Over the Edge (8 page)

"What about Dr. Segal's research? Is he also working on Lyme?"

Alicia shook her head. "No. His research is in cancer cells."

"And he's in class this morning?"

"Yes, afraid so."

Jud would have to speak with him another time.

For the next hour Jud questioned Alicia about her thoughts of who could be behind the McNeil's break-in. She claimed to have no idea. Despite her apparent willingness to answer questions, a vague evasiveness continued to coat her responses.

Perhaps Alicia Mays did have something to hide.

But it may have nothing to do with this case.

"Alicia, you obviously work with infected ticks in the lab. Have any gone missing?"

Her eyebrows rose. "From
our
lab? No. Believe me, if your suspect placed ticks on Mrs. McNeil they didn't come from here. There are labs all over the country where
Borrelia
is researched. And maybe they didn't come from a lab at all. It's not as if every infected tick is created through research."

Time was slipping by, and Jud still needed to talk to Dane Melford. He wrapped up the interview and turned off the recorder. Thanked Alicia as he gave her his card. "Please call me if you think of anything. Anything at all."

"I certainly will. I'll go get Dane for you now."

Jud had little time to ponder Alicia's answers before Dane appeared, clad in a lab coat. Jud had chatted with Dane at last year's Christmas party and liked the man. As he remembered, Dane was around forty and a confirmed bachelor. He'd worked with McNeil for a couple years. Dane stood tall and thin, his face a long egg shape, his skin pale.

He took the seat Alicia had vacated, leaning forward to place both arms on the table. "I hope I can give you something. But this"—he spread his hands—"what's happened is beyond me."

"I'll bet. But you never know how some little detail you recall may lead to something."

Dane tilted his head in a
hope so
gesture.

Jud restarted his recorder and stated the details of the interview. "Dane, tell me about your background."

He gave a self-effacing smile. "Nothing as illustrious as Alicia's top-of-the-class performance, I'm afraid." He'd attended San Diego State and graduated in '93. Had lived in California all his life.

"Still not married?"

"Nah. Won't happen."

"Oh, yeah? You may be surprised."

Something flickered across Dane's face. "My parents never got along. I'm talking huge fights, even though they stayed together. And all my uncles and aunts—none of them were happy. I vowed as a kid I'd never get married. Just don't need the stress."

Jud nodded. "I see." But he felt sorry for the man. Sarah—and their two kids—were the most important part of his life.

Jud talked with Dane about his work, how he had eventually moved to northern California and found a job at Stanford. Two years ago he switched to the Department of Medicine and began working with McNeil.

"Dr. McNeil is brilliant. Just so focused. Has long-term vision. I'm glad I get to work with him almost exclusively."

With McNeil's overbearing confidence, Melford was probably a good choice for an assistant. He wasn't the kind of man who would get in the doctor's way. He'd be able to take McNeil's need for control in stride.

"Tell me about your research with Dr. McNeil."

Now this was a subject that brought Dane to animated life. He explained in more detail McNeil's research, how they worked toward the goal of one day creating a vaccine. "I hope to stay with the doctor for years. If anyone can crack this, he will."

Jud asked Dane if he knew of anyone who would want to do Dr. McNeil harm. Perhaps some competitor of McNeil's.

Dane could think of no one. He frowned. "But aren't you looking in the wrong place? As Dr. McNeil described it this morning, the man who did this is part of the Lyme community. Someone who wants to force the doctor's hand regarding his findings on Lyme."

"Do you know much about these Lyme wars, as they're called?"

Dane pushed his lips together. "Not really. I know a little. But mostly we just don't pay attention to their clamor. We've got work to do in our research, and we do it. We can't be swayed by outside opinion." He shook his head. "I'm sure Dr. McNeil is far more aware of what's going on, however. He's the one who's out there in public, speaking in symposiums. And I know he's been verbally attacked. But he doesn't talk about it much. Like I say, he's just really focused."

Jud gazed out the window. "So if you were in my shoes, where would you look for this suspect?"

