Over the Edge (12 page)

If she fed at all.

He rocked back in his chair, arms folded, gaze drifting upward. A scene filled with Elyse rose in his mind, his wife's round cheeks flushed and large brown eyes bright. They were backpacking in Oregon, an hour from their home at the time and had just found the perfect campsite—a level area tucked in the woods and beside a stream. Elyse wore a blue T-shirt and jeans, her brown arms tanned and strong from weight-lifting. She flung her heavy backpack down with enthusiasm, turning in a complete circle, her ponytail bobbing as she nodded. "Yes,
yes.
This is
just
the kind of place I wanted!"

"What if there are bears?"

"Nuh-uh, I'll fight them for this spot!" She spread her arms wide and grinned.

That was Elyse, full of energy and light. Nothing got the best of her; nothing deterred her from exploring the world. At work, her third-grade students loved her, and at home Elyse exuded optimism in the midst of his melancholic spirit. She was his strength and supporter, his best friend and lover. She buoyed him up and urged him on when his personal demons threatened to overcome him. And she made sure he took his meds. Without them he tended to go a little crazy, conjure up things that weren't true. Elyse evened him out, gave him a reason to breathe.

She was his
life.

He watched the tick venture upon a new twig, its eight legs moving in slow precision.

"We don't have Lyme in Oregon," the doctor had said when Elyse asked for the test. She'd gone to him with a mysterious weakness in her limbs and pain in her joints, a creeping depression that sucked away her sprightly demeanor and spat out listlessness. Some friend had suggested she might have Lyme. Elyse insisted on the test, which the grudging doctor ordered. Result: negative.

Five years crawled by before they discovered the truth, years during which the Lyme spirochetes deep inside her tissues reproduced and thrived and laid siege to her body. By the time of her diagnosis—at last an answer!—Elyse no longer walked.

One day he brought home a scientific journal containing the "Clinical Practice Guidelines for Lyme Disease," written by the fourteen-member committee under the auspices of the Infectious Diseases Society of America. By that time he and Elyse had moved to another state where she could be better treated. But their insurance was balking at continuing to cover the huge cost of antibiotics. His mouth twisted at the memory of lying beside his wife in bed as he read the guidelines that would render her more helpless than ever. "There is no convincing biologic evidence" for the existence of chronic Lyme, wrote the esteemed panel. Long-term antibiotic treatment was not warranted.

All those years of suffering—and these people were saying Elyse wasn't even sick. His fingers curled inward until his nails bit both palms. His body shook with an anger that would not be bound by muscle and sinew.

The IDSA committee had spoken. Insurance companies listened. After that their coverage for treatment dried up completely. Their debt mounted—until they could no longer pay for treatment at all. Without antibiotics, Elyse quickly grew worse. Her eyes couldn't stand light, and constant facial tics tugged at her mouth and cheeks. She lost memory, the ability to read. The will or energy to do anything. Her heart weakened.

He leaned forward and placed his finger against the glass, following the tick's crawl. The words from the TV interview all those years ago echoed in his head. One of the doctors on that committee, so sure of himself, so learned and wise: "Those claiming to have chronic Lyme disease do not, it's as simple as that. They may have some autoimmune issue caused by the presence of spirochetes long ago. Or they may need psychiatric counseling.

"People do not die from Lyme disease," the doctor declared a few moments later.

Two months after that, Elyse was gone. Cause of death on her certificate: Lyme disease.

"Promise me," she'd whispered as she lay in bed, unable to move. "Promise me you'll change this for other Lyme patients. You'll
do
something."

He could barely get the words out. "I promise."

Afterward he'd found an online list of patients who had died from Lyme—the memorialized kin Elyse had now joined. He was shocked to see the names of adults
and
children. The ages covered all generations. Seventy-seven, sixty-four, forty-seven. Elyse had been thirty-one. And the children. Age seventeen, eleven, five. Even babies could be born with Lyme from the mother, as the disease was able to cross the placental wall. Of course doctors like those on the committee would deny that possibility too.

