The file dropped from my hands onto the desk. I sank back against the chair, trying to take this in. Brock had proved himself wrong. Yet he was holding fast to his mantra of many years—one month of antibiotics was the maximum needed to eradicate Lyme.
Were his findings for the committee this year going to reflect the results in these notes? They would have to. But then—why was Brock still so insistent about his previous theory? Why would he fight Stalking Man's demand with such righteous indignation?
I stared at the papers until the words blurred. My brain chugged and whirred, but I couldn't make sense of it. My body chilled and goose bumps popped out on my arms, as if my heart sensed something my mind refused to see.
Brock, why have you been lying about this?
Shivering, I picked up the document and flipped through it. Brock's notes gave details as to his replication of the research's process. Underneath that document lay a second one—cryptic notes of further research done by Brock, dated July 2010.
Ah, here it came. Refuting results.
But no. This was a different study. Does presence of coinfection reduce results of antibiotic treatment of Borrelia?
Coinfection? My nerves began to tingle.
Three mice groups, first infected with Borrelia burgdorferi plus Erlichiosis; second with added Bartonella; third with added Babesia. Results: mice treated with antibiotics for Lyme one month . . .
Understanding punched me in the chest. Brock's third group of mice would have been infected by a tick carrying the exact diseases I had: Lyme and the same three coinfections.
What a coincidence.
I stared across the office, fighting to process. Just how much of a coincidence was this? Apparently many people had one or more coinfections along with Lyme. But how many had these exact three?
If I could only think better. If I could only make these bizarre puzzle pieces fit in a way that made sense. Clearly I was overlooking something. Because the suspicion that wanted to emerge couldn't be right.
The tingling in my nerves grew stronger. In time my entire body vibrated with it.
My breath shallowed, and I felt dizzy. I yearned to lie down, but no way. I had to stay in the chair and think this through. This was too important. Too . . . earth-shattering.
I rubbed a hand over my face.
Okay. Point one: Brock had known for the past few years that his theory was wrong. What would he have done when he discovered that?
The right thing would be to publish his findings. He'd set out to prove a trial was flawed in some way, only to replicate its results. That was big news, especially for the chairperson of such a powerful committee. But Brock had said nothing. He'd hidden his findings in a drawer—at home, away from his lab.
Had no one at his lab known of this research? Maybe he'd done it on his own.
Unless Alicia knew. If she'd seen those results, she'd never tell anyone. Her loyalty to Dr. Brock McNeil would have only drawn the two of them closer.
Had that been the start of their relationship?
My heart tumbled and dipped. I swallowed hard.
Point two: Brock was a man who would never admit he was wrong. And as a doctor he'd built his reputation on his opinion about Lyme. Brock had been so outspoken and highly regarded in the field that he'd been chosen as chairperson of his committee.
So what would this man do when confronted with such a startling new reality about Lyme? My eyes burned. I closed them . . . and tried to concentrate.
Maybe he would find a way to fade from the limelight for awhile. A way to step down from the committee without questions.
But how to do that?
The idea hit me like a tidal wave.
What if he was forced by a madman from the Lyme advocate community to change his opinion for the safety of his wife and child? Then, what if the dedicated Dr. McNeil, even in the face of such horrific threats, refused to go against his conscience? Instead, he would step down as chairperson, allowing the committee to continue in its work without hindrance from his personal problems.
No. Impossible.
And yet . . .
Speaking of personal problems, what if, at the same time, Brock wanted to leave his wife for his lab assistant—the one person who knew the truth? And, of course, he wanted custody of his daughter . . .
A groan rose up my throat.
I shook my head. No. Still impossible. Brock would never do such a thing. He'd never purposely make me sick.
But he had ticks in his lab with the exact same diseases.
Still, I couldn't believe it. Even with all Brock had done—his growing so distant, then leaving me, his anger and refusal to believe my story, the way he'd shaken me—I just couldn't. Wasn't my brain plugged up? I wasn't thinking clearly. Surely I'd overlooked something.
Yes! Like Stalking Man's voice. That wasn't Brock.
But that voice had been altered. I knew that. It was always low and gruff.
Could Brock disguise his voice that much?
What about the wife who'd died from Lyme? Stalking Man had sounded so sincere, so angry when he talked about that. Had it just been a cover-up excuse? An act? Brock certainly had never been married before.
Or had he?
The thought turned my blood to water.
Had he?
Was there a past to Brock I'd never known?
I thought of when we'd met, how much older Brock was than I. He made no mention of a previous marriage. At the time I'd thought Wow, such a handsome man—a bachelor for this long?
Was Brock really that duplicitous? Could he be two people—the man I knew and the man he really was?
I shook my head. That was crazy. The stuff of crime movies. It wasn't Brock. Couldn't be. Besides, Stalking Man had talked about going after the families of other committee members. If it was Brock, why would he go that far?
To cover his tracks.
No. No.
The phone rang. My whole body jumped. I stared at the receiver, my soggy mind about to burst. Not now. I couldn't talk to anyone.