Dane leaned back and regarded the ceiling. "I'd look at the most vocal advocates in the Lyme community. Who among them may have some criminal background, be capable of such a heinous thing."

"Any thought where someone like that would get hold of an infected tick?"

He thought about it. "He could go into any woods where Lyme-infected ticks are known to be endemic and catch them in a dragged net, as forest researchers often do."

"He wouldn't know they were infected for sure."

Dane shrugged. "True. But good chance they would be."

The visual picture of dragging a net to catch infected ticks chilled Jud to the bone. It stayed with him as he drove away from Stanford—and pulsed in his mind as he returned to his own office.

Chapter 10

THAT EVENING BROCK CAME TO SEE ME AS PROMISED, striding in with the vim of the outside world. He'd come straight from work, he told me, hadn't stopped for dinner. Brock reached for my hand, brushed my forehead with his fingers. But I sensed little warmth in his actions.
It's the sickness.
Men—even doctors—just didn't know how to handle illness in their own families.

"I don't have Lyme." The words burst from me. News of the test's negative results had throbbed in my veins for the past few hours. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Stalking Man was nothing but a liar. A con man, set out to skew my husband's scientific studies. Or so I wanted to believe.

But if I didn't have Lyme, why was I sick?

"I heard." Brock let go of my hand. "I also heard that before those results came in you insisted to every doctor and nurse you saw that you have Lyme."

"I—"

"Doesn't sit very well, Jannie. You intimating to my colleagues that you know more than I do about the very disease I've studied for years."

His words stung. "I'm sorry."

Brock gazed at me—not a warm look. "I talked to Dr. Belkin about all your results."

"So . . . what now?"

"That guy who called you is certifiably nuts. I still want the police to catch him. But now I don't believe he was ever in our house."

Hope lifted its head. "But he knew the layout of our b-bedrooms." I was beginning to stutter again.

"Jannie, we had interior painting done two months ago, remember? Lauren's room and the guest bedroom. We had painters in and out of our house for a number of days. Any one of them could tell you what those rooms looked like."

"You think it was one of those m-men? But what would painters know or even care about your work?"

"I don't know. At any rate I mentioned it to Jud."

My eyes closed in weighted relief. Of course. The painters. Why hadn't I thought of them?

Still . . .

"But he knew our unlisted phone number. And my cell number. He knew Lauren's name."

"Those workers would have been given our numbers when we hired them for the job. As for Lauren, she has numerous items in her room with her name on them."

I stared at the blank TV unit hanging from the wall. Every imagining I'd endured about that man being in our home now replayed itself. I so wanted to believe Brock's words. The man
hadn't
broken into our home. Our house was safe.

"Yes." I nodded, the vastness of my relief making me ache all the more. "Yes."

But the
coincidence
of my illness still pricked.

Brock kept his eyes on me. "The police managed to get our phone records quickly. Turns out it's just as Jud guessed. Your caller used a throwaway cell phone bought under a fake name. They got the phone number he used, but it doesn't lead anywhere."

Stalking Man made this all up—and now he couldn't be traced.
Please, then, just go away and leave me alone.

I sighed. "Where did he call from? What cell phone tower?"

"You heard Jud explain that? It looked like you weren't even listening."

My eyelids didn't want to stay open. "I heard. Besides I knew about that already. Some true crime show on TV."

Brock stared at me. Something in his eyes . . .

"Where did he c-call from?"

The question hung in the air.

"Brock?"

"Your cell phone call came from the El Camino area in Palo Alto."

I gaped at him. "You mean right near where I was . . . driving to L-Lauren's school?"

He flexed his jaw and nodded.

Stalking Man had been that close?
That close?

"And the call at home?"

"From our neighborhood."

My breath caught. "You're kidding."

No response.

Panic uncoiled in my limbs. "He's following me! Everywhere! He
was
in our house, Brock. It's not one of those p-painters."

Was he close now? Somewhere in the hospital? Why was he
doing
this?

Brock seemed strangely unaffected. The way he kept looking at me . . .

"I told you they've tapped our phones. If the man calls again, they'll get a recording plus trace where he's calling from. They'll try to get to the area while he's still there."

