Over the Edge (16 page)

Jud's heart went out to the man. "I'm really sorry to hear all this, Walt. Can't be easy."

"No. But I'll make it."

Jud gazed at his burglary notes. The case he should be working on right now. "So, Walt, you're saying it's not just a few Lyme patients—those more involved in advocacy, for example—who would know McNeil's name?"

"No, no. Anybody who has Lyme knows that name. 'Cause once you have this disease you quickly find out you have to fight for yourself. So you hop online to learn who else out there has Lyme and can tell you the ropes. Things like where to find a doctor and what treatments work, diet, basically the new way you have to live. Doesn't take long before you're knee deep in the Lyme wars yourself. You quickly see who's who."

Jud leaned back in his chair, and it squeaked. Stupid thing. He needed to oil it. "Have you heard anyone make any kind of threats against McNeil?"

"Not out loud. But I'll bet you there's not a Lyme patient out there who hasn't thought what Brock McNeil needs is a taste of his own disease."

The words seemed to echo over the line. "Really."

"No kidding. 'Course, actually
doing
something like this is pretty insane. And going after his wife—that's cold."

"If you were investigating this case, where would you start?"

Walt made a tsking sound. "With no solid leads, hard to say. Could be anybody in the country who's got a beef against McNeil."

"Not necessarily someone in this area?"

"Lyme patients are everywhere. Lots of 'em are back east. But thing is, if your perp is an active Lyme sufferer, the guy's not likely to be pulling off something like this. He'd have to have a real mild case, so you'd wonder why he's so mad. So maybe it's someone who watched a family member . . ."

Walt fell silent. Jud waited him out.

"You know what?" Walt took a breath and let it out. "Now that I think about going after the woman instead of the doc himself—maybe it's like an eye for an eye, you know? In this case a wife for a wife."

"Someone whose wife has Lyme."

"Yeah. Doesn't that make sense? If you're a criminal mind."

Yes. Jud supposed it did. "Any thoughts on who?"

"Not a one. Lotta women with Lyme out there. Lotta ticked-off husbands—pardon the pun. And it's just a theory to begin with. Maybe I'm wrong. But I'll keep my ears open in the online forums and such."

Online forums. Jud should look into those himself. If he found the time. Lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him.

From down the hall he heard a familiar voice. The chief was headed his direction. Jud leaned toward his desk. "Thanks a lot, Walt. I have to go, but keep in touch if you run across anything."

"No problem, man. It'll give me something to do."

Jud hung up the phone just as the chief stuck his head in the door.

"Maxwell. Anything new on the burglaries?"

Chapter 22

I FROZE, GAPING AT THE EMPTY VIAL TURNED UPSIDE DOWN on Lauren's finger. My throat convulsed in a swallow. "Get off the floor."

"Huh?"

"Get off the floor right now!"

Lauren stood up. "What's
wrong
with you?"

"Where's the top?" I threw frenetic glances around the floor.

"There is no top."

"Here. Somewhere." I shifted one hundred eighty degrees. Peered around chair legs, toward the cabinets, the stove.

"Where'd this thing come from, anyway?" Lauren slid the bottle off her finger and onto the table. It sat there mocking me. So
empty.

I couldn't see the top. It must have popped off when the vial fell to the floor. How far had it bounced? The tick had a hard back. If it had bounced too, maybe it landed close to the top.

No need to panic. We'd find it.

"Lauren." I worked to keep my voice even. "I was looking at that b-bottle before I fell. It had a . . . bug in it."

"A bug?"

"I dropped it. Now the bug's gone, and we . . . need to find it. I don't want it l-loose in the kitchen. Can you p-please look?"

She made a face. "Is it a spider?"

"No."

"I
hate
bugs."

"I know." I licked my lips. "It has some red on its back."

"Where'd it come from? Why'd you have a bug?"

My voice rose. "Just look, okay?" I took a breath, calming myself. "Please."

Lauren gave me an apprehensive glance, then bent over, scanning the floor. She peered around the table and chairs, then worked her way up to the stove area. "Here's the top." She picked it up. "See?"

"Okay, good. Maybe the bug's nearby."

