Over the Edge (31 page)

Card. Den.

I wobbled out of the office, through the living room and hall. Time seemed to slow, my feet shuffling yet barely moving me. With my every step fear sank its claws deeper into my lungs. By the time I reached the den I was sweating. I clumped over to the side table, expecting to see a white rectangle. It wasn't there.
No.
I moved around to the front of the couch, looked on the coffee table. My sunglasses were there. No card.

How had I dialed Jud's number?

Wait, hadn't he called
me?
So when did I last have the card?

Maybe I'd taken it into another room.

I stumbled through the den and into the kitchen. Flipped on the overhead light. Leaning weakly against the threshold I scanned the table, the counters. No card.

Tears scratched my eyes. This was so
stupid.
Why couldn't I remember this one thing? Slumped against the doorjamb, I tried to fight through the brain fog. The harder I tried the thicker it became. A tear slipped down my cheek.

The gun.

My chin came up. At least I could get that. And I knew where it was. Upstairs in the closet. On the shelf, where I'd put it out of Lauren's reach.

All the way upstairs. Would my legs make the climb?

I turned around to cane through the den, the hallway. To the stairs. I was moving even slower. At the bottom of the steps I almost gave up. What did it matter? Let Brock come. What more could he do to me?

My foot has slipped.
From somewhere in the depths of me the words surfaced. "God," I moaned, "help."

I lifted my foot on the first stair and pulled myself up, grunting. Took the second, and the third. Every few steps I had to rest, panting, even while a voice in my head shouted
hurry, hurry, hurry!
An eternity passed before I reached the top. Dizziness washed over me as I made the turn to clump down the hall. The master suite was so far away. I just wanted to reach the bed, fall down on it and not get up. Let whatever happened, happen.

Lauren's face flashed in my mind.

I had to keep fighting. For my daughter.

My breath came in gasps as I crossed into the room. The bed called to me but I didn't dare give it a glance. I made it to the closet, peered up toward the higher shelves. My head didn't want to lift.

No sign of the gun.

I moved closer to the painted shelves, seeking that black and silver against white. It wasn't there. Not on any shelf. Not
anywhere.

Sweat trickled down my spine. My eyes closed. No card, no gun. Had I made them both up? Was I dreaming all of this?

Black on white.
A picture swelled in my mind. The gun was in the cabinet downstairs. On top of the plates.

"
No."
I sank against the wall. The kitchen was a thousand miles away. I'd never make it back down there. My muscles were no firmer than sand.

With baby steps I turned myself around, headed out of the closet. Pain ricocheted from my hand holding the cane. And the back of my neck ached something fierce. Soon I wouldn't be able to hold my head up.

My eyes grazed the clock. Nearly 11:00. How long had it been since Brock called? How long would it take him to get here?

I didn't even know where Alicia lived.

One thing I did know. If I collapsed on the bed, I wouldn't get up for a long time.

Memories of my childhood swept over me. Of lying on my bed, trapped and helpless before the fate of my father's hands.

From father to husband.

My feet turned and pointed me out the door.

At the top of the stairs I swayed like a woman hanging over a precipice. How to get down all those steps? My legs couldn't hold me.

My hands turned clammy. I had to do something. I
needed
that gun.

With a force outside myself I set a shaking foot on the first stair. Holding on to the banister with my weak hand, I lowered my other foot. One more. Just one more. I managed another stair. Then I allowed my knees to collapse and fell back—hard—to sit at the top of the steps, my feet two stairs below. The jolt shot pain up my back, into my head. My eyes clouded.

I placed my cane lengthwise on the steps, bit my lip, and pushed the silver metal off. It rattled to the bottom.

Here goes.
Using both hands to push, I slipped down the top step on my rear. Adjusted my legs one step farther down. Then repeated the process. Every muscle and joint begged me to stop, but I kept on, doggedly, my eyes fixed on the bottom as if it were a golden prize. Down. Down. Down. After a year I reached the landing. I scooted across it and turned. Almost there. I lowered myself down one step. Then with my feet on the hall floor, I gathered my cane, not knowing if I'd ever stand up.

