The Drowning Man

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The Drowning Man Page 10

by Sara Vinduska


  As soon as they were inside, the guys piled out of the truck, one by one, dirty and exhausted.

  “You need to get that looked at,” Burt said, nodding at his hand and taking Trent's oxygen pack from him on the apparatus floor.

  “I’m okay.” The burning pain in has hand competed with the dull throbbing ache in his shoulder as Trent hung up his coat. It was all he could do not to cry out in agony. Yeah, he was okay all right, he’d just spent the entire ride to the station trying not to throw up.

  “Bullshit,” Burt said. “You should have gone straight to the hospital. Now get your ass in the goddamned van. I’m driving you there myself.”

  “Chief.”

  Burt narrowed his eyes.

  Trent followed him to the van. He kept his mouth clamped shut the entire way there.

  After Burt parked the van, Trent got out and stalked towards the front entrance, not giving a damn if the chief was behind him or not.

  He signed himself in and let the nurse lead him to the designated room. He did not want to be in the hospital again. Walking down the white hall brought a sick sense of déjà vu. It took every bit of courage he possessed to keep walking. The throbbing pain in his hand was the only thing that kept him from turning around and running out the front door. That and the chief waiting outside the examination room.

  He sat down on the bed, waiting, his knee bouncing up and down. Christ. There wasn’t enough air in the room. He looked down at his hand. It wasn’t that bad. A little ice and it would be fine. He hopped down onto his feet.

  “I heard you were here,” Doctor Hender said, pulling back the flimsy curtain.

  Trent forced a grin. “Not for long, I hope.”

  “Let’s have a look.”

  Trent sat back down and held out his hand.

  Doctor Hender proceeded with the examination.

  “Not too bad. Second degree. You’ll have some minor scarring but no loss of function.”

  Trent nodded as the antibiotic cream and bandages were applied to his hand.

  Doctor Hender studied him for a brief minute. Trent knew that despite the soot-covered face and bandaged hand, he looked nothing like the patient the doctor had treated all those months ago in the ER.

  The doctor continued the exam. “Just a minor strain to your shoulder.”

  Trent nodded.

  “You need anything else?” Doctor Hender asked, taking a step back.

  “I'm good.”

  “Okay. Well, take care of yourself.”

  “Will do,” Trent said, looking at the wall behind the doctor.

  He sat for another minute then followed the doctor out. Burt was leaning against the wall in the hallway.

  “Is the kid here?” Trent asked.

  “Room 146. Smoke inhalation, minor burns. The mom’s in the room with him,” Burt said, pushing off the wall and leading the way to the elevator.

  Every cell in Trent's body was screaming at him to get the hell out of there, but he knew Burt wouldn't let him off the hook that easily, so he kept his mouth shut again and followed his boss.

  “The babysitter didn’t make it,” Burt said, when the elevator doors shut in front of them.

  Trent nodded once and they didn't speak again as they descended then made their way down another long white hallway.

  Burt stepped aside and Trent knocked once then pushed the door marked room 146 open. A curvy brown-haired woman who looked about seventeen, still in her crisp white waitress uniform, was bent over the bed, her hand stroking the boy’s forehead.

  Trent cleared his throat and she looked up at them, her eyes darting from Trent to Burt. “You’re the firemen,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Trent said.

  She studied Trent’s bandaged hand, then his face. “You're the Drowning Man,” she said with awe in her eyes.

  Trent forced a smile. “My name's Trent.”

  The young woman took his good hand in hers. “God saved you so you could save others.”

  Trent squeezed her hand and took an awkward half-step back. “How’s your son?”

  The woman threw her arms around him, sobbing. “He’s alive. You saved him. I get to watch him grow up because of you. Thank you.”

  Finally, she stepped back, wiped her eyes, sat on the edge of her son’s bed, and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m Amy Tran.” She turned to the boy, a look of pure love on her face. “And this is Peter.”

  “I’m very glad to meet you,” Trent said. “This is my boss, Chief Burt Culmer,” he said with a nod to Burt.

  Amy smiled. Peter moaned softly and she turned her attention back to her son.

  Burt and Trent exchanged a look, then quietly walked out the door.

  Trent looked down at his tear-stained shirt, then at Burt, as they neared the exit. “Well, that was … interesting.”

  “The price of being a hero,” Burt said.

  Trent stopped and turned towards his boss. “I never asked to be a hero.”

  “Well, get used to it. That’s exactly what you are whether you like it or not. It’s what we do. On a good day, we save lives. Your situation has made you special. What you do with it is up to you.”

  Trent grunted and headed for the parking lot.

  Maybe it was knowing he’d done something good that day, maybe it was the pain medicine, maybe it was sheer exhaustion. Whatever the reason, Trent was asleep minutes after getting back to his apartment and didn’t wake until his alarm went off the next morning.

  Lora sat her cup of coffee down on her desk and picked up the folded newspaper article.

  Drowning Man Saves the Day

  “You know, if it weren't for us, he wouldn't be around to save anybody,” Woods said, leaning his hip against her desk.

  Lora laughed. “So actually, we're the ones who saved the day.”

  “Exactly.”

