Trent changed tactics. “I can’t help her. If I could, I would, but what she wants is impossible. Hell, I don’t even think she knows what she wants.”
No reaction from Simon.
“She’s going downhill fast and I think you know that. She has no future if she keeps this up. I don’t know how much longer I can survive this. And what then? She’ll never be able to move on. But you and I together, we can get her the help she needs.”
A flicker of emotion passed over Simon’s face, just one tiny flicker, but it was enough. “You’re in love with her,” Trent muttered. “Shit.”
Anger colored Simon’s face, but this time he didn’t take it out on Trent, just slammed the door in Trent’s face, his footsteps echoing loudly down the hall.
Jesus Christ. The big guy wasn’t paid muscle. He wasn’t being blackmailed. He was there because he wanted to be there. Wanted to be with her. There had to be a way he could use this information. A tiny bubble of hope surged. If he could get Simon convinced that Caroline had to let him go so they could have a future together, the whole damned nightmare would be over. Of course once he was free, he wouldn’t rest until they were both brought down.
No point in worrying about that until he was free.
Chapter 9
Watching Trent suffer was exhilarating. More so than she'd ever thought it would be. It wasn't enough for him to die now. Caroline wanted to make him suffer endlessly. Wanted to watch him suffer. She'd started taking notes, recorded their conversations afterwards. It was so different from that first time, when he'd been all defiance, clinging to hope of life. Then she'd seen his horror when he realized she was going to do it again. Now she saw acceptance, yet still, somehow, he was clinging to the hope that she'd let him go. But that glimmer of hope was slowly dying each time he slipped under the water.
Her mission had changed. She had a purpose, a goal, a reason to live. And the way the plan had come to her, it was as if God himself had given her a sign. It was fascinating. She had enough vacation time saved up at work. She needed to devote more time to this. Work could wait.
“He's dying, Carol,” Simon said. They were in her kitchen, each halfway through a bottle of beer.
“He dies when I say he dies,” she shot back defiantly.
“I don't like what this is doing to you. When we started, I thought this would bring you closure. It needs to end, Carol.”
Her eyes softened and she put a hand on his face. “It will, I promise. I just need a little more time with him.”
Simon watched her go. It would be so easy to just kill the kid, get it over with. But he wouldn't betray Caroline. He couldn't. Not when he owed her his life. Of course, she hadn't realized at the time she'd fixed his broken body that she was saving the life of a paid hit man. Neither of them planned on it happening, but they'd found their way into a mutually beneficial relationship. One that had evolved into something neither was sure what to call anymore. Some days she didn’t speak to him at all, but that was just her way. The one thing Simon understood was loyalty and someone saving your life deserved the ultimate loyalty. Whatever happened between them, he'd be loyal to her until the day he died.
Caroline looked into Trent's eyes as they faced each other on the platform. He looked older and thinner. Though his face was flushed with fever, he held her gaze steadily, never flinching. But she could see it in his eyes, the hope was dimming, being replaced with a bitter anger and hate, maybe even a quiet acceptance of his fate. The sense of power elated her. She controlled his destiny and he knew it. She could make him suffer endlessly. She had all the power.
She'd experimented with varying the length of time before she brought him back, carefully timing it with a stopwatch. On average, the human brain could survive for four minutes without permanent brain damage. Depending on her mood, she sometimes pushed it to the limit.
She watched the seconds tick by. Four minutes. One second. Two. Three. Simon squatted next to her on the platform, waiting for her to give the word. She could just give it up, let Trent slip away, and get on with her life. But what life did she have left? She felt a shuddering wave of emptiness. She looked down. Four minutes 30 seconds. “Get him out,” she said.
Simon plunged into the tank.
Caroline felt the bones of Trent's chest as she worked to start his heart again. It had been over too quickly this time. He hadn't fought it at all.
Caroline pressed the stethoscope against his chest six minutes after he'd gone under. She listened carefully to his heartbeat and his breathing.
Trent was too exhausted to push her away from him but it was clear by her face that she wasn’t happy with what she'd heard. He didn't really need her to say the words anyway. As a runner and trained EMT, he was very familiar with how far he could push his body and he knew when it wasn't working right. He didn’t need her to tell him that he was in rough shape. His body was a wreck and his mind wasn't in much better shape.
He rolled onto his side, gulping in air. It was several long minutes before he was able to speak. Several more before they helped him to his feet.
No, he definitely didn't look good, Caroline thought as they walked down the hall towards his room. Trent could barely stand or walk on his own and his face was a pale gray where it showed through his facial hair. His breathing was rapid and shallow. He didn't even look at her when they got to his room and let him inside, he headed straight for the bed and collapsed onto it without a sound.
