Over the Edge (7 page)

As he disappeared through the door his words drifted through me, as light and insubstantial as air.

FRIDAY

Chapter 8

AS EXHAUSTED AS I WAS THAT NIGHT I COULD NOT SLEEP. I awoke again and again in a sweat, my body aching as if I'd just endured a triathlon. I thought of Lauren, grateful she wasn't sleeping at our house. She wasn't safe there, none of us were. What were we going to do about that? Could the police post a guard outside our home?

What about Brock tonight, in our bedroom by himself? What if that stalking man came back with a tick for him?

And what Stalking Man had done—it wasn't really blackmail, as Brock claimed. Blackmail was a threat of harm if you didn't do something. But the man had
already
harmed me. So if I didn't convince Brock to change his medical opinion of Lyme—so what?

I stared at the ceiling for a long time, trying to logic through that. Something didn't fit.

The man's a lunatic. Why should anything he does make sense?

When morning finally came I pushed myself from bed and onto shaky legs to visit the bathroom. Every muscle hurt with new desperation, and my body weighed a ton.

Back in bed I called Brock on his cell phone.

"How are you today?"

"Worse."

Silence. "We'll find the cause of this, Jannie."

Let's hope.
"Have you heard anything from Jud?"

"I'll be talking with him to see how soon they'll be able to get those phone records. Now you just worry about yourself, okay?" Brock would come by to see me when he could, between classes and lab experiments and all the myriad critical tasks he undertook each day.

As I hung up depression settled over me, coated with fear of the unknown. I wasn't sure of my husband anymore. And I didn't know my own body. I aimed a vacant stare at the wall, dark imaginings filling my head.

God, please help me. I'm drowning here.

From somewhere in the depths of me vague words arose and shimmered.
"God is our refuge and our strength, a very present help in time of trouble."
Where was that from? A psalm? Wherever it came from, I needed that kind of promise right now. I repeated it aloud. Wrapped the words around my heart.

That same hour the tests began.

They drew more blood, why I didn't know. Hadn't they already taken enough? And they took another urine sample. After that I was transported to a room to see a specialist. "What for?" I asked as a buxom nurse helped me into a wheelchair. Her hands were cold and her blonde curls tight.

"They're going to test you for multiple sclerosis, hon."

MS?
Is this what Brock suspected?

Rolling down the hall and into the elevator, smelling the antiseptic of mopped floors, I numbed out. People with MS lost the ability to walk. It couldn't be cured. How would I take care of Lauren?

"I don't have MS," I told the nurse. "I have Lyme."

"Well, we're testing for all kinds of things, just to be sure."

The two-part test was horrendous. Surely it came straight out of Nazi Germany. First a nurse attached electrodes to my legs, sending shocks at higher and higher levels until I didn't think I could stand it. I gasped and moaned at each jolt of electricity. If I'd possessed normal energy, if my entire body didn't already ache, I'd have endured it better. I'm no baby when it comes to pain. But I was already worn down. The shocks were followed by long needles stuck deep into my leg muscles while on a computer monitor my nerves twanged a virtual scream.

By the time the procedure was done I was bathed in sweat and trembling.

The doctor studied the test results. "Doesn't look to me like you have MS," he pronounced.

Back in my room I was visited by an infectious disease specialist. Dr. Belkin, a trim man with long-fingered hands, was taking on my case. "We want to be completely thorough, Mrs. McNeil. Your husband insists on it, and we agree." He firmed his lips in a doctorly smile.

Fright banged around inside my chest. Something terrible
was
wrong with me. Enough to make them test for MS. I knew I felt like death on a hot pad, but for them to look at me and
know I was that sick.

My head moved a fraction of a shake. "I have Lyme."

He regarded me. "How do you know?"

"I . . . just know."

He drew a deep breath. "Well, the lab's running a test for that disease. They're speeding things up for you. We may have those results by the end of the day."

"So I'm not going home today?"

"No, afraid not. We'll finish up testing you by the end of the afternoon. But you're in no shape to go home. We'll want to keep you around until all the results come in."

Brock called around 4:30, asking how I was doing.

