Over the Edge

by Brandilyn Collins

  What every doctor on that committee needed, he'd seethed to himself as he paced, was a whopping case of Lyme. They and their families, too. Let them watch their loved ones waste away. Let them watched their loved ones die.

  He stomped across the room and back, arms swinging, fingers clawed. If he could get to every one of those men, he would. He would. A hard swivel and he strode in the opposite direction, hands thrust in the air. When he reached the wall he jerked around again. Back and forth, back and forth he paced, cursing and crying, the minutes oozing into one thick, suffocating paste of grief and rage. Time plodded by without his awareness. His steps pounded and his fists punched the air until finally, spent and sweat-washed, he fell into the chair before his computer. There he'd slumped forward and listened to himself breathe.

  Now, years later, he watched the tick with grim satisfaction, feeling the same sheen on his forehead.

  I am not a monster.

  Despite his fury over the years, the spittle of revenge, he had overcome. He'd built an entirely new life and career. In time memories of Elyse threatened to fade. Sometimes in his deadened brain he even thought, Did she exist at all? To keep her alive within his mind he'd reached deep inside what was left of himself. And he'd discovered a plagued but determined Don Quixote. He would change the system. Tilt at the windmills of that tight and righteous medical community. And he would win.

  With a deep sigh, he stretched his tense muscles. These past few days had been utterly stressful. Things had not exactly gone as planned. And it wasn't easy living two lives.

  His eyes fixed once again on the tick. Such a small, insignificant creature to be capable of carrying such a toxic load of misery.

  He blinked his scratchy eyes and stood. Picked up the small, waiting vial—and opened the glass top to collect its precious cargo.

  Chapter 17

  LAUREN AND I ORDERED A PIZZA FOR DINNER. AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, I stared at my plate, my stomach turning over.

  "What's wrong?" Lauren held a half-eaten piece with pepperoni in her hand. My side of the pizza had the added mushrooms. A faint tomato stain edged one corner of her mouth.

  I shook my head. "Just tired."

  She took another bite and chewed. "It's not fair that Daddy had to leave as soon as you came home."

  "I know."

  Behind me I could feel the empty backyard. It was still light now, but what would we do after the sun set? I pictured myself dragging through the house, double-checking doors and windows. What good would that even do? They'd all been locked before.

  After dinner, with Lauren's attention fixed on the TV, I made my way into Brock's office. I collapsed in the chair behind his desk and gazed about the room like a lost soul. All the wood was dark walnut. I'd have chosen cherry. It was brighter, warmer. It occurred to me I could sit here this week while I paid bills. I'd always used the kitchen table, my files squeezed into the end cabinet. Since the beginning of our marriage I'd written out checks for each bill. Yet never did I have my own place for the task. Why was that?

  Jud Maxwell's card sat on the desk. Must have been the one he gave me, although I had no memory of putting it there. On impulse I picked up the phone and dialed his number. Did the man even work on Sunday?

  "Jud Maxwell."

  He'd answered so fast. My brain stalled. "Hi."

  "This would be . . . ?"

  Our phone line had blocked our caller ID. "Janessa McNeil."

  "Oh. Mrs. McNeil."

  Something about that Oh. Vague warning chimed in my head. "I'm home now. And Brock's . . . gone. Didn't have much time to talk before he left. I wanted to check about our phones. Are they still t-tapped in case that man calls again?"

  And, by the way, how was I supposed to sleep in this house tonight?

  "Glad to hear you're home." The detective's tone sounded cordial and . . . something else. Guarded? "Are you feeling better?"

  I hesitated. "Afraid not."

  A squeak filtered over the line, as if he'd leaned back in an old chair. "Sorry to hear that."

  He said no more. Was he waiting for me? For no reason at all scenes from numerous cop shows ticked through my head. They were all the same—a tense-muscled suspect in an interrogation room, the casual-looking policeman waiting him out.

  "So what about the phone t-tapping?"

