Over the Edge (26 page)

I sat up, still light-headed. If skeptics had witnessed that scene, they'd surely have said I was faking. It had to
look
fake. Coming out of nowhere. Then gone, just like that.

"God, how do they do this?" All those patients who'd had Lyme for years with no diagnosis, who'd lost their families and friends. How did they survive?

My throat had dried out. I struggled to my feet and caned into the kitchen to slug down a glass of water. My gaze landed on my Bible lying on the table. It called to me—or maybe my soul called to it. I sat down and thumbed through the Psalms, seeking more verses of comfort. Something, anything to get me through the rest of this day. The pages landed on Psalm 103:
"Bless the LORD, O my soul; And all that is within me, bless His Holy name. Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget none of His benefits. Who pardons all your iniquities; Who heals all your diseases—"

Oh, yeah? He hadn't healed mine.

My hand moved to slap the Bible shut, then stopped. Like magnets my eyes were pulled again to verses one and two:
"Bless the LORD, O my soul; And all that is within me, bless His Holy name. Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget none of His benefits."

I stared at the words, my spine stiffening. Why should I praise God?
Now?
In the middle of this nightmare?

"Who pardons all your iniquities."

Well, yes He had. But still—

"Bless the LORD, O my soul."

I pushed the Bible away and sat back in the chair, my jaw hardening. Was God laughing at me? Rubbing it in? He knew how sick I was. He knew the last thing I wanted to do was thank Him for that.

I scowled at the table. Until a thought began to nag me.

Maybe it didn't matter what I wanted. Maybe praising God was a matter of will. Wasn't He still God, whether I was sick or not?

My finger ran along the page of the Bible, feeling its smoothness. Tightness swelled in my throat. For a long time I couldn't form a single word. Then my mouth opened. "My soul, praise the Lord. I praise You, God. I do."

Something inside me loosened a little. I lowered my head and fixed my gaze on the table . . . until the wood blurred and I stared through it. My thoughts muddied.

Time passed. I could feel myself hanging there, yet no clear thought would form.

Lyme Awareness Month.

The words suddenly emerged from a marshy bank in my memory. My brain chugged into gear once more. May—Lyme Awareness Month. The month when the media pays more attention to the disease . . .

An idea surfaced. I raised my head. The thought flashed feebly, a beacon in thick fog. I followed the light, knowing I still wasn't processing all that clearly. Was this leading me down a dangerous path?

The idea grew brighter.

Lauren. The other wives and children Stalking Man had threatened. Not to mention all those Lyme patients out there who needed the world to know about their plight. If I did this I could help them all at the same time.

One problem. I didn't have my test results yet—proof that I had Lyme. They would be critical in backing up my story.

My story.
That's all I had. But it was powerful.

I could barely move or think. I couldn't begin to know who Stalking Man might be. He could have come from any state in the country. Neither could I trust that Jud Maxwell would find the man before he got to Lauren, then moved on to his next victim. But in our last call I'd found his Achilles' heel. I couldn't go chase him down. But maybe I could shake him up.

I wiped my sweaty forehead. Jud Maxwell wouldn't want this. He'd claim it would get in the way of his investigation. And Brock would be livid. My heart stumbled at that thought. If there existed even a tiny chance I could ever get him back—this plan would ruin it. Yes, he'd treated me terribly. He didn't deserve me. But was I really ready to burn the bridge between us after twelve years of marriage?

And what about Lauren? What would she think? She was the most important of all.

If this plan worked, I'd get my daughter back. Nothing mattered more than that.

Flash, flash
went the beacon.

Still, my pulse trembled. There would be no turning back.

I sat there for some time, weighing the risks, realizing that with my dimmed ability to process I couldn't think through them all.

Something within me gave way, and I pushed to my feet. Before I could change my mind, I clomped over to pick up the phone.

Chapter 36

THE VIAL CONTAINED AN INFECTED TICK IN ITS NYMPH STAGE, like the ones he'd placed on Janessa. So small and black it wouldn't likely be seen amid the roots of dark hair. Lauren had hair like her mother's.

