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,
Hilda Newman and Tim Tate