  "I heard that the man called your hospital room."

  "Yes!" My throat tightened. "He threatened to . . . hurt Lauren. To infect her like he did me."

  "With Lyme, you mean."

  "Yes."

  "But your Lyme test was negative."

  I stared at the pen holder by Brock's monitor. The four pens in it were all alike—black and sleek. I pictured Brock holding one of them, bouncing it against the desk while he talked on the phone. About me. So he'd told Jud everything, had he? Including his suspicions of his wife?

  "I need to be retested. The results may be wrong."

  "I see."

  "Do you? He threatened my daughter." My voice turned off-key. Shivers crawled around my body. "Listen, I'm here alone with Lauren, I'm s-sick, and I want to know if you're listening to my phone calls!"

  "We have left the taps in place, Mrs. McNeil. But I have to be honest with you—we're not actively listening to the calls."

  "Why?"

  "I'm afraid we're lacking manpower at the moment. You may not have heard while you were in the hospital that three more burglaries occurred in Palo Alto over the weekend—and they all appear to be linked. Our chief has put every available man hour on that case."

  "So . . . you're not doing anything to investigate that madman who's been calling me?"

  Jud hesitated. "Mrs. McNeil, I wish I could be investigating your case. But at the moment we're swamped here, and my superior has not given me the go-ahead to spend the time unless something new comes up. The problem is, so far I have no real evidence to support your story. The hospital tests were all negative. And there was no evidence of a break-in at your house."

  "You traced the two ph-phone calls. Brock told me. So you know I got those calls."

  "Yes. We also know that both times the calls originated from the very same area where you were located."

  "Or you made them." So that wasn't just Brock's suspicion, but Jud Maxwell's as well? "I didn't make those calls."

  "It's—"

  "I didn't!"

  Silence. I hunched over the phone, disbelieving. Not this too. I couldn't take it.

  "Mrs. McNeil, I tend to believe you. But our investigations rely on evidence. We can't justify spending more time on this case if nothing pans out. But I'm not forgetting you. If something new comes up, something you can give me, please call. I'll look into it. Also in the meantime I have asked our patrols on the street to do drive-bys of your home."

  I stared at the pens. So neat and precise. My mind plodded through the lack of evidence. But was there more? Had Brock told Jud Maxwell about my childhood faked sickness? And did he know Brock was having an affair with a lab assistant? Maybe Jud's wife, Sarah, had heard rumors. Maybe she'd even seen Brock and Alicia together. Maybe everybody on campus knew of my husband's affair. That Christmas party last year, when everyone greeted me, all smiles? I pictured Dane Melford, Brock's other assistant. We'd talked for some time at that party, and he told me over and over how wonderful Brock was. I thought of Dr. Sid Segal, another professor in the department, and one of Brock's biggest rivals. Harold Standish, a colleague and occasional golf partner of Brock's. Harold's son, Brad, also worked in the department. And countless other professors and researchers, their assistants and groupies. Did they all hiss innuendo behind my back? "She doesn't know, does she? Look at her over there, watching Brock peck Alicia on the cheek."

  Heat slid through me. I wanted to punch something.

  "Did Brock talk to
you? Did he t-tell you to stop your investigation?"

  A beat passed. "I did ask him to report to me the hospital findings, remember? So yes, we've kept in touch."

  He was hedging. I could hear it in his voice. "He told you things about me, didn't he."

  "Such as?"

  "Don't l-lie to me. I've had a husband lying to me for m-months."

  Another awkward pause. Which told me I guessed right. Jud knew about the affair.

  "Did Brock talk to you?"

  I could feel his reticence. Finally he said, "Yes."

  "What exactly did he say?"

  "I'd rather not—"

  "What did he say? You owe me that much."

  That squeaky chair sounded again. "He told me about your marital issues, Mrs. McNeil."

  Marital issues? "You mean his affair with Alicia Mays."

