Over the Edge (13 page)

Marital issues?
"You mean his affair with Alicia Mays."

"Well—"

"Did he tell you he'd been p-planning to move out?"

"Yes."

The answer stung. This detective, this husband of Brock's administrative assistant, had known before
I
did. "What else did he say?"

"Mrs. McNeil, nothing your husband said would turn me aside from this case if I had anything to go on."

Dizziness swirled around me. From the pain in my body or the sickness in my gut, I didn't know. My breath rode shallow. "I don't have the . . ." What was the word? What was the
word?
"Energy to play twenty questions.
What else
did he tell you?"

I could practically hear the gears turning in the detective's head. I pictured him sitting at an old steel desk, uniformed police passing in the hallway. Should he refuse to say more of the confidential conversation? Or would his empathy with the sick, abandoned wife win out?

Jud Maxwell's tone dropped. "He did mention your abusive father. The sickness you faked as a child."

There it was. The puzzle pieces all fit. Brock's affair at work, his stellar standing at the school of medicine. Now his jilted wife was trying to ruin his career by upending his lifelong research in Lyme. What a clever woman that Janessa was, striking at the very thing that had brought Brock and his young, beautiful lab assistant together. What a way to seek revenge.

"And that's what I'm doing n-now, I suppose. Faking."

"Are you?"

My muscles ached, my lungs groaned, and I barely had the strength to hold my head up. It was taking every ounce of willpower I possessed to even have this conversation.

"Have you ever had Lyme disease, Mr. Maxwell?"

"No."

"You'd better hope you never do. Because I p-promise you, you'll
wish
you were faking."

"If the tests were negative, what makes you so sure you have Lyme?"

"Because my husband has been dead wrong about everything else!" I slammed down the receiver.

Long moments passed. I sat there, beyond numb, my thoughts everywhere and nowhere. Then, through the closed door I registered the sound of canned laughter from the television. Lauren giggling along with it.

My neck would no longer support my head. Every joint in my body throbbed. And those little spasms I was feeling were so strange. I lifted my right hand, twisting it to examine my forearm. An area about two inches wide tremored and twitched as if a bug writhed just beneath the skin. I watched with appalled fascination. What
was
that?

The skin crawl continued.

An hour later, as Lauren's bedtime approached, I couldn't wait to fall into bed myself. Slowly I caned around the house, checking locks on windows and doors. In the kitchen near the door to the garage sat our burglar alarm's control unit. I activated it to
Stay.
We could move around inside the house without tripping the laser beams, but opening any door or window on the ground floor would set the alarm off.

If only I'd been in the habit of setting the alarm every night. Stalking Man couldn't have gotten in. The stupidity. The alarm had been here since we moved into the house when Lauren was a baby, yet we never used it unless we left town. How could we have been so complacent?

I lingered in front of the control pad, resting my forehead against the wall.
If only, if only.
My life was suddenly filled with those pathetic two words. I had to change that. Had to
do
something about all of this.

But at that moment I had no strength for anything.

The phone rang. It was Maria. I'd forgotten to call her. "He didn't t-tell her," I whispered, afraid Lauren would hear. "
I'm
supposed to do it."

My friend made a sound in her throat. "Unbelievable."

Yeah. "I'll s-see you in the morning."

I managed to drag myself upstairs and into my room. There I gimped around the bed to Brock's nightstand on the other side. In the drawer of that nightstand lay his gun, a Smith & Wesson 637. Brock kept the bullets in the top drawer of his main dresser. I remembered that the gun held five rounds. And it was lightweight but had a pretty hefty recoil.

As Lauren took a shower I sat on the bed and loaded the gun. With my weak, painful fingers it took some time. I could only imagine those same hands trying to shoot. And how many years had it been since I used the thing? I'd never wanted to learn how to shoot in the first place. Guns scared me—especially with a child in the house.

But tonight, for the first time in my life, I would sleep with one loaded by my bed.

I placed the weapon and the box of bullets in the drawer of my nightstand.

When Lauren emerged from her shower I called her into my room. "You can sleep here tonight."

