I dropped my head in the palm of one hand. How could I fight this man? His hatred went too deep, too cold. "I'm sorry."
"I don't want your sympathy. I want your action. You have forty-eight hours to talk some sense into your husband, got that, Janessa? Within forty-eight hours I want to see him issue a statement that he's rethinking his stance on chronic Lyme disease. That watching you suffer from it has opened his eyes."
Right. I didn't even have a positive diagnosis yet. "And if he doesn't?"
"I'll get to Lauren. Don't think I won't. And then I'll go down the list of the committee members. They all have wives and children of their own."
No. My body started to vibrate. Now I had not just Lauren to protect, but all the other families as well? I could barely walk. Half the time I couldn't think clearly. How was I supposed to save all these innocent people?
I swallowed hard. "L-listen to me. Brock won't . . . He's not . . ."
"What choice do you have, Mrs. McNeil?"
"But—"
"What choice?"
"None! But Brock isn't listening."
"You want your daughter to feel like you do right now?"
"No!"
"You want to be responsible for the other families?"
"I—"
"Then I suggest you make your husband listen."
"Call him. Please. He doesn't b-believe you even exist."
"Where does he think that tick in your daughter's backpack came from? You?"
"I . . . I lost it."
"What?"
"The tick."
A beat of silence. "You lost it?"
"It's somewhere in my kitchen."
"Somewhere in your—" He snorted. "So find it."
"I can't." My tone hardened. "If you'll remember you made me so sick I can hardly move."
Air seeped over the line. "How. Stupid. Are you?"
My fingers curled. If only I had his neck to wrap them around. "Pretty stupid. But then—you did that to me too."
"Do you know how many illnesses that tick is carrying?"
Let me guess—Lyme and three coinfections. This man was utterly mad. "So send me another one. The m-mail will do just fine. Better yet, send it straight to the L-Lyme lab. I'm sure they'll concede it carries the diseases."
"Janessa—"
"You don't need me at all!" Tears scratched my eyes. "Why bother with stupid me?"
A moment passed. I could feel his seething.
"Are you quite through?"
No. Yes. My veins ran so steaming I could barely speak. "Why?" The whisper hissed out of me. "Why are doing this? Who are you?"
He laughed, a grating sound. "Perhaps it hasn't occurred to you, Mrs. McNeil, that I enjoy seeing you suffer."
As his wife had suffered? And merely because I was married to Brock McNeil? "So you're nothing but a sadist. And here I thought you wanted to help p-people suffering from Lyme."
"I am helping them!" Anger seemed to erase his calm. Now every word shook, as if I'd plucked at the core of him. "It's what my wife wanted. One day they'll thank me. Every one of them."
"She wanted you to help—or hurt?"
Something smacked on his end of the line, like a fist against wood. "I am helping! I am! I'm keeping my promise to her!"
"Was she a g-good woman?"
"The best." His voice caught. The sound chilled me. He seemed like a bomb ready to blow, but my own anger ran too deep to stop now.
"Then why should she be p-proud of you? Harming another wife. Threatening a child. She'd never approve."
"Shut up!"
"If she were still alive, she'd divorce you."
"Shut—"
"She hates you from the grave."
"Shut up!" I heard a crash. Hard breaths spat over the line. "Don't you ever say anything like that again. Ever!"
What was I thinking, goading this unstable man into a rage?
We sat there, I in my sane world and he in his insanity, his panting like slaps in my ears.
I swallowed, my throat beyond dry. "I know you're helping." I forced my tone to remain comforting, even as my heart galloped. "And I want to do what you say. I want to c-convince Brock to change his mind. But no matter what I do, he won't listen."
"Even when his daughter's health is on the line?"
"He doesn't believe me."
"You keep getting strange calls."
My teeth gritted. "He doesn't b-believe that either."
"And you're obviously sick. In front of his very eyes."
