Over the Edge (28 page)

This was no place for a nine-year-old to spend the afternoon. Home is where she should be. If it hadn't fallen apart. Where would she go tomorrow after school? And the day after that?

Fine, so this was a temporary solution. For today at least it suited his needs.

He stopped by Lauren's desk and leaned down to see what she was working on. Math. One of his favorite subjects. "Need any help?"

She twisted up to glower at him. Dark half circles discolored the skin below her eyes. She clearly hadn't slept much last night. Too much trauma. "No."

"Want a drink?"

"No."

"You sure?"

She pursed her mouth. "Like what?"

"I can get you a Coke."

She tapped her pencil against the textbook. "Okay."

The things it took to placate a kid.

The nearest vending machine was on the first floor. He strode through the central area past Sarah's desk and down a flight of steps, thinking of Elyse. So many years it had been since they were married. Since he'd lost her. They'd wanted kids. She never had time.

His nerves popped and jarred, his whole body on edge. It wasn't merely the lack of his secret meds. Pretending to be someone you're not comes with a price.

He reached the vending machine and drew quarters out of his pocket—the same one that contained the vial.
Ch-ch-chink
went the money as he dropped it through the slot. He pressed the button for Coke—and down rolled a can. How predictable and right.

On the empty staircase he stopped to set down the can of soda. From his pocket he pulled the vial. Held it up to watch the tiny creature crawl along the bottom. For the last few hours he'd hidden the small bottle in a drawer, its top off, to allow the tick some air. Oxygen—and now food.

He dumped the tiny nymph onto his palm. Closed his fingers around it. The vial went back into his pocket.

Two at a time he took the remaining stairs. He passed Sarah's desk, shooting her a quick smile. Approached Lauren from behind and set the Coke down beside her. "Here you go."

She looked up and gave him a tight smile. "Thanks."

He held his hand just above her head and uncurled his fingers. Patted her dark, thick hair. "See there. I'm not all bad."

Chapter 41

A RINGING PHONE SOUNDED ON A DISTANT PLANE. THEN CLOSER.

I started awake, my half-open eyes bleary and my limbs sucked into the couch. I still wore my sunglasses. The ring came again, from somewhere on the floor. With great effort I leaned over the edge of the cushions and searched the hardwood. My aching hand picked up the receiver.

"Hello." My voice was little more than a grunt.

"Jannie? It's Dr. Johannis."

"Oh."
Test results!
"Hi."

"You don't sound good. You doing all right?"

"I was s-sleeping."

"Ah, sorry to disturb you. I have the test results from the lab."

Here it came. What if she said it wasn't Lyme? "Okay." My heart fluttered.

"Well, you certainly are positive for Lyme. Highly positive, in fact. Your IgM—that's current infection—shows multiple plus signs in numerous bands. Even so, as we discussed, according to CDC standard bands, you would indeed show negative."

My brain scrambled to keep up with her words. Positive. I did have Lyme. I had a diagnosis! But only because of these special Lyme tests. The recognized standard testing would have let me fall through the cracks. Again. As sick as I was.

"Your IgG, that is infection over six months, is negative," Dr. Johannis continued. "That means you were infected within the last six months."

I rubbed my forehead. "Uh-huh." How I wanted to say more. I wanted to get up and dance. Just knowing my enemy for certain sent hope surging through my veins.

"You also have three coinfections." Dr. Johannis's tone remained even, but I knew what she was thinking.
Three of them.
Just as Stalking Man had said.

This was evidence, right? For Jud.

"The coinfections are Erlichiosis, Babesiosis, and Bartonella. The combination of these with Lyme could be a factor in your getting so sick so fast. In particular Bartonella tends to add to the encephalitis—your inability to process thought and overall mental confusion. It can also help cause that pain on the bottom of your feet."

My throat convulsed in a swallow. This
was
good news, right? Proof of my claims about Stalking Man. But the longer Dr. Johannis talked, the more I realized my troubles had only just begun. Because now I knew for sure I had to battle the awful disease of Lyme.
And
three other illnesses.

