She shot me a relieved smile. "That's okay." She leapt to her feet. "Just rest while we finish setting up."
I closed my eyes and slumped back against the sofa. What had I done? What thing inside me drove me to go through with this? How I would even manage to speak when the camera came on—I didn't know.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
My mind still reeled, but my soul clung to the verse. It was all I had.
Through closed lids I sensed the room brightening. I opened my eyes to see lights turned on, aimed at me. Harsh lights. I winced and turned away.
"Are those too bright?" Rhonda asked.
I knew they needed the illumination. All the better to display my ravaged body to viewers. "I'll keep my eyes closed." Viewers wouldn't be able to see behind my sunglasses anyway.
My neck struggled to hold my head up. Rhonda arranged a throw pillow behind me for support. And before I knew it the cameras started rolling.
Rhonda was good. Pressed for time and knowing I had little strength, she didn't probe me to retell the entire story I'd given her over the phone. No doubt she'd fill in the background parts herself for the segment. I could visualize her now, setting up the scene. Explaining to viewers who my husband was, why I'd become the target of a madman. She now asked me pointed questions about my symptoms, about Stalking Man's threats. In strained speech, using strength I didn't know I possessed, I told her of falling in the kitchen. Stalking Man's chilling words in that first phone call: "Welcome to the Lyme wars, Janessa."
"Briefly tell me about the Lyme wars," Rhonda said. "What does that mean?"
Briefly? The situation was so convoluted. My brain scrambled to process a reply. "Some doctors like my husband believe that two to four weeks of . . . antibiotics cures Lyme. Even if you've had it for y-years. But many Lyme patients are still sick after that. They want longer treatment so they can. Get better. Because of doctors like my husband they have a hard time . . . getting it. Treatment. Other doctors who do treat them longer can g-get in trouble for it."
"And what do you believe, Mrs. McNeil?"
My lips parted. Never since the day I met Brock had I dreamed of speaking against him publicly. He'd awakened me to self-confidence; I supported him in return. But now . . . All those suffering Lyme patients who weren't believed, as Brock refused to believe me. How could I turn my back on them? I'd become one of them.
"Look up stories of Lyme patients online. They're horrible. You'll s-see how sick they are—for years. And doctors don't listen. Bad enough to be this s-sick"—I gestured toward myself—"but to go undiagnosed. Hear some doctors even say it's all in y-your head . . ."
"So your husband is wrong."
"The m-medical world needs to take a new look at Lyme. Many doctors are given w-wrong information about the disease. They're told Lyme isn't in their state. Or they're t-told to rely on . . . tests that have never been reliable. Doctors need to throw off their b-biases. Look at research with fresh eyes."
Rhonda nodded. "Sounds like this man who infected you has made his point. This is the kind of publicity he wanted. Does it bother you to play right into his hands by giving this interview?"
My head pulled back. I hadn't thought of it like that. But her question gave me the chance I was looking for. "I want to h-help Lyme patients. They are sufferers. But this man." My voice turned bitter. "He thinks he's some s-savior for all Lyme patients. He doesn't deserve to be a part of the L-Lyme advocate community. He's not a helper. He's a . . . terrorist. His cause may be right, but the w-way he's doing it is so wrong. What good person would purposely g-give someone this disease? And now he's threatening to infect my daughter!"
Tears scratched my eyes, and one fell to catch on the inner edge of my sunglasses. I thrust a finger under their frame to wipe the tear away.
"Why do you think the police can't catch this man?"
"They will. Maybe with the . . . public's help. Maybe someone out there knows s-something."
Rhonda made an empathetic sound in her throat. "And what keeps you going, Mrs. McNeil? This is obviously very traumatic for you."
"Determination to protect others, including my daughter. Most of all, God."
"Your faith?"
"Yes. The Psalms help. They t-teach me to trust. And to praise God. Even now."
"It must be hard to be thankful when things are going so badly."
I tried to smile but failed. "I don't f-feel like it. But . . . I've praised him lots of t-times when I knew other people were suffering. Is God any less God just b-because I'm the one who's now in trouble?"
My words ran out—and all energy with them. Just like that. My shoulders slumped. I shook my head. "I can't . . . I'm done."
"One more question?"
"N-no. Can't."
"Okay." Rhonda nodded at Bill. The cameras stopped rolling. He turned off the lights.
I lay prone on the couch while the two of them hurriedly packed up their equipment. Rhonda bent over me before they rushed out the door. "You'll be okay here?"
A rhetorical question. Not like she would stay and help. I nodded.
Rhonda turned to go. I brushed her hand. She swiveled back.
"Y-you want more exclusive . . . stuff from me?"
"Absolutely."
"Of everything I said, don't cut what I said about the man being a terrorist. Run all of that part. If you don't, I w-won't talk to you again."
She surveyed me, the gears of her reporter mind spinning. "And if I do?"
"C-call me anytime."
She dipped her head, checked her watch—and was gone.
The clock read 2:30. Lauren would soon be out of school. I twisted around to pick up the phone and dialed Maria's cell.
"Jannie! How are you?"
