Over the Edge (10 page)

McNeil sat down. Jud claimed his battered chair behind the desk, moving aside his notes from the burglaries. "Have you been trying to get hold of me today? Sorry I've been busy with another case."

"No, I just thought I'd try to catch you." The doctor straightened his back. The hesitation melted from his demeanor, replaced with a steely determination. "I need to talk to you about Jannie."

Jud leaned back and his chair squeaked. "You have new information?"

McNeil pulled in a deep breath. "You know about the test results from yesterday. All normal. And today—same thing. They can't find one thing wrong with her."

Jud mulled that over. "No poisons. No infections. No . . . anything."

"Correct."

Interesting. "So what do you think?"

McNeil ran a knuckle under his chin as he contemplated Jud's scratched-up desk. "I think . . ." He shifted in his seat. Tilted his head back with a sigh. "This isn't going to be easy to say."

"Okay." Jud nodded, then waited. He'd learned years ago not to fill the silence. Let the witness or suspect fill it instead. Never know what interesting information you'll get.

The doctor looked down at his hands. His jaw moved to one side, his forehead puckering. "I'm afraid she's faking."

Jud fought to keep the surprise from his face. "Faking her illness?"

"All of it. Her illness. And the man's phone calls."

Wow. Jud leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. What question to ask first? "Is she the kind of woman who would do that?" Jud never would have guessed such a thing.

McNeil cleared his throat again. "Not usually. I mean, never before in our marriage has she pulled anything like this. She's always been trustworthy. But now . . . And then there's her past. Plus the facts at hand that I just can't ignore."

The doctor looked pained, as if the very conversation was hurtful to him.

"I see." Jud slid a pad of paper toward himself and found a pen. Clearly there were numerous issues to sort through here. "If you don't mind I'd like to take notes."

McNeil pressed his lips, then nodded.

"So . . . let's start with the 'facts at hand.'" Jud wrote a number 1 on his page and circled it. "Tell me the first."

"The negative test results."

Jud wrote down the answer. "But surely this has happened before with patients. Something so esoteric or rare is wrong with a person that it takes a long time to find the cause."

"Yes, but you're forgetting one thing. According to Jannie's unwavering story, she's supposed to have Lyme. She doesn't. Yet she still insists on it. Of course we worked her up for everything else just to be sure. But I've spoken to the physicians and nurses attending her at the hospital. They all say she keeps insisting she has Lyme—the very disease on which I've built my reputation." Bitterness edged into McNeil's tone. "To make her story work, she
has
to have the disease."

"But if she's faking, she'd know the tests would show negative."

"True. And she's got the perfect comeback—the same thing all those
chronic
Lyme patients out there claim. The tests are wrong." He shrugged. "As for all the other workups she had to endure, I'm sure she never expected me to send her to the hospital in the first place."

Jud frowned, his gaze wandering to his monitor. The screen saver had kicked in, rolling an aimless ball. "She looks so sick."

"Yes. Well. She's had practice."

Jud raised his eyebrows. "Practice?"

McNeil nodded. "It happened in her childhood. Jannie's the daughter of an alcoholic. A horrible man who abused her both physically and emotionally. Then one day she figured out how to pull some real, caring attention from him . . ."

Jud took notes as he listened to the disturbing stories from Jannie McNeil's childhood. The stomach aches she faked. Her repeat performances because of their effectiveness.

McNeil shook his head. "Took her years to open up to me about this. When she finally did, I felt terrible for her. That a child should need to do that just to see some tenderness from her father. And part of me was confused, because the Jannie I knew wore her emotions on her sleeve. How did she ever fake something well enough to fool her callous father? And her mother? I'll never forget Jannie's answer. She said, 'I was great at it because I had to be. I needed to survive.'"

The last word hung in the air. Jud dwelt on it for a moment, then struggled to place the Janessa McNeil he knew into this new context of deceit. Faking an illness as a child was one thing—and in her situation understandable. But launching this kind of scheme as an adult, as a caring mother with a daughter to take care of . . . What in the world would push a stable woman to do such a thing?

