Purse.
My mind opened up, and the thoughts ran clear. I kept my purse in the car. And the keys in the ignition.
I walked to my Lexus SUV and slid inside. Hit the remote button to open the garage door. I started the car engine. Reaching inside my purse, I turned on my cell phone. I'd be late getting to school. Lauren might worry and try to call me from the school office.
As I turned my head to back out the car, my neck ached something fierce. Had I ever taken those pain relievers? And my fingers on the steering wheel—the joints hurt. The afternoon was so bright. I stopped to put on sunglasses.
I checked the clock. 2:55. I'd be ten minutes late.
How to make this up to Lauren? Maybe bake cookies. If I could manage to stand up. But I hadn't cut those vegetables yet, and the meat needed to be seasoned and put into the oven . . .
An overwhelming sense surged through me. So much to do. I hadn't the strength. Really, I didn't.
I made an irritated sound in my throat. What was wrong with me? "For heaven's sake, Jannie, get a grip."
My cell phone rang.
Lauren.
I pulled over to the side of the road. For once I was glad for the California law against holding a cell and driving. My mind couldn't have processed two things at once. I yanked the phone from my purse and hit talk. "Hi, sweetie, I'm so sorry, I'm almost there."
A taunting chuckle. "`Sweetie'?" Some man's voice, low and gruff.
I stilled. "Who is this?"
"Feeling a little under the weather these days, Janessa?"
"What?"
"Joints hurting? Maybe your muscles are weak. Has it affected your ability to think? There are over sixty possible symptoms. It hits each person differently."
How did—? "Who is this?"
"You'll need to go to a doctor. Oh, right, you're married to one."
That tone—so hate-filled. I drew in my shoulders. "I'm hanging up right n—"
"Don't. You want to be stuck feeling like you are?"
"How do you know I'm feeling sick?"
"Because, Janessa. I made you that way."
Every vein in my body chilled. My eyes fixed on the clock. Some distant part of my brain registered it turning to 3:00.
This was just some crazy prank call. I clicked off the line.
In seconds the phone rang again. This time I checked the incoming ID. Private caller. Couldn't be Lauren.
A second ring. I threw down the cell as if it were a snake. Stared at it.
How did that man know how I felt? How?
Of its own accord my hand picked up the phone. My finger hit the talk button. I hesitated, then placed the phone to my ear.
"Mrs. McNeil?"
"Who are you?"
"I have no time for your games." The man's tone flattened. "I take it you want to get well."
"What do you mean, you did this to me?"
"I entered your house at night. Your husband was gone to one of his many conferences. I placed three infected ticks on you. Apparently the disease has taken hold. You're now experiencing the symptoms of Lyme."
Lyme.
"Your husband's favorite disease."
"I don't—"
"Let's see how he reacts to his own loved one getting Lyme. Once you finally get a diagnosis, that is. What will he do when a mere three to four weeks of antibiotics doesn't cure you? Imagine Dr. Brock McNeil's wife developing a case of chronic Lyme."
This man was insane. Or some enemy of Brock's. My husband had spent years disproving the existence of chronic Lyme. "There's no such thing."
A pulsing silence. "Tell your body that."
For long seconds we breathed over the line.
This had to be a joke. But the way I was feeling, my foggy mind. And the dreams of that bug-eyed man in my bedroom . . .
No. That would be too bizarre. Too terrifying. There had to be an explanation.
"Did you wear something on your face?" I whispered.
"Night goggles."
I dropped the phone. It bounced off the console onto the floor. I ran a hand through my hair, unable to think, my breath shallow.
"Mrs. McNeil." The words rose up, a voice from hell. "Janessa."
Muscles wooden, I bent over and retrieved the cell. Held it to my ear. The thing burned my fingers. "What do you want from me?"
The man uttered a derisive laugh. "That's for another conversation."
No reply would come.
"Go on now. Pick up your Lauren from school."
I gasped. "Don't you—"
"Welcome to the Lyme wars, Janessa."
The line went dead.
Chapter 3
I PULLED THROUGH THE CURVED DRIVEWAY AT LAUREN'S PRIVATE SCHOOL, my entire body trembling. The man's voice, his bizarre words, echoed through my head. His claims couldn't be true. I would find a rational explanation. The alternative was unthinkable. To believe a man had broken into my house and passed Lauren's bedroom on the way to mine . . .
No. Absolutely not. If I believed that, I'd never be able to sleep in my house again.
I drove slowly, eyes scanning for Lauren. Kids spilled through the grassy area in front of the buildings, cars stopping, doors opening as they clambered inside. I spotted Lauren laughing with her best friend, Katie. They faced each other, Lauren's eyebrows raised and her smile wide. Her hand lay on Katie's shoulder, her heels pumping up and down. That half jump always appeared when Lauren was excited.
Apparently Katie's mom, Maria, wasn't here yet. Maria was one of my closest friends. We'd met when our daughters were in kindergarten. Like Katie, Maria was light-skinned with almost white-blonde hair and blue eyes.
I pulled over to the curb near the girls and put the car in Park. Pressing both hands to my temples, I tried to squeeze away the chaotic thoughts in my mind. I still felt so crazy tired, but I had to overcome that. Lauren was a bundle of motion. It took strength just to be around her.
