Online forums. Jud should look into those himself. If he found the time. Lack of sleep was beginning to catch up with him.
From down the hall he heard a familiar voice. The chief was headed his direction. Jud leaned toward his desk. "Thanks a lot, Walt. I have to go, but keep in touch if you run across anything."
"No problem, man. It'll give me something to do."
Jud hung up the phone just as the chief stuck his head in the door.
"Maxwell. Anything new on the burglaries?"
Chapter 22
I FROZE, GAPING AT THE EMPTY VIAL TURNED UPSIDE DOWN on Lauren's finger. My throat convulsed in a swallow. "Get off the floor."
"Huh?"
"Get off the floor right now!"
Lauren stood up. "What's wrong with you?"
"Where's the top?" I threw frenetic glances around the floor.
"There is no top."
"Here. Somewhere." I shifted one hundred eighty degrees. Peered around chair legs, toward the cabinets, the stove.
"Where'd this thing come from, anyway?" Lauren slid the bottle off her finger and onto the table. It sat there mocking me. So empty.
I couldn't see the top. It must have popped off when the vial fell to the floor. How far had it bounced? The tick had a hard back. If it had bounced too, maybe it landed close to the top.
No need to panic. We'd find it.
"Lauren." I worked to keep my voice even. "I was looking at that b-bottle before I fell. It had a . . . bug in it."
"A bug?"
"I dropped it. Now the bug's gone, and we . . . need to find it. I don't want it l-loose in the kitchen. Can you p-please look?"
She made a face. "Is it a spider?"
"No."
"I hate bugs."
"I know." I licked my lips. "It has some red on its back."
"Where'd it come from? Why'd you have a bug?"
My voice rose. "Just look, okay?" I took a breath, calming myself. "Please."
Lauren gave me an apprehensive glance, then bent over, scanning the floor. She peered around the table and chairs, then worked her way up to the stove area. "Here's the top." She picked it up. "See?"
"Okay, good. Maybe the bug's nearby."
Lauren continued her search. I watched from the floor, besieged by visions of Stalking Man. How close he'd gotten to Lauren to place that bottle in her backpack! He was sending me a message: I can get to your daughter. You can't protect her. I wanted to jump up, grab Lauren, and whisk her away. To somewhere, anywhere.
But I couldn't even rise from the floor.
What if it was on her already? She'd been crawling around. What if it was on me?
I held out my arms, checked them all over. Looked at my feet. I pulled my pajama bottoms up each leg as far as possible, ran my hands over my skin. I felt in my hair, my neck, down my chest and around toward my back. No tick.
Lauren had reached the refrigerator. Next she headed for the stove, head down and hair swinging. Looking. Finally she straightened with a frightened sigh. Put a hand on her hip. "I can't find it."
"It has to be here somewhere."
"I looked everywhere, Mom."
"Look again!"
"It's not here."
"Lauren! Look again."
"But—" She tipped back her head and gazed at the ceiling. Her mouth began to tremble, and a tear slipped from her eye. "I don't know what's going on."
I stared at her. So many frustrations and questions in her words. She didn't understand my illness. Why her dad had left on a sudden "trip." He usually gave her plenty of warning before he left town. Why her mother was so paranoid and on edge with her. Most of all, why I, who didn't like bugs any more than she did, had brought one into the house.
My hips hurt from sitting on the floor for so long. And the back of my neck creaked and swayed, as if it couldn't support my head much longer. "I'm sorry. I don't mean . . . to yell."
Where was the tick? Was it on my daughter?
I searched the length of floor between me and the sink. The over-bright light hurt my eyes, but I couldn't put on sunglasses now. No sign of the creature. With much effort I scooted over until I could reach up and wrap my fingers around the sink's lip. Could I lift myself up as I had days ago? Last time I'd possessed more strength in my arms. I breathed a prayer, positioned my legs under me—and pulled.