A cold light dawned in Jud's head.

He tapped his pen against the paper. "So number one—we've got the test results. Nothing to indicate she's sick in any way." He wrote 2 on his paper and circled it. "Second, we've got . . . ?"

"No evidence. As you know." The doctor gestured toward Jud. "No solid evidence of a break-in at our house. No evidence of the two calls being made by anyone but Jannie herself—because they were made from the very same area. And since you've tapped those two lines—nothing. Except a supposed call to the hospital—which no one else heard."

"Wait, back up. You think your wife made those phone calls
herself?
"

"Apparently so. She let it slip that she knows about cell phone tracing from watching true crime shows on TV. So she knew she couldn't just make up the calls—she actually had to receive them. I figure she bought a throwaway phone and dialed herself."

Janessa McNeil would
do
that? "But if she knows about call tracing, she'd know the calls would trace back to her own area."

"True. But that would just make it look even worse—like the man was stalking her. He was in close proximity."

Jud stared at a spot on the wall, trying to make sense of the doctor's suspicions. They did fit what little evidence he'd gathered. But Jud could not imagine them fitting Mrs. McNeil.

"You mentioned something about the man calling your wife's hospital room?"

McNeil shook his head. "That's what she claims. Now he's supposedly threatening Lauren. Talk about upping the ante. Believe me, I wouldn't let anything happen to my daughter, but I
know
that phone call never happened. Jannie tried to tell me a nurse overheard the conversation, but when I talked to the woman she didn't know anything about it."

Jud made a note. "What time did she say the call came in?"

McNeil shrugged. "I don't remember. Sometime yesterday."

"Yesterday? You never mentioned it."

McNeil looked away. "I . . . couldn't. I know our phone conversations have been brief. I'm sorry about that. But all these suspicions were rolling around in my head, and I had to sort them out. I didn't want to believe them. I really didn't." McNeil spread his hands. "But when you think about it, there's nothing,
not one thing
to substantiate her story. Nothing stacks up. And I'm just sick about this. Utterly sick."

What husband wouldn't be, if he believed such a thing about his wife? "But
why
would she do this?"

McNeil regarded him, as if assessing how much he knew. That chilling light in Jud's head grew a little brighter. After all, Sarah was pretty astute. Jud kept his face placid.

"I don't want my wife humiliated." The doctor spoke with his old force. "And I know you've already put manpower into this case. Plus falsely reporting a crime is a crime in itself. I don't want Jannie in trouble. This has gone far enough. I want you to drop the case."

Drop
the case? "What if you're wrong? What if this stalker really exists?"

"He doesn't."

The man was certainly sure of himself.

Jud's gaze returned to the spot on the wall. He had to admit everything the doctor said could fit. But he still found the story hard to swallow.

Jud looked back to the doctor. One crucial piece remained missing. But apparently Jud was going to have to back McNeil into a corner before he'd admit it. "Tell me this. Could the man have placed infected ticks on your wife—but she didn't get Lyme?"

McNeil shrugged. "Yes, it's possible. Everyone reacts differently to the infection. Or maybe they never attached at all."

"So all the negative test results don't necessarily mean this man doesn't exist."

"I . . . true."

"And the phone calls coming from the area near your wife—maybe this bad guy really
was
that close."

The doctor leaned forward and looked Jud in the eye. "I'm telling you, she's lying. Close the case."

"I can't close a criminal investigation simply because a family member asks me to."

"
Do
it." McNeil's lips thinned. He straightened his back. "Do I need to tell your chief how you're wasting your time on a case with no evidence when a string of burglaries is yet to be solved?"

Jud tossed down his pen. The barb about the burglaries hit a little too close.

"Hear me, detective. I
don't want
any more embarrassment for Jannie."

Or maybe for himself?

Jud stabbed McNeil with a look. So the man wanted to play rough? Fine. "Dr. McNeil, there's one question you haven't yet answered. And I have no reason to continue listening unless you do.
Why
would your loyal, trustworthy wife do this?"

McNeil locked defiant eyes with Jud. Anger and resentment rattled the air. "Apparently she once again feels the need to survive."

