BARE HUNTER

Sitting in a police cruiser in front of Sharon's house, I thought about our wonderful evening the night before. The sharing, the laughter, the hopefulness of it all. I should have stayed. I should have stayed. Why did I leave? I puked my OJ and cookies onto the floor of the cruiser, and my head began to swim. Not Sharon. Not Sharon. She didn’t deserve to be hurt by anyone. I prayed her ex-husband hadn’t found her after all these years. All I could do was tell them anything I could in hopes that the information I shared would help them find her husband, Lloyd. Why didn’t I stay last night? I should have stayed.

More police cars arrived and parked across the street from Sharon’s place, setting up cones and crime scene tape around the yard. My groggy brain struggled to comprehend what was happening. I was piecing it all together, including my strange, vocal dream last night, when an ambulance crew with a gurney rushing up the porch steps jolted me out of my fog. As they ran into the house, I prayed for the first time in years.

“Oh, God.”

My heart sank. My chickens were coming home to roost, and finally, after all this time, I was getting karmic payback for the family I slaughtered. Except it wasn’t me who was being hurt; it was someone I cared about. Someone who had nothing to do with why karma had come searching for me. I hung my head and decided it didn’t matter what happened to me now. My future was going to be taken away on a stretcher, and I had one more jagged edge of guilt to swallow for the rest of my life.

When I woke up, ambulance doors opened, and a police officer accompanied the paramedics and me into the hospital. I was cuffed to a gurney and confused as hell. “Sir, sir,” a nurse in scrubs tried to get me to focus, “Your heart stopped. We need to know what medications you are taking. Can you remember?”

My tongue felt too big for my mouth, and I slurred out, “Riza-rizasumthin’. Parodox, Voldorf, something new. Can’t remember.”

“Rizatriptan, Paroxetine, and Zoloft, maybe?” she tried to get me to remember.

“I don know,” I managed to get out.

Another person in scrubs walked in with a chart and read, “Rizatriptan, Paroxetine, Zoloft, Lexapro, Thorazine. I’m surprised he is still alive. Is this a suicide?”

“We don’t know yet. He’s going to Cardiac right now. We’ll talk with him later,” the nurse replied as an orderly began hefting the stretcher down a hallway, busting open double doors, and loading me onto an elevator.

I woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed. Buzzing and beeping noises filled my head, while a nurse read numbers from the machines and jotted notes on a clipboard. “Mr. Bronskey, your heart stopped. While you were in Cardio Care, Dr. Carpenter found two small blockages in your heart and stented them. But, that doesn’t explain why your heart stopped. You’ve also had several severe low blood pressure events.”

My mouth was crusty and parched. Too dry to speak, so I tried nodding to acknowledge hearing her. Even that slight movement was too much for me and I sunk into the pillow. I tried to piece together the last 24 hours: Timmy, Sharon, paint cans spilled, and footprints. Police cars, an ambulance. Was Sharon hurt? Had her husband finally found her? Did he kidnap her? Kill her? Why didn’t I spend the night with her? I should have stayed. I should have stayed.

As I tried to unravel events, a plainclothes policeman approached the bed, snapping open a leather ID case to show me his badge. “Mr. Bronsky, we are going to remove the cuffs. When you recuperate, you are free to leave. We have questions for you, though, concerning Mrs. Decker. We’d appreciate it if you would report to the police station to help us understand the timeline of her attack. Any information will help.”

“S-sandy,” I couldn’t finish my sentence.