And what about Lauren? What would she think? She was the most important of all.
If this plan worked, I'd get my daughter back. Nothing mattered more than that.
Flash, flash went the beacon.
Still, my pulse trembled. There would be no turning back.
I sat there for some time, weighing the risks, realizing that with my dimmed ability to process I couldn't think through them all.
Something within me gave way, and I pushed to my feet. Before I could change my mind, I clomped over to pick up the phone.
Chapter 36
THE VIAL CONTAINED AN INFECTED TICK IN ITS NYMPH STAGE, like the ones he'd placed on Janessa. So small and black it wouldn't likely be seen amid the roots of dark hair. Lauren had hair like her mother's.
He stuck a hand in his pocket, feeling the vial's smoothness, reassuring himself it was still there.
The library computer sat empty. He took a chair at the small cubicle and logged in. Brought up the Internet.
"She hates you from the grave."
His heels dug into the floor.
He typed in the URL for MapQuest.
The last twenty-four hours he'd had trouble sleeping. Maybe because he hadn't taken his bipolar meds in four days. He should. His moods would then even out. But he needed this manic stage to fuel him. Even now he could feel the fire in his veins, the zing of energy. Made him powerful. Invincible.
MapQuest came up. He placed the cursor in the start box and typed in the library's address. Then leaned back to pull a piece of paper with a Los Angeles area address from his left pocket. He typed that in the end box. Hit get directions.
There they came. How convenient, the Internet. It was the web that had allowed him to find all the home addresses in the first place.
With a few more clicks he printed the document.
The trip would take six hours. He'd leave Friday at dinner time. Drive into the night.
This committee member's wife would be a fast hit. He'd follow her to the grocery store, something like that. Brush up against her. Another tiny tick. Who would think to even look for it?
He closed out of the Internet. Rose to retrieve the directions from the printer.
On the way out of the library he checked his watch. Just past noon.
In three hours Lauren would get out of school.
Chapter 37
FOR HALF AN HOUR I TALKED TO TV REPORTER RHONDA Laverly, one of the mainstays on the local ABC channel's six o'clock news. Rhonda was blonde and blue-eyed, a tiny thing but exuding energy and passion for her stories. My stuttered speech was so frustrating, especially against her clipped sentences. Reporters are always pushed for time. Before I was long into my story, Rhonda interrupted to ask if she could tape the conversation.
"On one condition. I want you to. Film me. I want to show the world what L-Lyme is like." Not to mention I had a few choice words to throw out there for Stalking Man.
"Let's hear all you've got to say first." Rhonda turned on her recorder. "Go."
She'd made no promises, but I forged ahead anyway. What did I have to lose?
Rhonda heard me out, clearly fascinated. When I finished, she told me she'd do some checking on my story. "If it all checks out I'll see what I can do about getting a camera crew out to your house this afternoon."
She ended the call with a terse promise to phone me back as soon as she could.
By the time I hung up I shook with exhaustion. I ate a sandwich and collapsed on the couch.
Before long the phone rang. It was Jud.
"I just got a phone call from a reporter. She said you contacted her about the case."
Here it came. "What did you tell her?"
"That I can't talk about an ongoing investigation."
As I suspected. But the answer would be all Rhonda needed.
"Mrs. McNeil, I'm not convinced you're doing the right thing. We try to be strategic about going to the media—and think through how much information we give them."
"I don't have time to think." Too late I realized how bad that sounded. "I have to do this interview to protect my daughter. And all those other families out there this guy has threatened."
"What interview?"
"I'm hoping they'll tape it this afternoon. The reporter's going to try to make the six o'clock n-news."
Jud sighed.
"There's a bigger . . . reason I'm doing this," I said. "This man—he's been so calm up to now, but I heard him g-get mad on that last phone call. I'm going to make him mad again. He'll make a wrong m-move, like call my home phone. You still got the line tapped?"
"Yes."
"Then you'll finally be able to hear him. You can trace to his location."
"You can't predict that's what he'll do."
No I couldn't. Not exactly. But he'd do something, I could feel it. Jud hadn't heard the calls. He didn't know Stalking Man like I did.
Jud tried to talk me out of going forward. I told him it was too late for that. Besides, what else did we have? Stalking Man had eluded us at every turn. I was a mother. My daughter had been threatened. I had to do something.
A click sounded in my ear—notice of another caller. I held out the receiver and peered at the ID.
"Jud? The reporter's phoning now. Hang on a m-minute." My finger hovered over the phone button. For a moment I couldn't remember which one to push. Flash. I hit it to move to the other call. "Hi, Rhonda?"
"We're a go. We'll be at your house in about forty-five minutes. You'll be ready?"
"Yes. Give me t-time to get to the door. I'm slow."
"We need every second we can get. Can you unlock it now? We'll knock and come on in."
"Okay."
"See you soon." She hung up.
I flashed back to Jud. "They're coming over right now for the interview."
He paused. "All right." His tone sounded resigned. "Look, do one thing for me. Don't mention the part about the suspect's wife dying from Lyme. He may not have realized he slipped up about that, and it's a big lead I can follow. If we don't catch him soon, maybe in time we'll decide to put that information out to the public. But not yet."
