Over the Edge Read online

  Holding the bottle with trigger finger on the pump, he advanced into the hall. A left turn, and he stood in the entryway. Straight ahead, a living room. On his left, a staircase. Carpeted.

  He lifted a sneakered foot onto the bottom step.

  The bedrooms would be upstairs, two occupied. One by nine-year-old Lauren. The second, a master suite, by mother Janessa, called Jannie. She would be alone. Her husband, the highly respected Dr. Brock McNeil, was supposedly imparting his impeccable knowledge at a medical symposium on Lyme disease.

  His jaw flexed.

  After three steps he reached a landing. He turned left and resumed his inaudible climb.

  His heartbeat quickened. Too many emotions funneled into this moment—grief-drenched years, anxiety, the playing out of two lives, and now adrenaline. He willed his pulse into submission. Once he went into action everything would happen quickly. He needed his wits about him.

  Within seconds his foot landed on the last stair. To his immediate left stood an open door. He craned his neck to see around the threshold. Empty bedroom. With a quick glance he took in three more open doorways—two bedrooms and one bath, halfway down the hall. The closed door directly in front of him would be a closet. He looked down the length of the hall, saw one open door at the end. That was it. The master bedroom, running the entire depth of the house.

  He advanced to the next room on his left. Peered inside. The green-haloed room held a canopied bed and several dressers, a large stuffed lion in one corner. In the bed lay a small form on her back, one arm thrown over the blankets. Lauren. Beside her head was a stuffed animal. He could hear the girl's steady breathing.

  His mouth flattened to a thin, hard line. He turned and glared at his targeted bedroom, left fingers curling into his palm.

  His legs took him in swift silence to the threshold of Janessa McNeil's door.

  With caution he leaned in, glimpsing a large bed to his right. She occupied the closest half, lying on her side facing him. How very thoughtful.

  Scarcely drawing oxygen, he stepped into the room.

  Her eyes opened.

  How—?

  His limbs froze. He'd made no sound. Had she sensed his presence, the malevolence in his pores?

  Janessa's head lifted from the pillow.

  In one fluid motion he strode to the bed, thrust the bottle six inches from her face, and panic-pumped the spray. The chloroform mixture misted over her.

  A strangled cry escaped the woman, only to be cut short as her head dropped like a stone.

  He stumbled backward, holding his breath, pulse fluttering. When he finally inhaled, a faint sweet smell from the chloroform wafted into his nostrils. Leaning down, he dug the plastic cap from his lower pocket and shoved it onto the spray container. Dropped the thing back into his pants.

  For a moment he stood, fingers grasped behind his neck, regaining his equilibrium.

  Everything was fine, just fine. No way could she have seen him well enough in the dark.

  Remember why you're here.

  Visions of the past surfaced, and with them—the anger. The boiling, rancid rage that fueled his days and fired his nights. So what if this sleeping woman was known as quiet and caring? So what if she had a likable, if not beautiful, face? Green eyes that held both caution and hope, smooth skin and an upturned mouth. She looked as if she could be anyone's friend. But at this moment she was nothing to him. Neither was her daughter. Merely a means to a crucial end.

  He snatched the vial from his upper pocket.

  Raising it before his face, he squinted through the hard plastic. Saw nothing. The infected parasites within were no bigger than the head of a pin. He turned the vial sideways and shook it. Three tiny dark objects slid from the bottom into view.

  His lips curled.

  This Ixodes pacificus, or blacklegged tick, carried spirochetes—spiral-shaped bacteria—that caused Lyme disease in California. And not just a few spirochetes. These ticks were loaded with them, along with numerous coinfections. Thanks to painstaking work the spirochetes had flourished and multiplied in the brains of mice. As the infected baby mice had grown, the sickest were sacrificed, their brains fed to the next generation of ticks.

  The spirochetes loved human brain tissue. Janessa McNeil may soon attest to that.

  He moved toward the bed. No need to hurry now, nor be anxious. His target would not rouse.

