Over the Edge (17 page)

"It's not the end. We don't know where the bug is!"

My chin dropped. The last spate of energy in my body melted right out of me. If I didn't make it to the couch—now—I'd fall right out of the chair.

Suddenly I couldn't pull in enough air. My body tipped, my head swam. "Oh." My mouth dropped, and I sucked in huge, grating breaths as if I'd just shot to the surface of water after nearly drowning.

"Mom?"

Still not enough oxygen. Black shapes swirled through my eyesight. Any second, I'd go down. I grabbed the edge of the table and leaned over the wood. Turned my head to one side and laid it down. My legs shook, and my arms, my fingers. Yawning dread swept through me. I couldn't breathe. I
could not
breathe.

"Mom!" Lauren shook my shoulder. "Mommeeee!"

I tried to answer, to calm her, but couldn't.
More air, more.
I dragged it in, my lungs wheezing like rusted bellows, the rasp gritty in my throat. My chest rose and fell, pushing my torso up from the table. My sight faded more . . .

The blackening stopped.

I felt a change in my body, as if a blocked airway had expanded. The sense of suffocation subsided, my breaths not quite as frenzied. The screams in my brain died down. Still I lay bent over the table, pulling in air until my lungs could hold no more, pushing it out, pulling it in again.

"Mom?" Fear coated Lauren's voice.

My breathing steadied. My vision cleared.

"I'm . . . okay. Just . . . felt dizzy."

I gave myself another moment, then cautiously raised my torso from the table. My fingers slipped off the edge of the wood. I hung there, assessing my heartbeat, my balance. It had passed. That horrible death-grip feeling of being buried alive was gone.

My throat convulsed. "I need to lie down."

In a blur I felt for my cane, pushed to my unsteady feet. I shuffled into the den and fell upon the couch, spent and wracked with pain. "L-Lauren," I croaked. "You have to get . . ."

My throat closed up. I tried to push out the words, but they wouldn't come. Fatigue rolled its boulder-like body onto my chest, crushing my lungs, my mouth. My mind shrieked for me to
do something, save your daughter!
but I couldn't even keep my eyes open. They blinked and fluttered . . . and then glued shut.

My last waking thought was of the tiny time bomb crawling loose in the kitchen.

Chapter 23

FEELING HIT ME FIRST. THE THROB OF MY BODY, THE WEIGHT of my chest with every breath. Then sound—or lack of it. I floated up, up, in a dark, dank cave . . .

My eyes opened. I lay on my back, staring through a haze at the den ceiling, a block of dread in my chest. The light was so bright. Didn't I have sunglasses? "L-Lauren?"

"What?" The response, heavy with accusation, came from the kitchen.

"You okay?"

"Fine." Still sullen.

"Your homework done?"

"Almost."

My gaze wandered to the clock on the wall. Just after 5:00. I'd been asleep . . . what? An hour?

The tick.
The memory washed over me in a frigid shiver.

"Lauren, get out of the kitchen!"

"What?"

"G-get out. Now!"

Her chair scraped. She appeared in the doorway, frowning. "If you're still worried about the bug, it's not there. Believe me, I looked everywhere. Like
three
times." She folded her arms, brimming with indignation. I'd scared her for no reason. Scared her with one of the things I knew she hated most.

"I'm s-sorry. I just . . ." I turned my gaze away from her, floundering and sick at heart. The tick was there. It was
still there.

She sniffed, then walked to the armchair and plopped into it. Her voice softened. "You feeling any better?"

Jud Maxwell's words whispered from the recesses of my mind:
"If something new comes up, something you can give me, please call."
He should know. About the tick. About how close Stalking Man had gotten to my daughter.

The phone sat in its cradle on the table behind my head. In slow twist I turned on my side and fumbled for the receiver. My body felt like it was pushing through water.

Wait. What was Jud's number?

I rolled to my back. Lauren watched me, lingering anger blending into sympathy. My eyes blinked at the phone, as if it would tell me what to do. I laid it in my lap. "Lauren, I need you to g-get something for me."

"What?"

"A business card. On Daddy's desk. Name on it is Jud Maxwell."

She heaved a sigh and rose. I listened to her footsteps as she went through the hall, to the office and back. She stood behind the couch and thrust the card toward me. "Here."

