My body pulled itself to sit up. My hand reached for my cane. I struggled to stand, swaying. My feet shuffled me around the couch, through the hall, past the bottom of the stairs where Brock had just stood. Where Lauren had come down with her suitcase. I stumbled into Brock's office only to know I couldn't stand to be there either. Around I turned and toward the kitchen. How long it took to get there. Then—over to the cabinet where I kept my files for bills.
And my Bible.
My left hand grabbed the book, but it was too heavy to lift with one hand. I rested my cane against the counter, then leaned my body against it, freeing both hands to pull out the book. Heart thumping, I managed to push the Bible in the crook of my left arm and hold it against my body. I plucked up my cane and headed for the table. Dropped the Bible upon it. I pulled out a chair and fell into the seat. Laid my cane across on the table.
God, I need . . . You have to do something!
My fingers opened the Bible. I flipped pages until I landed in the Psalms. Yes, that's what I needed! Prayers like King David prayed when he fled from Saul for his life in the wilderness. When he cried out to God to help. I wanted words of anger, prayers hurled at God. I wanted bitter complaints and demands. I wanted God to know what He had done to me.
My blurry eyes fell on Psalm 69. I took off my sunglasses to see the words better.
"Save me, O God, for the waters have threatened my life. I have sunk in deep mire, and there is no foothold; I have come into deep waters, and a flood overflows me."
Yes, God, that's me!
"I am weary with my crying; my throat is parched. My eyes fail while I wait for my God. Those who hate me without a cause are more than the hairs of my head; Those who would destroy me are powerful."
A groan escaped me. My hand turned pages again, seeking. I landed on Psalm 77.
"My voice rises to God, and He will hear me. In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord; In the night my hand was stretched out without weariness."
More pages turned, almost as if my hands moved by themselves. My eyes skimmed words here, there, until they took in a verse in the middle of Psalm 94: "If I should say, "My foot has slipped," Your lovingkindness, O Lord, will hold me up."
Really? So where was His love now? I leaned back and raised my eyes to the ceiling. "God, are You there? I sure don't feel You. I feel all alone. Please help me. Do . . . something."
My right hand drifted from the Bible onto my lap. As suddenly as it had come, the fury-filled energy melted away. I leaned forward and lowered my head. Any minute I could fall out of the chair. I didn't hear God speak. I saw no lightning, and my body hurt just as badly. But a line of one psalm chanted in my head: "My voice rises to God, and He will hear me. My voice rises to God, and He will hear me. My voice rises . . ."
This was a choice. I could believe that verse—or not.
Well, why should I? Everything in my life had gone wrong. My future, everything I was lay in ruins.
"My voice rises to God, and He will hear me . . ."
My head came up. I pulled in a deep breath. Wiped a hand over my face.
"I choose to believe." I said it aloud. My face tipped toward the heavens. "Hear that?" Defiance tinged the words. "I choose to believe."
What else did I have?
Still no lightning. No warm healing through my body. Just a quiet thought that this was right. That God would help. Regardless of my nightmare, He was worthy to be trusted.
Okay, God. Okay. But you still better do something.
A moment passed. I pushed back from the table—and remembered the tick.
My feet jerked off the floor. I leaned over to inspect my slippered feet but saw nothing. Pulled up my pajama bottoms. Checked carefully. Everywhere. Pulled off my slippers and examined my feet.
No tick.
Brock's words pecked at me: "If there's an infected tick loose in this house, why in the world would you want to keep Lauren here?"
I put my slippers back on. Lowered both feet to the floor. Why should I care now where the tick was? So what if it bit me? I couldn't feel any worse.
Exhaustion rose, swirled me around like tide water on a beach. I staggered to my feet, picked up my cane, and clumped back to the sofa. The new center of my world. I fell upon it, sick, lonely, with no fight left in my body.
My voice rises to God, and He will hear me.
Maria sludged into my thoughts. I needed to tell her not to come in the morning to pick up Lauren. I reached for the phone and called her. Told her the news in a deadened tone that frightened her and me both.
"I can't believe this, Jannie. Are you okay? Should I come over and stay with you?"
"Maria, you have your own family."
"But who's going to help you?"
"I'll b-be okay."
"Poor Lauren. She's going to be so confused."
"I know. It's . . ." My words ran out. Sleep beckoned, a deep, dark well. "Maria, I need to . . . go now. I'm k-kind of . . . tired."
She sighed into my ear. "Okay, Jannie. I'm so sorry. I'll be praying for you. And I'll check on you tomorrow."
"Thanks."
I clicked off the line and fumbled the receiver into its holder. Then I closed my eyes, leaned out over the blackness, and tumbled into it headlong.
Chapter 30
I AWOKE TO DARKNESS.
Seconds passed as I fought to comprehend where I was. I lay on my back on the den sofa, blinking toward the kitchen. Pale light from a streetlamp filtered in through the front window, tainting the room in a sickly glow. The armchair—Brock's chair—hulked before me, empty and mocking. My cane lay across the coffee table, a reminder of who I'd become. I could make out the shape of the wall clock but couldn't read it.
