Over the Edge (27 page)

He exploded in a stream of curses.

I pulled the phone from my ear and gaped at it. How did I turn the thing off? My glazed eyes searched the buttons but nothing made sense. Brock's voice still spat into the room.

My hand reached for the phone base and dropped the receiver into it. I heard a click, and Brock's voice cut off.

I slumped to the right until my head hit the sofa cushions. My body twisted, my feet still on the floor. The position made my hips ache, but I couldn't think how to fix it.

Wait. I needed to call the reporter. Tell her I was too sick . . .

Where was the phone?

The world fell away. The next thing I knew my doorbell was ringing.

Chapter 38

AS SOON AS JUD TURNED OFF HIS CAR IN THE POLICE STATION parking lot, he looked up Brock McNeil's cell number and dialed it. His adrenaline pumped with each ring of the phone in his ear. No more excuses that this case was all a farce. Not after a doctor all but confirmed Janessa McNeil had Lyme. And the lead about the suspect's wife having died from the disease—that was huge.

Once in awhile the stars aligned. The new information on this case happened to coincide with a hit on the foreign fingerprint from the Fletcher burglary. When the print had been run through the system it came up with a match—a known drug dealer in the area. Stan Mulligan and another detective were following up. With the reported threat to Lauren McNeil, and a doctor's opinion that her mother did have Lyme, the chief had given Jud the immediate go-ahead to turn his attention to this case.

If only Janessa McNeil hadn't jumped the gun with the reporter. Jud had a nagging feeling about that interview.

As Jud got out of the car, Doctor Johannis's voice echoed in his head.
"You've got a wide range of suspects, I'm afraid. Anyone who's been sick with Lyme . . ."
The same suspicions Walt Rosenbaum had spoken of. Also similar to Dane Melford's thoughts.

Although Jud hadn't heard back from either man.

No answer on McNeil's cell. His canned message clicked on. "This is Doctor McNeil. Sorry I'm unavailable. Please leave a message."
Beep.

Jud pushed down his frustration. "Dr. McNeil, this is Detective Maxwell. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. The man who has been calling your wife—and yes, I believe he exists—is now threatening to infect your daughter with Lyme. I've met with the principal at Lauren's school. He has been alerted to the situation and has briefed his staff to be particularly vigilant regarding your daughter. Please give me a call." Jud rattled off his cell number and disconnected.

He leaned against his car and punched in the number to the department of medicine. Sarah answered.

"Hi, babe. Dr. McNeil around?"

"He's in class. When he gets out he said he's going to pick his daughter up at school."

"Okay. I've left a message on his cell phone. But when you see him, tell him I called."

"Something up?"

"Plenty. But I gotta run now. Talk to you tonight."

Jud strode across the parking lot, headed to his office. He had a date with his computer—searching online for women who'd died from Lyme disease.

Chapter 39

THE FRONT DOOR OPENED, AND A FEMALE VOICE CALLED, "Jannie, it's Rhonda."

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The clack of high heels. A second, heavier tread. "Jannie?"

"Here." My voice barely rose from the couch. I struggled to sit up.

Rhonda strode around the couch to stand before me, clad in a blue suit to match her eyes, her hair perfectly coifed. Energy crackled around her. A cameraman in tow lugged his equipment. "Jannie?" She bent down to peer at me, clearly shocked at what she saw. "You all right?"

"Just tired." I couldn't do this—even if I found the strength. I couldn't lose Lauren. A sob kicked up my throat.

"Hey, it's okay." Rhonda touched my cheek. "I'll get you some water." She disappeared into the kitchen. Cabinets opened. The faucet ran. She hurried back in, a woman pressed for every second, trying to show compassion but with no time to spare.

She handed me the glass. I downed the water.

"That's good." Rhonda took it from me and walked over to the pass-through window to set it on the counter. She trotted back to the center of the den and surveyed the room, the front window with shades drawn. I couldn't remember pulling down those shades. "We'll have to leave her there," Rhonda said to the cameraman. "Maybe shoot her straight on? There's still too much backlight from the window. Second camera on me can go near the window. I'll sit here." She pointed to a spot near the coffee table.

The cameraman gauged the distance from me to the opposite wall. "Not much room. Can we shove back the couch?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Yeah. We can move it all the way back to the wall."

