I sagged to my left until my shoulder rested against the wall. I so needed to lie down. This man was crazy, yet his diatribe simmered through me. There were people who felt like I did right now—and worse—for years? How could they live like that? How could they cope? After a few more days of this . . . whatever it was I expected to be back to normal. I couldn't imagine feeling like this for months. My body already felt like half its strength had wasted away.
"Please." I took a deep breath. My lungs couldn't get enough oxygen. "What do you want?"
"I want you to change your husband's mind."
I blinked.
"I infected you months ago. The spirochetes have had time to multiply and burrow deep into your body tissue. So now I want you to show him how real chronic Lyme is. Shouldn't be too hard once he sees it raging in his beloved wife's body. The problem with doctors like your husband is they're sheltered in their laboratories. They need to get down in the trenches with patients, see what the disease is like up close and personal. You're Exhibit A, Janessa."
He'd done this to me because of my husband's research?
"You must convince your husband to relook at his experiments, find his false presumptions." Passion throbbed in the man's words. "I want a very public announcement from Dr. Brock McNeil, stating he is utterly convinced chronic Lyme does exist as an active infection. That the medical community and insurance companies must change their narrow-minded, backward ways of dealing with the disease."
Sure, no problem. I would have laughed had I possessed the energy. No one convinced Brock of anything. Not at work, not at home. Brock McNeil was always right.
"Janessa, do you hear me?"
"I . . . yes."
"You will do this."
"What if I can't?"
"Of course you can. Your husband will want you well. He loves you, doesn't he?"
Did he anymore? I thought of all the late-night meetings in the past few months. Brock's growing coldness.
"How do I get well?" I whispered.
"Once you're finally diagnosed? Which will take some time, since your husband will fight you on that, too. With long-term, high dosage antibiotic treatment. The very treatment doctors like your husband sneer at, and insurance companies love refusing to pay for."
What did he mean—once I was "finally" diagnosed? "How long will it take to get better?"
"Depends on when you start treatment. Months. A year, maybe more. And you'll get a lot worse before you get better."
A year? And worse?
"You see, Janessa"—he spoke as if savoring every word—"you have no easy case."
"What?"
"The ticks that bit you carried spirochetes that cause Lyme—and three coinfections."
I raised myself upright, my tone hardening. "You're nothing but a liar. None of this is true. I have the flu. I'll get better soon."
"Your kitchen counters are granite, aren't they, Janessa? Sort of a bluish gray. At least that's the best I could make them out in the dark."
I went absolutely still.
"Your daughter, Lauren, sleeps with the door open. Her bedroom is the second on the left at the top of the stairs. Lovely canopied bed. Large stuffed lion in the corner. Very cute."
My fingers gripped the phone. Pain shot through my knuckles, but I hardly noticed. "I'm calling the police."
"You do that. These calls won't be traced to anyone. And I left no sign of a break-in when I picked the lock on your kitchen sliding glass door. Meanwhile, don't forget: you'll still. Be. Sick."
I heard a click—and the line fell silent.
Chapter 5
MINUTES SLID BY AS I SAT LIKE A STONE. ALL OF THIS—the man stalking me, his claims—was too bizarre to be real.
The police. They should know.
I started to press the talk button on the phone, then hesitated. What would I tell them? What proof would I have of anything?
Didn't matter. These calls had to be documented.
But my body did not want to comply. I didn't have the energy to meet with a police officer, relate the whole story. My limbs felt like dishrags. And what would I tell Lauren? No way was I going to scare my daughter.
God, what do I do?
I stared at the texture-painted wall before me . . . and my mind numbed out. My vision glazed, my eyes looking through the light blue. I hung there, telephone in my hand, knowing I was supposed to do something, that a terrible event had occurred. My thoughts reached out . . . groped. Felt only the spider-webbed corners of my mind.
Dusty awareness puffed through my brain. Call someone.
A small gasp escaped me.
I focused on the phone. My forefinger hit the programmed digit to call Brock's direct line at the office. Brock absolutely adored Lauren. If he thought his daughter was in danger, there would be no end to what he'd do.
His voice machine answered. I wavered, then hung up.
I closed my eyes, trying to think. I'd tell Brock when he came home. Lauren could watch TV while we talked privately. Brock would know how to proceed.
A sudden thought burst in my head. Lauren wasn't safe here. That man had broken into our home. He could do it again. For all I knew he was watching our house right now. He obviously knew my schedule. He'd called my cell phone at the right time, then the house line when we returned from school.
We had to get out of here.
I thrust to my feet, then swayed.
Where should we go?
To Katie and Maria's house, that's where. But they lived on the south end of Mountain View. The twenty-minute drive through town may as well be across the country. I wasn't sure I could operate a car. How much worse I'd become just in the last hour.
I sat back down and called Brock's direct line again. Another message. I tried his cell phone, and he picked up. "Hi." His voice rode on pockets of air. "You caught me walking across campus."
My throat closed until I could barely speak his name. "Brock."
"What is it?"
