AN: I just wanted to thank everyone who's reviewed in my absence. I'm doing my best, I promise. I hope you love this story as much as I do.
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Haddonfield Memorial Hospital was a small facility compared to St. Lazare. It consisted of two or three pale, brick buildings and acres of empty parking lots. It looked to Emory as if this hospital did not see a great deal of action. Bad news for her; the staff would be more familiar with each other than in a larger hospital.
She parked near the loading dock, in a cluster of cars that belonged to employees. She left her purse in the car, kept only her keys.
Casting a quick glance around her, she walked quickly to the loading dock and checked the door. Locked, damnit. Of course nothing would be easy for her. She'd used up all her luck getting Michael out of Smith's Grove.
She moved around to the front of the hospital, schooled her face into that mask of professional solemnity that so many doctors liked to wear, and pushed through the front doors. She gave a small nod to the receptionist, who looked for a moment like she thought she might say something to Emory, but quickly thought better of the idea when she saw the determination written on Emory's face.
She turned a corner, walked calmly down a hallway, and then lit up a flight of stairs, down another hallway, looking for all the world as if she belonged right where she was. In her mind, she was mapping out the hospital, trying to determine the most likely location for a storage room.
A young man stepped into the hallway. He was wearing a police uniform, gun belted to his waist, handcuffs glittering in the fluorescent lights. Emory's pace did not slow, but God she wished more than anything that she still had her lab coat; strangers were much less likely to question a doctor who looked hell bent on getting to her destination.
"Excuse me, miss," the young man said, and Emory stopped. She turned to look up at him and smiled. He smiled back, bright and unwary.
"Can I help you with something, officer?" She wondered. He tilted his head at her, and a few strands of honey brown hair fell into his eyes.
"You look familiar. Have we met before?" There was no animosity in him, but his curiosity was just as damning. She felt her limbs go cold with the closest thing to fear she had ever been able to feel. He recognized her. Somehow, Loomis had figured her out. This man, this cop, had seen her before. She figured she had maybe two minutes before he made the connection.
"You may have seen me around, I work in pediatrics." She paused, glanced down at her watch, and frowned. "I'm sorry, I'm late for a meeting."
Adrian's smile faded a bit. "I'll see you around, then."
No, you won't.
"I hope so." She gave him her most dazzling smile, the one she usually saved for Michael. And then she turned and started walking. She didn't need to tell herself to walk slowly, because she didn't have the fundamental fight or flight instinct screaming at her to run. It just hadn't been programmed into her. She had nothing to fight except basic common sense.
As soon as she felt she could, she turned a corner and slipped into an empty room. She pulled off her shoes and waited.
Sure enough, a few moments later, that damn cop walked by, talking in a low voice on his radio. He didn't seem to be in any hurry, but the fact that he'd followed her did not bode well for her at all.
Shit.
Emory waited, counted thirty seconds, and poked her head out of the room. The hallway was empty. Not a second later, she darted out and sprinted down the way she'd come, slid around the corner, glanced left, right, no one looking… And shoved the door to the storage room open.
"This is getting goddamn ridiculous, Emory," she told herself in a low voice, but there was a smile curling her lips; she was standing in the treasure room, with rows upon rows of medical supplies, medicines, tools, scrubs, towels.
She padded down the aisles, scanning the supplies, until she found the first item she needed: a small white towel. A few rows down, she found a white lab coat and a surgical gown.
Most of her time was spent looking for the last item she needed. No such luck, of course. Hospitals these days rarely kept dangerous, combustible substances sitting out in unlocked storage rooms for anyone to come by and snatch. So Emory shrugged into her lab coat and dropped her keys into the pocket, stuffing the towel into another pocket. She draped the surgical gown over her arm and left the relative safety of the storage room for much deeper waters.
A few minutes later, she was standing in front of the pharmacy counter, looking as exhausted as possible, rubbing her temples slowly.
"Chloroform?" The young nurse wondered, eyeing Emory with great curiosity. "I'm not even sure we have any. What do you need it for?"
"My seizure patient just got transferred in from Lazare. It's the only thing I can use on him by order of his doctor."
"His doctor ordered it? Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," Emory snapped. "I can't go against my superiors."
The nurse narrowed her eyes at Emory, but she didn't say anything in response.
"I.. Look, I'm sorry," Emory said in a tired voice. "My son kept me up all night; he caught that stomach bug that's been going around."
Instantly, suspicion melted into sympathy. The change was drastic enough that Emory had to work to suppress her triumphant smile. When the nurse returned with the small bottle of Chloroform, labeled toxic and hazardous, Emory took it without anger and sighed.
"Thanks," she murmured.
"Hope your son feels better," the nurse replied.