"Does this happen to most people? The coinfections?"

"Often, yes. Maybe not all three. That's a whopping load, mixed with Lyme. But the presence of any coinfection worsens the symptoms."

So I wasn't alone. Right now that didn't seem to help. "How long till I get well?"

Dr. Johannis drew in a breath. "It's hard to say. We'll have to see how you react to the medications. And I can't give them to you all at once. I'll design a treatment plan for you, and you'll need to follow it carefully. But all in all, we're probably talking six months. Quite possibly longer."

Six months. My heart curled in on itself. That long—without Lauren?

"But that's all together, r-right? I mean, I'll get . . . better during that time." Well enough to take care of my daughter. If Brock followed through on his threat and sued for custody, I would have to prove I was well enough to care for her.

"Jannie." The doctor's voice softened. "I know you want to get well quickly. I'll do all I can to help. But you have to understand this will take time."

I didn't
have
time. Panic clutched at my chest.

If Stalking Man could only be caught soon. Then I wouldn't have to worry about Lauren's safety. And Brock would look terrible to a judge for not believing me about the danger to me and Lauren. For walking out on me when I was so sick. As for my health, I could hire someone to come in and cook until I felt better. That person could drive Lauren to school. That would work. Judges don't take children away from their mothers just because they're sick.

"Jannie, you there?"

"Huh?"

"I was saying you have to be prepared to get worse before you get better. In your research about Lyme, you read about Herxheimer reactions?"

Maybe. Yes. No. "I think so."

"These herxes, as they're called, occur when the Lyme spirochetes are killed. As they die off they release toxins in the body—faster than the liver and kidneys can deal with them. These toxins cause symptoms to worsen. Herxes typically start two to three days after you begin an antibiotic. You're sick enough already that I imagine your herxes could put you to bed until they play out."

Bedridden? And living alone? "How l-long do they last?"

"Depends on the drugs and your reaction. Three to five days is usually the worst of it."

I closed my eyes. "So, you mean
every
time I start a different drug, that will happen?"

"That's the pattern. We've also seen a general pattern of herxing every four weeks. This appears to coincide with the life cycle of
Borrelia.
So all in all, I want you to understand you're entering a real fight here. I do think you can come out on the other side and be healthy again. Fortunately you're being diagnosed within six months of infection. Otherwise it would take a lot longer to treat you."

A distracted thought floated into my brain. How ironic. If Stalking Man hadn't been so driven to harass me, to try to change Brock's medical opinion
now,
I'd have gotten far worse. If it hadn't been for my attacker, I wouldn't even have a diagnosis.

But then, what good would I have been to his "savior" cause? With Brock's committee set to release their findings in the fall, Stalking Man needed me as his poster child now.

Well, he'd gotten his wish.

"This is . . . scary." My limbs trembled.

"I know. But I'll help you through it."

I pulled in a breath that shuddered down my lungs. "So now what?"

"Call my office in the morning and make an appointment. I'll tell my assistants to work you in as soon as possible. Then we'll discuss your treatment and get you started on the antibiotics."

After which I'd get worse.
Oh, God help.
How could I feel any worse than I did now?

"In the meantime watch your diet. This is very important. Stick with protein and avoid carbohydrates. Stay away from caffeine, alcohol, and sugar—both refined and natural, as from fruits.
Borrelia
thrive in an environment high in sugar."

"Okay."

"I will call Detective Maxwell next and tell him these findings. Also, Jannie, a reporter has called my office, asking about your case. I want you to know I did not leak any information to the press."

"I know. I did."

"
You
did?"

"I want to flush him out. This m-man. Before he hurts . . . someone else. It's supposed to be on the six o'clock news tonight."

News.
What time was it? My blurry eyes rose to the clock. Five forty.

Five forty! Lauren got out of school long ago.

"I see," Dr. Johannis said.

See what? What had we been talking about?

"I informed the reporter I can't talk about any of my patients. I'm sure she knew that already."

"Yes."

Dr. Johannis sighed. "Well. Guess I'd better get home and turn on the news. What channel?"