Pain grabbed my fingers, hands, and arms. I nearly let go. Gritting my teeth, I willed myself to pull until I stood, shaking, hanging over the sink. For a moment all I could do was gasp. "Please bring me my . . ." The word wouldn't come. I gestured toward the thing I needed.
Lauren brought it. Cane.
"Thanks."
I had to search the floor, her body. The tick was here, somewhere.
Turning to Lauren, I did my best to smile. I ran my fingers over her face, wiping away the wetness. "It'll be okay."
She nodded, but another tear slipped down her cheek.
"Come on." I nudged her to my chest and hugged her with one hand. She melted into me, sniffing. I leaned against the counter for support. When Lauren drew back, her expression was resolute. I wiped her face again. "Let's go around and look together, okay?"
We made a slow trek around the kitchen, gazes glued to the floor. With each step—and no sight of the tick—my body tingled more. That horrible thing was loose in my house. I wouldn't have been more frightened if it was a poisonous snake. At least snakes were bigger, easier to spot. This insidious, disease-carrying tick—surely Stalking Man had made sure it was infected—could hide in so many places. Then crawl on Lauren without her feeling a thing.
"L-look under the bottoms of the cabinets." All around the kitchen a section of wood came down, the cabinets set back from it a number of inches. The tick could crawl up on the other side of that facing.
"I did that."
"No, you didn't."
"But—"
"Lauren. Do it."
Reluctantly she squatted, her palms on the floor. I cringed. Lowering her face close to the hardwood, she bent her head to check under the edges of the wood. A foot at a time, she moved forward, checking the long row.
She stood up, arching her back. "I can't see under there all that well."
Was it under the facing? Or somewhere else? The cabinets on the other side of the kitchen were too far away. Still . . . I gazed at them, feeling nausea. "Go do the same thing over there." I pointed to the far cabinets.
"But I can't see."
"Try."
Slump-shouldered, Lauren sighed her way to the area and crouched down once more. Muscles tense, I watched the floor in front of her, making sure it was clear as she inched forward.
At the end of the cabinets, she stood. "Okay, that's it."
My body listed to one side. God, please help me. "Come sit down." I clumped to the table and collapsed in my chair. Lauren fell into hers and regarded me, her mouth bent.
I laid my cane on the table and turned to her. From the recesses of my mind rose Brock's threat: "Don't you bring my daughter into your little scheme, Jannie. If you do, I'll take her away from you."
I placed a hand under Lauren's chin. "Let's make sure the bug's not on you."
Her face scrunched up. She jerked back. "You think it is?" Her breath came out in little puffs. "Get it off me!"
"Stand up first and let me look you over."
"Oh!" She pumped her hands in the air. "Where is it, will it bite?"
"Lauren, stand up."
"But will it bite?"
"I don't know."
Lauren stood up, her head low, running frantic hands down the front of her body. "What kind of bug is it?"
"Not sure. Put your arms out straight."
She shot them out, trembling. I s
canned her clothes from the top down to her feet. "Turn around."
She whirled and stopped, little noises escaping from her lips. "Do you see it?"
"No."
"Ohhh."
My heart banged around in my ribs. I would spot it easily if it was there, right? Surely I would. It was big enough. "Lauren, it's okay. It may not . . . be on you at all. I'm just making sure."
"But what if it bites me?"
My hand reached out and lifted up her shirt. I placed my palm on her back. "Come closer." She jumped backward. I slid my hand all the way up to her neck, feeling the bony shoulder blades, the bump of her spine. "Turn around again." Leaning forward, I used both hands, feeling her sides, up to her chest, her neck.
What if I did find it? Could it have dug into her skin already? I'd have to twist it out of her. Lauren would freak.
But I could not find it on her upper body anywhere.
Lauren's eyes glistened. "What if it's there and you just didn't see it?"
"Sit down. Let's look at your legs."
She threw herself into her chair and yanked up a pant leg.