  She rolled her eyes. Then she smiled. In a job often filled with tragedy and disappointment it was nice seeing good things that happened because of people like her and Woods. It was what she lived for.

  She glanced at the article again. She was glad to see Trent back to work. Getting back to the normal routine things like work were the best way to get past a traumatic event. God knows her job had given her something to live for when she'd needed it.

  She sighed. Trent hadn't called her after their dinner together. Of course, she really hadn't expected him to. He had enough to deal with without adding any additional complications. And she had no room in her life for romance.

  Still, there had been something between them.

  Ten miles away, Simon Hewett was reading the same newspaper article.

  He felt a surge of pride. Good for Barlow, he thought. Of course, there was a good chance that what Trent Barlow had gone through at his and Caroline's hands had made him a stronger person, more capable of saving lives than he would have been had he not been abducted and spent all those weeks at Caroline's house. In that sense, Trent Barlow should be grateful to him and his precious but long lost Caroline.

  “Fucking reporter’s outside,” Ted grumbled on his way through the door at the start of their shift two days later.

  “Sorry,” Trent said. “He followed me here.”

  “I don’t understand why in the hell you’re still news.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Ted finally cracked a smile. “Fuck ‘em.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How about that probie, huh?” Ted said, clapping Trent on the back as he went into the kitchen and headed straight for the coffee pot. “Keeping the flames battled back so I could pull your ass out of there.”

  Trent didn’t even remember the probie coming up to the top floor. He’d been so focused on the objective, on the kid, that nothing else had even registered. Not good firefighter technique. He should have been aware of everything going on in that room. He’d make sure it never happened again.

  He also owed the guy an apology. And the sooner he got that unpleasant task out of t
he way, the better. He walked into the lounge, his eyes focusing on the probie. He nodded towards the hall and walked back out of the room, the probie a step behind.

  “Let’s go outside,” Trent said.

  They went out the back door and stood in the parking lot, silently facing each other. Trent looked down at his bandaged hand, forced his eyes to the probie's. “You did a hell of a job in that house, Drew.”

  Drew blinked at Trent's use of his real name. “I should have done more-”

  “No.” Trent cut him off. “You did your job. We couldn’t have saved that kid without you.”

  “But you, you did it.”

  Trent sucked in a breath, put his hands on his hips, leveled his gaze on the probie. “Don’t use me as an example, unless it’s of what not to do. The chief, Ted. Chad. Those are the guys you should look up to. Not me.” He shook his head. “Not me.”

  Drew didn’t respond.

  Trent looked up at the sky, then glanced back at Drew. “You’re a good fireman,” he said as he walked back towards the building.

  Chapter 23

  When Trent couldn't sleep, he ran. It didn't matter what time of the day or night it was. Running brought release. It brought freedom.

  He used the anger when he ran. It made him faster, more focused. He used it at work. And if he used it enough, he could almost forget. Almost. But if he stopped, if he slowed down for even one minute, the dark nightmare began seeping back into his mind. And if it came back, he was afraid it would destroy him and he'd lose himself forever.

  So he used the anger and ran until his legs gave out, until his vision went dark, until he couldn't feel anything. It was the only thing that brought relief and exhausted him enough so he could sleep.

  Sometimes he ran and then stopped for a donut and coffee then continued on, fueled by the sugar and caffeine. He ran until they burned out of his system, then went home and collapsed into a dreamless sleep. Most of the time it worked. When it didn’t, the nightmares had to make up for lost time, and hit him with crippling intensity. It never ceased to amaze him how something that wasn’t real could bring him to his knees, making him wish for death.

  The all night coffee/donut shop at the end of his street was his safe haven. Late at night there were few customers and the ones that were there usually wanted to keep to themselves. The skeleton staff didn’t pay much attention to him, let alone recognize him. It was one of the few places he felt totally at ease. At least it had been, he thought, as he looked up and watched Detective Lora Tatum walk through the door, wiping cold rainwater from her face.

  He dropped his gaze to the table, not sure if he felt up to talking to her. He wanted to, God did he want to, but he wanted to do it on his terms. When his head wasn't so screwed up. Maybe she wouldn't see him.

  “Hey stranger.”

  Trent jerked his head up, then forced a smile. “You found out my weakness. Glazed donuts,” he said, gesturing at the crumbs on his plate.

  “You already know mine,” she said, blowing onto her coffee. “Don't you ever sleep?” she asked.

  “Don't you?” he countered.

  “Occupational hazard.”

  Raindrops glittered like diamonds in her hair. Her deep green eyes pulled him in, washing away his dark thoughts. He didn't want her to leave. “Have a seat,” Trent said, using his foot to push out the other chair.

  Lora sat, in no hurry to go home to her empty condo. Nothing waited for her there. She took a sip of coffee, not knowing what to say now that she was next to him.

  Trent looked out the window. “I like to come here when it rains. Usually I run when I can't sleep.”

  “Not a good night for that,” Lora said as lightening lit up the sky outside. And she didn't need to ask why he had trouble sleeping. In the room’s harsh artificial light his face looked tired, drawn. She figured hers wasn't much better.