Please, God. Please.

Cane on one side, holding the banister on the other, I fought to rise. On the fourth try I made it.

No blood remained in my veins. My chest heaved as I struggled toward the kitchen, my mouth open and gasping. Air throttled down my throat like the sound of someone dying, the
clunk, clunk
of my cane an echo through the quavering house.

When I reached the threshold of the kitchen, out of nowhere rose a vivid thought: Jud's number was trapped in my phone's ID. I didn't need his card.

My nerves bristled. First the card, then the gun. My brain was nothing but a hole-riddled pan trying to hold water.

By the time I reached the cabinet my lungs burned. I opened the door. There sat the gun. I reached for it, brought it down. It was still loaded, I remembered that much. I set it on the counter and reached for the phone to call Jud Maxwell. Pushed
talk
—and stared at the receiver. How did I find Jud's stored number?

From somewhere upstairs I heard the crack of glass.

Chapter 45

JUD STRAIGHTENED HIS BACK AND ARCHED HIS NECK SIDE TO SIDE. He was still at the computer in his office. Hadn't stopped to go home or even eat. An hour ago he'd phoned Sarah to tell her not to wait up for him.

He'd heard nothing from the officer manning Janessa McNeil's home line. And nothing from Mrs. McNeil since just after the TV interview. His suspect was keeping silent—as Jud had guessed he would. He could only hope they hadn't driven the man underground.

With a sigh he focused again on his monitor. He'd gone through about half his list of adult female victims of Lyme, Googling each name to see what he could find about the husband. Did any of those men have criminal records? Did any of their names come up attached to threatening comments in some Lyme forum?

The husbands weren't always easy to find. In numerous cases they didn't share the wife's last name.

So far—nothing.

Jud buffed his face and checked the clock. He'd run down one more name. Then he really needed to put something in his stomach.

He typed the name plus
Lyme
into Google search and hit enter. Up popped a number of hits. One was the list from which he'd culled the name. The tenth link down looked like an obituary. Good. They always named next of kin. He followed it.

With tired eyes he scanned the text. The husband's name at the bottom snapped his chin up.

Jud stilled.

He shook his head and read the name again.
What?
This was impossible. Maybe just some other man by this same name.

But what a coincidence. Jud was a detective. He rarely believed in coincidence.

Still, none of this fit. The marriage. The state.

Jud stared at the monitor, calculating the years since this obituary. Maybe . . .

He backed up to the search results and surveyed the other links. Followed one after another, but many didn't mention the husband. Those that did failed to confirm Jud's burning suspicions. Frustration mounting, he typed in a new search, using the husband's and wife's names together, plus
Lyme
and the state. A few hits came up. One looked like some article on Lyme. Jud clicked on it.

At the top of the article sat a paragraph of text about the author. And the man's picture.

Jud gaped at the photo. It was him. Younger to be sure. But definitely him.

Brock McNeil.

Jud snatched up his cell phone.

Chapter 46

I FROZE, MY MIND SLOGGING TO PROCESS THE NOISE.

Glass . . . a window?

Brock.

Another crack sounded, followed by the tinkle of glass.

The backyard tree with branches reaching to our window. He must have climbed that tree.

I dropped the phone. My hand swept up the gun. I turned, heart skipping, thinking nothing but
run! Hide!
I dropped the gun in my robe pocket and moved out of the kitchen as fast as my shaky limbs would take me. Heat flooded my veins. I'd never get there fast enough.

I hit the hallway, knowing I'd have to pass the stairs. How soon before he broke out the window enough to crawl through? Would he hear the thump of my cane? I tried to place it without sound, but that slowed me down. Nausea roiled in my stomach. I fought to move faster.

My feet shuffled me past the bottom of the stairs. I pulled myself forward, forward, toward the living room and office. No energy remained in my body. Panic alone fueled me.

Brock.
He knew the upstairs window wouldn't trip the alarm system. And he knew police were on the street. Had he parked a block away, run through the open space into our backyard?

That was crazy. The Brock I knew would never
do
that.