The memories flooded back. My fight with Brock. The way he'd shaken me. His taking Lauren. That tick somewhere in the kitchen. Or was it in this room by now?
The stillness of the house stretched into a dark canvas that spread over me, stifling and filling me with dread. I needed to get up, go to the bathroom. But my joints pulsed with pain, and lead weights held me down.
I felt him then. Stalking Man.
Panic spritzed through me from head to toe. The hairs on my arms bristled. In my mind I leapt up and ran to flick the nearest light switch. The vision jarred me, a cruel reminder of the health I'd lost and what I'd become. An invalid and sitting duck for the man who, of all people in the world, had chosen me as his target.
Had he come back now to kill me?
Had I activated the alarm?
I fought to sit up. Leaning to my left, I reached for the lamp sitting on the side table and turned it on. Illumination popped into the room, startling my sensitive eyes. I turned away and looked into the kitchen through the pass-through window. I saw no one.
The clock read 11:35.
Chill, Jannie. There's no one here.
Maybe. Maybe not. Nothing in my world made sense anymore. Nothing was predictable.
Stalking Man had broken into my home to put ticks on me. The deed was done and the result just what he wanted: I was beyond sick. Why should he return now?
I needed to check the house.
Through will more than strength I struggled to my feet, the cane handle slick against my palm. My knees screamed as I gimped across the room to the wall switch to flick on the overhead light. I stepped into the kitchen and lit it up as well. An empty room. Barren. My Bible lay on the kitchen table. Beside it, my sunglasses. I couldn't remember putting the glasses there.
Was it just a couple weeks ago in here we'd begun Mother's Day with a breakfast Brock made for me? Lauren had given me a card, its envelope decorated in hand-drawn flowers.
Even then the Lyme spirochetes had been within me. Embedding into tissues throughout my body.
My hunched for
m now reflected in the sliding glass door. Beyond it the backyard loomed black and huge, a thousand unseen eyes watching me. I hit a switch by the door, and floodlight filled the yard. I pressed close to the glass, peering out. I could not see every foot of the area. There were trees and bushes, a gazebo and hot tub—all places Stalking Man could hide behind. I angled to survey the tree near the far side of the house. He could be behind it, for all I knew. And of course there was all that open space beyond our yard. Was he back there somewhere?
I stood for some time, blinking in the light. The floods were so very bright, they may as well have been the sun.
Nothing moved.
An ice pick pain hit me behind my eyes. I flicked the floods off.
I turned away and noticed the alarm pad light shining green. Not activated. I clumped over to turn it on. The light blinked into red.
Now what? Suppose I'd just trapped Stalking Man inside the house.
I checked the lock on the sliding glass door. Should have done that when I was standing there. It was secure.
Slowly I made my way around the bottom floor, peering at windows, the front door. All seemed tight.
He could be on the upper level.
My eyes rose to the staircase. I licked my lips, knowing I should check. Just to show myself he wasn't here, that I was being foolish. But I hadn't the energy to tackle those steps.
"Are you up there?"
My muscles jerked at the sound of my own trembling voice. Blood whooshed a thud-thud in my ears. For a moment I froze, expecting to hear something. A footfall. The whisper of clothing. Air swirled about me, cold and full of portent. My legs started to shake.
How stupid was this? Stalking Man wasn't here. No one was in this house but me. Not my husband. Not even my daughter. Just me and my runaway imagination. And my suddenly hopeless life.
The gun's up there!
The sudden memory hit me in the gut. I'd forgotten all about that gun. It had been up there all day in my closet—and I'd sent Lauren into my room—alone—to watch TV. The weapon was high on a shelf but still. My daughter and a loaded gun in the same room.
Air puffed from my lips. What had I been thinking? I never would have done such a thing before.
I had to get that gun. I needed it down here. With me.
Grunting, I forced my shaky legs to take one stair at a time. Halfway up I stopped to rest, leaning on the banister and my cane. When I finally reached the top I was sure my legs would no longer hold me. Somehow I made it to my bedroom closet and picked up the gun. Now to carry it back downstairs. What if I fell and dropped it? What if it went off?
I sank onto the bed and took out the bullets. Put them and the weapon in the pocket of my robe. Panting hard, I made my way back to the steps—and down. At the bottom I nearly collapsed.
I needed rest. But I also needed food.
In the kitchen, alone, at midnight, I pulled cheese and lunch meat from the refrigerator and sat down to eat. At the table I reloaded the gun.
The gaping back hole of my backyard pulled at my eyes once more. Why had I parked myself in front of the glass door? My nerves crawled with the thought that he was out there. Hadn't I turned the flood lights on a little while ago? Why had I turned them off? I was too tired to get up and turn them on again.
Through my chugging brain filtered the memory that I had an appointment in the morning at 8:30 with Dr. Carol Johannis. I'd have to call a cab. It would be oh, so tiring to get to her office and back, but I could hardly wait. I needed a listening ear.
Positive tests.
Vindication.
I ate the meat and cheese, my mind on half numb. Took a drink from my water glass, my fingers shaky and weak. It was difficult to even hold that much weight in my hand. Twice I nearly dropped the glass. As I set it down my gaze wandered past my reflection in the sliding door, the first few inches of the back deck barely visible.
