A horrible thought hit. My head shifted back to Brock, my voice sharp. "Where's Lauren?"
"With Alicia." Defensiveness edged his tone. "Sound asleep."
"You took her to your office after school. Was D-Dane there?"
Brock's eyes widened. "We saw him when we came in. And she sat outside his cubicle doing homework."
"He threatened to give her Lyme, Brock." Panic clutched my throat. "He could have put a tick on her!"
Brock's face paled.
"You have to go check her all over. Right now!"
He pushed to his feet. "I'll call Alicia."
"She won't—"
"Alicia knows what ticks look like, Jannie." His voice had hardened. He thrust a hand in his hair. Stared at the floor. "She'll be okay. Even if he did put a tick on her, it hasn't had time to start transmitting the spirochetes."
"You sure?"
"Yes." He gave me a look. "There's no controversy about that."
We stared at each other, thinking too many thoughts to speak.
I heard the front door open. "Dr. McNeil?"
I knew that terse voice. Jud Maxwell.
"In here." Brock strode around the couch. I looked over the back of the sofa to see Jud appear at the den's threshold. He looked out of breath, shaken.
"Got here fast as I could." Jud gazed past Brock toward me. He hurried into the den, around the furniture. Brock followed. "Mrs. McNeil. You all right?"
No. My head nodded. "I k-killed him."
Only then did it begin to sink in. I'd killed a man. Someone I'd known and trusted. Fresh tears welled in my eyes.
Jud shook his head. "It's okay, you're safe. That's what matters."
"Will I be . . . arrested?"
He gave me a wan smile. "Don't you worry about that. We'll clear this up."
"I want to say again that I'm sorry I didn't call you back today." Brock faced the detective, remorse in his expression. "I shouldn't have ignored you."
Jud waved the apology away. "That last call to your cell just a little while ago—when I found Melford's picture on the computer, I thought of you immediately. I had to let you know. When I couldn't reach you, I dialed here. But the phone was busy."
Brock nodded. "It was off the hook."
It was?
Vaguely I remembered trying to call Jud. Dropping the receiver when I heard the glass break.
The detective looked back to me. "I'm sorry, Mrs. McNeil. So sorry. I should have discovered this sooner."
"Don't . . . You did what you could."
Our eyes held for a moment.
Jud gestured toward the office with his chin. "I've got to go in there." He swiped his forehead. "We'll have other officers responding. I'm afraid your house is about to be turned into a crime scene. But you stay where you are. For the moment you're fine in here."
"Okay." Brock stepped aside to let the detective pass.
"Be back in to talk to you soon as I can." Jud hurried from the room.
Brock turned away, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and hit a button. I heard a number automatically dial.
Alicia.
How many months had that auto dial been on my husband's phone?
He wandered into the kitchen as he began speaking. I heard the words wake up Lauren and tick, then could hear no more.
My eyes closed. From deep inside my body started to shake. I needed water. And I felt so weak. Like I would never, ever get off the couch again.
I don't know how many minutes passed before Brock returned, slipping the cell phone back into his pocket. He ventured no closer than his armchair.
My armchair.
His gaze met mine. So many unspoken words thrummed between us.
He spread his hands. "What you did tonight, Jannie—it's amazing. Really. You stopped a madman."
By the grace of God. Still, my husband's help would have been appreciated.
"At least you can rest now." Brock gave me tight smile. "It's over."
His words struck to the core of me. I looked away, feeling more weary than ever. And so very alone.
"Over, Brock? Far from it. I still have Lyme."
THREE MONTHS LATER
Epilogue
LAUREN AND I WERE AT THE KITCHEN TABLE ON A FRIDAY morning when she saw it. I noticed her glance at the floor, then do a double take. She frowned, her mouth stopping in mid-crunch of her cereal. Then her eyes widened. She dropped the spoon into her bowl, got up and crept toward the counter.
I turned to follow her focus. "What is it?"
A speck of red on the hardwood caught my eye.
Lauren squatted down a safe distance away and pointed. "Look."
The tick.
"Oh." My breath stopped. The nightmare of last May came hurling back.
As if it owned the world, the tick started crawling toward Lauren. She jumped to the safety of her chair and lifted her feet. "Where'd it come from?"
I watched it, too stunned to reply. We'd managed to convince ourselves the tick had found its way outside at some point while the back door was open. But all these months it had been here. Here. My skin tingled.
"Get it, Mom!" Lauren's face scrunched up.
I rallied myself. "I will." I tried to keep my voice light, even as my heart skidded. We'd had three months to heal emotionally, yet even now the fear rested just below the surface. Lauren still slept with me every night. And every night we turned on the alarm.
I pushed to my feet, reaching for my cane. "You're going to have to help me. You know I can't lean over."
"I don't wanna touch that thing!"
"You won't have to touch it. Just get a glass for me."
"But I'll have to walk past it."
"Never mind, I'll get the glass." Skirting the tick, I edged over to open the cabinet. After three months of antibiotics I moved better these days. But I was far from well. And some days—when the herxes hit—I could barely make it around the house.