"Survive what?"

"Or perhaps it's more like exact her revenge." And then, in a cold, self-rationalizing tone, McNeil told Jud why his wife had launched her outrageous scheme.

SUNDAY

Chapter 14

ON SUNDAY I WAS RELEASED FROM THE HOSPITAL AT NOON. I'd requested that Brock buy me a cane. He brought one to the hospital, a silver, ugly thing with rubberized handle. I badly needed it. I remained unsteady in my gait and weak-muscled. The burning on the bottoms of my feet had increased and only grew worse the longer I stood. Even with the cane I shuffled. And using the thing hurt my right hand and arm.

We drove home, the day bright and the silence in our car thick. I wore sunglasses, and still my eyes hurt. In the spotlight of Brock's suspicions, every one of my symptoms seemed to scream its existence. The cautious bending to get into his Mercedes. My painful hand outreached, trying to pull the door shut. Brock closed it for me. Did he resent that?

In my house I felt like a refugee come to beg. As if something had changed while I was gone, and I could no longer settle into its familiar comfort. Lauren was still at Katie's. Maria would bring her home around mid-afternoon. I caned my way across the kitchen to the freezer and opened it, staring at its contents. Meat needed to be taken out for dinner. What should I choose? And surely the laundry had piled up. Yesterday was Saturday, and the bed sheets hadn't been changed. My eyes took in the meat choices, hardened and frosted. Like my husband.

He closed the door leading to the garage. "Don't worry about dinner. I'll pick up something later."

"No, no, I'll cook." I had to. Just to prove there was still some normalcy about me. Although where I'd find the energy, I didn't know.

"Jannie, we need to talk."

Funny, how those words carried a kind of finality.

I edged back and closed the freezer door. Turned myself around. My feet bottoms sizzled, and the fatigue made me sway. I needed to sit down, but I wasn't about to suggest it.

Brock gestured with his head. "Let's go in the den."

The den.
For a moment I couldn't remember what room that was.

Brock headed into the TV room. Through the pass-through window I watched him aim for his armchair. I made my slow way out of the kitchen to the couch and sat down, trying to keep my back straight, my face calm. What was I to do with the cane? I didn't want to rest my palms on its handle like some old dowager. I hesitated, then leaned it against a cushion so it wouldn't fall. I didn't want to have to bend over and retrieve it from the floor.

"What is it, Brock?" Maybe I could feign control of this conversation. "You want to discuss my f-faked illness?"

He sat, hands on his knees, his expression almost defensive. It took him a long while to respond.

"You know. Don't you, Jannie."

A statement, not a question.

I gave my head a tiny shake.
What?

He pulled in air. Let it out. "About Alicia."

In drugged motion the name wafted through my brain. Alicia. One of his lab assistants.

"And me."

My head pulled back, my eyelids weighted. I think my heart stopped beating. I fixed on my husband's face, waiting for him to say more. To explain that it wasn't as it sounded. The second stretched out, my fingers rubbing against my jeans, my legs heavy as logs. How strange, hearing news that could upend my life, and I was just . . . sitting there.

"Actually," I heard myself say, "I didn't."

Was that a smirk that flashed? "Oh, I think you did."

My eyes slipped closed. What was the important topic here? Not the fact that my husband was apparently doing something horrible and immoral, but that I'd
known
about it? I took a deep breath. It ransacked my lungs. "Tell you what, B-Brock, why don't you humor me."

He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, fingers laced. "I was prepared to have this talk three days ago."

Thursday—when Stalking Man first called. Well. Wasn't that quite the fated day.

"I'm leaving, Jannie. I'm moving in with her."

I floated to the ceiling and looked down, a detached spirit. At first my brain couldn't grasp what I'd heard. Then vague realization filtered in. Brock's plan to tell me three days ago. Then the weekend, Lauren staying at Katie's rather than at home. "You were with her. This weekend."

Brock shrugged.

"You'd planned that already?"

No answer.

What to ask next? Where to even go from here? "How old is this person?" Was I not young
enough
for him?