"No better. Maybe worse. I don't know. Where's L-Lauren?"

"Maria picked her up with Katie after school. She's going to spend the weekend with them."

"The whole weekend? Why won't you just get her after work?"

"Jannie, she's fine there. I'll want to come see you during the weekend. Plus I have work to do at the office and lab. It's easier if Lauren's taken care of."

"You could bring her. Here, I mean. To see me."

He breathed annoyance over the line—a clear indication the subject was closed. "I've talked with Jud. They are going to place taps on our phone."

"Fine." My voice sounded dull. I was still fixated on spending another night away from home, and the fact that Lauren was staying at Katie's all weekend. Somehow that just didn't sit right. What was Brock not telling me?

Brock cleared his throat. "I'll come see you around 7:00."

I hung up the phone and stared at the closed blinds on the window. They'd been shut against the bright sun all day. Dark suspicions and unease roiled in my chest. The world out there tripped on while I was stuck in this bed.

I would fix this. Somehow. I'd make sure Stalking Man was caught. And like a Siren crooning her song I would woo back the attentions of my husband.

But right now I needed to rest.

My eyes closed, and I drifted off. Sometime later a presence by my bed awakened me. Dr. Belkin. "Hi." His hands were in his white coat pockets. "How you feeling?"

"Hanging in there."

He nodded. "Wanted to tell you we've got results from your blood and urine tests. I won't bore you with the long list of details. But I will say we looked for all kinds of poisons and heavy metals and found nothing unusual in your system. We also did a complete blood workup. We looked at all your systems—endocrine, thyroid, checked your pituitary gland, did liver panels and the rest—and found everything to be in the normal range. Your white blood cell count is a little high but nothing to cause considerable alarm. We did not find signs of viral or bacterial infection. In short, at this point I'm sorry to say we still don't know what's going haywire in your body."

My brain took a moment to process the news. "But . . . Lyme. You promised me you'd test for it."

"We did, Mrs. McNeil. Knowing the claims of this man who's been calling you, we surely wanted to cover that possibility. If you were infected months ago, as he said, antibodies would show up on the test by now. But they didn't. The results were negative."

I stared at him. "Negative?"

He shook his head. "The simple truth is—you don't have Lyme."

Chapter 9

AT 9 A.M. DETECTIVE JUD MAXWELL STRODE INTO THE STANFORD building that held the business offices for the Department of Medicine. Jud's visit to the McNeil house the previous evening had plagued his sleep, waking him more than once. This case was one of the most bizarre he'd ever encountered. Someone putting infected ticks on a sleeping woman because of her husband's work? How crazy was that? And yet how cunning, when he thought of the planning involved. This was no typical criminal Jud sought.

This was someone with a brilliant, strategic mind.

In the early hours of the morning, Jud had finally given up on sleep and dragged himself to his home computer. There he researched the medical issues surrounding Lyme. He'd had no idea such a war over the disease was raging between doctors and patients. Although his wife, Sarah, was a receptionist in Dr. McNeil's department, she hadn't known that much either.

Now as Jud climbed the steps to the second floor, his mind cycled through the myriad questions he wanted to ask McNeil's lab assistants.

Jud walked through the door that led to the central reception area, and his gaze fell on Sarah behind her wide desk. She looked up and gave him a wan smile. Sarah's brown eyes were usually bright, her mouth upturned. Not today. She'd been stunned to hear Jud's news of the McNeils last night. Sarah thought Jannie McNeil a very sweet woman. And Sarah was very loyal to Brock McNeil. They got along well—but then, Sarah got along with everyone. Truth was, Jud never had liked McNeil very much. Whenever they'd talked at office Christmas parties over the years he'd found the man quite arrogant.

"Hey." Sarah spoke in low tones as Jud stopped before her desk.

"Hi. You all right?"

She tilted her head. "We're all pretty much in shock. 'Course, folks here are just hearing the news as word spreads. At least I've had since last night to process."

Jud didn't make a habit of talking to Sarah about his cases, but last night he hadn't been able to keep quiet about this one. Besides, she was in a position to possibly help.

