"And your dad?"
"He's just . . . he's all tied up in knots or something. It's like he doesn't know what to do with me."
He most likely didn't. Bringing the child from a twelve-year marriage into a mistress's house couldn't feel comfortable. Even for someone as confident as Brock.
Lauren's voice lowered to a near whisper. "He's still really mad at you."
"How do you know?"
"He won't even talk about you. I say I want to come home and he just like growls at me." Her words choked. "Mom, I want to come hooome."
My heart turned over. "You will. Soon as I can g-get you back."
She sniffed. "Are you any better?"
I hesitated. "No."
Air seeped over the line. "I'm sorry."
"I'll be okay."
The news. Where was the TV remote?
A horrible thought struck me. What if Lauren heard about the segment from a friend? Surely somebody would call her. Maybe even Katie. Or if not a phone call tonight—someone at school tomorrow would talk. And children could be so cruel. They'd tease Lauren. Make fun of me to her face—the way I look, my stuttering speech. Some boy was apparently teasing her already. He'd have a heyday now. As if she wasn't already going through enough.
Why hadn't I thought of this? It was so obvious.
My eyes closed. At that dreadful moment I could almost grasp that Brock had been right to take Lauren. I wasn't thinking straight these days. How could I care for her properly?
The thought deflated air from my lungs.
"L-Lauren." I swallowed. "I might be on the n-news tonight. On TV."
"Dad told me." She sounded almost accusing. "Alicia's supposed to tape it for him."
Oh, no. "What did he say?"
"That you're all mad about Alicia, so you're trying to hurt him at work. Or something like that."
My stomach roiled. How could he?
"And it all has to do with that detective who came to our house. Stories you're telling him."
My mouth opened to protest, then snapped shut. Is this what Brock and I had come to? Hurling accusations at each other through our daughter? I couldn't do that to Lauren.
"Honey, I'm not m-making up stories."
"Then why doesn't Dad believe you?"
Why was he making any of his recent choices? "I don't know. I just . . . I wouldn't lie to you. I only w-want to keep you safe. I love you so much."
"I know. I love you too." She sniffed again. "I want to come home."
I stared at the coffee table, trying to see down the dark tunnel of the next six months. Multiple antibiotics. Symptoms worsening. If my brain slowed down any more, would I be able to think at all?
"I want you home, Lauren. I really do. We'll . . . work on it. Okay?"
She heaved a sigh. "Okay."
"Was your dad waiting for you when you got out of school?"
"Yeah. I went right to his car."
Surprising. I'd have expected Brock to be late, kept away by work. Maybe part of him did believe me.
"Then where did you go?"
"To his office building. I told you that."
"Oh. Right."
My eyes blinked at the clock. Six.
I heard Lauren's name called from the background. A female voice.
"I have to go now, Mom. Alicia says it's time for dinner."
Alicia. The very name sent bitter waves through me. And she was cooking for my daughter.
At least Lauren would eat a meal. I couldn't cook for her at all.
My throat heated. "Okay, honey," I whispered. "Hope it's good."
We hung up. I found the TV remote on the side table, near the phone. Hadn't noticed it there before. For a long moment I stared at it, fishing in the thick waters of my mind. How did you work the thing?
The answer surfaced.
I switched on the TV to Channel Seven—and waited for the news story that would help me catch Stalking Man.
Chapter 42
MY STORY WAS THE LEAD TEASER FOR THE NEWS—A "BIZARRE medical crime." I knew what being the main teaser meant. They would run the story last, luring viewers to watch the entire show before satisfying their curiosity.
By the time the segment started to air my heart thrashed and my throat ran dry. If they didn't include my tirade against Stalking Man this would all be for nothing. No, I tried to tell myself, that wasn't true. Maybe someone out there would know who this man was. Maybe just taking the story public would be the answer.
But leads from the public could take weeks. I needed help now.
The screen flashed to a scene of Rhonda on the sidewalk in front of my house. I cringed. They'd filmed her lead-in here? I didn't want my house shown.
". . . in Palo Alto." Rhonda stood in her blue suit, looking perfect as always. "Janessa McNeil's husband, Dr. Brock McNeil, is a professor and researcher at the Stanford School of Medicine—and the chair of an important national committee whose published findings on Lyme disease drive standardized treatment across the country . . ."
Was Brock watching this? Was Lauren?
The scene changed to a close-up of me. I gasped. How awful I looked, even in sunglasses. Pale and exhausted, the mental confusion casting a blank pallor to my expression. Horrified, I watched myself on TV as I answered questions, tripping over words, my facial muscles contorting as I fought to process. That's how I looked when I spoke?
The story segued from me to Rhonda numerous times as she filled in more details between my responses. I heard myself give answers I had no memory of speaking.
Come on, come on. Run my words against Stalking Man.
They did. Everything I'd insisted to Rhonda that she keep in the story. At least, all I could remember.
God, let it be enough. Please.