That's when I saw the box.
Chapter 31
THE MIND CAN PLAY A CREATIVE LIST OF TRICKS EVEN WHEN it's well. Had it done that now, invaded as it was by sickness? I gaped at the box, trying to convince myself that my brain was conjuring it. But that thing had not been there when I stood peering out into the floodlit yard just twenty minutes ago.
Had it?
I struggled to my feet and leaned against the table, heart thumping. My arm hairs raised again as I felt my vulnerability, lit up in the room for Stalking Man to see. He was out there, wasn't he. Gloating at my startled reaction. Maybe he'd been following my movements through the house, through one back window to the next.
My bleary eyes focused on the box.
Jud Whatshisname. The detective. I should call him.
Right, Jannie, and wake the man up. And what would he find when he got over here—if he came at all? An empty box on the deck?
My feet took me to the door. The lock felt cold against my fingers, as if warning me not to open it. What if Stalking Man was right around the corner, waiting to jump me?
I flicked on the floodlights. The backyard shot into bright. I winced. Outside I saw the deck, its steps onto green grass, the bushes along the fence. The trees and gazebo and hot tub. All as before.
I unlocked the door and slid it back. Cool night air hit my face. With my cane I rocked the box. Something moved inside, sliding from one side to the other. Whatever it was it couldn't weigh more than a pound. More ticks?
It would have to be a very big bottle.
I leaned my cane against the wall and held onto the door jamb, slowly leaning down to reach the box. No way was I stepping outside to retrieve it. My hand brushed a top flap, not taped down. I grabbed it and pulled the box over the threshold.
Panting, I relocked the door. This time I left the floodlights on. Only then did I think to lower the beige fabric blinds compressed in a tight long rectangle along the top of the door. I couldn't remember the last time I'd used that shade.
I picked up the box and set it on the table. Held my breath and pushed back the flaps.
Inside lay a cheap-looking cell phone. I stared at it.
The thing rang.
"Ah!" I jerked back. A second ring. It went off a third time while I gaped at it. Should I pick it up?
Next thing I knew, I held the phone in my hand. My finger found the talk button.
"How are you feeling, Janessa?"
The voice—his voice—ran low and deep. This isn't what he sounds like in normal life, is it? If he had a normal life.
Emotions whirled within me. Anger, despair, indignation. The final one—abject fear—sank me into the nearest chair. "Are you in my backyard?"
"It's been too long since I visited your home."
Visited? "Why do you keep c-coming back? What do you want?"
"Your husband has left, I see. Gone to another woman." He made a sound low in his throat. "Of all things I hadn't foreseen that."
That made two of us.
I licked my lips. "You're following us." What was the man—invisible?
He chuckled, an evil sound. "I've seen the patrol cars drive by your place. And I can guess they've tapped your phone. After our talk you can throw out your new toy, by the way. And no point in tracing this call. It'll only lead to nobody."
I ran a hand across my forehead, no words forming. This man was beyond me. Too clever. Too vicious.
Silence strung out. Odd, my jumbled thoughts. I hated this man but didn't want to sever the tenuous line between us. He was my enemy, yet the only one who understood what was happening to my body. Not that he cared. But then, neither did my husband.
"You find my little gift in your daughter's backpack?"
The tick. My eyes roved the kitchen floor, as if it might appear at its mere mention.
"You s-stay away from my daughter!" I slumped forwar
d, panic stealing through my lungs. "You don't need Lauren. You have me."
"And what good are you doing me, Mrs. McNeil?" He spat the words. "Can you tell me one thing your husband is doing that shows he's willing to take a second look at his research findings? All I see is him moving away from you."
The names and faces of all the Lyme patients I'd read about online scrolled through my mind. Their struggles. How they fought to convince the medical world of their plight. This man didn't deserve to be counted among them. "You don't care about Lyme patients! You're just a terrorist."
The phone line seemed to chill. "Don't you tell me who I care about. Don't you dare tell me."
"Then why did you do this? Why would you wish it on anybody?"
"Not anybody. Just Doc Brock's wife."
"Why not him?" After all, wasn't Brock the real target? "Why me?"
I heard the slow hiss of expelled air. "I know what it's like to see a wife suffer."
My mouth opened, then closed. Something told me he hadn't planned on letting that clue about himself slip. A bit of humanity. A reason. "What happened?"
"What do you care?"
"I know what she's feeling."
"Felt."
"What?"
"She's dead." The words were thin and flat.
"From Lyme?"
No response, as if the stupid question wasn't worth an answer. My insides iced over. I thought of the listed names of victims on that web site, from small child to the elderly. I remembered the tirades against my husband, how again and again his research had blocked long term treatment. How would I feel about Dr. Brock McNeil if I'd lost a loved one to Lyme?
Empathy swelled in me, only to quickly scab over. This man fancied himself some White Knight for the Lyme awareness community? A self-righteous advocate who'd suffered so much he could do anything he pleased? Guess again. He didn't deserve to be any part of those people. He'd purposely made me sick. Now he was threatening Lauren. No one but a monster would wish the very disease that killed his wife on someone else, especially a child.
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