My mouth opened to protest, tell Rhonda I couldn't go through with it. But no words came.

"Jannie, this is Bill." Rhonda pointed to the cameraman.

"Hi, Jannie." He nodded at me, then moved to the coffee table, pushing it far to my right, toward the kitchen. Rhonda shoved the small side table further left until it rested against the wall near the windows.

"Okay. Jannie, just stay where you are. We're going to move the couch back." She took my end, Bill on the other, and they scooted the couch across the hardwood floor to the back wall. Rhonda stood, panting, and adjusted her suit coat. "That work?"

Bill eyed the scene. "Yeah, it'll do." He began setting up his equipment.

Still I could say nothing. My body felt half there and half on some distant plane.

Rhonda sat beside me, her voice gentling. "I'll pull up a kitchen chair not too far from you, and we'll just talk, okay? You going to make it?"

I stared at my lap, voices and threats jumbling in my head. Stalking Man's. Brock's. One would hurt my daughter if I didn't catch him in time. The other would take her from me if I tried. Both scenarios were unbearable. If I'd possessed the strength, I'd have groaned and wailed. Shook my hands at the heavens.

"Jannie?"

I raised my weary eyes to Rhonda's. She watched me, her expression fraught with tension. When she saw my head come up, she smoothed the lines from her face. But her eyes gave away her concerns. I ogled her, my stomach turning over as a realization dawned. This seasoned reporter saw herself teetering on the brink of not just a big story, but a huge one. The details were bizarre. And that kind of story often went national. Rhonda would be the one to break it. No wonder she and her station were pushing the time so much, trying to fit this in at the last minute. Willing to go ahead with the story even before I had test results.

National.
Why hadn't I thought of this? Once I took the cork out of the genie bottle, how to control the genie?

No way could I handle having the story told across the country. My mother would see it. She'd hound me. What if reporters from everywhere ended up on my front lawn? Or filming Lauren as she went to school? They'd snoop into our lives, find out everything about us. Brock would insist to an entire nation I was just trying to ruin him.

No. I couldn't do this. Absolutely not.

"I'll help you through the questions, all right?" Rhonda pressed. "It'll be okay. This story will help find the man who's been harassing you."

I stared at her, my body glued to the couch. Finally my mouth opened to say no. Instead I heard, "I'll need to k-keep my sunglasses on."

She shot me a relieved smile. "That's okay." She leapt to her feet. "Just rest while we finish setting up."

I closed my eyes and slumped back against the sofa. What had I done? What
thing
inside me drove me to go through with this? How I would even manage to speak when the camera came on—I didn't know.

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.

My mind still reeled, but my soul clung to the verse. It was all I had.

Through closed lids I sensed the room brightening. I opened my eyes to see lights turned on, aimed at me. Harsh lights. I winced and turned away.

"Are those too bright?" Rhonda asked.

I knew they needed the illumination. All the better to display my ravaged body to viewers. "I'll keep my eyes closed." Viewers wouldn't be able to see behind my sunglasses anyway.

My neck struggled to hold my head up. Rhonda arranged a throw pillow behind me for support. And before I knew it the cameras started rolling.

Rhonda was good. Pressed for time and knowing I had little strength, she didn't probe me to retell the entire story I'd given her over the phone. No doubt she'd fill in the background parts herself for the segment. I could visualize her now, setting up the scene. Explaining to viewers who my husband was, why I'd become the target of a madman. She now asked me pointed questions about my symptoms, about Stalking Man's threats. In strained speech, using strength I didn't know I possessed, I told her of falling in the kitchen. Stalking Man's chilling words in that first phone call:
"Welcome to the Lyme wars, Janessa."

"Briefly tell me about the Lyme wars," Rhonda said. "What does that mean?"

Briefly?
The situation was so convoluted. My brain scrambled to process a reply. "Some doctors like my husband believe that two to four weeks of . . . antibiotics cures Lyme. Even if you've had it for y-years. But many Lyme patients are still sick after that. They want longer treatment so they can. Get better. Because of doctors like my husband they have a hard time . . . getting it. Treatment. Other doctors who do treat them longer can g-get in trouble for it."