He stuck a hand in his pocket, feeling the vial's smoothness, reassuring himself it was still there.

The library computer sat empty. He took a chair at the small cubicle and logged in. Brought up the Internet.

"She hates you from the grave."

His heels dug into the floor.

He typed in the URL for MapQuest.

The last twenty-four hours he'd had trouble sleeping. Maybe because he hadn't taken his bipolar meds in four days. He should. His moods would then even out. But he needed this manic stage to fuel him. Even now he could feel the fire in his veins, the zing of energy. Made him powerful. Invincible.

MapQuest came up. He placed the cursor in the start box and typed in the library's address. Then leaned back to pull a piece of paper with a Los Angeles area address from his left pocket. He typed that in the end box. Hit
get directions.

There they came. How convenient, the Internet. It was the web that had allowed him to find all the home addresses in the first place.

With a few more clicks he printed the document.

The trip would take six hours. He'd leave Friday at dinner time. Drive into the night.

This committee member's wife would be a fast hit. He'd follow her to the grocery store, something like that. Brush up against her. Another tiny tick. Who would think to even look for it?

He closed out of the Internet. Rose to retrieve the directions from the printer.

On the way out of the library he checked his watch. Just past noon.

In three hours Lauren would get out of school.

Chapter 37

FOR HALF AN HOUR I TALKED TO TV REPORTER RHONDA Laverly, one of the mainstays on the local ABC channel's six o'clock news. Rhonda was blonde and blue-eyed, a tiny thing but exuding energy and passion for her stories. My stuttered speech was so frustrating, especially against her clipped sentences. Reporters are always pushed for time. Before I was long into my story, Rhonda interrupted to ask if she could tape the conversation.

"On one condition. I want you to. Film me. I want to show the world what L-Lyme is like." Not to mention I had a few choice words to throw out there for Stalking Man.

"Let's hear all you've got to say first." Rhonda turned on her recorder. "Go."

She'd made no promises, but I forged ahead anyway. What did I have to lose?

Rhonda heard me out, clearly fascinated. When I finished, she told me she'd do some checking on my story. "If it all checks out I'll see what I can do about getting a camera crew out to your house this afternoon."

She ended the call with a terse promise to phone me back as soon as she could.

By the time I hung up I shook with exhaustion. I ate a sandwich and collapsed on the couch.

Before long the phone rang. It was Jud.

"I just got a phone call from a reporter. She said you contacted her about the case."

Here it came. "What did you tell her?"

"That I can't talk about an ongoing investigation."

As I suspected. But the answer would be all Rhonda needed.

"Mrs. McNeil, I'm not convinced you're doing the right thing. We try to be strategic about going to the media—and think through how much information we give them."

"I don't have time to
think.
" Too late I realized how bad that sounded. "I have to do this interview to protect my daughter. And all those other families out there this guy has threatened."

"What interview?"

"I'm hoping they'll tape it this afternoon. The reporter's going to try to make the six o'clock n-news."

Jud sighed.

"There's a bigger . . . reason I'm doing this," I said. "This man—he's been so calm up to now, but I heard him g-get mad on that last phone call. I'm going to make him mad again. He'll make a wrong m-move, like call my home phone. You still got the line tapped?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll finally be able to hear him. You can trace to his location."

"You can't predict that's what he'll do."

No I couldn't. Not exactly. But he'd do something, I could feel it. Jud hadn't heard the calls. He didn't know Stalking Man like I did.

Jud tried to talk me out of going forward. I told him it was too late for that. Besides, what else did we have? Stalking Man had eluded us at every turn. I was a mother. My daughter had been threatened. I
had
to do something.

A click sounded in my ear—notice of another caller. I held out the receiver and peered at the ID.

"Jud? The reporter's phoning now. Hang on a m-minute." My finger hovered over the phone button. For a moment I couldn't remember which one to push.
Flash.
I hit it to move to the other call. "Hi, Rhonda?"

"We're a go. We'll be at your house in about forty-five minutes. You'll be ready?"