Emory nodded. She turned away and walked slowly to the nearest fire escape. Once out of sight, of course, she launched down the stairs at a dizzying pace, skipping steps, pausing every now and then to listen for signs of being followed. She was just being paranoid, of course.
She stepped out into the parking lot, glanced around for the cop who may or may not have recognized her, and walked quickly to her car. She slid into the driver's seat and finally let herself breathe without fear of drowning.
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The next step was simple. She stopped at a local drug store and purchased a cheap Halloween mask. She chose the Bride of Frankenstein. Then she pulled into a parking spot a few blocks from the County Courthouse, grabbed her things and stuffed them into her purse, and walked swiftly towards her destination.
She walked swiftly into the Courthouse, drawing on the mask of determination that had helped her so often in the past. The clerk at the desk glanced up with disinterest, and then back down at her gossip magazine. Emory's gaze slid swiftly over the plaque on the wall that stated the locations of every department in the small Courthouse. Finally a lucky break; Records were located in the basement.
In the stairwell, just outside the Records Office, she waited, listening for visitors. No voices. She pulled out the bottle of Chloroform and soaked the small white towel with the sweet smelling liquid. Emory turned her head away to avoid inhaling the fumes. Then she sat her purse down in the corner of the stairwell, shrugged out of her lab coat, and pulled the Bride of Frankenstein mask over her head.
She walked into the Records Office as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do with a Halloween mask on. She kept the towel in her hand down by her side, out of sight. A quick glance around the room proved her correct; she was alone with the clerk.
The young woman behind the counter looked up, did a double-take, and frowned.
"Can I help you?" She asked in a deliberately unimpressed tone.
"Are you pregnant?" Emory demanded. The girl's eyes widened in surprise and outrage.
"Excuse me?"
"I'm doing a poll."
The woman narrowed her eyes, tilted her head. A smirk passed over her lips.
"No, I'm not pregnant."
"Are you positive?"
"Absolutely one-hundred percent positive."
Instantly, Emory reached up and grabbed a handful of the girl's hair, pressed the towel to her face, and braced herself. The girl struggled, flailed, knocked a stack of papers off the desk, but Emory was stronger and well practiced in dealing with struggling patients from the mental hospitals she'd worked in.
A handful of seconds passed, and then another, and the struggling slowed, and then ceased altogether, and the girl slumped silently to the floor.
Emory pulled off her mask and sighed. She went out into the stairwell and grabbed her purse, brought it into the office and locked the deadbolt on the office door. Then she moved around behind the desk, arranged the girl in a more comfortable position, and picked up the files she'd knocked onto the floor.
She rummaged around in the drawers until she found the keys to the room behind them, where confidential records are kept.
It didn't take her long, because she knew exactly who she was looking for, and she had a general idea of Bonnie's birth date. A few minutes later, she was holding a thin manila folder in her hands, and inside that folder there was a picture of a smiling baby girl with wispy blonde hair. Emory read through the information, read through it a second time, and then put the folder back.
She locked the room behind her, put the keys back where she found them, grabbed her purse and the chemical-soaked towel and unlocked the office door. She stuffed the mask into her purse and headed up the stairs.
She stepped out into the dying sunlight and breathed deeply the smell of autumn. She thought of Michael, and joy swelled up within her before she could control it. She was going home to him. She had no doubt that he would keep his promise.
Emory took her time walking back to her car. Everything she'd done today, she'd done for Michael. A few days ago, she had been firm in her belief that she could withstand him, and now, she was on the edge of an abyss, balanced precariously between love and her old friend, common sense. And the scary thing was that common sense was fast becoming an obstacle in her pursuit of what she truly wanted.
God, she wanted to love him. How sick was that? She wanted to be able to fall in love with a killer. A man labeled 'psychopath' by everyone who'd ever met him. She wanted to ignore her common sense, tell it to shove off, so that she could relax in his arms without doubt whispering in the back of her mind.
As she walked, the sickly sweet Chloroform wafted up from her purse. She turned her head. At least she hadn't hurt anyone. She'd broken numerous laws, but that was nothing new. She wasn't perfect, never had been.
Excitement welled up within her as she remembered Michael basking in the sunlight earlier that day. The excitement made her want to cry. She was losing this battle, losing it fast.
"Food," she said to herself as she slid into the driver's seat of her car. She had to bring him food, and all she'd had to eat today was a granola bar she'd grabbed at a gas station on her way to the hospital. So she would go get him food. And then she would head back to the hotel.
God help her, she couldn't wait.
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AN: Emory asked if the clerk was pregnant because Chloroform has been shown to cause miscarriages in lab tests on mice. She was just being careful. Questions? Comments? Review, my loves. Please.