She bounced up and down. "I can sleep with
you?
" The multi-hued flowers on her pajamas reflected color in her cheeks. How different she would look if Brock had told her the truth.

"You bet."

She grinned. "Oh, yippee! I'll get Tito." She ran back into her room for the brown stuffed dog.

When she returned I locked the door. Lauren tilted her head. "Why're you so worried about the alarm and the door and everything?"

"No reason, except that your dad's not here. Just think it's safer, that's all."

She accepted my lame answer with a shrug of her shoulders and climbed into bed.

I couldn't sleep. The physical pain and the thoughts of Brock—with
her
—would not let me rest. Anger and sorrow and fear mashed together in my lungs until I could barely breathe. Questions whirled and tangled in my mind. How many nights had I lain here with Brock while his mind was on that woman? Why had he drawn away from me in the first place? What had I done? And Stalking Man—was he out there, watching the house? Did he know Brock had left? If I'd had the energy I'd have gotten up, paced the floor. Cleaned the house.
Something.
But the emotions' only outlet came in hot tears that slid down my temples and dripped into my ears.

If only I had a Bible beside the bed. I wanted to find that verse that had come to mind before:
"God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in time of trouble."
It had to be in the Psalms. My soul longed to read more verses, draw from them all the comfort that I could.

My exhausted eyes lifted to the radio clock on my bedside table. After eleven. Surely this had been the longest day of my life.

Except for tomorrow.

MONDAY

Chapter 18

WHEN I AWOKE AROUND SIX O'CLOCK I FELT AS THOUGH I'D been up all night. No refreshment from sleep in the slightest. Could I even get out of bed?

I rolled over and reached for my cane on the floor. Eased back the covers. In slow, cautious motion I managed to sit up and move my legs over the side of the bed. My brain told me I couldn't do this. I should listen. Did I want to fall on the floor as I had in the kitchen those few days—that lifetime—ago? This time I may not get up.

How many days of this until Brock realized he was wrong—that I really was sick? How many days until he returned home to take care of me?

My cane positioned just right, leaning forward, I gathered all the strength I could find and pushed to my shaky feet. For a moment I hung there, testing my body. Everything hurt. The worst flu could not bring this kind of pain in my muscles. And my joints—this must be what rheumatoid arthritis felt like.

Somehow I crossed the treacherous and rolling path to the bathroom. By the time I came out a few minutes later I could think of nothing but returning to bed.

Propping my pillows behind me, I half sat up, watching the clock until I needed to wake Lauren. She lay on her side facing me, a hand curled around Tito. One thought rang clear in my muddled head. I could not live like this and take care of my daughter. I had to get a diagnosis. Treatment. I had to get well—for Lauren.

At seven o'clock I woke her by a light rubbing of her head. She breathed in deeply, rising cognizance twitching across her face. Her eyes opened in sleepiness, then blinked. One side of her mouth curved. "Mmm."

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

She swallowed. "Not yet."

"Yes. Yet."

I touched a finger to her face. "Look at you, even lovelier than yesterday. The Pretty Fairy came and k-kissed you again last night."

Lauren smiled. "How'd she know I was in your room?"

"The Pretty Fairy always knows."

Lauren yawned, then sat up and surveyed me. "You feeling any better?"

I pulled my lower lip between my teeth. What was the point of faking it? She'd see right through me. "Afraid not. Can you get d-dressed and just have some . . . cereal for breakfast? Maria will be by to pick you up for school."

Lauren nodded, her eyebrows knit. "I'm sorry, Mom." She slid from bed and walked around the end of it, carrying Tito.

"Oh, wait, Lauren. You'll need to turn off the alarm." She could use the second control pad near the master bedroom door. "Otherwise it'll go off when you g-go outside."

"How?"

I told her the sequence of buttons to push. She followed my directions, and the control pad's red light switched to green.

One night in the house—safe. How many more nights would I lie awake and wonder until Stalking Man was caught?

And just who was going to catch him?

I needed to get downstairs, check around the house. Even if the alarm had been on all night, what if . . . something? I couldn't let Lauren just wander around down there by herself.

