioned by the FBI? You have hardly mentioned that aspect of your kidnapping.”

Rachel spread her hands. “Not very. The Special Agent in Charge was Mitchell Decker, who worked with the local agent as well as the county sheriff. They asked me about the shooting and about Caleb’s illness.”

“How much talking did Caleb do?”

“Caleb hardly spoke. He was in severe distress.” Rachel’s guard went up immediately. She’d been briefed by Mitch and Eric about what questions to expect. So far they were right on target. “What he did say was largely nonsensical. You know, talking about evil doctors and conspiracies and experiments.” She smiled conspiratorially. “The usual paranoid delusions.”

Patel nodded and Rachel saw a careful loosening of his tense facial muscles. She’d allayed his concerns. They would have been suspicious if she hadn’t mentioned Caleb’s accusations.

She suppressed a relieved sigh.

“Thank you, Dr. Harper. It sounds like you represented the Meadows in a favorable light. Until we can assess Mr. Baldwyn’s state of mind, and find out what the charges against him will be, we don’t feel it is in your best interests to be near him. You will be assigned elsewhere, for your own protection, of course.”

Her relief changed to panic. “Elsewhere? W-where are you assigning me?”

“The Women’s Dependency Center.”

“Oh, no!”

The women’s drug treatment facility was on the other side of the grounds from the acute neurological unit, near her apartment.

They were cutting her off from any contact with Eric.

LATE THAT NIGHT, Rachel walked across the grounds and into the main hospital. She’d checked the duty roster ear
lier. The security guard who’d taken the night shift after Darrell’s shooting was new. She’d never met him.

She strode past him with a scant nod, keeping her expression carefully preoccupied, as if she were concerned about a difficult patient. As soon as she was past the security desk, she headed straight for the service hall.

When the Meadows was renovated and turned into a mental facility back in 1917, the builder had kept the aristocratic elegance of the original house. The carved mahogany woodwork had been stripped of years of paint and refinished. The doors through the main hallways gleamed with polish, accenting their high, ornate glass transoms. Long draperies hung to the hardwood floors and accented the rows of paned windows.

In contrast to the main corridors, the back halls were dull and shabby. They were used to transport meal carts and trash bins.

Stepping past bags of trash, Rachel headed west toward the neurology wing. Passing a cleaning woman pushing a mop and bucket, Rachel stopped at the elevator lobby, about twenty feet from the nurses’ station.

She was facing the main hall of the neurology wing. It was after eleven. Most of the patients would be asleep. Gracie had just come on duty, and if she were following her usual routine, she’d be in the medication room, counting the narcotics.

Rachel slipped down the hall, trying to think of a plausible excuse for being here if Gracie caught her. Neither Dr. Patel nor Dr. Metzger had specifically told her she was banned from the neurology ward, but the implication had been obvious.

The counter in front of the nurses’ workstation was deserted. The door to the medication room was ajar and the
light was on. Rachel let out a careful sigh of relief. Gracie was right where Rachel had expected her to be.

Carefully, quietly, Rachel slipped up the hall to Room 3— Caleb’s room. The door was closed.

With her hand on the door handle, Rachel considered the consequences of what she was about to do. If another nurse or an orderly were in Eric’s room, Rachel would be caught. Considering what Patel had said, she’d probably be fired.

She took a deep, calming breath and pushed open the door. The room was dark, the only light coming from the night-lights above the bed.

Eric lay still and pale, the sheets tucked neatly around his bare torso. His eyes were closed and his hands were at his sides.

A pang of apprehension streaked through her. He looked so much like Caleb and yet so different. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks. His strong, stern mouth was relaxed.

“Eric?” she whispered.

He didn’t stir. How much sedative had they given him? She stepped closer and touched his forearm. The muscle under his sleek skin quivered and his eyelids twitched.

She placed her mouth against his ear, trying to ignore the way his dark hair tickled her nose. “Eric. Please wake up.”

Eric heard his name. Who was bothering him? The faint scent of something tart and sweet, something familiar, surrounded him.

The voice that rang like a bell in his head called his name again. He opened his eyes.

And blinked. Why was everything so hazy?

“Eric. Thank God, you’re awake.”

It was Rachel. He squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again.

“Damn,” he whispered hoarsely. “What’d they do to me?” He coughed and tried to sit up.

“Don’t move too fast. You’ve been sedated.”

He fell back against the pillows. “Oh, yeah.” A fog still clouded his brain, but memories began to surface. He flexed his left arm, where he still felt the sting of the injection. “Damn big needle.”

He licked his lips. His throat felt raw.

Rachel picked up an insulated cup and held the straw for him to drink.

“I can do it.” He reached for the cup but his fingers didn’t want to work.

She put her hands over his and secured them around the cup.

It was an automatic gesture, one she’d probably used a hundred times to help her patients, but her touch streaked through him, straight to his groin, and he felt himself stirring. He raised his drowsy gaze to hers. The damn sedative had lowered his natural defenses. Oddly it seemed to have increased his libido.

Her eyes were sharp, assessing, but behind the physician’s scrutiny, there was something else. In the depths of her gaze was a sad look. Was it pity?

He took a long swallow of water, shivering as the cold liquid hit his empty stomach.

His head felt as heavy as a rock. He lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. “What happened to that whopping dose of narcotic antagonist medication they gave me at the hospital? I thought it was supposed to counteract these sedatives.”

“The antagonist is a long-acting drug. Its effects will in
crease as your body builds up its own resistance to the drugs. Remember, they think they’re medicating Caleb, and his system is quite resistant to the drugs’s effects. He requires larger doses.”

“I can’t operate like this. What else can you do?”

She didn’t say anything. With a huge effort, he lifted his heavy eyelids and looked at her.

The sad look was gone and in its place was worry. “I can’t do much, Eric. You’re just going to have to fight it. Plus, you have to be careful what you say and do. The more out of control they think you are, the more they’ll medicate you.”

“Isn’t it unethical to use drugs to restrain patients? Is this how they treated my brother? Is this how they treat other mentally ill people?” His senses sharpened as his anger grew. That was good to know. “Who gave them the right to control people’s minds and bodies?”