"And what do
you
believe, Mrs. McNeil?"

My lips parted. Never since the day I met Brock had I dreamed of speaking against him publicly. He'd awakened me to self-confidence; I supported him in return. But now . . . All those suffering Lyme patients who weren't believed, as Brock refused to believe me. How could I turn my back on them? I'd
become
one of them.

"Look up stories of Lyme patients online. They're
horrible.
You'll s-see how sick they are—for years. And doctors don't listen. Bad enough to be this s-sick"—I gestured toward myself—"but to go undiagnosed. Hear some doctors even say it's all in y-your head . . ."

"So your husband is wrong."

"The m-medical world needs to take a new look at Lyme. Many doctors are given w-wrong information about the disease. They're told Lyme isn't in their state. Or they're t-told to rely on . . . tests that have never been reliable. Doctors need to throw off their b-biases. Look at research with fresh eyes."

Rhonda nodded. "Sounds like this man who infected you has made his point. This is the kind of publicity he wanted. Does it bother you to play right into his hands by giving this interview?"

My head pulled back. I hadn't thought of it like that. But her question gave me the chance I was looking for. "I want to h-help Lyme patients. They are sufferers. But this man." My voice turned bitter. "He thinks he's some s-savior for all Lyme patients. He doesn't deserve to be a part of the L-Lyme advocate community. He's not a helper. He's a . . . terrorist. His cause may be right, but the w-way he's doing it is so
wrong.
What good person would purposely g-give someone this disease? And now he's threatening to infect my daughter!"

Tears scratched my eyes, and one fell to catch on the inner edge of my sunglasses. I thrust a finger under their frame to wipe the tear away.

"Why do you think the police can't catch this man?"

"They will. Maybe with the . . . public's help. Maybe someone out there knows s-something."

Rhonda made an empathetic sound in her throat. "And what keeps you going, Mrs. McNeil? This is obviously very traumatic for you."

"Determination to protect others, including my daughter. Most of all, God."

"Your faith?"

"Yes. The Psalms help. They t-teach me to trust. And to praise God. Even now."

"It must be hard to be thankful when things are going so badly."

I tried to smile but failed. "I don't f-feel like it. But . . . I've praised him lots of t-times when I knew other people were suffering. Is God any less God just b-because
I'm
the one who's now in trouble?"

My words ran out—and all energy with them. Just like that. My shoulders slumped. I shook my head. "I can't . . . I'm done."

"One more question?"

"N-no. Can't."

"Okay." Rhonda nodded at Bill. The cameras stopped rolling. He turned off the lights.

I lay prone on the couch while the two of them hurriedly packed up their equipment. Rhonda bent over me before they rushed out the door. "You'll be okay here?"

A rhetorical question. Not like she would stay and help. I nodded.

Rhonda turned to go. I brushed her hand. She swiveled back.

"Y-you want more exclusive . . . stuff from me?"

"Absolutely."

"Of everything I said,
don't
cut what I said about the man being a terrorist. Run all of that part. If you don't, I w-won't talk to you again."

She surveyed me, the gears of her reporter mind spinning. "And if I do?"

"C-call me anytime."

She dipped her head, checked her watch—and was gone.

The clock read 2:30. Lauren would soon be out of school. I twisted around to pick up the phone and dialed Maria's cell.

"Jannie! How
are
you?"

"Can you g-go five minutes early to school? Be there before the kids come out."

"Sure. Why—?"

"Watch Lauren as she comes out of the building. Every s-second. Brock's picking her up. Make sure no other man gets c-close to her."

"Jannie, what's this about?"

My chest would barely rise to breathe. "I'm . . . tired. Can't talk now. Watch ABC news at 6:00."

Silence. "
What?
You're scaring me."

"I have to go now." Somehow I managed to click off the line.

There. I'd done all I could do. My body would take no more.

The phone dropped to the hardwood floor with a clatter. I fell off a cliff into sleep.

Chapter 40

THRE THIRTY.

Lauren sat outside his office at an empty desk. She'd been picked up from school and would now stay here, doing her homework, until the work day was done. She wasn't happy about it. Her face carried a scowl, her lips drawn in a hard line. "Dad, I want to go to
home!
" she'd declared more than once. "I want to see Mom!"