"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!"
He chuckled—an evil sound. "Then why are you sick, Mrs. McNeil?"
My mouth closed.
"After they're done testing you for all the things they won't find, go to a doctor who knows how to treat Lyme. There are a few in the Bay Area, although you'll be amazed at the small number. Seven or so in a population of six million. Can you imagine if we had that few oncologists?"
"And what's a Lyme doctor supposed to do?"
"Send you for proper testing, for a start."
"You're lying."
"Am I?"
"I ought to be able to believe a t-test given by a . . . hospital as respected as this one!"
"Agreed. It's shameful. But it's not the hospital's fault. They're merely using the standardized test—the one doctors like your husband hold up as the Holy Grail. Tell me, isn't he worried that your doctors are stumped?"
I thought of Brock's unconvinced tone, the way he'd looked at me.
"Jannie, maybe your illness is psychosomatic."
Why was I even talking to this man, after what he'd put me through?
"If your husband's worried about you, Mrs. McNeil, he'll pursue the answer to your illness, regardless of what it takes. Even if it means seeing past his stubborn mind-set."
The last two words punched me in the gut. Brock was stubborn. Was he refusing to see the truth about my sickness because it didn't fit into his neat little box?
I shook my head. "Leave me alone! Do not call me again."
"Janessa, you must do what I say.
"
"He doesn't believe I have Lyme! And besides, what difference would it m-make? I'm already sick. If I change my husband's mind, are you going to wave a magic . . ." The word fled. It made me all the madder. "Wand and make me well?"
A silent, throbbing pause dragged out. My stomach turned over. When the man spoke again his voice fell to thin, sharp silver. "What makes you think I'll stop with you?"
Hang up, I screamed at myself. But my fingers wouldn't let go of the phone.
"You're not the only one who can fall sick, Mrs. McNeil."
"What're you—"
"Kiss your daughter for me."
The line clicked in my ear.
Heat rolled up my body. "No, wait! Listen to me."
Silence.
I lowered the receiver, trembling. Movement on the right caught my eye. I turned my head to see a nurse entering the room. She looked in her late fifties, her hair pepper-and-salt, her demeanor so casual. As if the world hadn't just cracked in two.
"Hello there, you called for me?" She smiled as she approached.
"Why did you take so long? You're too late!"
"Too late for wh—?"
I shook the receiver at her. "I wanted you to hear. I w-wanted somebody to hear his voice, what he was saying." Heat sank teeth into my limbs. I felt sweat pop out on my forehead. I had to get to Lauren, protect her. I had to get out of this hospital.
"Who?"
"The man. Him. He's c-called three times, threatening. And now he's threatening my daughter."
Her eyes rounded. "What is he saying?"
I hit the off button on the phone, pressed talk. "I have to call my husband." The words were whispered half to myself, my finger stumbling over the numbers as I dialed home. After three rings the message machine clicked on, my own voice answering. With a small cry I ended the call and dialed Brock's cell phone. The nurse stood at my bedside, nonplused.
"Hello." My husband's voice spilled into my ear.
"Brock, he—" All words seized up.
"What?"
"He called again, here in the room. And he said I do have Lyme, and you're wr-wrong. And you have to relook at your . . . studies and change your opinion. Or he'll make Lauren sick!"
"Jannie, don't even say such a thing."
"That's what he said." My eyes filled with tears. I couldn't bear to see Lauren in the condition I was in, barely able to walk, to think. The pain was too much for a child. "A nurse is here, she'll tell you." I thrust the phone into the woman's hand, only to remember she'd heard nothing.
She gave me a questioning look, then placed the receiver to her ear. "This is Nurse Evans."
Brock's commanding voice barked from the receiver. I could hear his every word as he asked what she'd heard.
"I didn't hear anything. I walked in and she was just holding the receiver."
"She wasn't talking to anyone?"
"No."
"You sure?"
"Yes. She was just holding it. That's all."
Silence hung in the room. I glowered at the nurse. She shook her head, as if to say I'm sorry and handed the phone back to me. "Can I get anything for you?" She studied my face, as if I weren't quite all there.
"We could ask the . . . switchboard. Somebody had to put him through."
"Jannie!" My husband's voice barked through the phone.
She shrugged. "They get so many calls. I'm not sure anyone would remember."
"Jannie!"
I waved the nurse away. Thanks a lot. Pressed the phone to my ear. "Brock, I have to come home." I fought to sound steady, but my voice wavered and pitched. "We have to watch Lauren every minute. Somehow he'll get to her. I don't w-want her like this. I don't want this to happen to her!"
"Nothing's going to happen to her."
"But he said—"
"You need to calm down. Take a deep breath."
"I am breathing. You need to listen to me."
"Fine. I'm listening. Tell me everything he said."