"I . . . I'm real sick. And there's this man. Like a stalker. Called twice. He said he broke into our house. He knew Lauren's bedroom layout and everything—"
"What? Where are you?"
"At home. In the bathroom, where Lauren can't hear."
"Are the doors to the house locked?"
They always were. "Yes."
"Did you call the police?"
"No, I couldn't . . . I'm not thinking very well."
"What do you mean?"
"I was so much worse this morning. All these weird symptoms. The man said I have Lyme. He said he put ticks on me some night when you were gone to a conference. And now I'm really bad."
"That's absolutely insane!"
"He insists it's true."
"How long ago?"
"He just called—"
"No, how long ago does he claim he put that tick on you?"
"Months ago." I thought of my nightmares about the bug-eyed intruder. "You need to come home, Brock. I don't know what to do. I fell in the kitchen this afternoon and couldn't get up. My legs are all shaky, and my body feels like a truck hit it. Only worse."
"Jannie, you go lie down." Brock's tone was tight and furious. "I'm coming home right now. I'll call the police on the way and ask them to send somebody out. If Jud Maxwell's on duty, he'll come."
Of course, Detective Jud Maxwell. He was married to Brock's administrative assistant, Sarah. I last saw Jud at the Department of Medicine's Christmas party. He was a likeable man, comfortable with who he was. Not in the least intimidated by all the physicians around him. And he so obviously loved his wife. For that reason alone I should have thought of Jud now. Should have called him myself.
"What about Lauren?" I asked. "She'll be scared."
"Tell her
it has something to do with my work. We have to protect ourselves, Jannie. This is some nut. Sounds like one of those protestors in the Lyme awareness community stooping to the lowest of low." The derision in Brock's voice could have cut steel. "Now go rest. I'll be there in ten minutes." He hung up.
Somehow I managed to pull to my feet. Phone in hand, I stumbled out of the bathroom, my mind spinning as I went to tell my own child what I'd vowed I never would—a lie.
Chapter 6
THE OFFICER ARRIVED BEFORE BROCK. When the doorbell rang I was lying on the sofa in the den. I sat up and squinted through the window. At the bright light, I winced. An unmarked car sat at the curb. It must be Jud Maxwell. Detectives worked in suits and ties, and didn't drive squad cars.
"Who's that?" Lauren called from the kitchen.
"Keep working. I'll get it." I dragged myself to the door, not looking forward to facing anyone on the police force, even Jud. Surely I'd sound like a lunatic. The story was too crazy.
I opened the door, sunlight pouring in. The brightness daggered my eyes. I gasped and shielded them with one hand. My gaze fell downward to brown shoes and pant legs.
"Mrs. McNeil? Your husband called. I hear you've had some trouble."
I blinked up at his face. Jud was a little on the short side and stocky, with sandy hair and deep brown eyes. "Hi. Yes. Come in." I stepped back, heart grinding as he crossed the threshold. As I moved to close the door, I stumbled.
"You all right?" I felt a hand underneath my forearm.
"Yes. Fine. Just . . . weak."
"Mom? What's going on?"
I turned to see Lauren in the hall, surveying the unknown man with curiosity.
"Don't worry, sweetie. This is just a detective from the police department. He's here to ask questions about something that happened at Daddy's work."
"At work? Then why's he here?"
"Daddy's coming home in a minute to talk to him."
"Is Daddy okay?"
"He's fine."
"What happened?"
"Lauren." My tone edged. "Go finish your homework."
She gave Jud Maxwell a long, unconvinced look before turning back to the kitchen.
I leaned against the wall, looking blankly at the detective. He raised his eyebrows. "Is there somewhere we can go to talk? Looks like you need to sit down."
"Yes."
I led him slowly through the living room and into Brock's wood-paneled office. There I motioned him into one of the overstuffed armchairs. I half fell into the second one before realizing I hadn't shut the door. I eyed it, overcome with weariness. I'd have to get up again.
The muted sound of a door closing drifted from the other end of the house. Relief washed through me. "Brock's home." I listened to him exchange hurried greetings with Lauren and assure her everything was okay.
"Mom's sick," Lauren said.
"I know."
His swift footsteps approached. Jud rose. Brock barreled into the room and closed the door, his eyes on me. His tie, usually so perfect, lay askew, his face flushed. The power he always exuded filled the room, but now it mixed with frightened agitation.
"How are you?" He crossed to me, ignoring Jud, and leaned down to search my face. His gaze was that of both husband and doctor, assessing, evaluating. He placed his hands on either side of my neck, feeling for swollen glands. Rested his fingers against my forehead. I knew he felt no swelling or fever, yet his eyes clouded. The gravity of his gaze filled me with fear. Clearly, he could tell I was much worse than when he last saw me.
Brock hadn't looked at me with such concern in a long time.
Sodden hope for our marriage stirred. I'd been praying for something to change our errant course, something to push us back on a stable path. Maybe this was it. My husband did love me. Maybe I'd just read too much into his recent extra hours at work. He was a busy man.
"I'm . . . okay." I gave him a lopsided smile, even as tears filled my eyes.