"Feel upward as far as you can, sweetie."
She groped around her calf, a sick look on her face, then checked the other leg. Fresh tears spilled. "Maybe it's up higher."
Lauren jerked to her feet and yanked down the zipper of her jeans. She tore the pants down, then kicked them off. "Do you see it?" She faced me, then spun around, showing me the back of her legs. I saw nothing but her little-girl skin, the blue flowers on her white panties.
"No." Another possibility hit. A long shot, but I had to check. "Let me check your hair."
She shuddered. "Not in my haaair!" Her hands flew to her head, fingers scrambling across her scalp. "I don't want it in my hair!"
"Lauren, stop. Let me."
She bent her head far over, close to my chest. I swept my hands through her thick strands of hair, then onto her head. Felt the front, the back, behind her ears, down to her neck. Her dark tresses could so easily hide the tick. But it wasn't there. Still, what if . . . ? I drew her closer and picked through her hair as if searching for lice.
Lauren's hands gripped my knees. She leaned against me, the weight making me hiss in pain.
She let out a wail. "Did you find it?"
"N-no."
A sob escaped her. "Mom, I'm scared!"
"I know, just . . ."
My fingers picked and searched, picked and searched.
"I want to call Daddy!"
"No! We can't."
"Why?"
"He's . . . in meetings. We can't bother him now."
"He'll get out of the meeting for me."
"No, Lauren."
No tick. It wasn't on her. Anywhere. I was ninety-eight percent sure.
But that other two percent . . .
"Stand up," I told her. "It's not on you."
She straightened, her eyes dark and eyebrows furrowed. "Then where is it?"
"I don't know."
"You sure you saw one at all?"
My heart twinged. Was my daughter starting to doubt me now? "I'm sure."
"Where did it come from?"
I gazed into her clouded face, my chest heavy and thick. What in the world was I supposed to tell her? A man was stalking us, and my own husband didn't believe me. And the police were too busy to care.
"Mom!" Lauren shivered.
"It was in your backpack."
"My backpack?"
I nodded. "I found it in your front zipper compartment. Someone must have put it there as a trick."
"But who would do that?" Her cheeks reddened. She looked away, her lips pressing and one hand finding her hip. Then she swung back to me. "I bet it's that stupid Paul Paxley. He teases me all the time, and I can't stand him anyway!" Her eyes glistened with righteous indignation, and her lips pulled. "I'm gonna tell the teacher on him tomorrow."
"Lauren, no. You don't know who did it. And we . . . found the bottle, and so that's the end of it."
"It's not the end. We don't know where the bug is!"
My chin dropped. The last spate of energy in my body melted right out of me. If I didn't make it to the couch—now—I'd fall right out of the chair.
Suddenly I couldn't pull in enough air. My body tipped, my head swam. "Oh." My mouth dropped, and I sucked in huge, grating breaths as if I'd just shot to the surface of water after nearly drowning.
"Mom?"
Still not enough oxygen. Black shapes swirled through my eyesight. Any second, I'd go down. I grabbed the edge of the table and leaned over the wood. Turned my head to one side and laid it down. My legs shook, and my arms, my fingers. Yawning dread swept through me. I couldn't breathe. I could not breathe.
"Mom!" Lauren shook my shoulder. "Mommeeee!"
I tried to answer, to calm her, but couldn't. More air, more. I dragged it in, my lungs wheezing like rusted bellows, the rasp gritty in my throat. My chest rose and fell, pushing my torso up from the table. My sight faded more . . .
The blackening stopped.
I felt a change in my body, as if a blocked airway had expanded. The sense of suffocation subsided, my breaths not quite as frenzied. The screams in my brain died down. Still I lay bent over the table, pulling in air until my lungs could hold no more, pushing it out, pulling it in again.
"Mom?" Fear coated Lauren's voice.
My breathing steadied. My vision cleared.
"I'm . . . okay. Just . . . felt dizzy."
