The Drowning Man (6 page)

“Well, your pulse and blood pressure are almost back to normal. You had pneumonia, but that's cleared up now. Your pupils, reflexes, and lungs check out. Your lungs and throat may feel a little irritated from the chemicals in the water and the pneumonia. You may still have some pain from your nose and two ribs being broken. I’d like to keep you at least one more night, get you eating solid food again, make sure your lungs stay clear. How does that sound? You ready to get the hell out of here?”

Trent tried a smile. It felt awkward. Almost as awkward as talking. “What day is it?” he asked hoarsely.

“Tuesday, May 17
^th
.”

Trent scowled then closed his eyes and nodded. He'd lost close to two months. His hands fisted in rage and frustration.

“Your brother should be back later tonight and that pretty cop is going to want to talk to you when you're up to it.”

His eyes snapped open. “No cops. Not now. I can't.”

“Fair enough. They have to go through me first and I don't think you'll be ready until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

Trent relaxed and forced another smile. “Thanks doc.”

“No problem. I do need you to do a favor for me though. I want you to talk to a friend of mine before you leave here.”

“I don't need a shrink to tell me the crazy bitch fucked with my head.”

“Trent,” Doctor Hender said quietly. “Your long term memory seems fine. But you've been here for a week. Your brother's been here every afternoon and evening. The guys from your firehouse were here. Do you remember anything at all from the past seven days?”

Trent shifted slightly on the bed. He tried. The last thing he remembered was the rage and frustration that Caroline wouldn't just let him go, then the female cop's face looking down at him. After that, everything was a blank. No matter how hard he concentrated, there was just nothing there. “Was I in a coma?”

The doctor shook his head. “You were awake. You sat up. You didn't acknowledge anyone, didn't say one word.” He saw his patient pale slightly at the words. “The events of the past few months severely traumatized you.”

“I just need to forget about it and move on.”

“Okay, but if that doesn't work, you call me and I'll set you up with someone.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Goddamn, Trent thought once he was alone again. He hadn't really thought he'd make it out of that hell house alive. Yes, he was incredibly weak, but overall his body was in good working order. He tested his memory again. Other than the recent black hole of the past week, everything was there – who he was, what he did, where he lived, the people he knew.

He should be elated, grateful to be alive and in one piece. Instead, all he felt was numb. Like his brain couldn’t quite process everything he’d been through. And now, after all that, he was going back home, back to his life. Whatever was left of it, anyway.

None of it seemed possible, let alone real.

Nathan was afraid to get his hopes up. All he knew was that his brother was awake. He just had no idea if Trent would be the same brother he'd known his entire life. His heart surged when he opened the door and Trent was sitting up in bed looking at him, this time with recognition in his eyes. “Goddamn it's good to see you,” he said.

“You mean now that I'm not catatonic.”

“Well, there is that.” Nathan forced a grin.

“What'd you bring me?” Trent nodded at the paper bag Nathan had under his arm.

Nathan smiled. “I snuck in pizza and beer.”

“Sausage and mushroom from Franks?”

Nathan nodded.

“Now that's worth waking up for.” Trent grinned. The same smirking grin he’d always had.

This time Nathan's answering smile was real. He leaned back in the chair. “The Chiefs are kicking ass so far this season,” he started, cracking open a beer.

“Yeah?” Trent asked

Nathan would not bring up what had happened. He didn’t want to take the chance of Trent regressing, so he stuck to safe topics like football. He updated Trent on how his new job as assistant principal was going, and he continued to joke around like they always had.

The truth was, he was afraid to find out what had happened to make his brother so traumatized, and Trent didn't bring it up. There would be time for that later, when Trent was fully recovered. They were close, but had never been guys who got into emotional shit with each other. Now was certainly not the time to start.

Trent fell asleep after one slice of pizza and half a beer instead of his usual half a pizza and half a six-pack. Nathan looked down at his younger brother and felt a wave of protective emotion. He and Trent hadn't had the best childhood. Their mother took off shortly after Trent had been born. Their old man came home from work at 5:30 every night, fed them dinner, then drank beer and watched TV until he passed out on the couch. Occasionally, he'd smack them around a bit. He'd died of a heart attack two years ago. Neither of his sons had attended the funeral.