Staring at that list on the monitor, he felt sudden heat track through his body. He shoved from his chair and paced, mounting anger pounding in his veins. All of it—Elyse's illness, her death—was so preventable.
So unbelievably stupid.
A few biased doctors could control the whole country like this? Could snap their fingers and launch their declarations from lofty laboratories and schools of medicine, far from the hue and cry of real patients and real pain? Then denigrate the doctors in the trenches who treated those patients no one else would treat. Their reported professional ties to patents and insurance companies, their arrogance in protecting their reputations at all costs—
all of it
was so disgustingly, ridiculously
wrong.

What every doctor on that committee needed, he'd seethed to himself as he paced, was a whopping case of Lyme. They and their families, too. Let
them
watch their loved ones waste away. Let
them
watched their loved ones die.

He stomped across the room and back, arms swinging, fingers clawed. If he could get to every one of those men, he would. He
would.
A hard swivel and he strode in the opposite direction, hands thrust in the air. When he reached the wall he jerked around again. Back and forth, back and forth he paced, cursing and crying, the minutes oozing into one thick, suffocating paste of grief and rage. Time plodded by without his awareness. His steps pounded and his fists punched the air until finally, spent and sweat-washed, he fell into the chair before his computer. There he'd slumped forward and listened to himself breathe.

Now, years later, he watched the tick with grim satisfaction, feeling the same sheen on his forehead.

I am not a monster.

Despite his fury over the years, the spittle of revenge, he had overcome. He'd built an entirely new life and career. In time memories of Elyse threatened to fade. Sometimes in his deadened brain he even thought,
Did she exist at all?
To keep her alive within his mind he'd reached deep inside what was left of himself. And he'd discovered a plagued but determined Don Quixote. He would change the system. Tilt at the windmills of that tight and righteous medical community. And he would win.

With a deep sigh, he stretched his tense muscles. These past few days had been utterly stressful. Things had not exactly gone as planned. And it wasn't easy living two lives.

His eyes fixed once again on the tick. Such a small, insignificant creature to be capable of carrying such a toxic load of misery.

He blinked his scratchy eyes and stood. Picked up the small, waiting vial—and opened the glass top to collect its precious cargo.

Chapter 17

LAUREN AND I ORDERED A PIZZA FOR DINNER. AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, I stared at my plate, my stomach turning over.

"What's wrong?" Lauren held a half-eaten piece with pepperoni in her hand. My side of the pizza had the added mushrooms. A faint tomato stain edged one corner of her mouth.

I shook my head. "Just tired."

She took another bite and chewed. "It's not fair that Daddy had to leave as soon as you came home."

"I know."

Behind me I could feel the empty backyard. It was still light now, but what would we do after the sun set? I pictured myself dragging through the house, double-checking doors and windows. What good would that even do? They'd all been locked before.

After dinner, with Lauren's attention fixed on the TV, I made my way into Brock's office. I collapsed in the chair behind his desk and gazed about the room like a lost soul. All the wood was dark walnut. I'd have chosen cherry. It was brighter, warmer. It occurred to me I could sit here this week while I paid bills. I'd always used the kitchen table, my files squeezed into the end cabinet. Since the beginning of our marriage I'd written out checks for each bill. Yet never did I have my own place for the task. Why was that?

Jud Maxwell's card sat on the desk. Must have been the one he gave me, although I had no memory of putting it there. On impulse I picked up the phone and dialed his number. Did the man even work on Sunday?

"Jud Maxwell."

He'd answered so fast. My brain stalled. "Hi."

"This would be . . . ?"

Our phone line had blocked our caller ID. "Janessa McNeil."

"Oh. Mrs. McNeil."

Something about that
Oh.
Vague warning chimed in my head. "I'm home now. And Brock's . . . gone. Didn't have much time to talk before he left. I wanted to check about our phones. Are they still t-tapped in case that man calls again?"

And, by the way, how was I supposed to sleep in this house tonight?

"Glad to hear you're home." The detective's tone sounded cordial and . . . something else. Guarded? "Are you feeling better?"

I hesitated. "Afraid not."