Lauren hugged Katie and bounced over to the car, her glorious thick brown hair catching a breeze. She flung open the rear door and threw her backpack inside. Then jumped into the passenger seat. "Hi!"
I took in her pixie face, the light freckles sprinkled across her nose, and managed a smile. "Hi, sweetie. So sorry I'm late."
"You were? Didn't notice. I was talking to Katie."
Something pricked me inside, but I said nothing.
I pulled away from the curb. "So what happened in school today?"
Lauren put her feet up on the dashboard. I couldn't find the energy to tell her to take them down. "Katie got in a fight with Crystal. You remember who she is? That long blonde-haired girl that's always so mean to everybody? She told Katie her outfit looked 'totally stupid.' That's just what she said, can you believe it? 'Totally stupid.' So I told Crystal if Katie looked stupid she looked like a wanna-be clown."
I repressed a chuckle. "Lauren, you shouldn't have said that. Haven't we talked about you keeping out of fights?" We reached the end of the school's driveway. I checked traffic before turning right. Oh, my neck hurt. And my elbows. I just wanted to crawl into bed.
Lauren chattered. Now and then I interjected a comment. But my mind couldn't seem to stay focused. I drove hunched toward the wheel, hyper-aware that I needed to listen and drive at the same time. Such a hard task. And I had to breathe. That was so tiring—
"Where are you going?" My daughter's sudden question stabbed my attention.
"Huh?"
"Where are we going?" Lauren pointed left. "Home's that way."
I blinked. I was driving up El Camino . . . Oh. I should have turned left at that last stoplight. Was that correct? For a pulsing moment I couldn't remember.
I tried to laugh. It came out flat. "Guess I just wasn't paying atte
ntion." I could feel Lauren's hazel eyes on me, assessing.
How to get back in the right direction? Panic rocked me. I had no idea. I didn't know what I was doing. Heat flicked along my nerves. I took the next right turn onto a smaller road and pulled over to the side.
"Mom, what's wrong with you?" Lauren's voice tinged with fear. Nine-year-old girls were so dependent on their mothers. I leaned back in my seat and took a deep breath.
"Sorry, honey. I'm feeling a little sick. I think it's the flu. Just let me rest for a minute."
I drew in two more long breaths, then plastered a smile on my face. "Okay. Let's turn around." I pulled a U-turn and waited at the stoplight to go left on El Camino. My thoughts had cleared. I knew the way home.
"Sheesh, Mom. You should go home and lie down."
"I thought maybe we'd bake some cookies."
"I don't think so. You're likely to put in a cup of salt instead of sugar."
That was my little comic, but today the words hit too close to home. "I was late coming to school. I wanted to make it up to you."
"Like I said, I didn't care. You don't have to worry so much about me."
I nodded. The complexities of young girls. One minute needy, the next determined to be independent. "Okay."
I managed to get home without another wrong turn. It's the flu, it's the flu, chanted through my head. That's all this was. A day or two and I'd be over it. As for the phone call—merely some crackpot.
But how did he know I was sick?
Coincidence. Nothing more.
Lauren bounded into the house, lugging her backpack. She'd head to the refrigerator for something to eat, then settle at the table to do her homework. Those were the rules. No TV and no phone until the homework was done.
I dragged myself into the house, fixated on preparing the roast. Then I'd lie down for awhile. Lauren was already spooning strawberry yogurt into her mouth as she headed toward the kitchen table.
Not until I was taking vegetables out of the refrigerator did the thought hit me: cell phone. The man's incoming ID had read private caller. Was there any way to trace that number?
I laid the vegetables on the counter and reached for chopping board and knife. From behind me came the sound of Lauren's chair sliding over the hardwood floor. "You have much homework?" I cut into the first potato.
"I always have too much homework."
How Lauren managed to make As and Bs, I didn't know. The girl's attitude toward school work was laissez-faire at best. She always hurried through assignments, which is why I checked her work every day before releasing her to play.
I cut into the second potato. My hands hurt to hold the knife. And my thoughts swung this way and that. I'd just been thinking something important. What was it?
Tracing the call.
Wait. Why should I need to trace that number? It had been a prank. I'd probably never hear from that man again.
But he'd said my name. He'd mentioned Lauren's name. Fresh fear spiraled through me. Not Lauren's name, no. My brain had been fuzzy. Maybe I'd heard wrong. I would never let anyone hurt my daughter.
I'd never seen a tick on my body. Hadn't Brock and I just talked about that yesterday?
The realization flushed me with relief. I dropped the knife with a clatter.
"You okay, Mom?"
I stared at the blue-gray granite. Its swirls reminded me of my own brain waves at the moment. Random. Unpredictable.
"Yes. I just . . . dropped something."
I picked up the knife and resumed cutting. My thoughts wove and dipped as I prepared the vegetables by rote and placed them in a large pan with the meat. The man's hate-filled tone still pulsed within me. I couldn't deny the existence of evil, nor how close it ran with selfishness. I'd grown up with both. But the caller's words were just too off the wall.