  "Well—"

  "Did he tell you he'd been p-planning to move out?"

  "Yes."

  The answer stung. This detective, this husband of Brock's administrative assistant, had known before I did. "What else did he say?"

  "Mrs. McNeil, nothing your husband said would turn me aside from this case if I had anything to go on."

  Dizziness swirled around me. From the pain in my body or the sickness in my gut, I didn't know. My breath rode shallow. "I don't have the . . ." What was the word? What was the word? "Energy to play twenty questions. What else did he tell you?"

  I could practically hear the gears turning in the detective's head. I pictured him sitting at an old steel desk, uniformed police passing in the hallway. Should he refuse to say more of the confidential conversation? Or would his empathy with the sick, abandoned wife win out?

  Jud Maxwell's tone dropped. "He did mention your abusive father. The sickness you faked as a child."

  There it was. The puzzle pieces all fit. Brock's affair at work, his stellar standing at the school of medicine. Now his jilted wife was trying to ruin his career by upending his lifelong research in Lyme. What a clever woman that Janessa was, striking at the very thing that had brought Brock and his young, beautiful lab assistant together. What a way to seek revenge.

  "And that's what I'm doing n-now, I suppose. Faking."

  "Are you?"

  My muscles ached, my lungs groaned, and I barely had the strength to hold my head up. It was taking every ounce of willpower I possessed to even have this conversation.

  "Have you ever had Lyme disease, Mr. Maxwell?"

  "No."

  "You'd better hope you never do. Because I p-promise you, you'll wish you were faking."

  "If the tests were negative, what makes you so sure you have Lyme?"

  "Because my husband has been dead wrong about everything else!" I slammed down the receiver.

  Long moments passed. I sat there, beyond numb, my thoughts everywhere and nowhere. Then, through the closed door I registered the sound of canned laughter from the television. Lauren giggling along with it.

  My neck would no longer support my head. Every joint in my body throbbed. And those little spasms I was feeling were so strange. I lifted my right hand, twisting it to examine my forearm. An area about two inches wide tremored and twitched as if a bug writhed just beneath the skin. I watched with appalled fascination. What was that?

  The skin crawl continued.

  An hour later, as Lauren's bedtime approached, I couldn't wait to fall into bed myself. Slowly I caned around the house, checking locks on windows and doors. In the kitchen near the door to the garage sat our burglar alarm's control unit. I activated it to Stay. We could move around inside the house without tripping the laser beams, but opening any door or window on the ground floor would set the alarm off.

  If only I'd been in the habit of setting the alarm every night. Stalking Man couldn't have gotten in. The stupidity. The alarm had been here since we moved into the house when Lauren was a baby, yet we never used it unless we left town. How could we have been so complacent?

  I lingered in front of the control pad, resting my forehead against the wall. If only, if only. My life was suddenly filled with those pathetic two words. I had to change that. Had to do something about all of this.

  But at that moment I had no strength for anything.

  The phone rang. It was Maria. I'd forgotten to call her. "He didn't t-tell her," I whispered, afraid Lauren would hear. "I'm supposed to do it."

  My friend made a sound in her throat. "Unbelievable."

  Yeah. "I'll s-see you in the morning."

  I managed to drag myself upstairs and into my room. There I gimped around the bed to Brock's nightstand on the other side. In the drawer of that nightstand lay his gun, a Smith & Wesson 637. Brock kept the bullets in the top drawer of his main dresser. I remembered that the gun held five rounds. And it was lightweight but had a pretty hefty recoil.

  As Lauren took a shower I sat on the bed and loaded the gun. With my weak, painful fingers it took some time. I could only imagine those same hands trying to shoot. And how many years had it been since I used the thing? I'd never wanted to learn how to shoot in the first place. Guns scared me—especially with a child in the house.

  But tonight, for the first time in my life, I would sleep with one loaded by my bed.

  I placed the weapon and the box of bullets in the drawer of my nightstand.