It had always been he and Trent against the world. And that was just fine with him, Nathan thought as he quietly cleaned up the evidence and went to find Dr. Hender.

The two cops came into Trent’s room as soon as the nurse cleared away his breakfast tray. The first, was a tall stocky dark-skinned man on crutches, the second … Trent took a deep breath as the images rushed back. He remembered her face but when he looked at her, he saw the tank, saw the water enveloping him, swallowing him, suffocating him. He couldn't breathe.

Lora looked at her partner, then at the bed where Trent Barlow had his eyes closed as if in pain. “Mr. Barlow?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

Trent forced his eyes open, forced air into his lungs. That face. It was burned into his memory, flawless peach skin, delicate eyebrows, pale green eyes surrounded by strands of auburn hair. He couldn't look directly at it. “I'm fine,” he lied, rubbing his forehead.

“It's okay,” she said quickly. “I'll go and let Detective Woods handle the interview.”

“Shit,” Trent said after the door had closed behind her. “Tell her I'm sorry.”

Woods waved him off. “Nah, usually the guys fall all over Tatum, it's good for her to be put in her place once in a while.” He paused, smiled. “Detective Justice Woods,” he said, holding out his hand.

Trent shook it. “A cop named Justice. Now I really have heard it all.”

“Yeah, Dick Justice, that's me.”

Trent gave a half-smile and asked the question he'd been afraid to even think about since he'd come out of it. “Where's Caroline?”

“A mental institution, being evaluated.”

Trent nodded. “Let's get this over with.”

Lora read the notes from the interview. She stood and paced. “Damn.” She paced some more. She shook the stack of paper in her hand. “Damn,” she said again.

“I know, that's one cold-hearted bitch,” her partner said.

Lora shook her head.

“If he hadn't been in such good shape going in, he never would have survived as long as he did. Now, with his help, we take the bitch down.”

“Woods, we've seen some sick twisted shit over the years, but this … this … hell, I don't even know what the hell this is.”

She couldn’t stop thinking about Trent Barlow and the brief glimpse she’d gotten of him in the hospital that morning. He’d looked like a frightened animal, all wide-eyed with cautious disbelief.

The worst part of the whole thing was that his ordeal was far from over. He still had a long way to go, recovery wise, and then he’d have to go through Caroline Newberry’s trial. She didn’t know what to make of the protectiveness she felt towards him.

“Tate, I'm only going to say this once. You're taking this one way too personally. You need to take a step back.”

She took a breath, blew it out slowly. “You're right.” The case was over. Except for Simon the missing goon. She took another deep breath and let her shoulders relax, rolled her neck. “Okay. Let's move on.”

“Besides, you aren't the one still limping.”

She shot him a glare. “That puppy dog face might work on your wife, but I'm not cutting you any slack.”

“Sadist.”

The word was harsh, but there was no mistaking the affection in his tone and Lora smiled as she went back to focusing on the task at hand. Making sure Doctor Caroline Newberry paid for her crimes.

Trent was going home in the morning. It was strange, going to sleep without worrying, waiting, for the door to be thrown open and being drug to the damned tank. It was over. So why didn't it feel over? Why was he laying there staring at the ceiling when his body was so desperate for hours of uninterrupted sleep?

Detective Woods had stopped by a few hours earlier to talk about Simon. Trent wasn’t surprised he was still out there. He really didn't give a damn, though. If the bastard had wanted to kill him, he’d had plenty of opportunities. But he hadn’t had the strength to argue with Woods about the regular patrols that would be checking on his apartment for the near future.

He'd startled one of the nurses earlier that afternoon. He'd been napping and she'd done nothing more than open the door to check on him and he'd jumped out of bed so fast she'd screamed and ran out the door. Minutes later, Dr. Hender had appeared, reassuring Trent that they would all knock first. Trent had hated the look in his eyes of concern and wariness. As if afraid his patient would lose it and completely flip out.