As I slid the roast into my oven, the phone rang.
I jumped.
Lauren thrust her chair back from the table. "I'll get it."
"No!" I banged the oven door shut and whirled around.
My daughter looked at me, round-eyed. "Okay, Mom. You don't have to yell." Pouty-faced, she returned to the table.
The man's words drilled my memory: "That's for another conversation." I eyed the phone. It rang again.
I crossed the kitchen as fast as my weak legs would take me. I told myself it was just one of Lauren's friends. Maybe one of my own. Or some pesky 800 number salesman. Heart pounding, I bent down to peer at the ID on the receiver.
Private caller.
Chapter 4
ONE HAND GRIPPING THE COUNTER, I STARED AT THE RECEIVER. The phone rang a third time.
Lauren heaved a sigh. "Mom, answer it!"
My hand seemed to float as it reached for the receiver. I faced away from Lauren. For a long second I couldn't find any words to speak.
"Hello?"
"So we meet again." The man's voice ran rough and vibrating.
Turning, I glanced at Lauren. "Just a minute," I whispered into the phone. I made my way out of the kitchen, through the hall and into the front bathroom. Shut the door. I sank onto the closed toilet seat. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"How are you feeling?"
"What do you want from me?"
"Actually I know how you're feeling. I've seen it up close and personal. Too personal."
"You told me I have Lyme. That you made me have it."
"You do, and I did."
"That's crazy."
"Let me tell you crazy, Janessa. Crazy is doctors and researchers denying that a disease exists when patients are suffering right in front of their noses. Crazy is people's lives being reduced to moving from bed to couch, or even dying, because those doctors love their medical reputations and grant money more than they care about others' pain."
I bent over and pressed a hand to my forehead. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. You know what your husband does. His specialty."
Of course I knew. Brock was a researcher and professor at the prestigious Stanford School of Medicine. He'd spent years studying tick-borne diseases, particularly Lyme.
"You know the committee your husband chairs? The one whose members will be publishing their irrefutable findings"—the words were sneered—"to the entire medical community this coming fall?"
The committee. Brock was its chairperson and most outspoken member. He'd personally appointed most of the other doctors. But what—
"Janessa!"
I started. "I-I'm here."
"You know what those findings are going to say?"
I didn't respond.
"What they've always said—lies. That chronic Lyme doesn't exist as an active infection. That a mere four weeks of antibiotics at most kills every spirochete. All those suffering patients out there claiming they've had the disease for years—long after antibiotic treatment—and the doctors who deign to listen to them, are wrong. Either that or just plain crazy in the head."
"What does this have to do with me?"
"You live with the main culprit."
"But . . . the committee's findings are based on scientific studies. They are what they are."
The man laughed deep in his throat. The chilling sound sent a fissure up my spine. "But they're not, you see. Your husband and his cohorts find what they want to find. They enter their research with their minds already made up. They quash dissenting opinions."
"Why would they do that?"
"Tell me something, Mrs. McNeil. What would happen to your husband's scholarly reputation if his life's research was proven wrong?"
My mouth opened but no answer came.
"And doesn't he hold patents having to do with Lyme? Maybe he'll come up with a new vaccine some day. That could make h
im millions of dollars."
"He's—"
"Do you know that selling a Lyme vaccine depends on a narrow definition of the disease?"
"I . . . no." What was he talking about—narrow definition? My head swam.
"And hasn't your dear husband testified on behalf of insurance companies at numerous trials? Trials in which other doctors have been sued for over-treating patients who claim to have Lyme? I believe he's been paid for his hard work on the stand, correct?"
My breath came in shallow pants. My limbs hurt, my neck ached, and my elbow throbbed from bending to hold the phone. My wavering brain could barely follow this conversation. Why was I even bothering to listen to this?
"Still with me, Janessa?"
I swallowed. "Yes."
"Your husband is the same as the rest of his cronies on that committee. He has a reputation to keep, not to mention the money at stake. Of course their 'findings' support what they've always claimed."
This was too much. This man was accusing the man I loved of being some kind of shyster. Brock's reputation was stellar. He was known across the country for his work in medicine. "You're saying my husband is nothing but a fake?"
"I'm saying he sees what he wants to see. And meanwhile, Janessa, people are dying. Brock McNeil has blood on his hands."
"You're insane."
"Really?" Anger trembled in the man's voice. "Perhaps you don't understand how powerful that committee is. Its written report will be touted to all doctors across the country. Physicians everywhere will be told—again—that chronic Lyme exists only in the imagination of self-proclaimed patients and their doctors." The man's tirade grew louder, more virulent. "Those doctors who treat such patients with long-term antibiotics can be brought before their medical boards, have their licenses pulled. All other docs will be afraid to treat Lyme at all, or will only treat it for the mere number of days that the report recommends. And those doctors will continue to be told Lyme probably doesn't even exist in their area. Patients, very sick patients, will come to them and get no help. They'll go undiagnosed for years. Every day they'll feel like you're feeling right now. Only over time they'll get far worse. They'll lose their friends, life as they knew it. And no one will listen to them. And doctors like your husband will tell them it's all in their head!"
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