Brock patted my shoulder, then turned to the detective. "Jud, thank you for coming so quickly."
"No problem. Glad to help."
The men shook hands. Brock motioned for Jud to resume his seat in the armchair. Brock pulled his rolling work chair around to the front of his desk. He leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. "Jannie," he said before Jud could speak. "Tell us what's happened."
"Wait a sec." Jud reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small tape recorder. "If you don't mind I need to record this."
"Oh. Sure." Brock glanced over his shoulder at the desk. "Can you set it here?"
"Yeah."
Brock rolled his chair a little to his left. Jud set the tape recorder on the desk and hit a button. He related the date, time, and address. "Interview with Janessa McNeil and her husband, Dr. Brock McNeil." He pulled a small pad of paper and pen from his shirt pocket. "Let's first get your phone numbers, home, work, and cells."
My cell number? I couldn't remember.
Brock rattled off each number. Jud wrote them down as the tape recorder rolled.
"All right. Thanks. Now." Jud looked at me. "Tell us what happened."
I licked my lips. Where to start? For a long moment my mind whited out. I could feel both men watching me, waiting. My cheeks heated.
"Jannie?" Brock leaned forward and tapped me on the knee.
I stared at his finger . . . and my brain realigned. "You remember that dream I've had the last few nights? About the bug-eyed man in our bedroom?"
Brock nodded.
"That really happened. The man said he was wearing night goggles."
Righteous anger flicked across Brock's face. "Go on."
I told them what I could. How badly I felt, the fall in the kitchen. The two phone calls. Everything the man said about Lyme—at least all I could remember. After a while my brain started to fuzz. I sensed I had lost some pieces, but for the life of me couldn't find them in my jumbled mind. And somewhere along the way I started to stutter. My flow of words would suddenly stop, the next one I sought just . . . gone. After a second or two the word would come, and I'd continue my story.
By the time I was done, I felt even more exhausted. I rested my head against the chair's high back, hands limp on the cushioned arms.
Brock pushed to his feet and paced toward the rear window, then back again. He turned around and leveled a hard look at Jud. "I want you to find this guy."
Jud tapped the pen against his notebook. "We'll find him."
"And I'll tell you right now—we've got a gun in the house. I've had it for years and never had to use it. But if someone breaks into my home while I'm here—" Brock shook his head. "I won't think twice about shooting."
"I take it your gun is registered."
Brock waved his hand in an impatient yes. "Jannie knows how to use it, too. I've made sure of that."
I did? Brock had taught me how to shoot, but that was years ago.
Jud made a note. If he was put off by Brock's harsh attitude, he didn't show it. He looked to me. "Where's your cell phone?"
"In my purse."
"I'll get it." Brock hurried from the room, leaving the door open. I could hear Lauren's anxious voice from the kitchen, asking what was taking so long. My heart panged. Kids' antennae were sensitive. They knew when something was wrong. Brock reassured Lauren all was fine.
"I'm done with homework, Dad. Can I watch TV?"
"Yeah." He sounded distracted.
Brock returned, my BlackBerry in hand. He shut the office door and gave the cell to Jud. "Thanks." The detective regarded the phone. "You said no ID came through." He glanced at me.
"It just said private caller."
"Who's your service provider?"
My thoughts blanked. I looked to Brock.
"Verizon." He perched back in his seat.
"And for your landline?"
"AT&T."
Jud laid my cell on the desk and wrote in his notebook.
Brock frowned. "You think you can trace the caller's number without an ID?"
"We can request records of incoming calls from both your landline phone company and your cell provider. Those records will show the number the calls originated from. Question is, will that number lead us to anyone? If the guy used a payphone or paid cash for one of those throwaway cell phones and used a false name to buy it . . ." Jud lifted a hand. "Won't lead us anywhere. That's what a lot of drug dealers are doing these days—using those throwaway phones. On the other hand, if any kind of cell phone was used—even one leading to a fake name—we can trace the call's ping off the nearest cell phone tower. That'll tell us what area the guy called from. The tower pings give us a cone-shaped area that's quite specific."
I closed my eyes. I knew all that cell phone stuff. Had learned it from watching true-crime shows on TV.
"We may also want to put a tap on both phone lines."
At Jud's words, Brock hesitated. "I'm not too keen on having my phone tapped. But I want this guy caught. What he's doing is flat out blackmail. Attempting to change the findings of a major scientific study." Brock shook his head. "It's just . . . it's unbelievable. And who knows what he's done to Jannie."
"He said he infected me with Lyme months ago." I opened my eyes, focusing on my lap.
Brock made a sound in his throat. "He may have lied about when he came. Those nightmares you've been having only started a few days ago, right?"
I nodded.
"I was out of town then. If he put ticks on you that recently, you wouldn't be having any symptoms yet, much less this severe. I'm more afraid of other possibilities. I'm taking you to the emergency room tonight. We need to get a full workup started on you right away."
I raised my head. "No."
"Jannie, we have no choice. For all we know he could have injected you with some kind of poison."
Over the Edge Page 4