  Last summer in their larval stage, the captured ticks had enjoyed their first feeding on an infected mouse. Now as disease-carrying nymphs, they were ready for their second meal. He'd chosen three to hedge his bet that at least one would bite and infect Janessa McNeil.

  He leaned over the sleeping woman and opened the vial.

  The hungry ticks would bury their mouth parts into Janessa's warm flesh and feed for three to five days. After one to two days they would begin to transmit the spirochetes. Even fully engorged, nymph ticks were so minuscule they could easily go unnoticed on the body. But just to be sure, he held the vial above the woman's temple. Her dark brown hair would provide cover.

  Pointing the container downward, he tapped the ticks over the edge.

  He slipped the vial back into his right pocket, pulling the flashlight from his left. Then raised his night goggles and turned on the flashlight. He aimed its narrow beam at his victim's temple and leaned in closer, squinting.

  Ah. There they were, crawling near her hairline.

  With a fingernail he nudged them farther back until they disappeared among the strands of hair.

  He straightened and took a moment to revel in his victory. He'd done it. He had really done it. Nothing more to do but hope the disease took hold of Janessa—and soon.

  Smiling, he put away his flashlight and lowered the goggles. With a whisper of sound he turned and left the room. Down the stairs he crept, and through the kitchen. He stepped out onto the back deck, closed the sliding door and relocked it with the tools from his pocket.

  As he slunk from the backyard, a wild and primal joy surged through him. He smirked at the memory of the green-hued sleeping figure, every fiber of his being anticipating, relishing the fulfillment of his vision.

  A battle won.

  Justice.

  THURSDAY

  Chapter 1

  THE NIGHTMARES FELT SO REAL

  I'd been sick for three weeks. Aching limbs, sore joints, a weakness in my legs. An odd pain shot around in my chest. The back of my neck hurt, radiating clear up to my skull. A nuchal headache, Brock would call it, referring to the back neck muscle. A term I'd never heard until I married a doctor.

  Most likely I had some strange lingering flu. A virus had been going around this spring season, although no one seemed to have symptoms like mine.

  Then a few days ago the bad dreams started. Horrible scenes of a bug-eyed man standing over my bed. "Does flu ever make you have nightmares?" I asked Brock yesterday as he prepared to leave for work. We stood in the kitchen. He was flipping through papers in his briefcase, searching for something.

  He looked up distractedly, his thick brows knitting. The lines between his dark brown eyes deepened. "Never heard that one before."

  At 6'2" Brock stood a head taller than I. He'd spent years concerned with the health of others—and the stress showed on his face. At fifty-three to my thirty-six, he looked older than his age but still so handsome. So alive and vibrant and strong. As he expected me to be.

  "This isn't what Lyme feels like, is it?" Of all people, my husband would know.

  He sifted through more documents, too busy to make eye contact with me. "When would you have been bitten by a deer tick?"

  We hadn't been hiking or spending time in the woods. And I was mostly a homebody. "I've been planting flowers." Our house boasted a large, beautiful backyard. Behind us lay open space with plenty of tre
es. Sometimes the deer jumped the fence and wrought havoc with my plants.

  He waved a hand, then snapped his briefcase shut. "Let's give it a few days. If you're not better, we can test for it."

  Quintessential Brock. Whatever the situation, including illness—buck up, raise your chin, and this, too, shall pass. That rock hard core strength is what had first attracted me to him. Goodness knows I'd needed some strength of my own in those days.

  Now I yearned for gentleness.

  We'd met when I was twenty-two, a glued-together version of emotionally broken pieces despite my academic success: a B.A. in marketing, valedictorian of my class. As we dated, Brock wedged bits of his unwavering self-confidence into the gaps I failed to hide. He taught me to believe in myself—because he did. Bathed in love, his shaping of me never felt harsh.

