One more thing the bitch had taken from him.
His legs and feet moved faster. His breath came in gasps. His lungs burned. His muscles screamed in protest. But he pushed on, determined to run his ghosts into the ground. He didn’t know any other way to do it.
Three hours later, Nathan looked out the peephole of his front door, swallowed hard, and opened the door. Trent limped inside, a small paper bag clutched in his hand. “We’ve got leftovers in the fridge if you’re hungry,” Nathan said.
Trent shook his head.
Nathan put a hand on Trent's shoulder and led his brother through the house and outside to the back deck. Trent couldn’t quite suppress a groan as he sat down in one of the chairs.
“Punishing yourself, I see,” Nathan said as he sat in the other chair.
“Just trying to get back in shape.”
“Uh huh.” Nathan was all too familiar with his brother’s need to run himself into the ground when he was struggling with something.
Trent pulled a bottle out of the bag, opened it, took a long swig, then handed it to his brother.
Running obviously hadn’t been enough this time. Nathan took a drink, feeling the bourbon burn on the way down. He knew better than to ask Trent what was going on. Trent would talk when he was good and ready. He took another drink then handed the bottle back.
Trent took a swallow then sat the bottle down between them. “I went to the firehouse,” he said quietly, staring out into the darkness.
“That’s good,” Nathan said.
“Chad’s dead.”
“I know,” Nathan said as he reached for the bottle.
Trent turned in his chair to face him. “You fucking knew my best friend was dead and you didn’t tell me?”
“It was for your own good. We wanted to protect you. You had enough to deal with.”
“Oh, well, that’s just fucking great. Thanks for that. I’m not a goddamned child that needs to be sheltered, Nate.”
“I know that. I just wanted to protect you. Big brothers do that. Or at least they're supposed to.”
Trent’s jaw muscle ticked. “You should have told me.”
Nathan stared out across his backyard, then glanced back at Trent. “I’m sorry.”
Trent nodded and took a drink.
A half-hour later, Trent stood on unsteady legs. “I gotta go.”
“The only place you’re going is the couch, little brother.”
Trent mumbled a reply and followed Nathan into the house. By the time he got a blanket out of the closet, Trent was already asleep on the couch. After carefully tucking the blanket around him, Nathan turned out the light. When he got up at 6:30 the next morning, the only thing on the couch was the neatly folded blanket.
Chapter 17
Lora only went to court on the morning she was scheduled to give her testimony. She hadn’t wanted to take the chance of upsetting Trent Barlow with her presence in the courtroom. She had, however, been paying close attention to the trial. Doctor Caroline Newberry was pleading insanity despite all the evidence of how thorough and methodical she'd been throughout the weeks of Trent’s abduction. Lora had never been in favor of the insanity defense. It was nothing more than a cop out.
Given the right circumstances, almost anyone could do something insane, but that was no excuse for what Caroline Newberry had done to Trent Barlow. Fortunately, the judge had a tough but fair reputation. Unfortunately, this was one of those situations where having family money and community standing meant getting the best defense attorney in the city. Who just happened to be tight with well-known psychiatrists who were so far making a good case for the insanity plea. Hopefully she and Woods could do something about that with their testimonies.
Lora parked in the back lot of the courthouse, got out of her department issued car, and faced the gauntlet of bodies, cameras, and microphones. It was a media circus up and down the street. And not just the local anchors and reporters were gathered outside the courthouse, the nationally known ones were there too. The case had just enough sensationalism to catch their attention. She knew they had a job to do, yet she had little sympathy for people who preyed on others’ misfortune. She also knew she was very much going to enjoy watching Doctor Caroline Newberry go down.
Lora stayed in the hallway outside the courtroom until she was called to the stand. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to testify in a case, so she made her way to the front of the room, went through the motions of being sworn in, and took a seat.
She swallowed bile as she sat in the witness chair, looking at this ordinary looking woman, a pillar of the community, who was capable of such extraordinary evil and hatred. She’d seen enough in her years as a cop to know how deceiving looks could be, but this was so far beyond the norm, it was incomprehensible. She intentionally avoided looking at anyone else, but focused her attention on only the lawyer questioning her and the woman she wanted to help put away.
Her plan nearly backfired when Caroline's blue eyes met hers. No remorse, no sorrow. Just cold arrogance. Lora unconsciously crossed a line. The case became more than just business as usual. It became personal. And the bitch was going down.
It took every ounce of her self-control to not show any emotion and stick to the facts as she answered the questions. The effort left her so exhausted, she could barely stand when she was dismissed twenty minutes later.
The double doors shut behind her with a solid thud and she sighed, getting her bearings. Trent Barlow sat in the hallway on a bench, waiting for his turn to testify, hands clasped together, head bent down. His older brother stood protectively next to him, arms crossed across his chest. Nathan Barlow nodded as she passed by. Trent didn't look up.