When she asked him questions, his answers often didn't make any sense. He babbled and stuttered, his eyes unfocused and darting around the room, every now and then coming to rest on the tank. Then he’d get quiet and still. It was very possible, probable even, that his brain was suffering the effects of lack of oxygen. It was also clear that he’d developed full-blown pneumonia now. She was going to need more supplies.
Their time together was coming to an end. She wasn't yet sure how she felt about that. She was good, but there would come a time when even she wasn't able to bring him back. What would she do when he was gone? She briefly felt a surge of panic that she'd have nothing to live for then. Forcing the thoughts aside, she smiled. No, then she'd be free. The suffering would be over. She'd have revenge. Her son's death would have meaning and she'd be free. Trent would give her what she wanted. He'd give her peace. He had to. She refused to consider the alternative.
Trent felt like shit. He was weak and dehydrated. His head swam whenever he moved. His empty stomach hurt. His chest ached from the bouts of coughing. Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough for her not to be able to bring him back the next time.
He'd been unable to engage Simon in any kind of conversation. Nothing he said evoked any response from the big man. He was out of options. Nearly out of time.
Was this really what his life had come down to? Waiting to die. Hoping to die. He envied Eddie and what must have been a quick death.
He wished he could have died in the line of duty, saving people, died amongst his fellow firefighters. Now he’d die in this damned house at the hands of a crazy woman. He wondered how long it would be before his body would be found. And what would Caroline and Simon do with his body? Bury him in her back yard? Would anyone ever know what happened to him or would Caroline go right on living her life a free woman while Nate and his brothers in the firehouse never knew what became of him? He was so tired of fighting. Tired of opening his eyes and the first thing he saw when he realized he was alive was her face. Whether it was real or not didn’t matter anymore.
Delirious thoughts ran through his mind continuously. Were they just dreams or reality? It was so hard to tell the difference now.
Heat.
Sweat was running down his back, dripping off his nose. That was what woke him. Unbearable heat. Trent’s eyes snapped open.
Flames.
He was in the middle of a fire. It surrounded him, the flames lapping towards him from every angle. God, she wasn’t going to kill him with the water. She was going to do the exact oppos
ite.
He commanded his body to action but his movements were sluggish. He threw the blanket and his sheets over the fire. The flames marched on. Towards him. Christ. He was going to die in a fire. She was going to burn him alive. There was nowhere for him to go. He tugged at the bars on the window, shouted and coughed in the thick smoke as his back hit the wall. His legs wouldn’t hold him up anymore.
Movement to his right caught his attention. He turned. And saw a figure coming towards him out of the flames. The figure shimmered in the heat. Trent blinked. The figure came into focus, raising a hand towards him.
His father
His dead father.
“Am I dead?” Trent asked the apparition.
The figure wavered then evaporated.
If he was dead, then he was surely in hell because that was the only place his father would be.
He couldn’t breathe. Trent’s body jerked and he gulped in air. He was breathing. That meant he was still alive.
The fire.
He sat up too fast. Dizziness washed over him and he dropped his head into his hands. When it passed, he sat back up and looked around. The room was exactly as he remembered it. Plain bare walls, beige carpet, the one barred window. But that didn’t make any sense. Everything had burned.
Hadn’t it?
The image of his father came back to him.
Not real.
The door opened. Trent started laughing.
Trent stumbled along behind Caroline and Simon, his legs like leaden weights. He let them drag him to the bottom of the tank. He didn't fight it this time, just opened his mouth and let the water flow down into his lungs. Maybe this time would be the last. He opened his eyes, watching her watching him. Caroline had taken so much. She'd already taken a part of his mind. Yet it wasn't enough. Not for her. She wouldn't stop until he was completely insane. He smiled at her just before he let the darkness take him.
When he opened his eyes next, she was breathing hard and sitting cross-legged next to him, the paddles on either side of his chest. She'd had to work hard to save him this time. He couldn’t move, couldn't get up. His head ached. His heart hurt with each labored beat. His lungs burned. Trent tried to sit up but collapsed back down to the ground. Too exhausted and weak to keep his eyes open, he rolled onto his side and passed out.
When he woke up, he couldn't move his arms or legs. Simon must have carried him back to his room. With a great effort, he opened his eyes and looked at his body. He was tied to the bed this time. But that wasn't the only thing different. He was also attached to an IV line. No. He struggled in vain against his restraints. She was keeping him alive only to kill him over and over and over again.
Maybe he already was dead.
He was just in hell.
But hell wasn’t fire and burning flames.
It was calm still water.
