The doctor was storming ahead, her alert brain thinking of details far faster than mine could. "A cab."
"Ah, so no one's waiting to take you back. I'll call the detective. See if he can take your blood to the lab and then take you home. Do you have his number with you?"
My mind blanked. How had I ever called it in the first place? The answer surfaced. His card. I had left it . . . somewhere in the house. "No. But his name's Jud Maxwell. With the Palo Alto department."
She reached for her phone. "I'll find it." She called information and picked up her pen to write down the number, then dialed it. "Jud Maxwell, please." In a moment I could hear his voice filter from the receiver. "This is Doctor Carol Johannis in Palo Alto. I'm here with Janessa McNeil, a new patient. She's told me what's going on. First I want to tell you that her symptoms strongly indicate that she has Lyme. We're about to do blood tests on her to be sure."
I sat back in my chair, her voice fading. As if I watched her on screen with the sound turned low, I heard her talk to the detective, telling him about Stalking Man's latest phone call.
His wife died from Lyme. Suddenly it hit me how important that fact was. It was our first real clue.
Dr. Johannis listened as the detective replied. I couldn't tell what he was saying. Suddenly my body felt even more limp. I slumped over, craving the ability to lie down. The doctor pulled the receiver from her ear. "You all right?"
"Yeah. I . . . just so . . ."
She firmed her mouth and nodded. "I'll get him over here." She raised the phone. "Detective, Mrs. McNeil's about had it. How about if you . . ."
Her words faded amid a ringing in my ears. My eyelids would not stay up. Somebody had opened trap doors in both my feet, draining out all my energy.
Dr. Johannis hung up the phone and stood, crackling with purpose. I fixed her with a dull stare. Had I ever been that energetic? That able to think?
"All right, Mrs. McNeil, let's get you to the tech to draw your blood."
"J . . ." I wanted to tell her to use my first name. What was it? "Jannie."
"Okay. Jannie." She came around and stood by my chair. "I'm going to have to help you up, or you won't make it."
"Uh-huh."
The world glazed over as people came and went and fussed about me. A lab tech drew multiple vials of blood. Jud Maxwell arrived. I rallied enough to pester him with questions. Had he talked to the school? Did the principal and teachers know to watch Lauren closely? Yes, he told me. He'd been there. Gave the school just enough information to let them know Lauren may be in danger. They were watching. They promised to be diligent.
"You sure? You really went there?" I wanted to go myself, make sure Lauren was all right. Grief welled up in me. This was too much, losing Brock and now my only child. I needed them. I needed to take care of them.
"Yes, Mrs. McNeil. They are being extra careful with her."
"Okay. Thanks so much." But I couldn't rest. Stalking Man was out there. He'd already broken into my home, eluded the police department's drive-bys enough to return and leave a box on my porch.
When I was all done and the doctor paid—straight out of my pocket, since she didn't take insurance—Jud prepared to help me out to his car.
"Insist to the lab you need the results today," Dr. Johannis said. "That way hopefully you'll get them by the end of the afternoon."
"All right. Can you help me find patients across the country who've died from Lyme?"
"I'll try. Jannie mentioned she found a list online, but that doesn't mean it's complete."
Could Stalking Man's wife be in that list? Maybe I'd even read her story.
Jud considered the doctor. "What are your thoughts on who this could be?"
She shook her head. "You've got a wide range of suspects, I'm afraid. Anyone who's been sick with Lyme or had a loved one sick knows about the Lyme controversy in the medical community—and would know Dr. McNeil's stand on the subject. The Lyme community is highly networked and astute about the disease. They have to be, because they must be actively involved in their own treatment. Of course the big narrowing factor is that his wife died from the disease. If he's telling the truth. But bottom line, your suspect could have come from anywhere."
Jud nodded. "Yeah, looks that way. Makes my job all the harder."
