A vision denied is a battle lost.

With a flick of his hand the blackened sky blipped into
eerie green. Crouched on the house’s back deck, he adjusted
his night goggles. The high bushes surrounding the yard
illumed, the wizened limbs of a giant oak straggling upward
in surreal glow.

He ran his hand over a pocket on his black cargo pants. The
vial created a telltale bump against his thigh. His latex-
gloved fingers closed around it.

Rising, he crossed the deck in five long strides. He
surveyed the lock on the sliding glass door. Not enough
light. He raised the goggles, darkness reigning once more.
From a left pocket he extracted a tiny flashlight. Aimed
its beam at the lock.

A common thief he was not. His mission had required
intricate study of skills he’d never dreamed he need
possess. The pick of a lock. A stealthy skulk. A means to
render unconscious.

He pulled the necessary tools from the same pocket. Holding
the flashlight in his mouth, he worked the tools into the
lock, manipulating as practiced. The mechanism gave way
with a tiny click.

He slid the door open.

No alarm sounded. He knew it wouldn’t. In this upper crust
town, home to Stanford University, alarms were for
vacations. Children at home were too apt to set them off.

He replaced the flashlight and tools in his pocket. Slipped
inside the house and eased the door shut. Down came his
goggles. The large kitchen gleamed into view. His astute
nose picked up the lingering scent of pizza, cut with a
trace of ammonia. A cleaning agent, perhaps.

The digital clock on the microwave read 2:36 a.m.

From where he stood he could see through open doorways to a
den, a hall, and a dining room.

At the threshold to the hall he stopped and reached into
the lower right pocket beneath his knee. The three-ounce
glass bottle he withdrew had a covered plastic pump spray.
The chemical inside was not compatible with metals. He
removed the cap and slid it back into his pants.

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.