"He said the Lyme test is no good. It's a f-false negative. And he'll hurt others if you don't start listening to me. And then he let me know he was talking about Lauren. We n-need to tell the police, Brock. They have to know!"
"All right. I'll tell them."
I hesitated. His voice didn't sound right. "You will?"
"Yes."
"Can they watch Lauren closer at school? And Maria should know. She can't let the . . . girls go anywhere this weekend."
"I'll talk to her, too. Now listen to me. I want you to get some rest."
How could I rest? I could barely move, but my mind swooped and plummeted.
"We'll talk more about this tomorrow, Jannie. For tonight Lauren's safe at Katie's."
The receiver felt slick in my fingers. My left elbow throbbed. A new wave of tiredness washed through me, as if my body suddenly realized it had spent what energy it possessed. My head sank deeper into the pillows. "You're not going to call Maria, are you."
My husband breathed over the line, a weary, beleaguered sound. "How do you suppose this man found you in the hospital, Jannie?"
"Don't know. Maybe he f-followed you here and figured it out."
"I teach at the med school. I'm at the hospital on a regular basis."
"Maybe he doesn't know that."
"I thought he knew all about me. How important my opinion is to the medical world."
There was that tone again. Almost accusing. "What are you saying?"
"It's just odd, that's all. He calls on your cell phone, then our home line, and neither call has a traceable ID. You and I agree to have our home phone tapped. The police have your cell. So now you say he calls your private hospital room."
I say?
"What are you getting at, Brock?" My nerves prickled. I could not be reading him right.
"Remember that conversation we had some years ago? How when you were young you faked a stomach ache so your father wouldn't treat you so badly?"
My mouth opened, but I said nothing.
"The plan worked. You used it again and again."
Somewhere deep within me a voice whispered that I should have known. Hadn't I thought of this very same thing just after Brock left my room? "Are you saying I'm faking this illness?"
"Are you?"
The question punched me in the stomach. Psychosomatic illness, nothing. My husband didn't want to believe me—period. "And the m-man? His calls?"
"Those calls came from the same areas where you were. Both times."
"Yes. He was so close!"
"Or you made them."
My head dropped back against the pillows. "I made them?"
"You could have bought the throwaway cell phone. You said you know all about the tracing methods."
What? I could barely breathe. "And the one here? To my room?"
"No one heard it but you."
No. This was too much. This could not be my husband talking. "Why, Brock? Why would I do all that?"
He released a long sigh. As if we both knew exactly why.
My left arm fell to the bed. The phone bounced on the covers and out of my hand. Half in a daze I picked it up and pressed the button to end the call.
For a long time I lay staring at the wall, my saturated mind trying to understand what was happening. Who my husband had become.
And what I was supposed to do now.
SATURDAY
Chapter 12
I STAYED IN THE HOSPITAL A SECOND FULL DAY, FLOATING IN A SORT OF PURGATORY. I wanted to go home and take care of Lauren. Bring her back from Katie's house. In fact I insisted to everyone who would listen that I had to leave—now. Dr. Belkin didn't want to discharge me until the tests were finished. He asked Brock to talk some sens
e into me. How doctors stick together. Brock phoned and said I had to stay another day.
"What for?" I demanded. "Since all this is fake anyway."
What an odd, strained dance we found ourselves in. To music I'd never heard.
"Jannie, Dr. Belkin wants to cover all the bases. Maybe there's something he hasn't found yet."
And you, Brock? If you were my doctor?
The doctors ran more tests on my blood and urine, looking further for this esoteric poison and that. They poked and prodded me, watched me walk (like a wambling sailor) and listened to me talk (stuttering and searching for words). They did a brain scan.
They found nothing.
More fodder for Brock.
Dr. Belkin looked from my chart to my face, then back again. "Perhaps you've developed a case of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. But it's far too soon for that diagnosis. You certainly have some of the symptoms. Impaired memory and concentration, muscle pain, joint pain, trouble sleeping, and most of all the fatigue. However, we typically wait to see if symptoms other than fatigue are present for more than six months. Until that time we'll keep an eye on you and see if you don't get better on your own."
Brock called again later in the day. I wondered why he bothered. Neither of us mentioned the faking it conversation. But it hung between us, overripe. The spoiling fruit of his suspicion. We would talk of it again—I knew that from the authoritarian tone in his voice. He was waiting for the right time. Maybe when I came home.
Made me want to stay in the hospital.
In the afternoon Brock brought Lauren to visit. She came at me as I sat up in bed, her arms wide for a hug. I cringed. "Oh, sweetie, I'm s-sorry. My body hurts so much it's hard to be hugged. Just pat me on the . . . cheek, okay?"
Teary-eyed, she laid her fingers against my face. "You're talking funny."
"I know."
"I miss you."
"I miss you too. I'm coming home tomorrow."
"Are you any better?"
How I wished I could say yes. I managed a smile. "A little."
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