"Thanks." I took the card and touched her hand. "You still scared?"

She shrugged. "The whole time I did my homework, I kept my feet off the floor."

I nodded, sick at heart.

Lauren rubbed her arms. "Is Jud Maxwell that detective who was here?"

The card felt hot in my fingers. "Yes."

"Why do you want to call him?"

When I was a small child I'd hated my mother's lack of explanations. Actions and words that made no sense would flow around me, and I could never glean the answer to
why.
Why was my daddy in bed? Why did he look sick? Why wasn't he home? Why was my mom's face bruised? I felt locked out from the truth, never sure what to expect. But sure that when it came I would never know why. In time I learned. My father started hitting
me.
And the effects of his drinking spilled from the bedroom through the entire house. The secrets then rested upon my shoulders as well as my mother's. I had to hide our shame from the rest of the world.

I'd vowed nothing like that would ever happen in my own home, with my own children. No hiding, no lies. No dodging questions when Lauren knew something was amiss. Nothing was more important than my daughter's ability to trust me.

I licked my lips. "To tell him about the bug in your backpack."

Lauren's nose scrunched. "You're going to tell him
that?
Whoever did it at school's really gonna get into trouble."

"I just don't want . . . anyone hurting you."

She regarded me, her lips pressed. Doubt flicked across her face—and it pierced to my soul.

"I don't like you sick. It makes you . . ." Lauren shook her head.

I worked to give her a reassuring smile. "I'm going to the doctor tomorrow."

"You've just
been
at the hospital for three days."

"I know but . . . this is a different doctor."

"Will he make you better?"

"She." I swallowed. "Yes. I think so."

Lauren bit the inside of her cheek.

"Why don't you watch TV up in my . . . upstairs? Since I need to make the call from here."

Her eyebrows rose. "You're gonna let me watch TV in
your
bedroom?" For some reason lying on her parents' king-sized bed to watch TV had always been the ultimate in decadence for Lauren.

"Yeah. Just for now. Before you go . . . do I have sunglasses?"

She gave me a look. "They're in the kitchen."

"Oh. Right. Could you get them for me?"

She headed to the kitchen, stopping at the threshold to check the floor. In seconds she returned. I put the sunglasses on. Ah. So much easier on my eyes.

"Can I go upstairs now?"

"Yeah. Close the door, okay?"

"Okay." Lauren swiveled and trotted off before I could change my mind.

I adjusted my aching neck against the pillow and looked dully at the card. For a moment I couldn't think how to hold it to see the number and dial at the same time. Wouldn't I need a third hand for that? Such a problem. I closed my eyes, fighting to logic my way through. If I couldn't even do this, how was I going to convince Jud to listen?

Up and down my legs I felt those strange little muscle twitches, like bugs wriggling under my skin. I read the first two numbers off the card and hit the buttons on the receiver. Repeated with two more at a time. Finally a phone rang on the other end of the line.

"Jud Maxwell."

For a split second, fear nearly made me hang up. "Hi. It's J-Jannie. McNeil."

"Yes, Mrs. McNeil."

"I . . . There was a tick in Lauren's backpack. In a little . . . bottle. He had to put it there."

"A tick?"

"A deer tick. They carry L-Lyme. I saw online what they look like."

Jud made a sound in his throat. "You and Lauren okay?"

Just great. "Uh-huh."

"Do you have this bottle with the tick inside?"

"Yes. No."

"Which is it?"

"The bottle, yes. But I dropped it. The t-tick fell out. Can't find it. Looked all over." A chill knocked down my spine.

"You can't find it?"

"Had L-Lauren look. Everywhere in the kitchen." My voice crimped. "We have to f-find it. It could bite her!"

Silence. I could imagine his thoughts. How convenient for me to have lost the main piece of evidence. If Brock heard of this he'd be furious. I could only imagine his ravings. I couldn't deal with that. Not on top of everything else.

"P-please. You have to believe me."

Jud's chair squeaked. "So you have the bottle, correct?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I'll come over and get it, and we can talk more about this. All right?"

My eyes burned. "Yes. Thank you."

"Give me, say, twenty minutes."