"He doesn't care!" The words burst from me, then throbbed in the air of my empty, abandoned house. So much for keeping calm. There it was—the mean, ugly truth I hadn't wanted to admit even to myself.
Brock didn't care.
Not today. Not tomorrow. He didn't love me anymore. He wasn't coming back. He didn't care.
I heard the slow intake of breath, as if Stalking Man had looked into the very face of evil. "Then he truly is a beast, isn't he?"
A sob snagged in my throat. "Please. Just don't—"
"Forty-eight hours."
"But how do I—"
"I won't contact you again."
"No, wait. Don't hang up!"
The line deadened.
"Hello? Hello!"
Nothing.
"Hello!"
I lowered the phone to the table and started to cry. Tears fell into my plate until I pushed it away, the very smell of lunch meat now disgusting. I hunched there, small, sick and beaten, and crossed my arms over my chest, hugging myself when no one else would.
Forty-eight hours.
I could phone Brock right now and tell him about this new call. But I knew he would just declare me an even bigger liar. He'd rant at me for continuing in my madness. And Jud Maxwell was off duty by now. Besides, what proof would I have to offer the detective that I hadn't bought the cell myself and called it from yet another throw-away phone? If he could trace the call, it would surely show that it had originated from this area. Just like before.
"God, please . . ." I could whisper no more. Not the smallest of prayers. Could only hope those two words were all God needed to hear. My mind scrambled for the psalms I'd read, but I only remembered one phrase.
My foot has slipped.
I sat at the table, rocking, rocking. Hopelessness welled in my lungs until I thought I would drown. This man was beyond crazy. To spend so much time—and resources—planning such crimes.
What was I supposed to do?
A long time passed, until the tears finally dried up. By that time I barely clung to the chair. I stared at the wall, my chest fiery with pain. Minutes ticked by as I made no move. Little by little the anguish seeped away. In its place trickled a new awareness, something too big, too out there to even consider in my demolished state—yet there it was.
No one was going to help me protect Lauren or anyone else. No one. I had no physical strength and a fraction of my mental power. But somehow, some way, no matter what it cost me—I would have to stop this madman.
TUESDAY
Chapter 32
IN THE MORNING I AWOKE ON THE COUCH WITH NO MEMORY of having gotten there. The clock read 6:00. My body felt no better for having slept. In fact it fought me to merely sit up, as if my limbs were weighted with lead, my chest with steel. My hand trembled so much as I reached for my cane that I wasn't sure I'd be able to hold it.
A phone lay on the coffee table. I frowned at it. The den receiver sat in its stand on the side table. So this second one was from . . . ? Maybe upstairs?
Yes. Lauren had brought it down last night.
I stuck the phone in my robe pocket and made my way to the bathroom. After that I stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking
up. I had to shower. Had to make myself at least half presentable for my doctor's appointment. But I may as well have been looking at Mount Olympus.
In my head I heard Stalking Man's voice.
"Don't you ever say that again. Ever!"
What about that cell phone I found last night? Was it still on the kitchen table?
I needed to call Jud. Tell him I'd heard from Stalking Man again. Although—what good would that do? Another call that lead nowhere. Another phone yielding no prints.
I placed my right foot on the first stair. Held on to the banister as tightly as my painful fingers could—and pulled myself up. I stood there panting, feeling dizzy. If I fell my legs would not get me up. Breathing a prayer, I attacked the next step. And the next. Good thing I'd woken up as early as I did. It must have taken me fifteen minutes to reach the top. By then sweat ran down my face, and groans rode on my every breath.
But I'd done it.
I clumped my way into the master bathroom, grateful as never before that we had a separate walk-in shower. Stepping over the edge of a tub would have been a nightmare.
No, Jannie, not we have a separate shower. You. Brock doesn't live here anymore.
At the bed I stopped to pull the receiver from my pocket and place it in its stand. Then I noticed the red light on the burglar alarm pad. It took a minute to remember the code to turn the alarm off. The light switched to green.
