Over the Edge

by Brandilyn Collins

  I leaned back in my chair, spent and sick to the core. I thought of Brock in his research every day, teaching his classes. So far removed from these patients' outcry. If he were forced to face these debilitated people every day as the Lyme doctors did, would he remain as insensitive? As certain of his beliefs?

  Instead he was hidden away in his shiny lab. With his shiny little mistress.

  "I want you to change your husband's mind."

  No way would I ever be able to do that. No way.

  I pressed the back of my hand to my forehead. Took deep breaths. My mind slid away. For a long time I sat there in suspended consciousness . . .

  Doctor.

  The memory arose from nowhere, and my brain snapped back. I still needed to find a doctor.

  My fingers groped their way to the keyboard. I typed in Lyme literate doctors and hit Search. Over 12,000 sites came up. My exhausted eyes started to run down the list when a name snagged. Carol Johannis. I turned it over in my mind. Dr. Johannis. Yes. I'd heard Brock speak that name in derogatory terms. Some vague memory whispered she was local.

  I jumped to a new search: Carol Johannis Lyme. When the hits appeared I followed the top three. Dr. Johannis practiced in Palo Alto. According to a patient who'd talked about her in a chat forum, she specialized in Lyme. I even read an account of her publicly confronting Dr. Brock McNeil for his misleading statements about the disease.

  No wonder he sneered at her name.

  I picked up the phone.

  Chapter 20

  BY THE TIME I FELL ON THE COUCH, WEARING MY SUNGLASSES, I had a mere half hour to rest until Maria brought Lauren home. Too late, I knew this wasn't going to work. I couldn't stay up all day and have any energy left for Lauren. Just the thought of seeing her, of having to talk, loomed overwhelming. Breathing was hard.

  At least I'd possessed enough presence of mind to unlock the front door first. Once I was down I wouldn't be moving again for a while. And I was too empty to care that I'd left myself vulnerable. If Stalking Man wanted to walk into my house—let him. He couldn't hurt me worse than he already had.

  Within minutes I fell asleep. It seemed in no time Lauren burst through the door, startling me awake. "Hi, Mom!" She ran into the den and hovered over me, shedding her backpack on the floor with a dull thud. "How come you're wearing sunglasses?"

  Maria's and Katie's footsteps sounded in the hall. I heard the door shut. Soon all three gazed down at me. I tried to smile but couldn't.

  "It's just too . . ." I searched for the word. It rolled here and there, hiding in the crannies of my brain. "The light . . ."

  "Too bright for you?" Maria's eyes rose to the window.

  Bright. That was it. "Y-yes."

  "I'll close the shades for you." Maria moved to the window and lowered them.

  Why hadn't I thought of that?

  Lauren's face scrunched up. "You're talking funny again, Mom. Worse than this morning."

  Exhaustion, that was the problem. I could feel it blanketing my body, my head. I'd pushed myself too much. Now I was paying.

  "I'm okay. I just . . . talk slow."

  Lauren nodded, doubt pulling at her brow. "Can Katie and I get something to eat?"

  "Yeah."

  The girls headed for the kitchen.

  "Hear from Brock today?" Maria perched on the edge of the couch near my legs. She kept her voice down.

  "No."

  She stared at the floor, our thoughts thick between us.

  "I found a doctor who treats Lyme. Got in tomorrow. Amazing. They had a c-cancellation. Said that . . . hardly ever happens."

  "Well, that's good you got in so fast." She frowned. "But I thought you were tested for Lyme already."

  "I was. But I need a better test."

  "Oh." She shrugged—a gesture that went right through me. How few people knew about these Lyme wars. "What time is the appointment? How will you get there?"

  "Eight thirty. I'll call a c-cab."

  "No, Jannie—"

  "You go to work right after taking the g-girls to school. I'll be okay. Really."

  Maria saw I needed to rest and soon gathered Katie to leave. When they'd gone I pushed myself to sit up. "Lauren, please come get your. . . stuff in here. I can't carry it."

  She walked into the den, eating the last of a cereal bar, and picked up the backpack. I slogged my way into the kitchen and sat down at the table with her. Hooked my cane onto the edge of Brock's chair. "School okay?"