"Okay." My finger hit the
off
button. The phone fell against my stomach.

Thank You, God. Thank You, thank You.

Surely Jud would find the tick. Then he'd believe me completely. Brock would have to believe me. He'd come home . . .

I lay staring at the ceiling, entertaining desperate dreams of all my problems fading away. Then I dropped back into hard reality.

How would I get up to answer the door when the detective arrived?

Chapter 24

HE DROVE DOWN THE STREET AS A SUIT-CLAD MAN STEPPED onto the house's porch and reached for the doorbell. The man was too far away for him to tell who it was.

His foot jerked off the accelerator for a split second, then he regained his equilibrium. No need for concern, no matter who it was. He was just a man driving by in an unknown car. Besides, the dark toupee and mustache concealed his features.

The door of the house opened, and the man disappeared inside.

It was a heady thing, being a savior. Few were called, fewer still up to the task. In every Lyme patient's story he read on the Internet, in every Lyme patient's face he saw at rallies on TV, he saw Elyse. Heard her voice.

"Promise me you'll change it for others."

This world was full of injustice, yet so many sat on the sidelines and did nothing. This disease, these Lyme wars were costing people their quality of life, some their very lives themselves. It required focus,
genius
to accomplish what he had done. What were a few sick lives to save the masses?

As he drove past the house, he dared no more than a glance at it.

Had she found the tick yet?

His lips curled. What a sight that would be when she did.

Try to catch me now. Try to keep me from your precious Lauren.

Chapter 25

I'D MANAGED TO SIT UP ON THE COUCH. I SQUINTED THROUGH the window to watch for Jud Maxwell's car. I'd opened the shades, which didn't help my eyes any. But I wanted to reach the front door before Jud rang the bell and alerted Lauren. Thoughts trudged through my muddied brain—plans on what I could say, what I could do to make the detective do something. That tick had to carry Lyme. And what else was it—three coinfections? Which meant it would be proof of what Stalking Man had done to me. Even Brock would have to believe my story.

My body so wanted to lie down. The mere idea of walking to the door exhausted me.

Finally I saw a car pull to the curb. The detective got out, carrying something. A kit? And his tape recorder. Somehow I managed to push to my feet. Against the floor my cane made a hollow, indignant sound. The sound of my heart. My life.

When I pulled back the door Jud Maxwell was reaching for the bell.

Despite the sunglasses, the sun hit my eyes like a wall of fire. I squeezed them shut. "Come in." I stepped back, washed in
déjà vu
of this same scene mere days ago. The detective stepped inside. "Please follow," I gasped. "In here. Need to sit down."

"Are you feeling any better?"

His voice came from behind as I made for the beckoning couch. "Worse. I see a doctor tomorrow."

"You've seen a lot of doctors lately."

"None that could help."

I dared not look back to check his expression. If he still thought I was faking all of this, I'd never convince him of anything.

"Please. Sit." I half-gestured toward the armchair and slumped onto the couch. Laid my cane across the cushions.

He remained standing. Set his kit and recorder on the coffee table. "Where's the bottle?"

My mind blanked. I stared at him, all too aware of long seconds clicking by. Heat pulsed in my cheeks. The mental fog made me feel so utterly stupid. It would be impossible to explain to someone the lack I felt in my brain. Synapses as useless as unplugged electrical cords.

Then, suddenly—they connected. "In the kitchen. Some . . . where. You can see."

Jud's eyes lingered on me for a moment, a hand on his hip. The knot of his dark blue tie lay askew. The tie didn't match his suit all that well. Did Sarah not dress him? The way I always dressed Brock, matching his ties to suits. He was never any good at that sort of thing.

The way I
used
to dress Brock.

A sob rolled up my throat. I thrust it back down.

Jud opened his kit and pulled out two white gloves—the kind used to gather evidence. The sight of them turned my stomach. This was my
house.
Now it had become a crime scene.

He disappeared into the kitchen. His footsteps stopped. Moved again.

Silence.

Had Alicia matched Brock's tie this morning? How had he even known which ones to pack? How
could
he manage without me?

Jud returned wearing the gloves. In one hand was the vial, cover and all. Had I put that top on? Maybe Lauren had done it. "This it?" He held it up.