Here goes. Using both hands to push, I slipped down the top step on my rear. Adjusted my legs one step farther down. Then repeated the process. Every muscle and joint begged me to stop, but I kept on, doggedly, my eyes fixed on the bottom as if it were a golden prize. Down. Down. Down. After a year I reached the landing. I scooted across it and turned. Almost there. I lowered myself down one step. Then with my feet on the hall floor, I gathered my cane, not knowing if I'd ever stand up.
Please, God. Please.
Cane on one side, holding the banister on the other, I fought to rise. On the fourth try I made it.
No blood remained in my veins. My chest heaved as I struggled toward the kitchen, my mouth open and gasping. Air throttled down my throat like the sound of someone dying, the clunk, clunk of my cane an echo through the quavering house.
When I reached the threshold of the kitchen, out of nowhere rose a vivid thought: Jud's number was trapped in my phone's ID. I didn't need his card.
My nerves bristled. First the card, then the gun. My brain was nothing but a hole-riddled pan trying to hold water.
By the time I reached the cabinet my lungs burned. I opened the door. There sat the gun. I reached for it, brought it down. It was still loaded, I remembered that much. I set it on the counter and reached for the phone to call Jud Maxwell. Pushed talk—and stared at the receiver. How did I find Jud's stored number?
From somewhere upstairs I heard the crack of glass.
Chapter 45
JUD STRAIGHTENED HIS BACK AND ARCHED HIS NECK SIDE TO SIDE. He was still at the computer in his office. Hadn't stopped to go home or even eat. An hour ago he'd phoned Sarah to tell her not to wait up for him.
He'd heard nothing from the officer manning Janessa McNeil's home line. And nothing from Mrs. McNeil since just after the TV interview. His suspect was keeping silent—as Jud had guessed he would. He could only hope they hadn't driven the man underground.
With a sigh he focused again on his monitor. He'd gone through about half his list of adult female victims of Lyme, Googling each name to see what he could find about the husband. Did any of those men have criminal records? Did any of their names come up attached to threatening comments in some Lyme forum?
The husbands weren't always easy to find. In numerous cases they didn't share the wife's last name.
So far—nothing.
Jud buffed his face and checked the clock. He'd run down one more name. Then he really needed to put something in his stomach.
He typed the name plus Lyme into Google search and hit enter. Up popped a number of hits. One was the list from which he'd culled the name. The tenth link down looked like an obituary. Good. They always named next of kin. He followed it.
With tired eyes he scanned the text. The husband's name at the bottom snapped his chin up.
Jud stilled.
He shook his head and read the name again. What? This was impossible. Maybe just some other man by this same name.
But what a coincidence. Jud was a detective. He rarely believed in coincidence.
Still, none of this fit. The marriage. The state.
Jud stared at the monitor, calculating the years since this obituary. Maybe . . .
He backed up to the search results and surveyed the other links. Followed one after another, but many didn't mention the husband. Those that did failed to confirm Jud's burning suspicions. Frustration mounting, he typed in a new search, using the husband's and wife's names together, plus Lyme and the state. A few hits came up. One looked like some article on Lyme. Jud clicked on it.
At the top of the article sat a paragraph of text about the author. And the man's picture.
Jud gaped at the photo. It was him. Younger to be sure. But definitely him.
Brock McNeil.
Jud snatched up his cell phone.
Chapter 46
I FROZE, MY MIND SLOGGING TO PROCESS THE NOISE.
Glass . . . a window?
Brock.
Another crack sounded, followed by the tinkle of glass.
The backyard tree with branches reaching to our window. He must have climbed that tree.
I dropped the phone. My hand swept up the gun. I turned, heart skipping, thinking nothing but run! Hide! I dropped the gun in my robe pocket and moved out of the kitchen as fast as my shaky limbs would take me. Heat flooded my veins. I'd never get there fast enough.
I hit the hallway, knowing I'd have to pass the stairs. How soon before he broke out the window enough to crawl through? Would he hear the thump of my cane? I tried to place it without sound, but that slowed me down. Nausea roiled in my stomach. I fought to move faster.
My feet shuffled me past the bottom of the stairs. I pulled myself forward, forward, toward the living room and office. No energy remained in my body. Panic alone fueled me.
Brock. He knew the upstairs window wouldn't trip the alarm system. And he knew police were on the street. Had he parked a block away, run through the open space into our backyard?
That was crazy. The Brock I knew would never do that.
A sob clogged my throat. My own husband was here to kill me. To silence me for good. Then he'd flee back to his mistress, who'd tell the police he'd never left her side. Lauren was long asleep and would never know. And the mysterious Stalking Man would now be wanted for murder—and never found.
No. Not true. My mind wasn't thinking straight . . .
I passed through the living room, ears straining for any sound from upstairs. Did I hear a tread on the carpet?
My nerves sizzled, my hand weakening on the cane. Almost there. Almost . . .
I reached the office. Turned off the overhead light. Dim illumination filtered from the hallway.
My feet tottered to the desk. I pulled the rolling chair away and stared at the hollow space underneath the piece of furniture. Once I got down there I wouldn't be getting up.