  "Uh-huh." She pushed bangs out of her eyes and unzipped her pack. "Can we call Dad?"

  "Maybe after dinner." I shifted in my chair. It was hard to get comfortable. "So . . . see any strange people around school today?"

  Lauren plumped out her lips. "I see strange people every day. I'm in fourth grade."

  I smiled.

  She pushed back her chair. "I gotta go to the bathroom." Out of the kitchen she trotted.

  I reached for her backpack to pull out books, but it was too heavy to drag close enough to me. My hand fell on the front of the pack, to the small zippered area where Lauren carried lunch money and pencils. I could at least take out a pencil for her. Wow. What a big help.

  Why was I even sitting here? Lauren never liked me looking over her shoulder while she did homework. Guilt had pushed me into that chair, plain and simple. Her dad wasn't coming back, and somehow that was my fault. If I'd only been a better . . . something.

  Indignation trekked up my spine. It was not my fault.

  From a distance I heard the bathroom door close.

  Heaving a sigh, I tugged the small compartment's zipper open. Reached inside and felt for a pencil. My fingers closed on a small bottle.

  What was that?

  I pulled it out. Held it in front of my face. It was clear plastic. Empty. Except for a bug crawling along the bottom.

  Deer tick.

  The realization socked me in the gut.

  A cry erupted from me. I dropped the bottle. It hit the table with a click and bounced. My hand scrambled for it—and knocked it over the edge. The thing plunked onto the hardwood floor and bounced again. Heart tripping, I jerked my chair backward and leaned over, searching. My leg banged into my cane, and it fell with a whap!

  Where was the vial?

  I fumbled off my sunglasses and dropped them onto the table. Light stabbed my eyes. I squeezed them shut and leaned over farther, blinking hard. Maybe it was right under my chair.

  What if that thing got loose in my house?

  From far away I heard the toilet flush.

  No. I lunged downward, groping for my cane. Had to get up. Had to look. My fingertips grazed the sleek gray metal and I snatched it up. Banged it into position to support me. Pain shot through my knuckles. With my left hand I shoved from my chair into space, struggling for balance. I found it . . . lost it . . . then listed upright. Took a step backward. My frantic gaze swept the floor. No bottle. One palm on the table, I leaned down and peered underneath.

  There. Way over on the other side. Its bottom pointed toward me. I didn't see the tick.

  The bathroom door opened. Lauren's footsteps sounded in the hall.

  As fast as I could I edged around the table. Adrenaline raced through my weak body, making me sway and shake. Somehow I had to reach that area, get all the way down to pick up the bottle.

  "Mom, what're you doing?"

  I tottered forward, my head turning toward Lauren—and felt myself tip. My legs gave out. I pitched like a fallen tree and landed hard on my side. "Ungh." Breath whooshed out of me. My cane went flying.

  "Mom!"

  My neck muscles melted. My head sank to the floor.

  For a moment I lay there, disoriented. Lauren ran to me and flung herself down. "Mom, Mom!" She grasped my shoulder
and shook. It felt like a freight train tossing me.

  I winced. "I'm . . . okay." The words puffed out, barely audible.

  "No, you're not!" She jumped up. "I'm calling Daddy."

  "No, don't."

  She thudded over to the phone, picked it up.

  "Lauren, don't!"

  "But you need—"

  "No!" I pressed a hand to my forehead. "He's . . . busy. Nothing he can do. Just . . . come help me up."

  The receiver rattled. Lauren scurried over to me.

  Where was the bottle? The tick? I did not want Lauren to see it.

  "What do I do?" Lauren crouched beside me, her nose running and face tear-stained.

  "Help me sit up."

  I held out my hand. She gripped it hard. I gritted my teeth against the pain. "Pull. Easy."

  She stood up, planted her feet and pulled. My joints from fingers to shoulder screamed. After agonizing seconds I slumped into a sitting position, gasping. The hurting didn't subside.

  Lauren let go, her hands to her mouth. "You okay?"