Near the end of the interview Rhonda asked me where I found the strength to deal with all this. I sat amazed at my answer about God and reading the Psalms. About learning how to praise Him even now. It was all true, of course, but I had never spoken so openly about my faith. Now I'd done it on TV.
As soon as the interview ended, the phone rang. My nerves surged white hot. I peered at the ID, already starting to tremble. But it was only Maria's number.
Breath returned as I picked up the phone. "Hi."
"Jannie, I had no idea! Why didn't you tell me?"
"I don't know. It was . . . Brock and everything."
"And he left you—in the middle of this. As if the sickness wasn't enough."
"He didn't believe me." Would he now?
"How could he not? Since when did you turn into some huge liar?"
"Since my husband w-wants to leave his wife, and she schemes to g-get him back." Or was it to get back at him?
"Are you kidding me? That's absolutely crazy!"
Maria was right. It was crazy. Brock's actions suddenly loomed so absurd that I wondered anew at how far he had fallen. How he could possibly justify himself.
We talked until my energy ran low and I had to lie down. I told Maria about my test results, the coinfections appearing just as Stalking Man said they would. By the time I hung up, my throat was dry and I had to get up for water. I clumped to the kitchen, feeling the silence of the house. Vaguely I wondered if the tick was still in the room somewhere. No matter, I didn't need the thing as evidence now. Testing it would likely show the same results as my own blood. But still, to know it was in the house. When Lauren came back I'd have to check her every day. Make sure she always wore shoes in here.
As I filled a glass of water, a vibrating dread settled over me. The house was so still. As if it was waiting for . . . something.
I looked at the phone, willing it to ring. Even so, my nerves sizzled at the thought.
Had Stalking Man watched
the news?
When he did call, I'd have to keep my wits about me. I should get him to talk about his wife—tell me her name. Maybe she was included in that online list.
Water guzzled down, I set the glass in the sink. That dread wavered and rumbled around me. Even in my stomach I felt it. The hairs on my arms rose. I peered through the window above the sink out to the backyard. It was barely past seven o'clock. Still a couple hours of daylight left. But already the coming night loomed ominous.
I shuffled over to the sliding glass door and pulled back the long shade to check the lock. Secure.
With effort I turned, my gaze finding the alarm's key pad on the wall by the garage door. I shuffled to it and turned it on. The light changed from green to red.
For a moment I stood, feeling the burn on the bottoms of my feet, the thump of my heart. Listening to the house.
The phone rang.
The sound shot right through me. I reared back—and dropped my cane. It fell with a soul-shaking crash.
My body wobbled. I groped wildly for the table's edge, seeking support. My trembling hand found it and hung on for all it was worth.
A second ring.
I stared at my cane. No way to lean down and retrieve it. As a third ring shattered the kitchen I shuffled toward the receiver, leaning on the table . . . the back of a chair. Between the last chair and the counter spanned about four feet. I let go, my arms thrashing as I flung myself toward the granite like a wobbling toddler. My right hand whacked against the counter's edge, spinning pain up to my shoulder. At the last minute I grabbed on and held. Rested my weight against the solid structure as I fumbled for the phone—no time to check the ID.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. McNeil, it's Jud Maxwell."
"Oh." My legs weakened. I leaned over the counter, puffing as my last ounce of strength trickled down a black hole.
"Are you okay?"
"I . . . yes." I managed a glance over my shoulder, seeing the cane on the floor. "Just . . . wasn't near the . . . phone."
Dizziness hit. I had to sit down. "Jud, can I . . . c-call you b-back?"
"Sure."
"Wait. What's your n-number?"
He started to tell me, but I had nothing to write with, and no way would I remember it. "Wait. I'm not . . . I can't . . ."
"How about your phone ID? It probably caught it."
Oh. Right. "Okay. Call you back."
I lay the receiver down, still clutching the counter. Found the button to end the call—and pushed it.
My eyes clouded. I didn't have much time. Somehow I managed to turn and lunge back to the chair. I collapsed into its seat and rested my head on the table. Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Slowly the darkness split apart, hazed away.
With caution, I sat up. My cane lay about three feet from me. I curled my fingers under the seat and pushed off with my feet to scoot the chair. It moved an inch. I scooted again and again—until finally it rested near my cane. I reached out a foot and dragged the bottom of the cane closer. Now to lean down and get it without falling out of the chair.
One hand grasping the seat, I curled forward until my fingers brushed the cane. An inch farther, and they closed around the gray metal. A small cry of victory fell from my lips as I lifted the stupid thing.
For a moment I sat, eyes closed. Breathing.
Jud.
I gauged my distance from the phone. I now sat about a third of the way toward the door to the den. Better to head for the couch, where I could lie down.
With my final bit of effort I heaved to my feet and stumbled to the sofa. I fell on its cushions, gasping. Wondering if my arms would lift to pick up the phone from the table behind my head. I felt so much worse—even from just a few hours ago.
Ten minutes passed before I could twist my body enough to drag the receiver to my ear.
Jud's number sat in the call log. How did I dial it? I ogled the various buttons, my brain chugging through mud. At some point the thickness cleared. I pressed a button—and the number dialed itself. Jud answered on the first ring.