Leaning against the desk, I pushed my cane to lie beneath it on the floor. Then, holding onto the edge with both hands, I lowered myself to sit on the floor. I fell the last half a foot. The pain took my breath away.
My eyes blurred. Brock would be coming any minute. I reached behind me for the chair and rolled it close. Scooted my body underneath the desk and pulled the chair up to the opening. I shoved myself back, leaning against the front panel wall of the desk. Breath gurgled up my windpipe, my chest swelling for air like a pumped balloon. I swallowed hard, fighting to quiet my gasps.
Too late I remembered the phone sitting on the desk. No. My heart lurched. I'd meant to grab it, call Jud while I was hiding.
A footstep sounded on the hall's hardwood floor.
My quivering hand dug in my pocket for the gun. I slid it out and wrapped both palms around its handle, my finger finding the trigger. I held it chest high, pointed toward the opening—and waited. My arms trembled, the weapon barrel wavering. How would I hold it steady enough to shoot?
If I shot at all.
Yes, I would. I wasn't a helpless child anymore, cowering in her room from her father's rages. I was a mother, with a daughter who needed me. I'd promised her we'd be together again.
The footsteps moved away from me, toward the den. I cocked my head, eyes closed, listening with my entire body.
Their sound faded. Maybe he was in the kitchen.
My insides started to shake. They quaked and heaved until vertigo muzzled my head, my eyes. Twice I nearly dropped the gun. I gripped it tighter, my knuckles throbbing.
Something sounded. I held my breath.
A step. A second. Coming back through the hall. So firm and steady. No need to call my name or hurry. Time was on his side.
Desperate hope writhed. Brock would search the house and think I'd gone. He wouldn't find me underneath here. As soon as he left I'd struggle up. Somehow. Get to the
phone. I just had to keep quiet. Muffle my breathing.
The footfalls hit the office floor.
My jaw dropped open, oxygen pulled into my mouth in silent globs. The gun jittered so hard in my hands I knew I would drop it.
Please, God, let him pass by.
Only a minute, no longer. There weren't many places in here for me to hide. He'd be gone soon. Just one more minute . . .
The footsteps crossed the room behind me. He was checking beyond the armchairs. They halted, then returned. Started around the desk.
This is it, Jannie, hold on, hold on. My finger tightened around the trigger. I would shoot Brock. I would.
The words of that psalm flooded my mind: "My voice rises to God, and He will hear me." With every fiber I prayed for God's strength, for His help. My father had abused me. Now my husband wanted me dead. But my Heavenly Father was here. He was.
The footfalls crossed in front of the desk. In the dimness through the chair legs I could just make out Brock's dark pants as he passed by. All breath stopped.
I grasped the gun and counted the never-ending seconds. He would turn around now. Leave the room.
Dots skipped before my eyes. Flames shot down my limbs. Come on, come on . . .
The footfalls turned. Just beyond the chair the pant legs reappeared. They stopped before the desk.
The gun dipped and shook, my heart grinding, yet no blood flowed. The dots in my vision stuck together, blocking half my sight. I blinked my eyes, turning my gaze downward—and caught the horrific sight of my cane's hooked top sticking out just past the edge of the desk. Would he see it in the dark?
"My voice rises to God, and He will hear me . . ."
Brock took one step forward, then halted again. His clothes rustled.
"Ah." He said it low in his throat, followed by a satisfied chuckle. Almost as if he were proud of my resourcefulness. He moved to one side of the chair. It began to roll.
Don't do it, Brock, I'll shoot you. I will.
I clutched the gun, my hands smacking up and down. But even as the chair rolled back, back, out of the way, I knew I couldn't do it. I could not shoot my husband. The man I'd once loved. Still loved. The father my child so adored. How could I kill him and ever face Lauren again?
My head buzzed. I was going to faint.
The chair stopped rolling. Brock moved toward the desk. Clothes rustled once more as his legs began to bend.
A sob spilled from my lips.
Brock stilled at the sound. Then stooped down. I made out his arms. His shoulders.
No, Brock, please!
My trigger finger would not move.
His face peered under the desk. Did I see a smile?
"Found you, Janessa."
No, no.
He reached for me.
My finger jerked.
A gunshot shattered my ears.
Chapter 47
EVERYTHING BLURRED INTO CHOAS. THE GUN KICKED HARD in my tender hands. My body spasmed, and my head smacked against the back of the desk. I cried out and dropped the weapon. It fell on my lap. I swept it off.
Brock reeled backward from his squat and slumped over on the floor. He didn't move.
I screamed. Screamed again—then couldn't stop. Panic ricocheted through me until I thought I would explode. I could only see Brock's body up to his shoulders. Had I shot him in the head? What had I done, what had I done? I had to get out from under the desk, help him. Maybe he was alive. But I could barely move, and he lay right in front of the opening. I'd never be able to crawl over him. Never be able to get to the phone and call for help. How long would I be trapped in this little area with my own shrieks sizzling my ears, and my limbs too weak to move, and this acrid smell, and my husband, the father of my child, dying?
My throat turned ragged, and still I screamed.
A sudden earsplitting sound jangled my nerves. My shrieks cut off, my hands flying to my ears. Too loud, so loud, what was it?
