The Drowning Man (7 page)

“Do you want Ms. Newberry to die for what she did to you?” A male reporter from the other network called as he ran across the lawn towards them. “What really happened to her son that day at the river?” he asked when he hadn't gotten the reaction he was looking for.

“You son of a bitch.” Trent shook off his brother's arm and whirled to face the reporter. “You want to talk to me, you do it when I'm not with my family. Leave them alone.”

“Do you want to watch her die like she did to you?”

Trent grunted low in his throat and threw a punch at the reporter's face. While it didn't have the effect it would have if he'd been at his full strength, it was enough to knock the other man to the ground. The reporter rubbed his left eye and smiled up at the other network's cameraman. “Did you get that?”

Trent bent to punch him again but this time Nathan got a hold of him around the shoulders and used his weight advantage to drag his brother backwards. Sirens screamed in the distance.

“Go, go go,” the cameraman shouted as the sirens screeched louder. The three charged towards their vans and sped out of the driveway.

“You're a little fucking late,” Trent shouted as the police car pulled into the vacated spot where the van had been a minute earlier, and two male officers got out.

“Get in the house, Trent,” Nathan said through clenched teeth.

Trent glared at the cops and spun around, muttering under his breath.

When Nathan got inside ten minutes later, his girls were sitting on the couch on either side of Amy. “Where's Trent?” he asked.

Amy nodded towards the kitchen.

“What's wrong with Uncle Trent?” Nicole asked, eyes scrunched up in confusion.

Nathan didn't answer, just walked through the arched doorway to the next room. Trent was at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. “You okay?” he asked.

“No,” Trent answered, looking up.

“You want some ice for that?” Nathan asked, nodding at his brother's knuckles.

Trent shook his head.

“I've never seen you lose it like that.”

“I don't know what happened.” Trent looked at his right hand as he flexed it. “I didn't expect them to follow me.”

“You're staying here tonight.”

Trent didn't argue. The adrenaline rush had died out, leaving him exhausted and numb. All he wanted at the moment was to sleep.

Nathan woke up early the next morning and made his way downstairs to the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He poured a cup of coffee from the already half-empty pot. Trent was slumped in one of the chairs on the back deck, a mug balanced on his thigh, his bare feet propped up on the railing. “Did you sleep?” Nathan asked, sliding the door open.

“Two or three hours before the nightmares started,” Trent answered without looking up.

Nathan couldn’t think of a thing to say, and Trent didn't seem to be interested in conversation. He dropped into the chair beside his brother, drinking his coffee in silence, hoping his presence would at least let Trent know he wasn't alone. He hated Trent being in pain and not being able to do a damn thing to help. But he would be there for him in whatever way he could. Even if it was sitting next to him in silence.

Trent ignored the slight tremor in his hand as he unlocked the door to his apartment. He was not looking forward to the stuffy emptiness that waited for him on the other side of the door. He inhaled. Stupid. He lived here. He hadn’t even been gone for that long. He let out his breath, pushed the door open, and stopped halfway through the doorway.

The air smelled like cinnamon. And Lemon Pledge. Every visible surface had been cleaned from top to bottom. Candles were scattered around in various places. He walked through the rooms on autopilot. The kitchen cabinets and fridge were stocked. His mail was neatly stacked on the counter. There was a welcome home note from Amy and Nate in the middle of his kitchen table. His stomach clenched. He’d read it later.

He continued on, finding fresh towels in the bathroom. He stepped into his bedroom and gripped the doorframe. He never made the bed. The sight of it neatly made nearly brought him to his knees, that simple gesture of caring. Like they’d expected him to come home and wanted the place to be welcoming. And the apartment looked better than it ever had since he’d been living there. What did that say about him that he hadn’t even cared enough about where he lived to keep it neat?

The thought of Nate and his wife going through and arranging his things caused a fresh wave of discomfort.

Christ. He scrubbed his hand down his face and backed out of the room. He wasn't ready to face all this. He could call his buddy Chad, go get a beer or something. But at the moment, he barely had enough strength to stand, let alone face going out in public.