It hit me then. Brock had never been with me when Stalking Man called. And he'd been supposedly "out of town" the night the man broke in and placed that tick on me. Then Brock had played along, even calling Jud Maxwell. But he soon tried to stop the investigation.
A second ring. A third.
I could barely breathe. On automatic I picked up the receiver and stared dull-eyed at the ID.
Brock's cell phone.
Don't answer it. Don't!
Flailing hope within me had to hear his voice. Had to hear something to remind me none of this could be true.
I pushed the button to connect. "Hello." My voice croaked.
"Well, what an evening I've had." Brock's words spat. "First your favorite detective has been calling me all day. Then I watched your interview that Alicia taped for me. That was quite a performance, Jannie."
I floundered for a response. "I didn't ask to get sick."
"And I didn't ask you to go tearing down my name on TV!"
"I didn't t-tear down your name."
"You most certainly did. You made it very clear where you stand on the subject of treating Lyme."
Which you know to be right. Our breaths collided over the line.
I swallowed. "Where's Lauren, is she okay?"
"She's here with me. Where she's going to stay."
My mind whirled. So many things I wanted to ask.
"You and that doctor of yours sure have Jud Maxwell fooled."
"So I somehow staged my new test results?"
"I honestly can't figure out what you've done. But you know good and well I've never put any stock in that lab's tests."
Stalking Man's forty-eight hour deadline rose in my mind. Had that been just a ru
se? Brock would never hurt Lauren.
But then, I never would have believed he'd hurt me.
Had he done this? Could Brock really be my true stalker?
And now he had my daughter . . .
Heat surged through my bones. "I want you to bring Lauren home right now!"
"I thought you were sick. From the looks of you on TV, you can't even take care of yourself."
"I can take care of my daughter. I want her back here and safe. Now."
"She's safe here while you convalesce." Brock sneered the word. "You can't have it both ways, Janessa. You've trapped yourself in your own game."
My game?
"Tell me the truth, Brock. You know I'll need more than four weeks of . . . treatment for the Lyme, don't you?"
"You don't have Lyme."
"You know I do."
"Oh yeah, and some crazy man broke in during the night and infected you."
Yes, Brock. Some night when you were "gone." Or so you say. Was it really you? Why did you go to the trouble to break in? Did you want me to have nightmares?
"You want to destroy me professionally, don't you, Janessa. And maybe a part of you still wants to make me feel sorry for you."
I stared at his research notes on the desk.
"Well guess what—you won't destroy me. And I'm not coming back to you."
"Brock." Was that my own tongue speaking? "I found your research notes. They show the sp-spirochetes are still alive after f-four weeks of treatment."
Silence.
Tears burned my eyes. "You know that four weeks of . . . antibiotics aren't enough, don't you? You've known for s-some time. What were you going to do, ignore those findings? Just go on with your c-committee?"
"Janessa, you have no idea what you're talking about. My research is ongoing. Those findings were in mice, not people." Sarcasm bent his tone. "Besides, your mind is too jumbled to think straight. Remember?"
My spine stiffened. If I couldn't think, it's because he'd made me this way. My husband. The man who'd helped me overcome my past. The father of my child.
He'd done this, hadn't he. Really done it. "What do you want from me, Brock?" My voice shook. "What do you w-want that you haven't already taken?"
"Stop this ridiculous charade. And recant that TV interview—publicly."
"You should be happy about that interview. All the more reason for you to step down from being chairman of your committee."
"What are you talking about?"
"That's why you did this, right? You needed a reason to be forced to leave."
His silence throbbed.
Stunned are you, Brock, that I'd figure it out? "I'll get Lauren back when they hear what you've done to me."
"Get over it, Janessa, lots of husbands leave their wives."
"Don't p-play dumb with me, Brock. I'm talking about the threatening phone calls. You made them. You put the . . . ticks on me and made me sick—"
"What?"
My throat closed up.
"Janessa, you have flat out gone over the edge." Brock's voice rose. "Don't you dare go claiming I've done any of this to you! I will not have some vendetta of yours ruining my entire career. You hear me? This is it! It stops right now."
What little strength I had was waning. What did it matter? I'd lost everything. But I'd go down fighting. "You did this. I know it. I'm calling Jud."
Brock snorted. "You tell this to Jud and you will be sorry."
"I'm not l-listening to your threats anymore. I'm c-calling him."
"Janessa, don't you do it!"
"I will."
"Think what you're doing."
"I'm calling him."
"You—" He cursed. "What is it going to take to shut you up?"
Suddenly I realized my vulnerability—so alone and weak. "He's got an officer watching the house, you know."
"Good! Maybe you'll catch your bad guy." Brock's derisive laugh was like acid. "Oh, right, that's me."
My mind spun. Lauren was with Brock. She'd been with him since after school.
"Jud will arrest you. It's over, Brock."
"Janessa, I'm warning you one last time—"
"I'm calling him right now. I'm telling him everything."