A squeak filtered over the line, as if he'd leaned back in an old chair. "Sorry to hear that."

He said no more. Was he waiting for me? For no reason at all scenes from numerous cop shows ticked through my head. They were all the same—a tense-muscled suspect in an interrogation room, the casual-looking policeman waiting him out.

"So what about the phone t-tapping?"

"I heard that the man called your hospital room."

"Yes!" My throat tightened. "He threatened to . . . hurt Lauren. To infect her like he did me."

"With Lyme, you mean."

"Yes."

"But your Lyme test was negative."

I stared at the pen holder by Brock's monitor. The four pens in it were all alike—black and sleek. I pictured Brock holding one of them, bouncing it against the desk while he talked on the phone. About
me.
So he'd told Jud everything, had he? Including his suspicions of his wife?

"I need to be retested. The results may be wrong."

"I see."

"
Do
you? He threatened my
daughter.
" My voice turned off-key. Shivers crawled around my body. "Listen, I'm here alone with Lauren, I'm s-sick, and
I want to know if you're listening to my phone calls!
"

"We have left the taps in place, Mrs. McNeil. But I have to be honest with you—we're not actively listening to the calls."

"Why?"

"I'm afraid we're lacking manpower at the moment. You may not have heard while you were in the hospital that three more burglaries occurred in Palo Alto over the weekend—and they all appear to be linked. Our chief has put every available man hour on that case."

"So . . . you're not doing anything to investigate that madman who's been calling me?"

Jud hesitated. "Mrs. McNeil, I wish I could be investigating your case. But at the moment we're swamped here, and my superior has not given me the go-ahead to spend the time unless something new comes up. The problem is, so far I have no real evidence to support your story. The hospital tests were all negative. And there was no evidence of a break-in at your house."

"You traced the two ph-phone calls. Brock told me. So you know I got those calls."

"Yes. We also know that both times the calls originated from the very same area where you were located."

"Or you made them."
So that wasn't just Brock's suspicion, but Jud Maxwell's as well? "I
didn't
make those calls."

"It's—"

"I didn't!"

Silence. I hunched over the phone, disbelieving. Not this too. I couldn't take it.

"Mrs. McNeil, I tend to believe you. But our investigations rely on evidence. We can't justify spending more time on this case if nothing pans out. But I'm
not
forgetting you. If something new comes up, something you can give me, please call. I'll look into it. Also in the meantime I have asked our patrols on the street to do drive-bys of your home."

I stared at the pens. So neat and precise. My mind plodded through the lack of evidence. But was there more? Had Brock told Jud Maxwell about my childhood faked sickness? And did he know Brock was having an affair with a lab assistant? Maybe Jud's wife, Sarah, had heard rumors. Maybe she'd even seen Brock and Alicia together. Maybe everybody on campus knew of my husband's affair. That Christmas party last year, when everyone greeted me, all smiles? I pictured Dane Melford, Brock's other assistant. We'd talked for some time at that party, and he told me over and over how wonderful Brock was. I thought of Dr. Sid Segal, another professor in the department, and one of Brock's biggest rivals. Harold Standish, a colleague and occasional golf partner of Brock's. Harold's son, Brad, also worked in the department. And countless other professors and researchers, their assistants and groupies. Did they all hiss innuendo behind my back?
"She doesn't know, does she? Look at her over there, watching Brock peck Alicia on the cheek."

Heat slid through me. I wanted to punch something.

"Did Brock talk to you? Did he t-tell you to stop your investigation?"

A beat passed. "I did ask him to report to me the hospital findings, remember? So yes, we've kept in touch."

He was hedging. I could hear it in his voice. "He told you things about me, didn't he."

"Such as?"

"Don't l-lie to me. I've had a husband lying to me for m-months."

Another awkward pause. Which told me I guessed right. Jud knew about the affair.

"
Did
Brock talk to you?"

I could feel his reticence. Finally he said, "Yes."

"What exactly did he say?"

"I'd rather not—"

"
What
did he say? You owe me that much."

That squeaky chair sounded again. "He told me about your marital issues, Mrs. McNeil."