"Anyway, Alicia and Dane are ready to meet with you," Sarah pushed back from her desk. "They don't seem to think they can be of much help. But they'll do whatever they can."

Jud nodded. "And Dr. McNeil's out till 11?"

"Yeah, he just left for class." She rose. "Who do you want to talk to first?"

"Alicia."

His wife shot him a knowing look. "I'll take you back."

She ushered him down a hall, knocked on the door of a cubicle, and poked in her head. "Jud's here."

"Oh, okay."

Sarah threw Jud a glance and left him to his work. He stepped to the threshold of Alicia Mays's work area.

"Detective Maxwell." Alicia held out her hand. "Let's go across the hall where there's room for you to sit down. You can meet with Dane in there as well."

"Thanks. And I appreciate your seeing me."

She led Jud into an empty office and motioned to a small table. At least this place had a window. They took seats across from each other. Jud set his recorder down and turned it on. Pulled out his notepad and pen.

No doubt about it—Alicia was a looker. Shimmery dark hair and eyes, a lithe figure, and tanned, oval face. Decked out in a red dress-to-kill at last year's Christmas party, she'd been stunning. Now the woman sat back in her chair, trying to look relaxed.

Jud sensed she was anything but.

He spoke the date, time, and place for the recording's sake. "Interview with Alicia Mays." He nodded to her. "First, tell me about your background. Where you graduated from, how long you've worked here."

Alicia clasped her slender fingers on the table. "I graduated from here, Stanford, seven years ago. Then went on to get my masters. Dr. McNeil and Dr. Segal were among my professors. And I was at the top of my class, so when I graduated the job as a lab assistant was offered to me almost immediately. I was thrilled to stay right here and work."

Ah, yes, Dr. Segal. Jud knew one thing from Sarah—despite their surface cordiality, Segal and McNeil were long-time rivals. Apparently one department was too small a place for two raging egos.

"Tell me about what you do here."

Alicia gestured with her head. "I work on research projects in the lab—down the hall. Much of the time I'm there. But for online research and to write notes, whatever, I'm in my little office space."

Alicia's voice had a musical, alluring quality. Even if her answer seemed a bit evasive. She gazed at Jud directly as she spoke, her chin slightly raised.

"What are your hours?"

"During the day. Pretty much nine to five, but we're in and out."

Jud made a note. "By
we
you mean Dane Melford, Dr. McNeil's other lab assistant?"

"Yes."

"Does Dane also assist both doctors McNeil and Segal in the lab?"

She shook her head. "He mostly works with Dr. McNeil. Sometimes he assists other professors in the department when they're shorthanded."

Jud tapped his pen against the paper. "Tell me about your research with Dr. McNeil."

Her eyes flicked away for a moment. "Of course it can get quite technical. But in simple terms, for example, we're studying the transmission of
Borrelia burgdorferi
—the bacteria that cause Lyme—from tick to potential host. It appears that a strain of
Borrelia
deficient in a certain gene product is not able to be transmitted, even though the tick itself is indeed a carrier."

"So without this particular gene, say, if an infected tick bites a human, that person wouldn't get Lyme?"

"Yes."

"And what's the practical application of knowing about that gene?"

"The delineation of a certain gene needed for transmission could lead toward the development of a Lyme vaccine."

A vaccine.
"I imagine anyone who develops a vaccine for Lyme could make a lot of money. There must be quite a bit of competition to be the first to accomplish that."

Alicia lifted a shoulder. "Yes, I suppose. Actually a vaccine was developed before, but in 2002 it was pulled off the market. But no doubt many researchers across the country are continuing to try to develop an effective one. There are a lot of complexities involved in succeeding."

"Is Dr. McNeil close?"

She shifted in her chair. "Nowhere near."

What wasn't she telling him? "Might competitors think you're close?"

Alicia gave him a sideways look. "I don't see why they would."

Jud thought about Janessa McNeil's recounting of the threatening phone conversations. The man had made it sound as if he wanted Brock McNeil to reverse his opinion on chronic Lyme. But what if that was just a ruse? What if the guy was a competitor of McNeil's and wanted to upend his research? If millions of dollars were at stake . . .