"You are insane!" Brock's voice hissed. "I'm coming over there, and I will make you listen."
Fear ricocheted down my spine. "No! I don't want you here."
"It's my house."
"You left it!"
The phone slammed in my ear.
Chapter 44
THE RECEIVER DROPPED TO THE DESK WITH A CLATTER. I fumbled to pick it up, my heart churning. I'd done it now. Why had I opened my mouth? I should have called Jud Maxwell first, told him everything. He'd have gone to Brock. I'd be safe.
Had to call Jud. Immediately.
My desperate eyes peered at the phone. I smashed it to my ear. No dial tone.
Why?
Frantically I searched the buttons on the receiver. But my brain just . . . hovered.
Maybe I needed to turn the phone off, then back on. I hit the off button. Then talk.
The most beautiful dial tone I'd ever heard sounded.
I poised a finger to call Jud, then froze. What was his number? My gaze darted around the desk. His card must be here somewhere.
Couldn't see it.
I picked up the file with Brock's notes, looked underneath. Nothing. My trembling hands threw the file back down.
Where was the card?
Hadn't I talked to Jud hours ago? I fought to remember which room I'd been in—and flashed an image of myself on the couch. The side table. Jud's number must be there.
I pushed back from the desk and swept up my cane. An odd mix of adrenaline and exhaustion whirled through my limbs, making them shake all the more. I tried to get up three times before I succeeded. Then for a suspended second I couldn't remember what I needed.
Card. Den.
I wobbled out of the office, through the living room and hall. Time seemed to slow, my feet shuffling yet barely moving me. With my every step fear sank its claws deeper into my lungs. By the time I reached the den I was sweating. I clumped over to the side table, expecting to see a white rectangle. It wasn't there. No. I moved around to the front of the couch, looked on the coffee table. My sunglasses were there. No card.
How had I dialed Jud's number?
Wait, hadn't he called me? So when did I last have the card?
Maybe I'd taken it into another room.
I stumbled through the den and into the kitchen. Flipped on the overhead light. Leaning weakly against the threshold I scanned the table, the counters. No card.
Tears scratched my eyes. This was so stupid. Why couldn't I remember this one thing? Slumped against the doorjamb, I tried to fight through the brain fog. The harder I tried the thicker it became. A tear slipped down my cheek.
The gun.
My chin came up. At least I could get that. And I knew where it was. Upstairs in the closet. On the shelf, where I'd put it out of Lauren's reach.
All the way upstairs. Would my legs make the climb?
I turned around to cane through the den, the hallway. To the stairs. I was moving even slower. At the bottom of the steps I almost gave up. What did it matter? Let Brock come. What more could he do to me?
My foot has slipped. From somewhere in the depths of me the words surfaced. "God," I moaned, "help."
I lifted my foot on the first stair and pulled myself up, grunting. Took the second, and the third. Every few steps I had to rest, panting, even while a voice in my head shouted hurry, hurry, hurry! An eternity passed before I reached the top. Dizziness washed over me as I made the turn to clump down the hall. The master suite was so far away. I just wanted
to reach the bed, fall down on it and not get up. Let whatever happened, happen.
Lauren's face flashed in my mind.
I had to keep fighting. For my daughter.
My breath came in gasps as I crossed into the room. The bed called to me but I didn't dare give it a glance. I made it to the closet, peered up toward the higher shelves. My head didn't want to lift.
No sign of the gun.
I moved closer to the painted shelves, seeking that black and silver against white. It wasn't there. Not on any shelf. Not anywhere.
Sweat trickled down my spine. My eyes closed. No card, no gun. Had I made them both up? Was I dreaming all of this?
Black on white. A picture swelled in my mind. The gun was in the cabinet downstairs. On top of the plates.
"No." I sank against the wall. The kitchen was a thousand miles away. I'd never make it back down there. My muscles were no firmer than sand.
With baby steps I turned myself around, headed out of the closet. Pain ricocheted from my hand holding the cane. And the back of my neck ached something fierce. Soon I wouldn't be able to hold my head up.
My eyes grazed the clock. Nearly 11:00. How long had it been since Brock called? How long would it take him to get here?
I didn't even know where Alicia lived.
One thing I did know. If I collapsed on the bed, I wouldn't get up for a long time.
Memories of my childhood swept over me. Of lying on my bed, trapped and helpless before the fate of my father's hands.
From father to husband.
My feet turned and pointed me out the door.
At the top of the stairs I swayed like a woman hanging over a precipice. How to get down all those steps? My legs couldn't hold me.
My hands turned clammy. I had to do something. I needed that gun.
With a force outside myself I set a shaking foot on the first stair. Holding on to the banister with my weak hand, I lowered my other foot. One more. Just one more. I managed another stair. Then I allowed my knees to collapse and fell back—hard—to sit at the top of the steps, my feet two stairs below. The jolt shot pain up my back, into my head. My eyes clouded.
I placed my cane lengthwise on the steps, bit my lip, and pushed the silver metal off. It rattled to the bottom.
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