By the time I came out of the shower, got dressed, and dried my hair, I felt as if I'd run a marathon—through chest-deep mud. It was 7:00. I had to get downstairs, eat something. Call a cab.
Once again, going down the stairs was harder than coming up. How much a normal body works, without a person giving it a thought. The tensile elasticity of ankles and feet to keep you stable, to turn corners. The strength of your legs to lower you down a step. As I struggled to reach the lower floor, at least my mind had something immediate to consume it. When I finally hit the hall, all my fears flooded back. Stalking Man. Lauren. Forty-eight hours.
No. I'd been given forty-eight hours at midnight. Last night. That was seven hours ago. Now I had . . . how many left?
Panic seized me. Lauren would be at school within the hour. Had Jud called the principal yet? Would they watch her with extra care? For all I knew Stalking Man would renege on his two-day warning and go after her now.
I reached the kitchen and pulled sliced ham and cheese from the refrigerator. Poured myself a glass of milk—which I typically never drank. Protein. On the table sat the cell phone. I'd placed it back in the box. Also on the table were my sunglasses. And Brock's gun. I frowned at the weapon. When had I put it there? The long shade was still lowered, covering the sliding glass door. Just as well. Less light to stab my eyes.
But through the fabric the backyard looked so bright.
I shuffled to the sliding door and edged back the shade. The floodlights were on. Must have been on all night. I turned and flicked them off.
My feet burned and prickled as if I'd stuck them in fire. I collapsed into a kitchen chair to eat. Five minutes later I was done and needed to get up again. I had to . . . do something.
What?
My eyes half closed as I focused on the table. I felt the gears in my brain go around and around, finding no connection. The Internet on dial-up—stuck. The world seemed to fall away, leaving me suspended . . .
Something clicked inside my head. I brought up my chin. Telephone. I had to call for a cab. And talk to Jud Maxwell.
His business card was . . . where?
I pushed to my feet, grimacing at the pain on my soles. In a half daze I found the phone book, only to forget why I'd pulled it out. When I finally remembered, I couldn't think what letter cab started with. Or should I look under that other word. Which was . . .
Something. T?
Taxi.
By the time I managed to call a cab it was 7:45. I told the company to send the driver up to my door. That I might need help getting out to the car.
My mind went blank again. Was there something else I'd meant to do?
Put the gun away.
I picked it off the table and stuck it in a cabinet on top of the plates.
That done, I shuffled to the front bathroom to brush my teeth. As soon as I finished, the telephone sounded. Five rings shrilled the air before I reached the receiver near the den sofa. It was Maria.
"Jannie, how are you?"
"Okay."
"Any better?"
"No. I'm g-going to the doctor now."
"You still taking a cab?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, Jannie, I should be taking you."
"You can't."
"I know, but still."
The doorbell rang. I swayed on my feet. "Taxi's here. Have to go."
"Okay. I want to hear what happens."
Yeah. Me too.
I replaced the phone, anxiety spritzing through me. Where was my purse? I hadn't seen it in days.
It seemed like an hour passed before I reached the door. I opened it—and sunlight skewered my eyes. I gasped and stumbled back.
"Whoa!" A rotund cabbie jumped over the threshold and caught me. "You okay, ma'am?" He smelled of cigarettes, his face lined and brown.
My head nodded. "I . . ." My hand circled in the air. "I need . . ."
"You need to be staying home, is what you need." He held me firmly by the elbow. The pain from his fingers pooled air in my throat.
"No. I'm going to . . . doctor."
"I'm taking you to the doctor?"
"Yes."
Empathy creased his features. "You got no family to take you?"
I only looked at him. Any moment I was going to fall over. Why had I thought I could do this? A shaky breath heaved from my lungs.
His face softened more. "Hey, it's okay. We'll get you there. Maybe you should go to the emergency room instead."
"No. Doctor."
