The Accidental Existentialist (7 page)

"The next twenty-four hours are crucial," Dr.
Salzedo said. "We'll know better with time."

Aaron was in a coma with injuries to his head,
spine, and internal organs. Internal hemorrhaging had been
controlled, for now. But things could get better or much worse,
unexpectedly. Everything was still iffy.

I stood by his bed and held his hand. Warm.
Thank god. He would have appeared peaceful and simply asleep, but
for all the equipment he was hooked up to. It seemed grotesquely
uncomfortable.

Dave stood over Aaron, laid his hand on his
bandaged head and mouthed a silent prayer. I didn't like him
imposing his religion, even if Aaron had attended his church with
Jenn and Bethie since his birth. But I was too exhausted and beyond
objecting.

"You're welcome to stay with Aaron as long as
you wish," said Dr. Salzedo. "But there's nothing to be done now
but wait and monitor his progress. You've been through hell and
really should get some rest. We'll call you if anything
changes."

"No, I'm staying."

"Sam," Dave said, his hand on my shoulder.
"Maybe you should—"

"I said, I'm staying."

He leaned over and said something to the
doctor, who nodded in turn.

"I'll stay too, then," Dave said. "We can take
shifts."

"Thanks, really. But..." I couldn't think of a
good enough excuse besides the fact that he was starting to creep
me out with all his kindness. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be
alone with my boy."

"I understand." He pulled a business card from
his pocket and handed it to me. "If you need a ride home, give me a
call."

I thanked him again and he left. The Sheriff's
office was good enough to post an officer outside the room. "You
hang tough, buddy," I whispered into Aaron's ear and kissed him.
"When you wake up, I'll take you to McDonald's for a happy meal."
My voice broke. I had to believe he would get better. It was the
only shred of

hope left.

Chapter
Three

The yellow tape had been removed. A squad
car idled on the sidewalk in front of my house as the neighborhood
awoke to a new day. At the wheel sat Chris, the young partner of
Lieutenant Jim O’Brien. Chris glanced my way then turned away. I
couldn’t tell if it was intentional, his sunglasses obscured any
hint. O'Brien was talking to one of the investigators at my door.
Good to see a familiar face. When he saw me get out of the taxi, he
came over and removed his hat.

O’Brien and I first met
under tense circumstances—with his rifle pointed into my chest. It
was during a shooting and hostage crisis at Coyote Creek Middle
School, where Bethie attended. Along with all the other parents, I
stood for hours in the parking lot not knowing what was happening
inside.

I grew tired of waiting around not getting
any answers. So I marched right up to the police line. My cell
phone started buzzing and I reached for it. He thought I was
reaching for a weapon and he drew his rifle. Pissed and defiant, I
pressed my chest right into the barrel. He wasn’t going to shoot
me. The other parents might have, though. On that, the longest
afternoon of my life, two girls were killed. One of the stray
bullets grazed Bethie’s arm.

Afterwards, Jim and Chris came over to
question Bethie. Chris, who couldn’t have been more than
twenty-five years old, seemed not only to enjoy Bethie’s
starry-eyed attention, he almost encouraged it. I was never
completely comfortable around him since.

As I walked up the very lawn, on which I'd
slipped last night, Jim removed his hat. "My God, Sam. I’m so sorry
about Jenn. And Bethie? Dammit. You dodge a bullet, only to—" he
stopped himself and scowled. "How’s Aaron?"

"He’s hanging on."

"You should get some rest."

"I spent the night at Children’s." From the
corner of my eye, I noticed his partner looking our way. I turned
my head and again he averted his gaze. "What’s with Chris?"

Jim drew a deep breath. "Dunno. He’s been in
a mood since he found out. He really liked your family. ‘Specially
the kids." Suddenly, I felt the need for Zantac. Jim pulled his hat
from under his arm, placed it on his head and nodded. "Don’t
hesitate."

"Thanks."

"Oh, by the way," he stopped and handed me
my cell phone.
"Found this under your bed. It’s already been dusted and checked,
so I guess you can have it back." With a strong pat on the back, he
said good-bye and got in the car with his partner, who for some
reason hadn’t looked my way once since I arrived.

Just then, a news van pulled into the
cul-de-sac.