  For a moment my tongue wouldn't work. "Yeah. Just . . . let me rest." I aimed a look to my far left, my peripheral vision grazing the bottle. I moved my head around, stretching my aching neck. How was I going to stand the pain of getting to my feet? Already it made me nauseous. But the thought of that tick in the bottle, lying on the same floor . . .

  "Okay. Think you can get me all the way up?"

  Fresh tears flooded Lauren's eyes. "I don't know."

  "Let's try. If not I'll scoot to the s-sink and pull myself up." I forced the corners of my mouth upward. "Silly, huh."

  No smile from Lauren. Her expression pinched with fear for her helpless mother. I just wanted to hold her to my chest and tell her everything would be all right. That's what mothers did for their children. "It's okay, Lauren." I placed both my hands in hers. Eased myself around until my feet were in place. "Okay, let's try."

  Lauren leaned back, tugging at me with all her might. I couldn't help her. Not at all. Pure dead weight, and the pain.

  "Stop!"

  She let go. I leaned over, chin to my chest, and panted.

  Lauren crumpled down beside me.

  I patted her arm, trying to say "It's okay, I'm fine" but no words would come.

  The tick, the tick.

  "Let me just . . . slide myself over to—"

  "What's that?"

  My pounding head turned toward Lauren. She was staring over my shoulder.

  "There's a little bottle on the floor."

  "It's nothing."

  "Did you drop it?"

  "No." Lie after lie. I was becoming a natural at lying to my daughter.

  "I'll get it."

  "Lauren, stop."

  She crawled around me toward the table. Wedged herself between it and the wall.

  "Lauren, no!"

  She reached for it. Picked it up. "What's wrong, Mom? It's just a bottle." She wiggled out and turned around. Held the thing up. It was empty. No top.

  Lauren stuck her forefinger inside and turned it upside down to rest on her fingertip. "See?"

  Chapter 21

  SEATED BEFORE PILES OF PAPER ON HIS DESK, JUD SIGHED AS he tried to concentrate on his notes about the burglaries. So far they had plenty of nothing. Jud had to wonder how effective he was being on the case. His mind kept drifting to Janessa McNeil. He'd told her the truth when he said he tended to believe her—despite her husband's insistence she'd faked the whole scenario. Jud couldn't really point to anything to support his opinion other than his gut feeling. But his gut didn't let him down often.

  Plus, something didn't sit right with Brock McNeil. Even with all the circumstantial evidence pointing to the fact that Janessa may be lying, why would her husband be so adamant the case be closed? Why not give his wife any benefit of the doubt—particularly since her safety was involved?

  Last night when Jud should have been sleeping, he'd found himself again perched at his home computer, researching the world of Lyme.

  "Hey, Jud." Stan Mulligan, one of Jud's fellow detectives, knocked on his open office door. Stan was a bear of a man at 6'4", 250 pounds. His buzzed hair and hard-set jaw made him look like someone you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. "We got a possible foreign print off Fletcher." Fletcher was the street where the most recent burglary had occurred.

  "Any match?"

  Stan shrugged. "We're running it." His eyes fell to Jud's notes. "You find anything we missed in that pile of yours?"

  "No."

  They exchanged a weary look.

  "Hear anything new on that Lyme case?" Stan arched his back. Jud heard a series of cracks.

  "Nothing I can use. This Lyme war thing is all new to me. In my spare time at home I keep trying to figure out the players."

  Stan tilted his beefy head, thinking. "Know who you should talk to? Walt Rosenbaum—left here three years ago to work on the San Jose force? He's got Lyme pretty bad, last I heard from him."

  Jud remembered Walt. Muscular young guy, always working out. Talkative. And never afraid to say exactly what was on his mind. Jud couldn't imagine him brought down by illness. "You have his number?"

  "Think so." Stan pulled his cell phone from his pocket and hit some buttons. Jud wondered how the man's large fingers could even work the keys. "Yeah, here's his home." Stan rattled off the digits.

  Jud jotted them down. "Thanks."

  Stan lumbered off and Jud turned again to his burglary notes. But Walt Rosenbaum's number called to him. On impulse he picked up his phone and dialed.

  Surprisingly Walt answered.