"Can you g-go five minutes early to school? Be there before the kids come out."
"Sure. Why—?"
"Watch Lauren as she comes out of the building. Every s-second. Brock's picking her up. Make sure no other man gets c-close to her."
"Jannie, what's this about?"
My chest would barely rise to breathe. "I'm . . . tired. Can't talk now. Watch ABC news at 6:00."
Silence. "What? You're scaring me."
"I have to go now." Somehow I managed to click off the line.
There. I'd done all I could do. My body would take no more.
The phone dropped to the hardwood floor with a clatter. I fell off a cliff into sleep.
Chapter 40
THRE THIRTY.
Lauren sat outside his office at an empty desk. She'd been picked up from school and would now stay here, doing her homework, until the work day was done. She wasn't happy about it. Her face carried a scowl, her lips drawn in a hard line. "Dad, I want to go to home!" she'd declared more than once. "I want to see Mom!"
This was no place for a nine-year-old to spend the afternoon. Home is where she should be. If it hadn't fallen apart. Where would she go tomorrow after school? And the day after that?
Fine, so this was a temporary solution. For today at least it suited his needs.
He stopped by Lauren's desk and leaned down to see what she was working on. Math. One of his favorite subjects. "Need any help?"
She twisted up to glower at him. Dark half circles discolored the skin below her eyes. She clearly hadn't slept much last night. Too much trauma. "No."
"Want a drink?"
"No."
"You sure?"
She pursed her mouth. "Like what?"
"I can get you a Coke."
She tapped her pencil against the textbook. "Okay."
The things it took to placate a kid.
The nearest vending machine was on the first floor. He strode through the central area past Sarah's desk and do
wn a flight of steps, thinking of Elyse. So many years it had been since they were married. Since he'd lost her. They'd wanted kids. She never had time.
His nerves popped and jarred, his whole body on edge. It wasn't merely the lack of his secret meds. Pretending to be someone you're not comes with a price.
He reached the vending machine and drew quarters out of his pocket—the same one that contained the vial. Ch-ch-chink went the money as he dropped it through the slot. He pressed the button for Coke—and down rolled a can. How predictable and right.
On the empty staircase he stopped to set down the can of soda. From his pocket he pulled the vial. Held it up to watch the tiny creature crawl along the bottom. For the last few hours he'd hidden the small bottle in a drawer, its top off, to allow the tick some air. Oxygen—and now food.
He dumped the tiny nymph onto his palm. Closed his fingers around it. The vial went back into his pocket.
Two at a time he took the remaining stairs. He passed Sarah's desk, shooting her a quick smile. Approached Lauren from behind and set the Coke down beside her. "Here you go."
She looked up and gave him a tight smile. "Thanks."
He held his hand just above her head and uncurled his fingers. Patted her dark, thick hair. "See there. I'm not all bad."
Chapter 41
A RINGING PHONE SOUNDED ON A DISTANT PLANE. THEN CLOSER.
I started awake, my half-open eyes bleary and my limbs sucked into the couch. I still wore my sunglasses. The ring came again, from somewhere on the floor. With great effort I leaned over the edge of the cushions and searched the hardwood. My aching hand picked up the receiver.
"Hello." My voice was little more than a grunt.
"Jannie? It's Dr. Johannis."
"Oh." Test results! "Hi."
"You don't sound good. You doing all right?"
"I was s-sleeping."
"Ah, sorry to disturb you. I have the test results from the lab."
Here it came. What if she said it wasn't Lyme? "Okay." My heart fluttered.
"Well, you certainly are positive for Lyme. Highly positive, in fact. Your IgM—that's current infection—shows multiple plus signs in numerous bands. Even so, as we discussed, according to CDC standard bands, you would indeed show negative."
My brain scrambled to keep up with her words. Positive. I did have Lyme. I had a diagnosis! But only because of these special Lyme tests. The recognized standard testing would have let me fall through the cracks. Again. As sick as I was.
"Your IgG, that is infection over six months, is negative," Dr. Johannis continued. "That means you were infected within the last six months."
I rubbed my forehead. "Uh-huh." How I wanted to say more. I wanted to get up and dance. Just knowing my enemy for certain sent hope surging through my veins.
"You also have three coinfections." Dr. Johannis's tone remained even, but I knew what she was thinking. Three of them. Just as Stalking Man had said.
This was evidence, right? For Jud.
"The coinfections are Erlichiosis, Babesiosis, and Bartonella. The combination of these with Lyme could be a factor in your getting so sick so fast. In particular Bartonella tends to add to the encephalitis—your inability to process thought and overall mental confusion. It can also help cause that pain on the bottom of your feet."
My throat convulsed in a swallow. This was good news, right? Proof of my claims about Stalking Man. But the longer Dr. Johannis talked, the more I realized my troubles had only just begun. Because now I knew for sure I had to battle the awful disease of Lyme. And three other illnesses.
"Does this happen to most people? The coinfections?"
"Often, yes. Maybe not all three. That's a whopping load, mixed with Lyme. But the presence of any coinfection worsens the symptoms."
So I wasn't alone. Right now that didn't seem to help. "How long till I get well?"