Lauren continued her search. I watched from the floor, besieged by visions of Stalking Man. How close he'd gotten to Lauren to place that bottle in her backpack! He was sending me a message:
I can get to your daughter. You can't protect her.
I wanted to jump up, grab Lauren, and whisk her away. To somewhere, anywhere.

But I couldn't even rise from the floor.

What if it was on her already? She'd been crawling around. What if it was on me?

I held out my arms, checked them all over. Looked at my feet. I pulled my pajama bottoms up each leg as far as possible, ran my hands over my skin. I felt in my hair, my neck, down my chest and around toward my back. No tick.

Lauren had reached the refrigerator. Next she headed for the stove, head down and hair swinging. Looking. Finally she straightened with a frightened sigh. Put a hand on her hip. "I can't find it."

"It has to be here somewhere."

"I looked everywhere, Mom."

"Look again!"

"It's
not
here."

"Lauren! Look again."

"But—" She tipped back her head and gazed at the ceiling. Her mouth began to tremble, and a tear slipped from her eye. "I don't know what's going on."

I stared at her. So many frustrations and questions in her words. She didn't understand my illness. Why her dad had left on a sudden "trip." He usually gave her plenty of warning before he left town. Why her mother was so paranoid and on edge with her. Most of all, why I, who didn't like bugs any more than she did, had brought one into the house.

My hips hurt from sitting on the floor for so long. And the back of my neck creaked and swayed, as if it couldn't support my head much longer. "I'm sorry. I don't mean . . . to yell."

Where
was the tick? Was it on my daughter?

I searched the length of floor between me and the sink. The over-bright light hurt my eyes, but I couldn't put on sunglasses now. No sign of the creature. With much effort I scooted over until I could reach up and wrap my fingers around the sink's lip. Could I lift myself up as I had days ago? Last time I'd possessed more strength in my arms. I breathed a prayer, positioned my legs under me—and pulled.

Pain grabbed my fingers, hands, and arms. I nearly let go. Gritting my teeth, I willed myself to pull until I stood, shaking, hanging over the sink. For a moment all I could do was gasp. "Please bring me my . . ." The word wouldn't come. I gestured toward the thing I needed.

Lauren brought it.
Cane.

"Thanks."

I had to search the floor, her body. The tick was here, somewhere.

Turning to Lauren, I did my best to smile. I ran my fingers over her face, wiping away the wetness. "It'll be okay."

She nodded, but another tear slipped down her cheek.

"Come on." I nudged her to my chest and hugged her with one hand. She melted into me, sniffing. I leaned against the counter for support. When Lauren drew back, her expression was resolute. I wiped her face again. "Let's go around and look together, okay?"

We made a slow trek around the kitchen, gazes glued to the floor. With each step—and no sight of the tick—my body tingled more. That horrible thing was loose in my house. I wouldn't have been more frightened if it was a poisonous snake. At least snakes were bigger, easier to spot. This insidious, disease-carrying tick—surely Stalking Man had made sure it was infected—could hide in so many places. Then crawl on Lauren without her feeling a thing.

"L-look under the bottoms of the cabinets." All around the kitchen a section of wood came down, the cabinets set back from it a number of inches. The tick could crawl up on the other side of that facing.

"I did that."

"No, you didn't."

"But—"

"Lauren.
Do
it."

Reluctantly she squatted, her palms on the floor. I cringed. Lowering her face close to the hardwood, she bent her head to check under the edges of the wood. A foot at a time, she moved forward, checking the long row.

She stood up, arching her back. "I can't see under there all that well."

Was it under the facing? Or somewhere else? The cabinets on the other side of the kitchen were too far away. Still . . . I gazed at them, feeling nausea. "Go do the same thing over there." I pointed to the far cabinets.

"But I can't see."

"Try."

Slump-shouldered, Lauren sighed her way to the area and crouched down once more. Muscles tense, I watched the floor in front of her, making sure it was clear as she inched forward.

At the end of the cabinets, she stood. "Okay, that's it."

My body listed to one side.
God, please help me.
"Come sit down." I clumped to the table and collapsed in my chair. Lauren fell into hers and regarded me, her mouth bent.