"Okay." I couldn't think anymore. Couldn't make sense from any of it.

Brock shifted positions. He regarded me with his chin raised and eyes half closed, as if broaching an uncomfortable subject. "Jannie, maybe your illness is psychosomatic. The man said you'd be sick—and you were."

Right. That would explain it—if I hadn't collapsed on the kitchen floor
before
I'd ever heard from the man. But Brock knew that. I looked away.

"Doctors like your husband will tell you it's all in your head."
Stalking Man had warned me this would happen.

What was I supposed to do with that? The man had said I was sick, and I was. He'd said Brock would react this way, and he had.

But Stalking Man was crazy. Not to be believed.

I picked at my bedcovers. It's true what they say about the unknown. It's far more frightening to have no answer than to hear one you'd never have wanted. In crisis situations you need a tangible enemy. Someone or something to fight. To bull's-eye with the arrows of your righteous indignation. "The doctor said they want to run more tests tomorrow so . . . maybe they'll find something."

Brock grunted. "Maybe."

Our words lulled. Minutes passed in silence. We seemed to have little to say to each other. Brock mouthed his goodbyes and left. I watched him go, feeling the distance between us crack wider. When he'd rushed home yesterday he seemed so concerned. I couldn't lose his caring, our partnership. No way could I battle this . . . whatever it was alone.

I thought of my childhood, the summer when I was twelve. My father had launched with gusto into one of his week-long drunken binges. Every day he ratcheted up, then loosed by beating me. Then I fell sick. But I was only faking. I was stuck in that nightmare of a house, too afraid of my father to run away. Instead I threw all my resources into a feigned illness that left me weak and crying with stomach pain in hopes that my dad would feel sorry for me. In hindsight it seemed a silly plan—if the man felt anything for me he wouldn't have beat me in the first place. But surprisingly, it worked. My dad toned down his drinking and took to sitting with me on the couch. When he touched me I felt a gentleness I hadn't known in a long time. For three days I basked in the peace my ailment had wrought. But then my father grew restless. Clearly his concern for me was too much of a burden. Out came the whiskey bottles. His hands again turned harsh. I quickly got better and escaped outside to play with my friends.

Over the next three years, when my dad's behavior warranted it, I pulled the same trick countless times. To this day my mother refers to that era as my
stomach-problem
years. Each time my strange ailment would buy me a day or two of softening in my father. An ephemeral rescue. But oh, the relief.

My phone rang. I jumped, sending shocks of pain through my muscles. I pressed two fingers to my forehead, then reached toward the table on my left for the receiver. Maybe it was Lauren. "Hello?"

"Good evening, Janessa." Stalking Man's voice rode low and snide. My lungs bubbled. "So sorry to hear you're in the hospital."

Chapter 11

FOR A LONG SECOND MY MIND SHUT DOWN. I stared at the closed blinds of my window. How did he know I was here?

I fumbled to find the nurse call button on my right. Pushed it.

"What do you want?" I sounded breathless.

"Just checking to see how your task is coming."

My
task?
I wanted to strangle this man. Anger leaked through me. "Which one would that be? Trying to w-walk? Think with a clear head? Maybe just . . . move without pain."

"
Do
not play with me, Mrs. McNeil. You know very well I mean convincing your husband."

"You're insane. I can't
convince
my husband to refute his scientific f-findings. Besides, I don't even have Lyme."

A pause hovered. "Is that so?"

"Yes, it is so." I shot a glance at the doorway.
Where
was that nurse? "So why don't you just l-leave me alone?"

"Let me guess. Some doctor told you your Lyme test was negative."

"Gee, wasn't that a hard one."

He made a sound in his throat. "Didn't I say you'd entered a war? You're facing the same thing many Lyme patients do. The tests that most doctors and hospitals love to use run anywhere from thirty to fifty percent false negative."

I blinked. "You're telling me the test is
wrong?
"

"Of course it's wrong."

"Maybe your plan just didn't w-work, how about that? Or maybe you were n-never in my house in the first place!"