He made it back into the living room and sank down onto the couch, looked around the apartment he never thought he'd see again. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Nate had wanted him to spend the night with them again but Trent knew that sooner or later he'd have to be alone. And one night at their place was enough. He didn't want to disrupt their life anymore than he already had. The sooner he got his first night alone over with, the better.

Amy had cooked breakfast for all of them this morning but there was no hiding from the fact that things had changed. She fussed over him, not sure what to say or do. And the girls, they ate their pancakes in silence, occasionally sending shy glances his way, almost as if they were afraid of him. He’d left as soon as the table was cleared.

He shook his head. Pushing himself to his feet, he stumbled to the bathroom and glared at the mirror. He looked like the walking dead, pale skin stretched over bone, his dark hair long and sticking up all over, a scruffy beard covering his face. No wonder the girls had looked so scared. His newly crooked nose was partly his own fault. Caroline had tried to take care of it, but he hadn't let her, couldn't stand for her to be that close to him.

He hitched his pants up as he turned around. None of his clothes fit. They were all too big, yet the idea of food turned his stomach. Luckily, he still had an almost full case of beer in the fridge. Three beers later, he realized he should have eaten something first. Three more and he didn't care. About anything.

He lay down on the couch and closed his eyes, letting the warm numbness sink into his muscles.

Drunk as he was, the alcohol did nothing to stop his unconscious thoughts from manifesting themselves in nightmares. He woke up in a cold sweat and stumbled into the bathroom. In the low light the white tiles gleamed bone bright. He glanced at himself in the mirror. Unable to meet his own haunted eyes, he turned away.

The bathtub in the corner threatened to swallow him whole. What would it be like if he filled it to the top and sank below the surface? Would death come peacefully if he was the one who chose it?

He forced his gaze away and looked down at his shaking hands. What in the hell was he thinking? He backed out of the room and collapsed onto his knees in the hallway, terrified by the dark thoughts filling his head. Anger rose like a serpent from his belly. It curled around his heart and squeezed. His vision went red as he stood.

Stalking through the apartment, he yanked open his bedroom closet, then returned, fire axe in hand. He swung it over and over again, the clang of metal on porcelain echoing throughout the room. He swung until his hands ached and his skin was cut from flying chips of debris. He swung until the axe fell from his hands and he dropped, exhausted, to his hands and knees on the floor, his ears ringing. He laughed until he sobbed.

Christ. He really had lost it.

The damned pounding in Trent's head, in his chest, wouldn’t stop. The sound was everywhere. Echoing, driving him mad. It took a long time for him to realize the sound wasn’t just in his head, wasn’t the echo of his own heartbeat. Someone was knocking on his door.

Company was the last fucking thing he needed. He stayed on the floor where he was. Whoever was outside could come back later.

Or not. He didn't give a shit.

The pounding didn’t stop. Trent somehow made it to his feet and across the apartment to the front door. He looked out and cursed when he saw who it was. “What the fuck do you want?” he asked as he jerked the door open.

Detective Justice Woods studied him for a long moment, his gaze lingering on Trent’s bloody hands, then he looked around the apartment, right hand staying near his gun. “Everything okay in here?”

“I’m fine,” Trent growled.

“Yeah. Mind if I come in for a sec?” Woods asked.

Trent shrugged and stepped aside.

Woods limped a few steps into the living room. His eyes dropped to the axe on the floor in the hallway. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not really.”

“Right,” Woods said. “Suppose you don’t want to tell me what happened to your hands either.”

Trent laughed and collapsed onto the couch.

Woods continued down the hall. He let out a long slow whistle when he got to the bathroom. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

He came back into the living room. Trent was still on the couch, head leaned back, eyes closed. He heard Woods lower himself into the chair across from him. “Feel better now?”

Trent opened his eyes and stared wearily at him. “I’m really not sure how to answer that question, Detective Woods.”