She got a better look at Trent on the news that evening, leaving the courtroom after giving his testimony that afternoon. He looked exhausted, his dark eyes haunted. He was still too thin, but not emaciated like he'd been when she'd pulled him out of the tank. He also looked determined and somehow tougher, almost menacing, with his hair closely cropped and the beard gone. She could only imagine what it had been like for him to sit across from the woman, describing to the judge and jury the physical and mental hell she'd put him through for all those days. It took a very strong person to survive what he had.
After eating leftover Chinese takeout for dinner, she fought the urge to call Trent to see how he was doing. Instead, she called Woods to check in. Satisfied that she hadn’t missed anything of importance at work, still wiped out but too wired for sleep, Lora walked the four blocks to her gym.
Avoiding the shiny new weight machines and high-tech cardio fitness center, she went down the hall, past the aerobics rooms, to the very back of the building. It was the only room in the gym she used. It smelled like stale sweat and contained only mats, punching bags, and a boxing ring. More often than not, she was the only woman there and that suited her just fine, especially on nights like this when she needed to work out her aggressions in a safe environment.
She’d tried yoga. Once. But couldn't deal with all the New Agey breathe through one nostril, ohm, shit.
Boxing was an acceptable way for her to work out her aggressions. It kept her sanity in check. As an added bonus, it also kept her body in remarkable shape. Not that she cared about her physical appearance, but it was important that she stay in top form to do her job. And to beat the living shit out of anyone who dared take her on.
She pictured Caroline Newberry's face and smashed her gloved fist into the bag over and over again.
Thanks to the local media's fascination with Caroline's case, and a newspaper vending machine just outside his hotel room, Simon Hewett was able to follow the trial while he healed. Though the TV coverage and the crappy set in his room didn't allow him the vantage point he would have liked, it was better than nothing.
His first glimpse of Caroline on the screen three days earlier had been painful. She'd walked out of the courthouse on her own but it was clear the bastard doctors that were treating her had pump
ed her full of something. Whatever it was kept her alert and functioning, but when the camera went in for a close-up, he could see the changes in her eyes. While still the same brown color, they held no warmth, no spark of the woman she'd once been.
But Simon would make it right, no matter how long it took him.
He sat on the edge of the bed now, riveted to the small screen in front of him. At the sight of Detective Lora Tatum walking down the steps, his wound started to throb. Oh yeah, the bitch was going to pay for that.
Then came the money shot. The wounded hero. Trent Barlow. The Drowning Man. Simon shook his head. He didn't even have a nickname. He was just suspect number two, still at large. And planning to keep it that way.
Though he did have to hand it to Barlow. The man appeared to be recovering nicely. Of course having the entire city adoring you had to help. Barlow should be thanking him for his newfound fame.
Simon punched the off button on the remote and leaned back on the bed and closed his eyes. He had a lot of planning to do.
Chapter 18
Trent sat directly behind the prosecutor as Caroline stood to face the judge, thankful he could only see the back of her head and not her face. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. Time slowed, his vision tunneled, sounds blurred together.
Guilty by reason of insanity, twenty years in a maximum-security mental institution. Those were the only words he heard the judge say. They echoed through his mind. He let out his breath. It was over.
It was unlikely Caroline would ever get out of the institution. If she did, she'd be a very old woman. Yet Trent had still hoped for jail. Or death.
At least she’d never be free again. There was some justice in that. He’d gone through his testimony on autopilot, not allowing himself to feel or show any emotion. He made the mistake now of glancing at the jury. One man caught his eye and gave him a triumphant nod. The woman next to him had tears in her eyes. Trent's hands fisted at his sides. What the hell did they know about what he’d been through?
Trent struggled against sudden exhaustion as he braced his palms on his knees and stood. He was instantly surrounded by his attorney, his brother, and half a dozen cops as they made their way through the crowd and the chaos to the waiting car.
“Want to stop for a drink?” Nathan asked as he pulled away from the courthouse.
Trent managed a shrug.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
After several random turns to make sure none of the reporters were following, Nathan drove them to a downtown sports bar. Though Trent knew his brother’s true motivation, to keep him from being alone after his day in court, he did need the distraction. He needed to do something normal like have a beer with his brother.
Of course, he'd never get the chance to have a beer with Chad again, he thought as they settled into a booth at the back of the bar. The thought caused a wave of anger so sharp, he nearly doubled over in pain. He swallowed it down with a long drink of cold beer.
Nathan talked about sports, about the latest students he’d had to expel, about the girls’ school activities. Trent interjected a comment here and there, thankful that his brother knew him well enough to not mention Caroline or the trial. Or Simon.
“You should eat,” Nathan said.
Trent pushed his nearly full plate of hot wings aside. “I know.” He needed to fuel his body. He'd gone for a run early that morning to clear his mind before court and had barely made it two miles before exhaustion overtook him and he'd had to walk back home, sweating and shaking. He finished his beer instead.
Nathan scowled.
“Don't worry, Nate, I haven't been drunk since the first night I was back home.” He paused. “And the night at your place.”
Nathan laughed. “Screw it. If anybody deserves to get drunk, it's you bro.” He signaled the waitress for another round.
“The girls miss you. Why don't you come to dinner Sunday night,” Nathan suggested when they were both halfway through the fresh beers.