What a fucked up mess. He tried to reassure himself that once he was back home, back to work, everything would go back to normal. It didn't work and he continued to lay awake, waiting for the sun to rise.

Lora hung up the phone and took a sip of her now cold coffee. Woods was putting the final touches on the Barlow case file across from her. His desk was a mess of papers and manila folders. He was on desk duty for the time being and hating every minute of it. “You find anything interesting?” she asked.

He looked up and waved a typed sheet of paper. “Doctor Newberry kept a record of twelve drowning incidents. Trent Barlow was strapped to a bed and hooked up to an IV for at least part of the time.”

“Christ,” Lora said, feeling sick. She hadn't understood at first why he'd asked her to let him die after she’d pulled him out of the tank. Now it made perfect, horrible sense.

“There's more,” he said, pushing the play button on the tape recorder lying in the middle of his desk.

“Tell me what you saw,” Doctor Newberry's voice demanded.

“Tell me, dammit, did you see him?” The voice rose in anger.

“I didn’t see him.” A man's voice. Trent Barlow.

“Is it different each time?”

Brief silence followed by a sound that was half-laugh half-sob.

“Turn it off,” Lora said.

Woods complied and they worked in silence for about an hour before he interrupted her again.

“Christ, Tate, take a look at this.”

Lora took the newspaper from her partner's hand and read the headline.

She handed it back without reading the article. “Why don't they just leave him the hell alone?”

“Because he's news. Because dramatic stories with a happy ending and a person who looks good in photos sell papers.” He paused. “Hey, at least you're not the one whose name is followed by 'wounded during the rescue'.”

“Just makes you all the more heroic.” She gave him an affectionate squeeze on the shoulder as she headed for the coffee machine.

Trent blinked in the bright late afternoon sun as his brother pushed him in a wheelchair through the hospital exit door. They didn't speak as they approached the waiting car where his sister-in-law Amy sat in the driver's seat, motor running. Trent stood when they reached the sidewalk, hating how weak his legs still felt. They made it halfway to the car before the reporters who were camped out at the front entrance caught sight of them and came running. They thrust their microphones and cameras towards him, shouting questions, demanding answers he couldn't give.

Nathan held open the rear car door for him. “Get in the car. Now.”

Trent paused, hand on the top of the window, blinking as the cameras went off all around him. Why were they all here? Nathan started to push him inside the backseat. He took a last look behind him and climbed into the car.

He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes as they pulled away. Why the hell did the press want to interview him? Whatever. He was too tired to think about it. He didn't move again until he heard Amy's tense voice in front of him.

“Nate!”

Trent opened his eyes, looked around. They were still on the interstate. One news van had pulled alongside them, crowding into their lane, and another was right on their back bumper. “What in the hell?” he muttered.

“We're almost home,” Nathan said to his wife. “Just take it slow and easy.”

The vans followed them up the driveway. Nathan pulled out his cell phone and punched in 911. “We stay in the car with the doors locked until the cops get here.”

Amy took her shaking hands off the steering wheel.

“Oh no,” Nathan said as their front door swung open and two blond girls ran out onto the porch. He jumped out of the car.

“Daddy,” the younger one called, halfway down the sidewalk to him.

“Nicole, Samantha, go back in the house.” He gestured wildly towards the babysitter standing in the open front door.

The female reporter, a pale redhead from the evening news, headed across the lawn towards the open car door, trailed by her cameraman.

Nathan scooped up the girls, one in each arm. He turned back towards the reporters. “Get off my property. Now. The cops are on the way.”

The reporter kept her focus on Trent. “Mr. Barlow, how about a nice shot of your homecoming? How many times did Doctor Newberry try to kill you?”

The cameraman had the camera inside the car now, aimed at the back seat where he sat. Amy had opened her door, gotten out, and was slowly backing towards the house, her mouth moving but no sound coming out.

Nathan handed off the girls to the babysitter still standing in the doorway, her face pale, eyes huge. He strode back towards the car, his face dark with anger. Before he got there, Trent jerked the door handle, forcing the reporter to take a step back as the door swung open. “Get that camera out of my face,” he growled as Nathan came up next to him, a hand on his arm leading him towards the house.