"Okay."
We hung up. Half-dazed, I replaced the receiver. This was really going to happen.
For a moment I considered going upstairs, trying to fix myself up. I must look terrible. But I had no energy to waste struggling with steps. Problem was, the more tired I became, the more my speech stumbled and my mind fogged. Plus the interview was about my being sick. Why try to hide it?
I heaved to my feet and clomped to the front door. Unlocked it. Then headed to the sofa to wait. Within minutes the phone rang again. The ID read Brock's cell phone. I stared at the numbers, dread encircling my heart. I couldn't handle this confrontation right now.
I set the receiver back in its base. It rang a second time, jangling my nerves. A third and fourth. The answering machine kicked on in the kitchen. The beep had barely sounded when Brock's irate voice barreled to my ears.
"I know you're there. Pick up right now." Pause. "Pick up, Janessa!"
Muscles shriveling, I turned my head away from the phone. Thank heaven Brock wasn't in this room with me. No telling what he would do.
"Janessa!"
My anxious gaze landed on the clock. Lauren.
My arm reached to pick up the phone before I could stop it. "Brock. Who's going to pick up Lauren?" Despite my demand, my voice angled sideways with fear. For the first time I realized I'd almost rather face Stalking Man than my own husband.
"What are you doing? A reporter called my office. A reporter!"
"Brock, who is picking up Lauren?"
"You'd better recant whatever story you told her right now. Do you realize how idiotic you're going to look? T
he police don't have one shred of evidence your story's even true." He blew air over the line, hot enough to singe my ear. "Jud Maxwell told me about the supposed latest phone call. Even if you didn't make this whole thing up and Lauren really was in danger, we could protect her."
If.
"I get what you're trying to do now, Janessa. You want to bring me down. In front of everyone. Make no mistake, you're the one who'll be brought down. You want your dirty laundry aired in public—you'll get all of it. I'll tell them about your childhood faked illnesses. I'll tell them you're jealous and can't let go. That you're an unfit mother who's losing her mind, who scared her own daughter to death, frantically searching for ticks all over her body. You will lose your daughter, Janessa. Permanently. I will sue for custody, and I will win."
No. Anything but losing Lauren for good.
But Brock would do it. And he would win. Brock always won. He was the one with the resources, the reputation. The charisma. What was I but a sick mother who could barely take care of herself, much less her child.
My body shook. I could call the reporter back right now and tell her not to come. Work this out somehow with Brock. When I got my test results, he'd believe me then. Maybe when he talked to my doctor . . .
Who was I kidding? Dr. McNeil put little stock in the Lyme lab's diagnosis. And he had no respect for Carol Johannis. I swallowed hard, fighting for strength to stand up to this man. "Brock. Who is picking up Lauren?"
He cursed under his breath. "I am!"
"Just please . . . g-go early. Be there when she comes out."
"Who are you to tell me how to take care of my daughter? I'm not the one making her crawl on the floor looking for a deadly tick." His tone was pure acid.
No. He was the one who'd left her. Who'd put some mistress above her. My eyes closed, my chin falling to my chest. I could feel my mind shutting down. "Where will she . . . be? While you're t-teaching."
"Janessa. Call that reporter back and recant your story. Now."
My insides were melting. The last bit of strength had drained out of me, and Rhonda would soon be at my door. I wouldn't be able to do the interview.
"B . . ." What was my husband's name? "W-watch Lauren. Please. Check her for . . ." That bug. That . . . thing. "T-ticks."
He exploded in a stream of curses.
I pulled the phone from my ear and gaped at it. How did I turn the thing off? My glazed eyes searched the buttons but nothing made sense. Brock's voice still spat into the room.
My hand reached for the phone base and dropped the receiver into it. I heard a click, and Brock's voice cut off.
I slumped to the right until my head hit the sofa cushions. My body twisted, my feet still on the floor. The position made my hips ache, but I couldn't think how to fix it.
Wait. I needed to call the reporter. Tell her I was too sick . . .
Where was the phone?
The world fell away. The next thing I knew my doorbell was ringing.
Chapter 38
AS SOON AS JUD TURNED OFF HIS CAR IN THE POLICE STATION parking lot, he looked up Brock McNeil's cell number and dialed it. His adrenaline pumped with each ring of the phone in his ear. No more excuses that this case was all a farce. Not after a doctor all but confirmed Janessa McNeil had Lyme. And the lead about the suspect's wife having died from the disease—that was huge.
Once in awhile the stars aligned. The new information on this case happened to coincide with a hit on the foreign fingerprint from the Fletcher burglary. When the print had been run through the system it came up with a match—a known drug dealer in the area. Stan Mulligan and another detective were following up. With the reported threat to Lauren McNeil, and a doctor's opinion that her mother did have Lyme, the chief had given Jud the immediate go-ahead to turn his attention to this case.
If only Janessa McNeil hadn't jumped the gun with the reporter. Jud had a nagging feeling about that interview.