I pulled down a tall glass and held it out to Lauren. The tick was now a few feet from her chair. "Set this down in front of it so I can push it inside."
She made a face but did as she was told. I held on to the table and used my cane to nudge the tick over the edge of the glass. "There. Now turn it up."
"What if it jumps back out?"
"Ticks don't jump."
She eyed me.
"Come on, Lauren, before he crawls out of there."
She righted the glass. The tick slid to the bottom.
Lauren set it on the counter near the stove and backed away. She shuddered. "Where was it?"
I watched its legs move, feeling for bearings. "Must have been up under that lip of wood by the cabinets."
"All that time it didn't eat?"
A shiver ran through me. "Guess not."
Lauren's eyes met mine. "Does it have Lyme?"
Probably.
"It's the one Dane put in my backpack, isn't it?"
Lauren remembered Dane. All too well. How nice he'd been to her that afternoon when she'd done her homework outside his office. He bought her a Coke. And he patted her head. No doubt that's when he released the tiny tick in its nymph stage. Alicia found the tick on Lauren's scalp that same night. Brock pulled it out with tweezers. Lab tests confirmed it carried Borrelia. But, thank God, the tick had not been attached to Lauren long enough to transmit the spirochetes.
"Yup. Imagine so."
The old anxiety rattled inside me. Mentally I recited a psalm. When I am afraid, I will trust in You. In God, whose word I praise . . .
We watched the tick move across the bottom of the glass.
"What're you going to do with it, Mom?"
I wanted to kill it. Smash
it flat. "I think I'll put it in a little plastic bag and take it to Detective Maxwell."
Lauren pulled her head back. "What's he want with it?"
I shrugged. "Maybe nothing. But maybe just as a last bit of evidence, he'll have it tested to see what it carries."
Or maybe he'd do that out of mere curiosity. The case was officially closed. Even though Dane was dead, Jud had dug into his background, uncovering the what and who, trying to piece together the why. The police had to be sure he'd acted alone. Apparently Dane had married young, to a woman named Elyse. She'd been infected with Lyme and, like so many patients, wasn't diagnosed for years. She had a particularly hard case and, despite months of antibiotics, could not get well. Then her insurance ran out, her treatment stopped—and she died. Upon autopsy spirochetes were found in the tissue surrounding her heart.
Dane had years to swim in his bitterness—until he vowed to do something about it. Jud surmised that he'd planned his attack for years, purposely hiring on as a lab assistant to Brock. The two years he worked with his nemesis he apparently learned Brock's out-of-town schedule, and most likely cased our house to see the layout of windows and doors.
The thought of the man's painstaking cunning still brought me chills.
Lauren moved her lips around. Her eyes wouldn't leave the tick. "I want to tell Daddy we found it. Think he's at work yet?"
I glanced at the clock. After 8:00. "Yes."
Since Lauren had come back to live with me two months ago, she called her dad at least once a day. And every other weekend she stayed with Brock and Alicia. Brock and I only spoke when we had to, mostly regarding our daughter. Too much hurt hung between us.
Lauren hurried to pick up the phone.
A few hours later I drove Lauren to Katie's to spend the night. Katie's family had been gone on vacation, and the girls wanted as many sleepovers as they could have before school started. I'd only begun driving again in the past three weeks, so I took it slow. But I could do it. And I could think better. And talk without stuttering—well, most of the time.
The tick rode along with us in a plastic bag, tightly sealed.
The minute Katie opened her front door Lauren launched into her story about finding the tick. Now that the thing was safely ensconced in plastic, she made herself sound oh, so brave.
"I can't believe it showed up, just like that." Maria shook her head.
I gave her a look. Chalk it up to one of the many crazy things that have happened to me.
The girls soon pounded down the hall to Katie's room. I settled at Maria's kitchen table as she made me a latte—decaf coffee, no sugar. My Lyme diet reigned supreme.
"So how are you?" Maria poured milk into a metal cup.
"Okay. I have my good days and bad days, as you know. But I'm fighting it."
"How much longer will you need treatment?"
I sighed. "Don't know. Months yet. Still, I'm one of the fortunate ones. At least I have a diagnosis and a doctor who knows how to treat me. And so far my insurance continues to cover the medication. That's far more than a lot of Lyme sufferers have."
She nodded.
We fell silent as Maria foamed the milk at the espresso machine.
She poured the coffee and milk together. "Did the divorce papers come?"
My gaze fell to the table. "Yeah."
She made a sound in her throat. "When?"
"Last week."
Maria set the drink before me. Handed me a napkin. "I'm so sorry, Jannie."
I managed a smile. "Well, not like I didn't know he was going to file."
Brock had promised not to fight me over details—perhaps due to his guilt over not believing me. Lauren and I would stay in the house. He'd provide me with child support, of course, and alimony until I was well enough to work.
As for Brock's work—and views on Lyme—nothing had changed. He remained in his position at Stanford School of Medicine. His research continued. And the committee he chaired had published its latest findings on Lyme. Findings that further narrowed the parameters of the disease, which meant diagnosis and treatment would be even harder for many patients to obtain. I knew firsthand that was indeed happening from talking to Lyme sufferers across the country. After Dane's death my news story had gone national.