"It's me. Jannie."
"You all right?"
"Uh-huh. Lying down now."
"Good. I won't keep you. Just wanted you to know I caught the interview here at the station. I appreciate your doing what I asked."
Which was . . . ? I couldn't remember. "You r-ready to trace his number when he calls?"
"I've got a man listening to your home line. Turn off your cell phone so the man will have to contact your home. I've also got a car surveilling your street."
Something in Jud's voice told me he didn't expect Stalking Man to call. That, if anything, I may have driven him away.
Jud was wrong. He had to be.
"Good." The phone started to slip from my ear. I couldn't talk much longer.
"Meanwhile I've been on the computer, looking into women who've died from Lyme," Jud continued. "I've compiled a list from a number of different sites. Now I'm going to go through and see what I can find about each one."
"Okay."
"I haven't been able to get hold of Dr. McNeil. I have left him four messages since this afternoon, three on his cell and one at work."
"He won't pick up when he sees your ID. He's furious at me about the interview. He'll view you as an enemy, since you're listening to me."
Jud sighed. "Sorry that's the case."
"Yeah." My head spun. "Have . . . to go now."
"All right. Keep in touch."
His words barely registered. I clicked off the line and dropped the phone onto my stomach.
My eyes closed. I stumbled into edgy sleep—and dreams of a bug-eyed man.
Chapter 43
WHEN I WOKE UP THE ROOM WAS NEARLY DARK. WEAK LIGHT filtered from a streetlamp through the front window shades.
He never called.
My heart sank. No, no, no. I'd set a trap for Stalking Man—and he didn't fall for it. That TV interview—all for nothing. I should have known I couldn't predict his actions. With my slow brain, how could I strategize anything?
It was no use. Stalking Man would never be found, my sickness was going to drag out, and who knew when I'd ever get Lauren back? I might as well die right now.
For a long time I lay there, depression wrapping me in cold arms. Until a tiny voice whispered that I had to keep fighting. For Lauren's sake.
The telephone lay on my stomach. How had it gotten there? I twisted around to put it back on its base. With a deep sigh I sat up and turned on the three-way lamp by the sofa to low. I took off my sunglasses and tossed them on the coffee table. Gathered my cane to stand up. I shuffled to the bathroom, then found myself heading to Brock's office and computer. I had to find something worthwhile to do.
Wait. It was my office now.
At the desk I heaved myself into the chair and switched on the computer. While it booted up my mind faded out. When I blinked myself into awareness some minutes later, the screen was ready.
Where had I read that list of Lyme victims?
I checked the computer's history, surprised that I remembered how to do that. My brain was seeming to wake up a little. Soon I found the page I was looking for and clicked to it. Up came the list of those who'd died from Lyme. I needed to print it out. Then it would be easier to retrieve if Stalking Man ever did decide to call. Maybe he just hadn't watched the six o'clock news. Maybe he'd see the segment if it ran again later tonight. Or tomorrow.
When I clicked the command to print, the machine only whirred. An error box popped up. The printer was out of paper.
Where did Brock keep it?
I opened the top drawer on the right, then the middle one and the bottom. No paper. Started with the drawers on the left. The second drawer contained a light-colored manila folder with Brock's h
andwriting on the tab. My eyes grazed over the label as I began closing the drawer.
The words on the folder tab registered. Lyme research. I slid the drawer open again and stared at the folder. Picked it up.
Inside was a document in two columns. On the left was a research paper copyrighted in 2008 by the American Society for Microbiology. Five researchers from the University of California, Davis had written the paper, titled "Persistence of Borrelia burgdorferi Following Antibiotic Treatment in Mice." On the right were notes in Brock's handwriting.
My eyes went first to the abstract of the paper summarizing the research. I had to read it four times before I could begin to process it. Mice infected with Lyme spirochetes had been treated with antibiotics for one month, some during the early stage of infection at three weeks, and some after four months of infection. Tissues from the mice were then examined for the presence of spirochetes. In some mice—particularly those not treated until the four-month stage—spirochetes could still be found. When ticks were allowed to feed on these mice, they picked up the spirochetes and later transmitted them to previously uninfected mice.
Whoa.
This research proved that four weeks of antibiotics weren't enough to kill all Lyme infection, as Brock and his committee contended.
2008. Three years ago. The only reason Brock would keep a copy of research findings such as these would be to refute them.
My gaze wandered to his handwritten notes. Opposite the explanation of the set-up for the research article, he'd written: Replicated 2009. To the right of the statement that some mice still retained Borrelia, he noted: Similar findings, esp. in mice treated at four months. Beside the text about ticks picking up the infection and transmitting it to other mice, he wrote: Concur.
I blinked at the notes. Replicated 2009. Brock had done similar research two years ago? And it had resulted in the same findings?
This couldn't be. I must be reading it wrong.
I read the abstract again, then Brock's notes. Concur. There was no other way to interpret that word. Brock's research agreed with the previous trials. He'd tried to refute it—and failed.
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