I gave myself another moment, then cautiously raised my torso from the table. My fingers slipped off the edge of the wood. I hung there, assessing my heartbeat, my balance. It had passed. That horrible death-grip feeling of being buried alive was gone.
My throat convulsed. "I need to lie down."
In a blur I felt for my cane, pushed to my unsteady feet. I shuffled into the den and fell upon the couch, spent and wracked with pain. "L-Lauren," I croaked. "You have to get . . ."
My throat closed up. I tried to push out the words, but they wouldn't come. Fatigue rolled its boulder-like body onto my chest, crushing my lungs, my mouth. My mind shrieked for me to do something, save your daughter! but I couldn't even keep my eyes open. They blinked and fluttered . . . and then glued shut.
My last waking thought was of the tiny time bomb crawling loose in the kitchen.
Chapter 23
FEELING HIT ME FIRST. THE THROB OF MY BODY, THE WEIGHT of my chest with every breath. Then sound—or lack of it. I floated up, up, in a dark, dank cave . . .
My eyes opened. I lay on my back, staring through a haze at the den ceiling, a block of dread in my chest. The light was so bright. Didn't I have sunglasses? "L-Lauren?"
"What?" The response, heavy with accusation, came from the kitchen.
"You okay?"
"Fine." Still sullen.
"Your homework done?"
"Almost."
My gaze wandered to the clock on the wall. Just after 5:00. I'd been asleep . . . what? An hour?
The tick. The memory washed over me in a frigid shiver.
"Lauren, get out of the kitchen!"
"What?"
"G-get out. Now!"
Her chair scraped. She appeared in the doorway, frowning. "If you're still worried about the bug, it's not there. Believe me, I looked everywhere. Like three times." She folded her arms, brimming with indignation. I'd scared her for no reason. Scared her with one of the things I knew she hated most.
"I'm s-sorry. I just . . ." I turned my gaze away from her, floundering and sick at heart. The tick was there. It was still there.
She sniffed, then walked to the armchair and plopped into it. Her voice softened. "You feeling any better?"
Jud Maxwell
's words whispered from the recesses of my mind: "If something new comes up, something you can give me, please call." He should know. About the tick. About how close Stalking Man had gotten to my daughter.
The phone sat in its cradle on the table behind my head. In slow twist I turned on my side and fumbled for the receiver. My body felt like it was pushing through water.
Wait. What was Jud's number?
I rolled to my back. Lauren watched me, lingering anger blending into sympathy. My eyes blinked at the phone, as if it would tell me what to do. I laid it in my lap. "Lauren, I need you to g-get something for me."
"What?"
"A business card. On Daddy's desk. Name on it is Jud Maxwell."
She heaved a sigh and rose. I listened to her footsteps as she went through the hall, to the office and back. She stood behind the couch and thrust the card toward me. "Here."
"Thanks." I took the card and touched her hand. "You still scared?"
She shrugged. "The whole time I did my homework, I kept my feet off the floor."
I nodded, sick at heart.
Lauren rubbed her arms. "Is Jud Maxwell that detective who was here?"
The card felt hot in my fingers. "Yes."
"Why do you want to call him?"
When I was a small child I'd hated my mother's lack of explanations. Actions and words that made no sense would flow around me, and I could never glean the answer to why. Why was my daddy in bed? Why did he look sick? Why wasn't he home? Why was my mom's face bruised? I felt locked out from the truth, never sure what to expect. But sure that when it came I would never know why. In time I learned. My father started hitting me. And the effects of his drinking spilled from the bedroom through the entire house. The secrets then rested upon my shoulders as well as my mother's. I had to hide our shame from the rest of the world.
I'd vowed nothing like that would ever happen in my own home, with my own children. No hiding, no lies. No dodging questions when Lauren knew something was amiss. Nothing was more important than my daughter's ability to trust me.
I licked my lips. "To tell him about the bug in your backpack."
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