During the ride to the lab I leaned back in my seat, too overwhelmed to talk. At the lab I waited in the car while the detective carried my blood inside. Dr. Johannis had said she would call ahead to alert the techs he was coming. Jud returned after about fifteen minutes.
"Sorry that took so long."
"What happened?"
"They're going to get on the tests right away. Your doctor should get a call at the end of the day."
Today. Maybe, finally, I would have a diagnosis. Never before had I understood how powerful that word is for those who are sick.
Jud started the car—and took me home.
The detective helped me inside the house and got me to the couch. I fell upon it and melted into the cushions. I didn't bother to take off my sunglasses. Jud brought me a drink of water, then returned to his car for some items. I knew he would bag the cell phone as evidence. He returned with, among other things, a flashlight. I frowned at it.
"I'm going to find that tick."
"Oh." Thank God. "Wait. Gun. In a cabinet. It's loaded." Amazing that I'd remembered that.
Jud gave me a little smile. "I'll be looking closer to the floor."
He went to work in the kitchen . . . and my body was snatched up and swept away, clutched in the talons of sleep.
Chapter 35
"MRS. MCNEIL? MRS. MCNEIL."
My name drifted to me from some distant source. I swam in a dark river, going in circles. The water rose and tossed me out on a bank.
"Janessa."
My eyes opened. I lay on the couch. The blurry figure of Jud Maxwell stood over me. "Hmm?"
"Sorry to wake you."
I blinked, becoming aware that I still wore my sunglasses. "S'okay. What time is it?"
"Just before noon."
Noon. What time was that? My mind chugged. I should know what the word meant, but I just couldn't . . .
Clear thought lit up my brain. Noon. Twelve in the daytime. Stalking Man had given me forty-eight hours last night at midnight.
I had . . . thirty-six hours left. To do . . . something.
"I've got the cell phone bagged," Jud said. "I'll take it back for prints. And we'll try to run a search on that phone call you received."
I shifted, then pulled myself to sit up. Nudged my legs to the floor. Only then did memory of why he was here surge in my head. "Did you find the tick?"
He pulled his top lip between his teeth. "No."
"No?"
He sighed. "I looked everywhere. Used the flashlight. Got down on the floor and checked under the cabinet overhangs, under the table."
No. This couldn't be. "Maybe it crawled in here."
"I checked here too—up to a point. It would take a team of people to do a thorough search of your house. A tick's pretty small."
"Why would you need to search the whole house?"
"Maybe we wouldn't. Obviously we'd start from the kitchen and fan out. It couldn't have crawled too far, I don't think. But it may have hitched a ride on clothing and fallen off somewhere else. Maybe even upstairs."
His unspoken words rang loud and clear. No way would he be allowed to get a team out here to search. "So. We back to square one? No evidence."
He backed up to the armchair and sat down. Leaned forward to clasp his hands between his knees. "As I've told you, it's not that I haven't believed you. But I just need some tangible evidence that leads me somewhere."
And self-righteous Stalking Man had wanted to provide it. He'd expe
cted me to find that tick. "You heard a doctor say I'm sick."
"I never doubted that."
"Looks like it's Lyme."
"And we'll have the test results soon. If they're positive, that'll be a tangible piece of evidence."
We stared at each other.
"So what do we do now?" Fear curled up my spine. "I have thirty-six hours. Then he g-goes after Lauren."
"We won't let that happen."
"How do you plan on stopping it?"
"For one, I'll talk to your husband. Make sure he understands what's at stake. Two, I'll fight with all I've got to put an officer at the address where Brock is staying."
"He won't listen. You don't understand Brock; he's too deep in. . . denial now. Brock never admits he's w-wrong. Besides, this man is too clever." My voice was rising. "He'll see your posted m-man. He won't go into that . . . wherever they're staying. He'll wait till Lauren's at school. And I can't be with her there. I can't p-protect her!"
"We will, Mrs. McNeil. I promise you, we won't let anything happen to your daughter."