I found myself speaking out on behalf of the Lyme community often these days.
I sipped the foam on my drink while Maria made a latte for herself. "So Lauren's staying until Sunday, right? And we'll get her back to you at church."
"That's the plan. Unless I take a sudden downturn and can't go."
It had happened before a number of times, but now I managed to make the service most Sundays. For all I'd survived, God surely deserved my praise. And the people at Maria's church—now my church—had been so kind to me. That first horrible month of treatment, when Lauren still lived with her dad, many had brought me dinners and driven me to the doctor—even before they knew me.
Maria shrugged. "Well, if that happens, no worries. We'll just drive Lauren back to you." She settled at the table with her latte. "Lauren looks good. I don't see that lost little girl look in her eyes so much."
"She's hanging in there. Getting used to her new life."
Used to her parents not living together, and shuttling back and forth between homes. She was also getting used to Alicia. For Lauren's sake, I was glad to see that. Still, my heart panged whenever she spoke of their shopping or going places together. Things I longed to do with my daughter—and couldn't.
One day. My health would return to me.
Maria and I talked for an hour, until I felt myself tiring. I needed to get home and rest. But I still had to stop by Jud Maxwell's office. He was expecting me.
I hugged Maria, kissed Lauren good-bye, and caned out to my car.
Twenty minutes later as I made my slow way into the police station to see Jud, the bagged tick sat in my purse. I could feel my body weakening. Any time I pushed myself to do too much, my symptoms flared.
In Jud's small office I held the plastic bag out to him with a small flourish. "Here it is."
"Look at that." Jud shot me a nonplused grin.
"Will you test it at the . . . L-Lyme lab?" Uh-oh, I was starting to stutter. A sign of my weariness.
He lifted a shoulder. "Maybe. We'll at least keep it with the case files. It's nice to know it's out of your house."
No kidding.
Jud motioned to the chair before his desk. "Please. Sit down. You look worn out."
It was kind of him to notice. But then, he would. Jud had become a friend to me and Lauren. He'd stopped by the house on a couple occasions to see how we were getting along. And his wife, Sarah, called occasionally to check up on me, even if that did put her in a bit of an awkward position. Neither she nor Jud approved of Brock's relationship with Alicia. But Sarah did still work for Brock.
"Thanks." I settled into the chair.
Jud held up a finger. "I have something for you." He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a manila file. "These are extra copies for you to keep. All the stuff I uncovered about Dane Melford."
I eyed the folder, not sure how much I wanted to know. "Anything n-new?"
Jud rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. "A few pieces that might help clarify why he did what he did. For one thing, he was bipolar and on meds. He'd been diagnosed as a teenager. If he went off his meds, that could have added to his instability. I also managed to track down some of his old friends from school. They told me Dane had a self-righteous, obsessive streak even then. Seemed to just be in his make-up."
Hardly an excuse for what he'd done to me. "He sure m-managed to seem normal when he worked with Brock."
Jud gave me a grim smile. "He sure did."
Fatigue weighed my chest. I really needed to get home. "
Jud, thank you. I need to g-go now." With effort I pushed to my feet.
He nodded. "I'll walk you to your car." Jud picked up the file and ushered me out.
When I reached home it was nearly one o'clock. The house felt so still and empty. Brock gone, Lauren gone. But I was not alone.
Too tired to eat, I headed straight for the couch and collapsed upon it. After a few hours' rest I'd be ready to get up again. And with God's help I'd tackle the rest of the day.
As my eyes closed, my two favorite verses from Psalm 94 rose in my mind: "If I should say, 'My foot has slipped,' Your lovingkindness, O LORD, will hold me up. When my anxious thoughts multiply within me, your consolations delight my soul."
Such comforting words. Again and again they had proved true.
I mouthed them silently until I fell asleep.
A Note from Brandilyn Collins
I HAVEN'T JUST STUDIED LYME. I'VE LIVED IT.
Remember Jannie McNeil's fall in her kitchen, and her inability to get up? That's straight out of my own life. When Lyme hit me, it came fast and hard. Until that day I had been a healthy, fit, five-miles-a-day runner. Fortunately I had a friend who recognized the symptoms and insisted I go for testing. From there I linked up with a Lyme-literate doctor. Most fortunate of all, God chose to miraculously heal me from the disease months later. But not before I'd lived the nightmare of Lyme. Six years later in 2009 I was reinfected with the disease and managed to conquer it after six months of antibiotic treatment.
I remember slumping in the waiting room of my doctor in 2003, so sick I could not remain sitting in the chair. (They had to move me to the doctor's personal padded armchair with footrest in a private office.) Hanging on the waiting-room wall was a framed newspaper article summarizing the 2001 findings written in The New England Journal of Medicine. (While Brock McNeil's part in writing those findings is fictional, they are very real.) The newspaper article explained how researchers had once again proved that Lyme was never chronic and was, in fact, very easy to treat with a short-term round of antibiotics. People claiming months or years of crippling symptoms from the disease were just wrong.
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