  But in the last year my husband had slipped from attentive to distracted to aloof. Why? I was no less the wife I'd always been. In fact lately I felt like the old Avis rental car commercial—"we try harder." Brock didn't seem to notice my extra effort.

  Our conversation yesterday ended as quickly as it started. With a tight smile aimed in my direction, Brock disappeared out the door to the garage.

  I rubbed my neck. Last night I had the nightmare again. This morning I awoke feeling five times worse. No flu had ever hit me like this.

  Not a good time to deal with a phone call from my mother. But then, it never was. She'd called a few minutes ago, and now I wished I hadn't answered. I moved the receiver to my other ear.

  "You get your housecleaning done today?" Mother's voice held that barbed edge I knew so well—half accusation, half sarcasm. Why did I even bother to talk to her? The woman never changed. "Thursday is your day to clean."

  I lay on the TV room couch, looking toward the pass-through window into the kitchen. I'd had to move from the other end of the sofa. Facing toward the bright front window hurt my eyes. "Yes, I did." Somehow I'd managed to clean, even though I felt so punky. As soon as I was done I collapsed on the couch and had barely moved since.

  "That husband of yours would notice if the house wasn't spotless."

  My fingers tightened on the phone—until pain forced them to relax. That husband of mine happened to be successful and stable, a one-eighty from my alcoholic and abusive father. My mother could not forgive me for that.

  "Why don't you hire a housecleaner, Janessa? You can certainly afford it."

  "I'd rather do it myself. Then I know it's done right."

  "Well, you always were the perfectionist."

  My heart cramped. A perfectionist should be able to fix her own marriage. "I have to go, Mother."

  "And do what? You're sick, remember?"

  "I have to pick up Lauren soon."

  "How's she doing?"

  My mother's tone made the question's real meaning all too clear: I haven't seen my granddaughter in years, so how would I know?

  "Fine."

  "Isn't she supposed to be out of school for the year soon?"

  "Not until the middle of June."

  "Then what's she going to do?"

  "Be a kid. Hang out, have friends over."

  Like I could never do.

  "We were good parents to you, Janessa."

  My eyes closed. How did my mother do that?

  I'd managed to move across the country from my parents years ago, before I met Brock. At this moment the connection to my mother amounted to no more than a tenuous link through invisible phone lines. Or so I told myself. I should hang up. Refuse to answer when she called back.

  Truth is, the link between mother and daughter is never so tenuous, even when you want it to be. Even when you know the woman's poison for you. There is no more sacred bond, and when it's broken, defiled, it leaves a cleft in your heart never quite filled.

  Although Brock had come closest to filling it as any person could.

  Someday soon my mother might hear the dullness in my voice over the phone and guess the expanding new truth about me and Brock. "This paradise of yours will never last," she'd sneered the day of my wedding. How self-satisfied she'd be now to hear of the cracks in our Eden.

  "I never said you weren't good parents, Mother."

  "You didn't have to."

  Enough was enough. I forced myself to sit up. I felt so tired. "I need to go."

  I clicked off the line.

  For a long moment I slumped forward, forearms on my legs, still holding the receiver. Its digital read-out told me the time—2:30. I needed to be at Lauren's private school at 3:00. The drive would take fifteen minutes. I would not be late, not even by sixty seconds. In my own childhood I'd spent far too many hours waiting on my mother—who may or may not show up, depending on my father's level of drunkenness. I had grown up dreaming of my own happy marriage someday, of secure children. Lauren would never be treated as I had been.

  I replaced the phone in its holder and pushed to my feet. For a moment I swayed. Man. What was this? I arched my shoulders and moved my achy neck from side to side. Maybe two more extra-strength pain relievers would help.

  I stepped away from the couch and headed for the kitchen, chiding myself for resting too long. Now I'd be pressed to make dinner on time. The roast needed to slow cook in the oven, and I hadn't cut the potatoes, onions, and carrots. Brock expected his dinner at six thirty. Or whenever after that he happened to come through the door.