I fixed him with a glare. "What if you get no more evidence than before? What if n-nothing on that cell phone is traceable? As for my illness—I could have purposely infected myself, all to try to keep my husband. So you tell me. What are your . . . superiors really going to say about putting m-manpower on watching the place where Lauren is staying? Or her school?
He spread his hands. "I—"
"You can't promise me, can you."
"I will not let anything happen to your daughter. Even if I have to watch her myself, off duty."
"You're on duty while she's at school!"
"Mrs. McNeil, I'm going to talk to your husband. I will convince him that Lauren is in danger. Even if he doesn't want to admit he's been wrong about you, surely he'll take precautions for his daughter."
Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he'd dig his heels in, all the more outraged that I'd taken things this far. Who could predict what he would do? I didn't know the man anymore.
Jud cleared his throat. "Also, we can't rule out this cell phone yet." He pointed to the bagged evidence. "We'll see where it leads."
"Nowhere. You know that. It's why he took the chance of coming here to bring me a n-new one. He knows this home phone and my. . . regular cell were tapped. He's been ahead of you all along." My words may have been halting, but there was no mistaking the barb in my tone.
Jud Maxwell stood. "I hope to change that."
"Hope's not enough." My insides writhed. When was this going to come to an end?
The detective put his hands on his hips. "I'm sorry you're so upset, Mrs. McNeil. I can understand why. Believe me, I'm as frustrated as you are. This case is on my mind a lot."
Was it? I pondered that, the whirlwind inside me losing a little momentum. I hadn't the energy to sustain anger for any length of time.
Maybe Jud was more of an ally than I'd thought.
But what good was having an ally that wasn't able to help me? He couldn't even find a tick in my kitchen.
"Well." I know my response sounded stilted. "Thank you."
He gave a little nod. "I'll be in touch. The lab will fax the results to your doctor. She's agreed to contact me immediately. And call you as well."
What would Brock say when he heard? Would he even accept positive results from the Lyme lab? Not likely. Maybe he'd storm over here and berate me some more. Or worse. I shuddered.
"What is it?" Jud's keen detective's eye didn't miss a thing.
Heat flicked through my veins.
"Mrs. McNeil?"
"Nothing. I was just . . . thinking about Brock."
He surveyed me. I could feel his suspicion rising, as if he'd sensed my fear. "Has your husband threatened you in some way?"
In an instant I was twelve years old, looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. How to explain the bruises on my face this time? The truth was too shameful. We never told the truth about that.
I fixed my gaze on the floor, glad for the sunglasses to hide my eyes. I could not bring myself to admit this. Jud's wife worked with Brock.
"No."
The detective eyed me for another long moment, then looked away with a sigh. "I'm here if you need me."
I nodded.
Jud let himself out. I stayed on the couch, staring at the fireplace. I needed to get up but couldn't find the energy. Brock's face filled my head—so full of rage, the vein pulsing in his neck. Despair clouded over me, descending until my body choked in it. Even so, my mind screamed for me to do something. How could I just sit there and let the minutes slide by? Knowing, no matter Jud Maxwell's good intentions, that he likely wouldn't find Stalking Man before the thirty-six hours ran out.
"Don't you ever say anything like that again. Ever!"
How foolish I'd been. Why had I bated Stalking Man like that? If I hadn't made him so mad, maybe he'd never have flung out that deadline. And now he'd said he wouldn't contact me anymore. As much as his calls terrified me, the silence was worse. I had no hint as to what he was doing.
This whole thing was insane. I sat trapped in my own body while my daughter and other wives, other children were threatened. I would go mad with this. And how could I even trust Stalking Man would wait forty-eight hours?
"God, why won't You help me?" I tipped my head to the ceiling. "Why?"
No response. Nothing.
My insides started to churn. This wasn't fair. Why was everything falling apart at once? My feeble fist beat against the sofa cushion. It was no more than a tap, but in my mind I punched through a wall. I wanted to run through the house, screaming.