Dr. Johannis drew in a breath. "It's hard to say. We'll have to see how you react to the medications. And I can't give them to you all at once. I'll design a treatment plan for you, and you'll need to follow it carefully. But all in all, we're probably talking six months. Quite possibly longer."
Six months. My heart curled in on itself. That long—without Lauren?
"But that's all together, r-right? I mean, I'll get . . . better during that time." Well enough to take care of my daughter. If Brock followed through on his threat and sued for custody, I would have to prove I was well enough to care for her.
"Jannie." The doctor's voice softened. "I know you want to get well quickly. I'll do all I can to help. But you have to understand this will take time."
I didn't have time. Panic clutched at my chest.
If Stalking Man could only be caught soon. Then I wouldn't have to worry about Lauren's safety. And Brock would look terrible to a judge for not believing me about the danger to me and Lauren. For walking out on me when I was so sick. As for my health, I could hire someone to come in and cook until I felt better. That person could drive Lauren to school. That would work. Judges don't take children away from their mothers just because they're sick.
"Jannie, you there?"
"Huh?"
"I was saying you have to be prepared to get worse before you get better. In your research about Lyme, you read about Herxheimer reactions?"
Maybe. Yes. No. "I think so."
"These herxes, as they're called, occur when the Lyme spirochetes are killed. As they die off they release toxins in the body—faster than the liver and kidneys can deal with them. These toxins cause symptoms to worsen. Herxes typically start two to three days after you begin an antibiotic. You're sick enough already that I imagine your herxes could put you to bed until they play out."
Bedridden? And living alone? "How l-long do they last?"
"Depends on the drugs and your reaction. Three to five days is usually the worst of it."
I closed my eyes. "So, you mean every time I start a different drug, that will happen?"
"That's the pattern. We've also seen a general pattern of herxing every four weeks. This appears to coincide with the life cycle of Borrelia. So all in all, I want you to understand you're entering a real fight here. I do think you can come out on the other side and be healthy again. Fortunately you're being diagnosed within six months of infection. Otherwise it would take a lot longer to treat you."
A distracted thought floated into my brain. How ironic. If Stalking Man hadn't been so driven to harass me, to try to change Brock's medical opinion now, I'd have gotten far worse. If it hadn't been for my attacker, I wouldn't even have a diagnosis.
But then, what good would I have been to his "savior" cause? With Brock's committee set to release their findings in the fall, Stalking Man needed me as his poster child now.
Well, he'd gotten his wish.
"This is . . . scary." My limbs trembled.
"I know. But I'll help you through it."
I pulled in a breath that shuddered down my lungs. "So now what?"
"Call my office in the morning and make an appointment. I'll tell my assistants to work you in as soon as possible. Then we'll discuss your treatment and get you started on the antibiotics."
After which I'd get worse. Oh, God help. How could I feel any worse than I did now?
"In the meantime watch your diet. This is very important. Stick with protein and avoid carbohydrates. Stay away from caffeine, alcohol, and sugar—both refined and natural, as from fruits. Borrelia thrive in an environment high in sugar."
"Okay."
"I will call Detective Maxwell next and tell him these findings. Also, Jannie, a reporter has called my office, asking about your case. I want you to know I did not leak any information to the press."
"I know. I did."
"You did?"
"I want to flush him o
ut. This m-man. Before he hurts . . . someone else. It's supposed to be on the six o'clock news tonight."
News. What time was it? My blurry eyes rose to the clock. Five forty.
Five forty! Lauren got out of school long ago.
"I see," Dr. Johannis said.
See what? What had we been talking about?
"I informed the reporter I can't talk about any of my patients. I'm sure she knew that already."
"Yes."
Dr. Johannis sighed. "Well. Guess I'd better get home and turn on the news. What channel?"
"ABC."
"Okay. Hope you catch the guy, Jannie."
Me too. "Thanks."
We disconnected.
With sluggish limbs I heaved myself off the couch to head for the bathroom. From there I went to the kitchen. At the refrigerator I pulled out more slices of cheese and lunch meat. Protein. As I retrieved a side plate from the cabinet I saw Brock's gun lying on top of the big plates. I left it there.
By the time I fell back upon the couch, exhausted and feet burning, it was nearly six. Where was Lauren? Was she all right? I reached for the receiver to call Brock's cell phone—and it rang. I jumped. The ID read a local number I didn't recognize.
My lungs chilled. Stalking Man?
Holding my breath, I picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Mom!"
Air seeped from my lungs. "Lauren. Where are you? How are you?"
"I'm finally back from Dad's work." Her voice held the peeved tone she reserved for relating a fight with some friend. "I had to sit there for hours and do my homework. He just brought me here, then he turned around and went back."
How thoughtless of Brock to make Lauren sit at his work, when he could have brought her here.
"I don't want to do that again tomorrow, Mom. I just want to come home."
"I'll bet. I want you here, too."
"Yeah, tell that to Dad."
"How's . . ." I could barely form the name. "Alicia?"
"She's pretty. And I don't like her."
"Does she t-treat you okay?"
"I guess."
Over the Edge Page 22