"Oh jeez, not again." My
rifle-in-the-chest standoff had been captured by a photographer and
the picture appeared in the North County Times. Made me look like
freakin' Tank Man of Tienanmen Square. One thing led to another and
the next thing I know, I’m doing a taping in my house for Channel
Seven news. A couple of days later, Brent Stringer, best-selling
writer and op-ed writer for the
Union
Tribune
did an interview feature. The
media, in all its wisdom, spun me up as San Diego’s Superdad. The
subsequent fame was about as welcome as a tax auditor in mid-April.
I’d just gotten out of the limelight.

O'Brien stepped out again and intercepted
the reporters and paparazzi.

"Thanks, Jim," I said silently. A young
woman stood in my open door. I hadn't noticed her until I padded
halfway across the lawn. She wore black slacks, a black blazer and
black sunglasses. I figured it was her black BMW parked in my
driveway. Had to wonder what her favorite color was. Silently
counting the steps to the second floor, she dabbed the air with her
index finger repeatedly.

I cleared my throat, extended my hand.

"Mister Hudson?" Her hand felt like a dead
fish. "I'm detective Pearson, County Sheriff's Department. Do you
have any form of identification?"

"Do
you
?" I reached for my
wallet.

"Driver’s license, social?" Pearson flashed
her badge quickly then examined my driver’s license. She looked
back up at me, scrutinizing my face. "Hmm." She handed it back.
"Let’s go over a few questions, shall we?"

"Would you like to come inside?"

"No." She proceeded to ask the same
questions the deputy had asked last night at Children’s.

"I’ve already answered these questions."

She looked up from the PDA. "It’s routine.
You’re probably thinking clearer after resting."

"Doubt it."

Again, Pearson tapped her PDA with a thin,
black stylus. She fired off the rest of her questions with chilling
detachment. "What time did you come home?"

"About eleven o’clock." A thousand
cockroaches skittered up my back as she studied my face.
Thankfully, she returned to her PDA.

"What room did you go into first?"

"My daughter’s"

"When did you first realize something was
wrong?"

"No wait. I first went into the master
bedroom, where I found Jenn." My knees grew weak. I braced myself
against the door frame.

"So, you first went into your own bedroom,
not your daughter’s."

"That’s right. I was thinking of which
child’s room—"

"Once again, Mister Hudson," she said,
enunciating. "When did you first realize something was wrong?"

"I didn’t think anything was wrong until I
found Jenn, stabbed and bleeding to death."

"Let’s not jump to conclusions. Exact cause
of death has not yet been officially determined."

"Excuse me?"

"Why don’t you leave that to the coroner and
stick with the facts."

"Fine."

"Are you aware that we came here to speak
with you last night about the pornographic materials found on your
work computer?"

Taken aback, I gasped. "No, but that stuff
wasn't mine. What the hell’s that got to do with anything?"

"Where were you around 7:30 PM last
night?"

"On my way to a client meeting in La Jolla.
Is that when you came?"

"Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts
around 11:00 last night?"

"I was on the 52 freeway, driving home.
Alone. Oh my god, did you say anything to my wife about the
porn?"

"No, sir."

"It wasn’t mine!"

"As I said, we didn’t mention it. That’s
still under investigation." More tapping. "Mister Hudson, relax.
I’m sure you’ll want to do everything to help us move this
investigation along. Right?"

"Of course."

"Then you won’t mind going to the crime lab
to provide samples."

"Samples?" The hair on the back of my neck
became thistles.

"DNA swabs, blood, fingerprints."

"What for? Am I a suspect?"

Her dark brown eyes glazed. "We routinely
take samples to exclude you as a potential suspect. The longer you
wait, the colder the trail gets. Refuse, and you’ll raise the
question as to why, and then—"

"Of course I’ll do it. It’s just that...it
feels like you’re treating me as a suspect."

"Unless you’ve got something to hide—"

"What is your problem?"

She scribbled something on a business card
and handed it to me. "County Sheriff Crime Lab. That’s the case
number. You don’t need an appointment. If I were you, I’d get to it
this morning before eleven, or things might start to appear
unfavorable."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I would never do that, sir."

"Yeah, well…" Before I could say another
word, she was halfway to her BMW. She got in, lifted her wrist,
tapped on her watch, then pointed at me.

My head spun as her Beamer roared out of the
cul-de-sac, leaving me standing in the doorway. Dread coursed
through my veins like Freon.

~~~

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