The alarm.
I choked a breath. The police. They'd heard the gunshot.
"Here! Help!" But the constant ringing drowned out my cries. I struggled to scoot forward, my limbs barely working. "In here!"
The alarm stopped. The sudden silence buzzed my head.
I broke into sobs. Tried to drag myself from under the desk, but there lay Brock. My husband, and I'd killed him.
"Jannie?"
From some other plane I heard my name called. "H-here! In the . . ." What room was I in?
Running footsteps sounded in the hall.
"Jannie, where are you?"
"Here." I slumped over, chin to my chest. My head reeled.
The room lit up. Footsteps ran toward the desk. "What the—"
I raised my heavy head to see legs appear near Brock. The policeman bent down to look at my husband. Reached to touch his neck. "What—?"
The officer dropped to his knees and peered under the desk. In a terrifying hallucination, I saw Brock's face.
"No! Get away!"
"It's okay, it's okay." The man jumped up and dragged the body aside. Squatted down and held his hand out to me. "Come on now. It's me. Let's get you out of there."
"No!" I cowered back.
"Jannie, come on. I won't hurt you."
His face swam before me. My husband's face. Talking. Alive. "B-Brock?"
"Yeah. It's me. It's okay now."
"Brock?"
"Jannie." He reached out and clasped my wrist. "Come on now. I've got you."
The world went black.
Chapter 48
MY EYES BLINKED OPEN TO OVER-BRIGHT LIGHT. I WINCED. For a moment I knew nothing. Saw only the ceiling of our den, felt the sofa cushions beneath my legs. Then memory flooded my brain. A moan escaped my throat.
Brock's pinched face appeared above me. He stooped down and took my hand. His touch was gentle. "Welcome back. You've been out for awhile."
I stared at him. My Lyme brain whirred but kicked up only grit.
He gave me a tight smile. "Everything's okay. The officer who was patrolling outside is here."
Vaguely I registered a man's voice from the other side of the house, the squawk of an answering radio. "But I sh-shot—"
"I know." Brock's face contorted. "I'm so sorry you had to face that alone."
"But . . ."
"Dane worked for me for two years. I had no idea. I still can't . . .I just don't understand how this happened."
Who?
"But it's over, Jannie. He's dead."
"I sh-shot you."
"Me? No."
"But you . . ."
"It was Dane Melford. Remember him?" Brock spoke as if addressing a confused child. "My lab assistant."
My tongue wouldn't work.
"He apparently got in through the window upstairs."
Breaking glass. I remembered that. I licked my lips. "It wasn't you."
"I came in to help you, remember? I was trying to get you out from under the desk."
I could only stare at him.
"Jannie, it's okay now. You're just still in shock."
"I thought . . . You didn't make those phone calls? Infect me with Lyme?"
"Of course not. Don't tell me you really believed that."
Why shouldn't I have?
"Jannie, I'd never do anything like that to you. How could you even think such a thing?"
Because . . . because it made sense at the time.
Hadn't it?
I felt so numb. I couldn't even rejoice that my daughter's father wasn't dead. That I hadn't killed him. "I never thought you'd leave me either."
Guilt flicked across Brock's forehead. A moment passed before he spoke. "I'm so sorry I didn't believe y
ou. I just had no idea. I thought you were making the whole thing up to get back at me. But I should have known. Should have listened."
My throat tightened. For a moment I couldn't speak. "You stopped listening to me a long time ago."
Brock looked away. "I should have believed you were sick." He shifted to his knees. "But the story about the man and the phone calls just sounded so crazy. And I still can't understand how Dane . . ."
Dane Melford. The name was just sinking in. Brock's loyal assistant. Had always been so nice to me.
Sympathy for Brock twinged. Betrayal never felt good. "Why'd he do it?"
Brock rubbed his cheek hard. For the first time I realized how shell-shocked he looked. "I talked to Jud Maxwell on the phone. He's on his way over here. He'd just found a picture of Dane online. Dane had a sick wife who died."
"But he'd never been married."
"I guess he lied about that. Apparently he lied about a lot of things."
I couldn't respond. Too much to take in.
Brock shook his head. "He claimed his wife died from Lyme."
"Claimed." Same old Brock. My sympathy waned.
I pulled my hand from his. So much this man—my own husband—had done to me. "I thought it was you. I thought I'd shot you."
Brock eyed me, his mouth opening.
"Do you get that, Brock? Do you? You say Dane lied. Well, you lied to me. Abandoned me for someone else. Refused to believe my . . .pain and fear. Took my d-daughter away from me. When I heard the window b-break, I thought it was you. I got the gun and hid from you."
Horror crept across his face. He rocked back on his heels. "You wanted to kill me?"
How thick was this man? Could he not see what he'd done to me? What he'd driven me to? "Wanted? No. Never. In fact I couldn't, even when you—he—leaned down by that desk and grabbed for me. Even when I knew I was going to die. But then my finger jerked, and—" Tears bit my eyes. I turned my head away.
No reply from Brock. For once he'd been shocked to silence.
I lay there and cried. Still Brock said nothing.
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