Once more I hauled myself out of bed. As Lauren dressed I pulled on a robe and made my way to the stairs. At the top I stood looking down, dank dread in my chest. I may as well have been stranded on top of a mountain.

The gun.
I'd left the thing loaded in my nightstand. What if Lauren went back into my room for something and happened to open that drawer?

Slowly I returned to my room. With the door closed I pulled the weapon out of the drawer. I clumped into my walk-in closet and laid it high on a shelf out of Lauren's reach. Tonight I'd return it to my nightstand.

Back at the stairs I descended one at a time, gripping my cane in one hand and holding on to the banister with the other. Going down was much harder than coming up. It required more leg strength to lower myself down. If I fell now and broke something—then what?

Would Brock claim I'd staged that, too?

After an eternity I reached the bottom and stumbled across the hall into the kitchen. I opened the sliding door and peered into the backyard. No footprints on the deck, across the grass. I gazed to my right at the ground near the sturdy-limbed tree growing close to the house. Numerous times we'd had to trim the tree's branches because they nearly touched the upstairs window in our dressing room. That trunk would make a great hiding place for someone sneaking through the yard. But I saw no footprints there either.

Spent, I relocked the door and collapsed into a chair at the table to wait for Lauren. She soon appeared, hair combed and looking cute in a pink cotton top and jeans with stitched rosebuds on the sides. Lauren loved flowers on her clothes. She poured herself a bowl of cereal and milk and settled next to me at the table.

"Don't talk to any . . . strangers around school. Okay? Especially men."

Lauren's mouth stopped mid-crunch as she fixed me with a questioning look. She finished her bite and swallowed. "Why're you saying that? Why is everybody saying that to me?"

"What do you mean, everybody?"

"Daddy said it two days ago."

Ah. So there had been a time when Brock believed me.

"And now you're locking the doors and turning on the alarm and everything."

"The doors are always l-locked at night."

She gave me a look. I raised my eyebrows and said no more. Lauren's gaze fell to her cereal bowl. After a moment she shook her head and sighed. "Well, you don't need to make me scared."

"Am I making you scared?"

"Yes."

My heart panged. "Sorry. Didn't mean to."

She frowned. "Something's weird, is all. I mean just . . . everything."

A kid's antennae. I thought back to my own childhood, to walking in the door every day after school. The moment I crossed the threshold I'd stop, sensing the air for my father's mood.

I would have to be more careful. But how to protect Lauren without frightening her?

At 7:45 Maria arrived. By then I lay on the couch. Lauren had just unlocked the front door, then trotted upstairs to brush her teeth. Katie pounded up to find her.

Maria stood over me, worry sketched into her forehead. "How are you?"

The tone of her question said she needn't ask. Surely I looked terrible.

"Lauren doesn't look upset. Did you tell her?"

"I couldn't."

She gave an empathetic nod. "What was Brock's excuse for leaving?"

"A . . ." The word eluded me. "That thing when you . . . A business trip. For a week."

Maria planted a hand on her hip and looked away, digesting the news. By the look on her face it soured her stomach. "So." She focused on me again. "You going to tell her tonight?"

"No. I mean, this can't l-last." My voice caught. "Brock has to see I'm really s-sick and come back."

Maria gazed at me, doubt pulling at her mouth. "Sure."

We regarded each other.

"What else can I do for you today, Jannie?"

Maria worked part-time in the public high school library. She wasn't free to help me during the day. "I'll be f-fine." I aimed a grim smile at her. "Think I'll just camp out right here. You're doing enough getting Lauren to school and back."

The girls trotted down the stairs, ready and bristling for the day. So much energy. Lauren leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. "Bye, Mom!"

"Bye, honey." I almost said
stay safe,
but bit back the words.

After they'd left, the house rang with unnatural silence.

I closed my eyes.

The next thing I knew the clock read after 10:00. My brain felt fuzzy. Stalking Man's words filtered by in slow motion:
"After they're done testing you for all the things they won't find, go to a doctor who knows how to treat Lyme."