"ABC."

"Okay. Hope you catch the guy, Jannie."

Me too. "Thanks."

We disconnected.

With sluggish limbs I heaved myself off the couch to head for the bathroom. From there I went to the kitchen. At the refrigerator I pulled out more slices of cheese and lunch meat. Protein. As I retrieved a side plate from the cabinet I saw Brock's gun lying on top of the big plates. I left it there.

By the time I fell back upon the couch, exhausted and feet burning, it was nearly six. Where was Lauren? Was she all right? I reached for the receiver to call Brock's cell phone—and it rang. I jumped. The ID read a local number I didn't recognize.

My lungs chilled. Stalking Man?

Holding my breath, I picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Mom!"

Air seeped from my lungs. "Lauren. Where are you? How are you?"

"I'm finally back from Dad's work." Her voice held the peeved tone she reserved for relating a fight with some friend. "I had to sit there for hours and do my homework. He just brought me here, then he turned around and went back."

How thoughtless of Brock to make Lauren sit at his work, when he could have brought her here.

"I don't want to do that again tomorrow, Mom. I just want to come home."

"I'll bet. I want you here, too."

"Yeah, tell that to Dad."

"How's . . ." I could barely form the name. "Alicia?"

"She's pretty. And I don't like her."

"Does she t-treat you okay?"

"I guess."

"And your dad?"

"He's just . . . he's all tied up in knots or something. It's like he doesn't know what to do with me."

He most likely didn't. Bringing the child from a twelve-year marriage into a mistress's house couldn't feel comfortable. Even for someone as confident as Brock.

Lauren's voice lowered to a near whisper. "He's still really mad at you."

"How do you know?"

"He won't even talk about you. I say I want to come home and he just like growls at me." Her words choked. "Mom, I want to come
hooome.
"

My heart turned over. "You will. Soon as I can g-get you back."

She sniffed. "Are you any better?"

I hesitated. "No."

Air seeped over the line. "I'm sorry."

"I'll be okay."

The news.
Where was the TV remote?

A horrible thought struck me. What if Lauren heard about the segment from a friend? Surely somebody would call her. Maybe even Katie. Or if not a phone call tonight—someone at school tomorrow would talk. And children could be so cruel. They'd tease Lauren. Make fun of me to her face—the way I look, my stuttering speech. Some boy was apparently teasing her already. He'd have a heyday now. As if she wasn't already going through enough.

Why
hadn't I thought of this? It was so
obvious.

My eyes closed. At that dreadful moment I could almost grasp that Brock had been right to take Lauren. I wasn't thinking straight these days. How could I care for her properly?

The thought deflated air from my lungs.

"L-Lauren." I swallowed. "I might be on the n-news tonight. On TV."

"Dad told me." She sounded almost accusing. "Alicia's supposed to tape it for him."

Oh, no. "What did he say?"

"That you're all mad about Alicia, so you're trying to hurt him at work. Or something like that."

My stomach roiled. How
could
he?

"And it all has to do with that detective who came to our house. Stories you're telling him."

My mouth opened to protest, then snapped shut. Is this what Brock and I had come to? Hurling accusations at each other through our daughter? I couldn't do that to Lauren.

"Honey, I'm not m-making up stories."

"Then why doesn't Dad believe you?"

Why was he making
any
of his recent choices? "I don't know. I just . . . I wouldn't lie to you. I only w-want to keep you safe. I love you so much."

"I know. I love you too." She sniffed again. "I want to come home."

I stared at the coffee table, trying to see down the dark tunnel of the next six months. Multiple antibiotics. Symptoms worsening. If my brain slowed down any more, would I be able to think at all?

"I want you home, Lauren. I really do. We'll . . . work on it. Okay?"

She heaved a sigh. "Okay."

"Was your dad waiting for you when you got out of school?"

"Yeah. I went right to his car."

Surprising. I'd have expected Brock to be late, kept away by work. Maybe part of him did believe me.

"Then where did you go?"

"To his office building. I told you that."

"Oh. Right."

My eyes blinked at the clock. Six.