I laid my cane on the table and turned to her. From the recesses of my mind rose Brock's threat:
"Don't you bring my daughter into your little scheme, Jannie. If you do, I'll take her away from you."

I placed a hand under Lauren's chin. "Let's make sure the bug's not on you."

Her face scrunched up. She jerked back. "You think it is?" Her breath came out in little puffs. "Get it
off
me!"

"Stand up first and let me look you over."

"Oh!" She pumped her hands in the air. "Where is it, will it bite?"

"Lauren, stand up."

"But will it
bite?
"

"I don't know."

Lauren stood up, her head low, running frantic hands down the front of her body. "What kind of bug is it?"

"Not sure. Put your arms out straight."

She shot them out, trembling. I scanned her clothes from the top down to her feet. "Turn around."

She whirled and stopped, little noises escaping from her lips. "Do you see it?"

"No."

"Ohhh."

My heart banged around in my ribs. I would spot it easily if it was there, right? Surely I would. It was big enough. "Lauren, it's okay. It may not . . . be on you at all. I'm just making sure."

"But what if it
bites
me?"

My hand reached out and lifted up her shirt. I placed my palm on her back. "Come closer." She jumped backward. I slid my hand all the way up to her neck, feeling the bony shoulder blades, the bump of her spine. "Turn around again." Leaning forward, I used both hands, feeling her sides, up to her chest, her neck.

What if I did find it? Could it have dug into her skin already? I'd have to twist it out of her. Lauren would freak.

But I could not find it on her upper body anywhere.

Lauren's eyes glistened. "What if it's there and you just didn't see it?"

"Sit down. Let's look at your legs."

She threw herself into her chair and yanked up a pant leg.

"Feel upward as far as you can, sweetie."

She groped around her calf, a sick look on her face, then checked the other leg. Fresh tears spilled. "Maybe it's up higher."

Lauren jerked to her feet and yanked down the zipper of her jeans. She tore the pants down, then kicked them off. "Do you see it?" She faced me, then spun around, showing me the back of her legs. I saw nothing but her little-girl skin, the blue flowers on her white panties.

"No." Another possibility hit. A long shot, but I had to check. "Let me check your hair."

She shuddered. "Not in my haaair!" Her hands flew to her head, fingers scrambling across her scalp. "I don't want it in my hair!"

"Lauren, stop. Let me."

She bent her head far over, close to my chest. I swept my hands through her thick strands of hair, then onto her head. Felt the front, the back, behind her ears, down to her neck. Her dark tresses could so easily hide the tick. But it wasn't there. Still, what if . . . ? I drew her closer and picked through her hair as if searching for lice.

Lauren's hands gripped my knees. She leaned against me, the weight making me hiss in pain.

She let out a wail. "Did you find it?"

"N-no."

A sob escaped her. "Mom, I'm scared!"

"I know, just . . ."

My fingers picked and searched, picked and searched.

"I want to call Daddy!"

"No! We can't."

"Why?"

"He's . . . in meetings. We can't bother him now."

"He'll get out of the meeting for me."

"No, Lauren."

No tick. It wasn't on her. Anywhere. I was ninety-eight percent sure.

But that other two percent . . .

"Stand up," I told her. "It's not on you."

She straightened, her eyes dark and eyebrows furrowed. "Then where is it?"

"I don't know."

"You sure you saw one at all?"

My heart twinged. Was my daughter starting to doubt me now? "I'm sure."

"
Where
did it come from?"

I gazed into her clouded face, my chest heavy and thick. What in the world was I supposed to tell her? A man was stalking us, and my own husband didn't believe me. And the police were too busy to care.

"Mom!" Lauren shivered.

"It was in your backpack."

"
My
backpack?"

I nodded. "I found it in your front zipper compartment. Someone must have put it there as a trick."

"But who would do that?" Her cheeks reddened. She looked away, her lips pressing and one hand finding her hip. Then she swung back to me. "I bet it's that stupid Paul Paxley. He teases me all the time, and I can't stand him anyway!" Her eyes glistened with righteous indignation, and her lips pulled. "I'm gonna tell the teacher on him tomorrow."

"Lauren, no. You don't know who did it. And we . . . found the bottle, and so that's the end of it."