"Yes. Give me t-time to get to the door. I'm slow."

"We need every second we can get. Can you unlock it now? We'll knock and come on in."

"Okay."

"See you soon." She hung up.

I flashed back to Jud. "They're coming over right now for the interview."

He paused. "All right." His tone sounded resigned. "Look, do one thing for me. Don't mention the part about the suspect's wife dying from Lyme. He may not have realized he slipped up about that, and it's a big lead I can follow. If we don't catch him soon, maybe in time we'll decide to put that information out to the public. But not yet."

"Okay."

We hung up. Half-dazed, I replaced the receiver. This was really going to happen.

For a moment I considered going upstairs, trying to fix myself up. I must look terrible. But I had no energy to waste struggling with steps. Problem was, the more tired I became, the more my speech stumbled and my mind fogged. Plus the interview was about my being sick. Why try to hide it?

I heaved to my feet and clomped to the front door. Unlocked it. Then headed to the sofa to wait. Within minutes the phone rang again. The ID read Brock's cell phone. I stared at the numbers, dread encircling my heart. I couldn't handle this confrontation right now.

I set the receiver back in its base. It rang a second time, jangling my nerves. A third and fourth. The answering machine kicked on in the kitchen. The beep had barely sounded when Brock's irate voice barreled to my ears.

"I know you're there. Pick up
right now.
" Pause. "Pick up, Janessa!"

Muscles shriveling, I turned my head away from the phone. Thank heaven Brock wasn't in this room with me. No telling what he would do.

"Janessa!"

My anxious gaze landed on the clock.
Lauren.

My arm reached to pick up the phone before I could stop it. "Brock. Who's going to pick up Lauren?" Despite my demand, my voice angled sideways with fear. For the first time I realized I'd almost rather face Stalking Man than my own husband.

"
What
are you doing? A reporter called my office. A
reporter!
"

"Brock,
who
is picking up Lauren?"

"You'd better recant whatever story you told her right now. Do you realize how idiotic you're going to look? The police don't have one shred of evidence your story's even true." He blew air over the line, hot enough to singe my ear. "Jud Maxwell told me about the supposed latest phone call. Even if you didn't make this whole thing up and Lauren really was in danger, we could protect her."

If.

"I get what you're trying to do now, Janessa. You want to bring me down. In front of everyone. Make no mistake,
you're
the one who'll be brought down. You want your dirty laundry aired in public—you'll get all of it. I'll tell them about your childhood faked illnesses. I'll tell them you're jealous and can't let go. That you're an unfit mother who's losing her mind, who scared her own daughter to death, frantically searching for ticks all over her body. You will lose your daughter, Janessa. Permanently. I will sue for custody, and I
will win.
"

No. Anything but losing Lauren for good.

But Brock would do it. And he would win. Brock always won. He was the one with the resources, the reputation. The charisma. What was I but a sick mother who could barely take care of herself, much less her child.

My body shook. I could call the reporter back right now and tell her not to come. Work this out somehow with Brock. When I got my test results, he'd believe me then. Maybe when he talked to my doctor . . .

Who was I kidding? Dr. McNeil put little stock in the Lyme lab's diagnosis. And he had no respect for Carol Johannis. I swallowed hard, fighting for strength to stand up to this man. "Brock.
Who
is picking up Lauren?"

He cursed under his breath. "I am!"

"Just please . . . g-go early. Be there when she comes out."

"Who are
you
to tell me how to take care of my daughter? I'm not the one making her crawl on the floor looking for a deadly tick." His tone was pure acid.

No. He was the one who'd left her. Who'd put some mistress above her. My eyes closed, my chin falling to my chest. I could feel my mind shutting down. "Where will she . . . be? While you're t-teaching."

"Janessa. Call that reporter back and recant your story. Now."

My insides were melting. The last bit of strength had drained out of me, and Rhonda would soon be at my door. I wouldn't be able to do the interview.

"B . . ." What was my husband's name? "W-watch Lauren. Please. Check her for . . ." That bug. That . . . thing. "T-ticks."