“Fair enough.” He nodded at Trent’s hands. “Need a doctor?”

“No. They’re not deep. Why the hell did you come here anyway?”

“One of your neighbors heard the ruckus, called 911.” He spread his arms. “Lucky me, I was the one on watch duty outside your building.”

Trent sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Shouldn't you be out on disability or something?”

“Probably, but babysitting you was a compromise with the higher ups.”

Trent grunted.

“I’ll clear everything with your landlord, call a plumber I know, have him here first thing in the morning.” Woods stood with a slight grimace. “You need anything, you call me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Trent said as the detective let himself out.

Trent didn't bother to get up and lock the door behind him. Giving up on sleep, he grabbed the remote and another beer and settled onto the couch, absentmindedly flipping through the channels, occasionally dozing then jerking awake minutes later.

He was still awake when the doorbell rang promptly at 8 a.m. the next morning. The surprisingly well-dressed middle-aged man in neatly pressed khakis and a polo shirt followed Trent into his wreck of a bathroom. The man looked around and let out a low whistle. “What in the hell did that bathtub ever do to you, son?” he asked.

“Don't ask,” Trent said, then made his way to the kitchen, hoping some Tylenol and coffee would ease his headache.

He swallowed three of the white capsules while he waited for the coffee to brew. Rubbing his temples, he stepped outside to get the paper. Taking a deep breath of the crisp morning air, the pressure in his head eased.

The headache came back full force as soon as he opened the pages on his way back inside and saw the picture on page three. He was standing over the reporter on his brother's front lawn, fist drawn back, the look on his face like a crazed animal. At least the reporter hadn't pressed charges for assault.

He grabbed a mug, slammed the cabinet door shut, and jerked the pot off the burner. He congratulated himself on managing to fill the mug without spilling any of the hot, dark liquid.

His eyes stopped on a tiny dark grey smear on the white paint of his windowsill. Fingerprint dust. How much of it had his brother and Amy cleaned up? And how much of his stuff had the cops searched through? A new feeling of violation made his stomach churn.

He looked around the kitchen, feeling anything but at home. His eyes stopped again on the blinking message light on his answering machine. He hadn't paid any attention to it the night before. He couldn’t remember how many minutes it recorded, wondered if two months worth fit. He really didn’t want to play the messages and finished his cup of coffee, then poured himself another cup. If he was smart, he’d erase them all without playing them. His finger pressed the play button anyway.

The first three were from his brother. Then his chief wondering where the hell he was. Chad. One from the last woman he’d slept with, wanting to get together again. Another from the chief. A guy he ran the trails with sometimes. A few hang-ups. A few others from guys in the firehouse.

The tape ended and he sank against the wall. Strange hearing people’s concern over him. Sad that there really weren’t all that many people who did care about him.

Finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, he took his cup of coffee outside and sat down heavily on the steps in front of his apartment. He watched neighbors he didn't know come and go from the parking lot. The plumber whose name he couldn't remember came out, handed him the bill and drove off.

An hour after the plumber had left, he found the strength to go back inside and look at his newly remodeled bathroom. It was much roomier now with only the sink, toilet, and a glassed-in corner shower stall. He could breathe in there again. After shaving off his beard, he stood for a long time staring himself down in the mirror. Then, he shaved his head.

Trent pulled his beat up Chevy truck into his regular parking spot at the firehouse. He recognized most of the vehicles around him including the chief’s spotless black F150 in the reserved spot closest to the building. He got out, grabbed his gear off the passenger seat, and walked briskly towards the side door, giving himself no time to change his mind. He hadn’t told anyone in the house that he was coming, but there was nowhere else he wanted to go and staying at home alone was out of the question.

He took a calming breath and pushed open the door. His senses were assaulted with the familiar sights, sounds, and smells. The hallway was dim, the fluorescent light that was out still hadn’t been replaced. He closed his eyes and took it all in. The muffled voices and TV noise down the hall. Lingering aromas of spicy food cooking, sweat, and smoke.