He shrugged. "Okay, if you say so." The cabbie looked me over. "You got everything you need?"
I shook my head. "P . . . P . . ."
"Purse?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
I stared at him. My face must have looked like a blank slate. He shook his head—oh, boy—then glanced around. "Can you give me a clue?"
My body swayed. "I have to sit down."
He sighed. This was hardly the way for him to make money.
"I'll p—pay you. For your time."
"No worries. Come on." He led me into the den, where I fell into the armchair. "Now, where's your purse?"
When had I last seen it? Did I have it in the hospital? Did Brock bring it out of his car? Maybe he'd put it in my Lexus. That's where I usually kept it.
I pointed back toward the kitchen. "Garage. Car."
"You think it's in your car? Okay." He hurried out of the room. I heard the door to the garage open and close behind me. My eyes drooped shut. How crazy this was. A complete stranger—a man—in my home. Searching for my purse. And me, helpless. This is what I had been brought to. This is what Stalking Man—and Brock—had done to me.
The cabbie returned, carrying my purse. "Found it." He smiled for the first time. "Ready now?"
"On the kitchen table. Sunglasses."
"Okay." He strode out again and returned seconds later, sunglasses in hand. He held them out to me, and I gratefully put them on.
"Ready to rock and roll?" He held his hand out to help me up.
I waved it away. "Need to do it myself. Hurts when you touch me."
He scratched his forehead and stood back to watch my struggles. "What is this you got, anyway?"
"Lyme."
"This is Lyme?" He gave a low whistle. "Man."
Chapter 33
&nbs
p; BY THE TIME WE GOT TO THE TAXI I WAS SHAKING. I told the cab driver the address of Dr. Johannis's office, amazed that I remembered it. My fingers fumbled inside my purse, seeking my wallet. What if I had no cash? When I saw I had over $100 in bills, I nearly cried. I paid him a large tip. "Can you come back? Take me home?"
"When?"
"Don't know. I'll call."
He handed me a card for his company. "Ask for Tony B. If I'm available, I'll come."
"Thank you. Very much."
"You need help getting in the building?"
I regarded the short distance. He'd pulled up in the parking lot right near a side door. "I'll be okay." Gathering what energy remained in my body, I hoisted myself from the car.
Fortunately Dr. Johannis's office was on the first floor and near that side door. I checked in with her receptionist, who told me the doctor was running about fifteen minutes late. Wonderful. She handed me a clipboard with papers to fill out. I collapsed into a waiting room chair and leaned my head against the wall. I had no energy to fill out the papers but knew I must. First items on the papers: name, address, nearest of kin. Oh, no. I stared at the last one, castigating myself. I should have thought of this. No way could I put Brock's name on that line.
I left it blank.
Next—symptoms. An unending list of them, with boxes for me to check. Sore throat and fevers. No. Sore/burning soles. Yes! How did they know that? Joint pain—fingers, toes, ankles, wrists, knees, elbows, hips, shoulders. Yes, yes, yes to all. Joint swelling. I held out a hand, peered at my knuckles. They were bigger. Stiffness, muscle pain, muscle weakness. Confusion, difficulty thinking. Yes! Forgetting words, poor attention span. Had they spied on me to write this list? Disorientation, anxiety, tremors, light sensitivity. Odd muscle twitching. Yes—that strange wriggling beneath my skin. I'd been feeling that again this morning. Vertigo, lightheadedness, air hunger.
Air hunger. Those awful spells I'd had! What a perfect way to describe them.
Chest wall pain, extreme fatigue, sleeping with no refreshment. Yes, yes, yes.
The symptoms continued. Some I didn't have. But to have checked so many. Just the sight of all the marked boxes left me woozy. When did these symptoms start? the form asked. I stared at the brown carpet, trying to count back the days. My mind wouldn't work. Every time I began counting backwards the days would fall out of my head. Finally I gave up. I'd need to look at a calendar.
Over the Edge Page 18