As Jud got out of the car, Doctor Johannis's voice echoed in his head. "You've got a wide range of suspects, I'm afraid. Anyone who's been sick with Lyme . . ." The same suspicions Walt Rosenbaum had spoken of. Also similar to Dane Melford's thoughts.
Although Jud hadn't heard back from either man.
No answer on McNeil's cell. His canned message clicked on. "This is Doctor McNeil. Sorry I'm unavailable. Please leave a message." Beep.
Jud pushed down his frustration. "Dr. McNeil, this is Detective Maxwell. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. The man who has been calling your wife—and yes, I believe he exists—is now threatening to infect your daughter with Lyme. I've met with the principal at Lauren's school. He has been alerted to the situation and has briefed his staff to be particularly vigilant regarding your daughter. Please give me a call." Jud rattled off his cell number and disconnected.
He leaned against his car and punched in the number to the department of medicine. Sarah answered.
"Hi, babe. Dr. McNeil around?"
"He's in class. When he gets out he said he's going to pick his daughter up at school."
"Okay. I've left a message on his cell phone. But when you see him, tell him I called."
"Something up?"
"Plenty. But I gotta run now. Talk to you tonight."
Jud strode across the parking lot, headed to his office. He had a date with his computer—searching online for women who'd died from Lyme disease.
Chapter 39
THE FRONT DOOR OPENED, AND A FEMALE VOICE CALLED, "Jannie, it's Rhonda."
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The clack of high heels. A second, heavier tread. "Jannie?"
"Here." My voice barely rose from the couch. I struggled to sit up.
Rhonda strode around the couch to stand before me, clad in a blue suit to match her eyes, her hair perfectly coifed. Energy crackled around her. A cameraman in tow lugged his equipment. "Jannie?" She bent down to peer at me, clearly shocked at what she saw. "You all right?"
"Just tired." I couldn't do this—even if I found the strength. I couldn't lose Lauren. A sob kicked up my throat.
"Hey, it's okay." Rhonda touched my cheek. "I'll get you some water." She disappeared into the kitchen. Cabinets opened. The faucet ran. She hurried back in, a woman pressed for every second, trying to show compassion but with no time to spare.
She handed me the glass. I downed the water.
"That's good." Rhonda took it from me and walked over to the pass-through window to set it on the counter. She trotted back to the center of the den and surveyed the room, the front window with shades drawn. I couldn't remember pulling down those shades. "We'll have to leave her there," Rhonda said to the cameraman. "Maybe shoot her straight on? There's still too much backlight from the window. Second camera on me can go near the window. I'll sit here." She pointed to a spot near the coffee table.
The cameraman gauged the distance from me to the opposite wall. "Not much room. Can we shove back the couch?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Yeah. We can move it all the way back to the wall."
My mouth opened to protest, tell Rhonda I couldn't go through with it. But no words came.
"Jannie, this is Bill." Rhonda pointed to the cameraman.
"Hi, Jannie." He nodded at me, then moved to the coffee table, pushing it far to my right, toward the kitchen. Rhonda shoved the small side table further left until it rested against the wall near the windows.
"Okay. Jannie, just stay where you are. We're going to move the couch back." She took my end, Bill on the other, and they scooted the couch across the hardwood floor to the back wall. Rhonda stood, panting, and adjusted her suit coat. "That work?"
Bill eyed the scene. "Yeah, it'll do." He began setting up his equipment.
Still I could say nothing. My body felt half there and half on some distant plane.
Rhonda s
at beside me, her voice gentling. "I'll pull up a kitchen chair not too far from you, and we'll just talk, okay? You going to make it?"
I stared at my lap, voices and threats jumbling in my head. Stalking Man's. Brock's. One would hurt my daughter if I didn't catch him in time. The other would take her from me if I tried. Both scenarios were unbearable. If I'd possessed the strength, I'd have groaned and wailed. Shook my hands at the heavens.
"Jannie?"
I raised my weary eyes to Rhonda's. She watched me, her expression fraught with tension. When she saw my head come up, she smoothed the lines from her face. But her eyes gave away her concerns. I ogled her, my stomach turning over as a realization dawned. This seasoned reporter saw herself teetering on the brink of not just a big story, but a huge one. The details were bizarre. And that kind of story often went national. Rhonda would be the one to break it. No wonder she and her station were pushing the time so much, trying to fit this in at the last minute. Willing to go ahead with the story even before I had test results.
National. Why hadn't I thought of this? Once I took the cork out of the genie bottle, how to control the genie?
No way could I handle having the story told across the country. My mother would see it. She'd hound me. What if reporters from everywhere ended up on my front lawn? Or filming Lauren as she went to school? They'd snoop into our lives, find out everything about us. Brock would insist to an entire nation I was just trying to ruin him.
No. I couldn't do this. Absolutely not.
"I'll help you through the questions, all right?" Rhonda pressed. "It'll be okay. This story will help find the man who's been harassing you."
I stared at her, my body glued to the couch. Finally my mouth opened to say no. Instead I heard, "I'll need to k-keep my sunglasses on."
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