Breath snagged in my throat. My lungs flashed the need for more oxygen. In seconds the air hunger hit full force. I slumped over to lie down on the couch, heaving for breath. The world dotted and rolled, then blacked altogether. My limbs froze. My fingers clawed. I raked in fragments of air in grating, desperate strangles.
After an eternity a small passageway in my throat opened. I gulped and choked—and found more oxygen. I sucked it in for all I was worth, feeling my lungs loosen, death's grip fall away.
For long minutes I lay there, only breathing, breathing until my respiration returned to normal. As if it had never happened. As if I'd imagined the whole thing.
I sat up, still light-headed. If skeptics had witnessed that scene, they'd surely have said I was faking. It had to look fake. Coming out of nowhere. Then gone, just like that.
"God, how do they do this?" All those patients who'd had Lyme for years with no diagnosis, who'd lost their families and friends. How did they survive?
My throat had dried out. I struggled to my feet and caned into the kitchen to slug down a glass of water. My gaze landed on my Bible lying on the table. It called to me—or maybe my soul called to it. I sat down and thumbed through the Psalms, seeking more verses of comfort. Something, anything to get me through the rest of this day. The pages landed on Psalm 103: "Bless the LORD, O my soul; And all that is within me, bless His Holy name. Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget none of His benefits. Who pardons all your iniquities; Who heals all your diseases—"
Oh, yeah? He hadn't healed mine.
My hand moved to slap the Bible shut, then stopped. Like magnets my eyes were pulled again to verses one and two: "Bless the LORD, O my soul; And all that is within me, bless His Holy name. Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget none of His benefits."
I stared at the words, my spine stiffening. Why should I praise God? Now? In the middle of this nightmare?
"Who pardons all your iniquities."
Well, yes He had. But still—
"Bless the LORD, O my soul."
I pushed the Bible away and sat back in the chair, my jaw hardening. Was God laughing at me? Rubbing it in? He knew how sick I was. He knew the last
thing I wanted to do was thank Him for that.
I scowled at the table. Until a thought began to nag me.
Maybe it didn't matter what I wanted. Maybe praising God was a matter of will. Wasn't He still God, whether I was sick or not?
My finger ran along the page of the Bible, feeling its smoothness. Tightness swelled in my throat. For a long time I couldn't form a single word. Then my mouth opened. "My soul, praise the Lord. I praise You, God. I do."
Something inside me loosened a little. I lowered my head and fixed my gaze on the table . . . until the wood blurred and I stared through it. My thoughts muddied.
Time passed. I could feel myself hanging there, yet no clear thought would form.
Lyme Awareness Month.
The words suddenly emerged from a marshy bank in my memory. My brain chugged into gear once more. May—Lyme Awareness Month. The month when the media pays more attention to the disease . . .
An idea surfaced. I raised my head. The thought flashed feebly, a beacon in thick fog. I followed the light, knowing I still wasn't processing all that clearly. Was this leading me down a dangerous path?
The idea grew brighter.
Lauren. The other wives and children Stalking Man had threatened. Not to mention all those Lyme patients out there who needed the world to know about their plight. If I did this I could help them all at the same time.
One problem. I didn't have my test results yet—proof that I had Lyme. They would be critical in backing up my story.
My story. That's all I had. But it was powerful.
I could barely move or think. I couldn't begin to know who Stalking Man might be. He could have come from any state in the country. Neither could I trust that Jud Maxwell would find the man before he got to Lauren, then moved on to his next victim. But in our last call I'd found his Achilles' heel. I couldn't go chase him down. But maybe I could shake him up.
I wiped my sweaty forehead. Jud Maxwell wouldn't want this. He'd claim it would get in the way of his investigation. And Brock would be livid. My heart stumbled at that thought. If there existed even a tiny chance I could ever get him back—this plan would ruin it. Yes, he'd treated me terribly. He didn't deserve me. But was I really ready to burn the bridge between us after twelve years of marriage?
Over the Edge Page 20