Trent missed them too. More often than not, he was at his brother's house every Sunday for dinner and to watch football or whatever other sport was on during the off-season. Still, he hesitated. He felt tainted, like he wasn't fit to be around normal, decent people like his brother's family. He hadn't done anything wrong, he knew that. But what he'd done to that reporter in front of them scared him. That wasn't him. At least it hadn't been. And he could never go back to being who he was two months ago. How the hell could he explain that?
“Trent. We want you there. All of us.”
He nodded, his throat tight with emotion. “I'll be there.”
“Good,” Nathan said, finishing his beer.
“The reporters hassling you?” Nathan asked a few minutes later.
Trent shrugged. “Some, but I don’t think ‘fuck off’ is the kind of quote they’re looking for.”
No matter how many times Trent had stood right where he was, on his brother’s porch waiting for him to open the front door on a Sunday afternoon, this time was different. This time he felt … not quite nervous. Apprehensive, maybe? Out of place? Like an idiot for even thinking this way.
Nathan opened the door and threw his arms around Trent, instead of his usual head nod. Amy appeared next to her husband, looking close to tears. Trent’s chest tightened and he took a step back.
The girls hesitated, then ran to him and hugged his legs. A trickle of relief flowed through him. At least that was one thing that was normal.
“Come in, sit, relax,” Amy ordered, ushering him into the kitchen. “I made tacos.”
Trent pulled out a chair and sat at his usual spot at the table between Nathan and Nicole.
He cleared his throat and took a long drink of water. How long would it take before he was comfortable around people again? He could only hope it would be soon. Right now, he just wanted to make it through dinner.
At first the meal was filled with nervous small talk. Everyone talked more than usual but ate less. By the time Amy brought in dessert they had all relaxed and eased back into familiar banter with only the occasional awkward moment of silence.
Amy slid another piece of chocolate cake onto his plate. “You need this. It’s full of delicious empty calories,” she said.
He felt like he was being accepted back into their world. Or at least starting to be. If only adults could be as resilient as kids. Though he hadn’t exactly bounced right back after Eddie’s death. Maybe there were some things you never got over. You just had to find a way to deal with them.
By the end of the night the girls acted like he'd never been gone, crawling all over his lap, showing him their new toys and games, bringing out drawings they did for him while he was gone and in the hospital.
And for a few brief minutes, his world was back to normal.
Chapter 19
Simon Hewett had made it his business to observe everything he could about Detectives Justice Woods and Lora Tatum. Woods wasn't the enemy, but he could be useful. Lora Tatum had been the lead on Barlow's case. She was the one who'd shot him, the one who'd ruined everything.
The two detectives were close, that much was obvious. But not in the way of lovers. Theirs appeared to be more of a brother/sister relationship.
They were both so damned predictable. Showed up for work on time, parked in the same spot every day. Worked their cases thoroughly and methodically. Woods went straight home after work to his family. Lora stayed late, worked out, then went home alone.
Simon watched them now, crossing the parking lot to their department car. Lora already had her hair pulled back. Must be having a bad morning. He laughed. She always wore slacks, usually black, with a fitted blouse, usually white, and flats, usually black. Her long hair was always loose and flowing when she arrived for work, but ended up in a ponytail. He knew her mood by how fast her hair went up.
Woods was dressed in his usual uniform of khaki pants with a knit shirt, the color varied by day, an endless rainbow of mediocrity, and a tan sport coat wit
h brown loafers. On warm days, he skipped the socks. He was walking almost normally now, there was almost no visible sign of the injury Simon had inflicted. The man had no idea how lucky he was. He was one of the few Simon had tried, and failed, to kill.
Trent absently flipped through the newspaper pages as the sun rose outside his kitchen window. Then an image caught his full attention.
Detective Lora Tatum. Such a beautiful face, even in newspaper grays. Too bad it only reminded Trent of the torture he'd been through. Even seeing her picture in the paper caused a flood of unpleasant memories. It was bad enough that her face surfaced occasionally in his dreams, now he had to see it when he opened up the morning paper.
He supposed he should be flattered people found him interesting enough to write and read about. But he wasn't. He'd been the subject of a few editorials, even had his own nickname. The Drowning Man. He hated people thinking of him that way. As a victim. Hated even more that the media wouldn’t drop the story.
The article proclaimed Detective Tatum a hero for saving him. They called his survival a miracle. Now the bastards wanted to interview him. They'd left countless messages for him at home and at the station. They stood outside his apartment for days on end. Maybe he should do it, tell them the truth, that sometimes he wished she hadn't saved him, that he wished he'd died in the tank. That would blow their feel good story all to hell.
He crumpled up the paper and threw it across the room. He just wanted to forget about the whole damned thing. Was that so much to ask?
He finished his cup of coffee then slammed the empty mug down on the counter. Not the way he wanted to start his first day back training. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair and took a deep breath. He'd put the anger aside, use it later in the training course.
An hour later, Trent stood in the parking lot of the training center, looking up at the three-story tower the company affectionately referred to as Old Smokey.
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