  "Hi, this is Jud Maxwell from Palo Alto PD. Long time no see. How ya been?"

  "Jud, what a surprise. Yeah, I could be better, but maybe you heard. I was diagnosed with Lyme disease six months ago. It's gotten so bad I can't even work. I'm home on disability."

  Jud listened as Walt gave a rundown of his symptoms. He didn't stutter like Janessa McNeil, but other things were an eerie echo of Janessa's claims: terrible fatigue, lost strength in his legs. If Walt left the house he went in a wheelchair. His heart fluttered, every joint hurt, and half the time he couldn't think.

  Sounded a lot like Mrs. McNeil.

  "But enough of my problems. What's up with you, Jud?"

  "Actually, I need to talk to you about a case I'm working that involves Lyme." Briefly he told Walt the details, leaving out the names.

  "Wow, that is crazy. This doctor—you wouldn't be talking about Brock McNeil, by any chance?"

  "How'd you guess?"

  "Really? McNeil?" Walt snorted. "Man. You got any leads?"

  "That's why I called. Thought maybe you could give me some general direction. McNeil said the perp had to be someone in the Lyme community—and certainly that's what the phone calls seem to indicate."

  "He oughtta know. Fact is, everybody in the Lyme community hates Brock McNeil. Of all the know-it-all docs who insist there's no such thing as chronic Lyme, he's at the top. It's doctors like McNeil who've put me on this couch instead of working. First it took me two years to get diagnosed because the tests work so badly."

  Janessa McNeil's words rose in Jud's mind: "I need to be retested. The results might be wrong."

  "Then when I finally was diagnosed, I was already chronic. But McNeil and his cronies say three to four weeks of antibiotics will fix it. Which it won't. Still, my insurance listens to them, so then it dried up. Then I lost my job." Bitterness tinged Walt's voice. "My wife's working, but it's pretty hard on just her salary and the disability. Plus we got a first-grader."

  Jud's heart went out to the man. "I'm really sorry to hear all this, Walt. Can't be easy."

  "No. But I'll make it."

  Jud gazed at his burglary note
s. The case he should be working on right now. "So, Walt, you're saying it's not just a few Lyme patients—those more involved in advocacy, for example—who would know McNeil's name?"

  "No, no. Anybody who has Lyme knows that name. 'Cause once you have this disease you quickly find out you have to fight for yourself. So you hop online to learn who else out there has Lyme and can tell you the ropes. Things like where to find a doctor and what treatments work, diet, basically the new way you have to live. Doesn't take long before you're knee deep in the Lyme wars yourself. You quickly see who's who."

  Jud leaned back in his chair, and it squeaked. Stupid thing. He needed to oil it. "Have you heard anyone make any kind of threats against McNeil?"

  "Not out loud. But I'll bet you there's not a Lyme patient out there who hasn't thought what Brock McNeil needs is a taste of his own disease."

  The words seemed to echo over the line. "Really."

  "No kidding. 'Course, actually doing something like this is pretty insane. And going after his wife—that's cold."

  "If you were investigating this case, where would you start?"

  Walt made a tsking sound. "With no solid leads, hard to say. Could be anybody in the country who's got a beef against McNeil."

  "Not necessarily someone in this area?"

  "Lyme patients are everywhere. Lots of 'em are back east. But thing is, if your perp is an active Lyme sufferer, the guy's not likely to be pulling off something like this. He'd have to have a real mild case, so you'd wonder why he's so mad. So maybe it's someone who watched a family member . . ."

  Walt fell silent. Jud waited him out.

  "You know what?" Walt took a breath and let it out. "Now that I think about going after the woman instead of the doc himself—maybe it's like an eye for an eye, you know? In this case a wife for a wife."

  "Someone whose wife has Lyme."

  "Yeah. Doesn't that make sense? If you're a criminal mind."

  Yes. Jud supposed it did. "Any thoughts on who?"

  "Not a one. Lotta women with Lyme out there. Lotta ticked-off husbands—pardon the pun. And it's just a theory to begin with. Maybe I'm wrong. But I'll keep my ears open in the online forums and such."