  She studied the hand wrapped around his mug. His fingers were short, his hands muscular. She imagined them on her body, caressing her, then forced herself to focus on the pale raised ridges that covered his hand. She thought about her own scars, outside and in and wished she'd gotten her coffee to go.

  “I meant to call you …” Trent stopped when he realized how lame he sounded.

  She waved it off. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

  He wanted to. But what did you say to the person who’d saved your life when you’d spent weeks hating them for it? He was so damned tired. He just wanted to feel normal again. Whatever the hell that was.

  Lightning flashed. Their eyes met. Words suddenly weren’t necessary. Whatever connection was between them didn’t require an explanation. It just was.

  Lora smiled and scooted her chair closer to his. Together they drank coffee and watched the storm building outside the window.

  Trent liked the subtle warmth of her body next to his. Lora Tatum was not one of those touchy-feely women that had always annoyed the hell out of him. From the little he knew of her, she was the exact opposite. Yet for some reason, he wanted her to touch him.

  He ached to touch her. And the ache was getting worse each second she was next to him. He had to touch her, couldn't wait any longer. Then she reached for him.

  She took his hand, studying the faint burn scars. “I read about you in the paper, when you got these.”

  “I'm no hero,” he said quickly.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “I'm not. I was just doing my job,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

  “Trent, we both know that there aren't a lot of people, trained or not, that would have done what you did.”

  He raised his eyes to hers. “You would have,” he said.

  It was her turn to look down.

  He nudged her shoulder with his. “You would have,” he said again.

  She looked up at him, a slight smile softening her mouth. “Maybe.”

  He grinned and focused on her lips, leaning in towards her. Her eyes widened but she didn't back away. He moved across the last few inches that separated them and kissed her, softly at first, then deeper, feeling that at last he'd found someone who could understand him. He couldn’t explain it, but he didn’t want to let her go. She gripped his knee and his hand tangled in her hair, pulling her even closer as the soft strands slid between his fingers.

  He pulled back and took her hand in his, his eyes searching hers. “Come home with me.”

  Simon Hewett bit off a curse as rage flooded his system. He adjusted his binos and watched Trent Barlow walk the bitch cop out of the coffee shop. He could tell by their interaction that they were intimate. What the hell did Barlow see in her? She wasn’t even that attractive of a woman. Too cold and masculine for his tastes. Maybe it was gratitude. Whatever. Didn’t really matter anyway.

  So be it. He’d take Barlow out too if he got in the way. He didn’t want to, but it was an acceptable loss.

  Simon was a very patient man. He’d wait for just the right opportunity. In the meantime, he'd have some fun with this, teach Barlow a lesson or two before he killed the bitch.

  Lora got in her car and followed Trent's truck to his apartment, wondering what in the hell she was doing. But she didn't turn around. Trent Barlow fascinated and intrigued her like no one she'd ever met. And her body's response to him compelled her to find out where this would lead.

  It was amazing for her to see who Trent really was. She'd spent countless hours studying his file, learning about his life and habits, hearing stories about him from his brother, then she'd seen what was left of him after his weeks of torture. Now she was getting to watch him rebuild himself into someone better, stronger, than he was before. Maybe even playing a small part in the transformation. The surprising thought caused a foreign surge of warmth to spread through her chest.

  She parked in the spot next to his truck. They didn't speak as he took her hand and guided her towards the dark apartment. Inside, he led her down a short hallway to his bedroom and flipped on a lamp. Warm, dim light filled the ro
om.

  Lora looked around the room as he watched her. There wasn't a lot to look at, the double bed was unmade, a dark blue bedspread lay rumpled at the foot end. A small table sat next to the bed, a matching dresser and a picture of the earth adorned the opposite wall. Her eyes dropped back to the tangled sheets where he'd slept. The indescribable masculine scent that was his alone surrounded her. She turned back to face him and felt her breath catch.

  The way he looked at her, the dark intensity of his gaze, he was finally allowing her to see all of him – the good and the bad. His trust in her nearly broke her heart. She had to get out of there, get away from him. He was giving her something she couldn’t give him. He was giving her exactly what she'd wanted from him and it scared the hell out of her.

  She stared at the face of the man she'd known as a victim, a case, a survivor, a picture in a file, a patient. A lover? She wanted to kiss him, very badly, ached with the need. She licked her lips, as her desire for him intensified. The feelings and emotions flooding her mind and body where overwhelming. “I should go,” she said, forcing herself to take a step towards the door on shaky legs.

  “Wait.” He took her hand, pulled her down onto the bed with him. They sat, facing each other, in silence.

  Trent knew her face so well now, knew every inch of it. He couldn’t keep from touching it. His fingers slid down her cheek and stopped at the base of her neck, pulled her closer. Her hands went to his chest, as if to push him away, then slid down to his waist and held on tight.

  His mind was blissfully empty except for thoughts and sensations of the woman in front of him.

  His lips gently brushed against hers and she sighed against his mouth, her body sagging against his. He kissed her again, harder, deeper. She moaned. Their clothes came off in a blur of tangled limbs. Then his mouth was back on hers, their tongues intertwining as their hands urgently explored each other for the first time.

 

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