  My legs felt wobbly as I walked to the stainless steel sink. I gazed down at the defrosted roast. Okay. First a large pan . . .

  My eyes fixed on the piece of meat. I stared at the red hunk until I looked through it. My thoughts splayed out . . .

  Flattened.

  Melted away.

  I hung there. Hands on the sink.

  I blinked.

  What was I . . . ?

  The pan.

  I crossed the kitchen to a lower cabinet, where I'd have to reach far into the back. Started to bend down.

  Don't do it.

  I stopped. Made a face at myself. What was that voice in my brain?

  My hand reached out again. A knowledge deep inside protested that my legs wouldn't hold me.

  Air puffed from my mouth. How silly. My legs were a little weak, that's all. Besides, I had no choice. Dinner required this particular pan, and that was that.

  I bent over, opened the cabinet and crouched down.

  My legs gave out. Down I went—hard—on my rear end. Pain ricocheted through my shoulders and neck.

  Stunned, I sat on the floor, palms flat against the hardwood. After a minute I shook my head. Okay, so I'd fallen. While I was on the floor, I'd at least get the pan. I scooted close to the cabinet, leaned in and withdrew it from the top shelf. I lifted the pan and slid it onto the counter. Closed the cabinet door.

  Now to get up.

  Twisting to one side, I placed both hands close to each other. Pushed against the floor. My legs wouldn't cooperate. I tried again, managing to work my way onto my knees. My leg muscles felt squishy.

  Well now really. This was dumb.

  I lifted one knee, positioning a foot beneath my body. Pushed off from the floor—and tumbled over. My head bounced against the cabinet.

  "Ungh." I lay on my side, mouth open, my annoyance turning to fear. What was happening? I had to get up.

  I tried again. And again. Didn't work. Sweat popped out on my body. I couldn't believe this. My arms felt strong enough, though the joints hurt. But my legs just wouldn't . . .

  Once more I tried to rise. And failed.

  Chapter 2

  I SLUMPED ON MY KITCHEN FLOOR, TELLING MYSELF NOT TO PANIC. Okay, so my legs felt a little weak. I'd manage. In a metaphorical sense, I'd had my legs pulled out from under me time and again as a young girl. I'd never forget one scene when I
'd been ten. My mother, huddled in the corner of our dirty living room, cheeks reddened with tears and rage.

  "I'm sick of him. I can't live like this anymore."

  "What're you going to do?" I stood in the doorway, heart rattling. Which was worse, living with a drunk or without him? Mom had no money. At least Dad gave us a house to live in.

  My mother raised dull eyes to me. "I want to die."

  Breath caught in my throat. "No, you don't."

  "Yes, I do." She slapped both hands over her face and sobbed.

  My fingers bit into my arms. And what happens to me, Mom? You gonna just leave me alone here with him?

  I swallowed hard. I should go give my mother a hug, cheer her up.

  But who was ever there to comfort me?

  I hung in the doorway, torn and breathless. Finally I turned and fled.

  Now in my own home, I felt the roil of determination. I'd grown from that frightened child into a strong adult. I was no longer a victim. And at this moment the clock was ticking. My daughter needed me. I would get up.

  First I shot a prayer to heaven for help. Then mouth set, I scooted on my rear end across the room. At the sink, I bent my knees and placed both feet flat on the floor. Reached up and wrapped my tender fingers around the lip of the sink. One, two, go. With both arms I pulled myself upright.

  For a moment I leaned against the counter, hanging onto the granite. Assessing. My legs felt weak, but they would hold me. As long as I didn't crouch down again.

  I turned and checked the stove clock. Ten minutes before three.

  "Oh, no."

  I headed for the door leading into the garage. I had to walk slowly, steadying myself along the way, trailing a hand along the counter, a kitchen chair, the wall. I stepped through the door, then hesitated, hand still on the knob. There was . . . To drive I needed . . . something.

  Keys.

  I shook my head. I knew that. Something else. Where did I keep my . . . That thing.