A sob clogged my throat. My own husband was here to kill me. To silence me for good. Then he'd flee back to his mistress, who'd tell the police he'd never left her side. Lauren was long asleep and would never know. And the mysterious Stalking Man would now be wanted for murder—and never found.

No. Not true. My mind wasn't thinking straight . . .

I passed through the living room, ears straining for any sound from upstairs. Did I hear a tread on the carpet?

My nerves sizzled, my hand weakening on the cane. Almost there. Almost . . .

I reached the office. Turned off the overhead light. Dim illumination filtered from the hallway.

My feet tottered to the desk. I pulled the rolling chair away and stared at the hollow space underneath the piece of furniture. Once I got down there I wouldn't be getting up.

Leaning against the desk, I pushed my cane to lie beneath it on the floor. Then, holding onto the edge with both hands, I lowered myself to sit on the floor. I fell the last half a foot. The pain took my breath away.

My eyes blurred. Brock would be coming any minute. I reached behind me for the chair and rolled it close. Scooted my body underneath the desk and pulled the chair up to the opening. I shoved myself back, leaning against the front panel wall of the desk. Breath gurgled up my windpipe, my chest swelling for air like a pumped balloon. I swallowed hard, fighting to quiet my gasps.

Too late I remembered the phone sitting on the desk.
No.
My heart lurched. I'd meant to grab it, call Jud while I was hiding.

A footstep sounded on the hall's hardwood floor.

My quivering hand dug in my pocket for the gun. I slid it out and wrapped both palms around its handle, my finger finding the trigger. I held it chest high, pointed toward the opening—and waited. My arms trembled, the weapon barrel wavering. How would I hold it steady enough to shoot?

If I shot at all.

Yes, I
would.
I wasn't a helpless child anymore, cowering in her room from her father's rages. I was a mother, with a daughter who needed me. I'd promised her we'd be together again.

The footsteps moved away from me, toward the den. I cocked my head, eyes closed, listening with my entire body.

Their sound faded. Maybe he was in the kitchen.

My insides started to shake. They quaked and heaved until vertigo muzzled my head, my eyes. Twice I nearly dropped the gun. I gripped it tighter, my knuckles throbbing.

Something sounded. I held my breath.

A step. A second. Coming back through the hall. So firm and steady. No need to call my name or hurry. Time was on his side.

Desperate hope writhed. Brock would search the house and think I'd gone. He wouldn't find me underneath here. As soon as he left I'd struggle up. Somehow. Get to the phone. I just had to keep quiet. Muffle my breathing.

The footfalls hit the office floor.

My jaw dropped open, oxygen pulled into my mouth in silent globs. The gun jittered so hard in my hands I knew I would drop it.

Please, God, let him pass by.

Only a minute, no longer. There weren't many places in here for me to hide. He'd be gone soon. Just one more minute . . .

The footsteps crossed the room behind me. He was checking beyond the armchairs. They halted, then returned. Started around the desk.

This is it, Jannie, hold on, hold on.
My finger tightened around the trigger. I would shoot Brock. I would.

The words of that psalm flooded my mind:
"My voice rises to God, and He will hear me."
With every fiber I prayed for God's strength, for His help. My father had abused me. Now my husband wanted me dead. But my Heavenly Father was here. He
was.

The footfalls crossed in front of the desk. In the dimness through the chair legs I could just make out Brock's dark pants as he passed by. All breath stopped.

I grasped the gun and counted the never-ending seconds. He would turn around now. Leave the room.

Dots skipped before my eyes. Flames shot down my limbs.
Come on, come on . . .

The footfalls turned. Just beyond the chair the pant legs reappeared. They stopped before the desk.

The gun dipped and shook, my heart grinding, yet no blood flowed. The dots in my vision stuck together, blocking half my sight. I blinked my eyes, turning my gaze downward—and caught the horrific sight of my cane's hooked top sticking out just past the edge of the desk. Would he see it in the dark?

"My voice rises to God, and He will hear me . . ."

Brock took one step forward, then halted again. His clothes rustled.

"Ah." He said it low in his throat, followed by a satisfied chuckle. Almost as if he were proud of my resourcefulness. He moved to one side of the chair. It began to roll.