  When Lauren emerged from her shower I called her into my room. "You can sleep here tonight."

  She bounced up and down. "I can sleep with you?" The multi-hued flowers on her pajamas reflected color in her cheeks. How different she would look if Brock had told her the truth.

  "You bet."

  She grinned. "Oh, yippee! I'll get Tito." She ran back into her room for the brown stuffed dog.

  When she returned I locked the door. Lauren tilted her head. "Why're you so worried about the alarm and the door and everything?"

  "No reason, except that your dad's not here. Just think it's safer, that's all."

  She accepted my lame answer with a shrug of her shoulders and climbed into bed.

  I couldn't sleep. The physical pain and the thoughts of Brock—with her—would not let me rest. Anger and sorrow and fear mashed together in my lungs until I could barely breathe. Questions whirled and tangled in my mind. How many nights had I lain here with Brock while his mind was on that woman? Why had he drawn away from me in the first place? What had I done? And Stalking Man—was he out there, watching the house? Did he know Brock had left? If I'd had the energy I'd have gotten up, paced the floor. Cleaned the house. Something. But the emotions' only outlet came in hot tears that slid down my temples and dripped into my ears.

  If only I had a Bible beside the bed. I wanted to find that verse that had come to mind before: "God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in time of trouble." It had to be in the Psalms. My soul longed to read more verses, draw from them all the comfort that I could.

  My exhausted eyes lifted to the radio clock on my bedside table. After eleven. Surely this had been the longest day of my life.

  Except for tomorrow.

  MONDAY

  Chapter 18

  WHEN I AWOKE AROUND SIX O'CLOCK I FELT AS THOUGH I'D been up all night. No refreshment from sleep in the slightest. Could I even get out of bed?

  I rolled over and reached for my cane on the floor. Eased back the covers. In slow, cautious motion I managed to sit up and move my legs over the side of the bed. My brain told me I couldn't do this. I should listen. Did I want to fall on the floor as I had in the kitchen those few days—that lifetime—ago? This time I may not get up.

  How many days of this until Brock realized he was wrong—that I really was sick? How many days until he returned home to take care of me?

  My cane positioned just right, leaning forward, I gathered all the strength I c
ould find and pushed to my shaky feet. For a moment I hung there, testing my body. Everything hurt. The worst flu could not bring this kind of pain in my muscles. And my joints—this must be what rheumatoid arthritis felt like.

  Somehow I crossed the treacherous and rolling path to the bathroom. By the time I came out a few minutes later I could think of nothing but returning to bed.

  Propping my pillows behind me, I half sat up, watching the clock until I needed to wake Lauren. She lay on her side facing me, a hand curled around Tito. One thought rang clear in my muddled head. I could not live like this and take care of my daughter. I had to get a diagnosis. Treatment. I had to get well—for Lauren.

  At seven o'clock I woke her by a light rubbing of her head. She breathed in deeply, rising cognizance twitching across her face. Her eyes opened in sleepiness, then blinked. One side of her mouth curved. "Mmm."

  "Wake up, sleepyhead."

  She swallowed. "Not yet."

  "Yes. Yet."

  I touched a finger to her face. "Look at you, even lovelier than yesterday. The Pretty Fairy came and k-kissed you again last night."

  Lauren smiled. "How'd she know I was in your room?"

  "The Pretty Fairy always knows."

  Lauren yawned, then sat up and surveyed me. "You feeling any better?"

  I pulled my lower lip between my teeth. What was the point of faking it? She'd see right through me. "Afraid not. Can you get d-dressed and just have some . . . cereal for breakfast? Maria will be by to pick you up for school."

  Lauren nodded, her eyebrows knit. "I'm sorry, Mom." She slid from bed and walked around the end of it, carrying Tito.

  "Oh, wait, Lauren. You'll need to turn off the alarm." She could use the second control pad near the master bedroom door. "Otherwise it'll go off when you g-go outside."