Chapter 10
Lora did not want to go to the museum’s annual Arts Council ball, even if it was for a good cause. She’d never really given a shit about art and dreaded events like this. Hated dressing up. Hated pretending she belonged. But as long as her grandfather was alive, she would go. For him.
There weren't a lot of memories from her childhood that were pleasant, and that included being pawned off on her grandfather every Saturday while her mom went to the spa and her father was working. The days had been filled with endless hours of boredom as her grandfather explored every room, every nook in the museum.
But afterward, he'd take her for ice cream and a walk in the park. Those quiet walks together, her sticky fingers clasped in her grandfather's strong rough hand, became the highlight of her week. And as much as she didn't want to acknowledge it, age was catching up with him and she didn't know how many more moments they'd have together.
So she sucked it up. She took her one formal black dress out of the drycleaner’s plastic, took her diamond necklace out of her nearly empty jewelry box, and strapped on her dreaded black heels. A quick swipe of lip-gloss and she was ready.
She climbed into her midnight blue, year old Volkswagen Jetta and took the long way from her condo to downtown. The flowing traffic and hum of the engine soothed her. Too soon, the ornate, hulking building of the museum appeared on her right.
Handing her keys to the valet, Lora slowly walked up the entrance stairs and into the Kansas City Museum of Art. It was times like these that she wished she drank. She could use something to steady her nerves but her stomach felt too acidic for even her beloved coffee. Okay, deep breath. She forced the corners of her mouth up and met the eyes of every person she came into contact with.
She knew she didn’t belong. The only reason she had to be there was to appease her grandfather, who hadn't quite given up on finding a suitable society man for her. She made her way through the crowd, fighting the urge to shove snotty, anorexic socialites tottering on their high heels out of the way, along with the married men who screwed them. She found her grandfather and kissed the paper-thin skin of his cheek.
“I'm so glad you're here,” he said in a brittle voice, affection brightening his dull eyes. He took a long drink of Scotch.
“How are you, Pops?” Lora asked.
“Stanley Dixon is getting divorced. He’s always admired you.”
Lora struggled not to roll her eyes and once again tried to break the news to him that she was happy and didn’t need a man to lead a fulfilling life.
She stopped mid-sentence, feeling a sudden chill as her gaze fixed on the woman in the doorway. Even at sixty, Caroline Newberry was still a beautiful woman whose regal presence commanded attention when she entered a room. She was also at ease talking to the city's elite. She belonged amongst them. Lora, on the other hand, might as well have had reject stamped on her forehead. She ran a hand over her hair to smooth it. Stop it. Focus.
“What do you know about her?” she asked her grandfather.
He launched into a lengthy history of Caroline Newberry’s family tree and social standing.
She squeezed his arm and gave him another kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back.” No longer concerned about what direction the corners of her mouth were going, she crossed the room, homing in on her prey.
The conversation was civil, probably even appeared pleasant to anyone who felt the need to watch. And Caroline said all the right things, of course.
“Nathan Barlow came by the station this week,” Lora said.
“Oh?” Caroline asked, complete indifference on her face. No surprise.
“I actually feel sorry for him. He still thinks his brother is alive. I wish I could agree with him.”
“Thank you for keeping me informed, detective, but I try not to dwell in the past.” She finally looked at Lora. Caroline’s eyes looked tired, like she hadn't slept well in a very long time, and that was something Lora intimately knew the look of. God knows she'd seen it enough times staring back at her in the mirror.
Lora watched Caroline walk away all poise and grace, her head held high. Lora had dealt with enough sociopaths and the like over her career to know when she was face-to-face with one. Despite saying all the right things, Caroline Newberry was not right. It was her eyes. Even when she smiled, there was no emotion there.
She called Woods on her way home. “Something's off about her. I can't put my finger on it, but she scares me.”
Woods sighed. He’d seen this one coming. Tatum hadn’t seemed to be able to let this case go. And she didn’t scare easily. If she was spooked, there was something there. “We have to be very careful with this, Tate,” he said.
“Got it.”
Knowing Tate, she was already headed to the station. “You want me to come in?”
“No, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Woods hung up the phone. When Tate had a hold of something, she would not let it go. He respected the hell out of her for it. It was part of what made her such a good cop. He’d had his doubts at first about her, but the truth was, they made one hell of a team. A true pair of opposites, the big black m
an and the rich white girl, they somehow brought out the best of each other’s abilities. Truth was, he’d do anything for her.
He sighed, figured he should get some sleep. He had a feeling he would need it over the next few days.
Seated at her desk at the station, the smell of coffee brewing filling the nearly empty room, Lora settled in for a long night at her desk. She’d started keeping a change of clothing in her car years earlier, a habit that came in handy now. Tight dresses and heels were not conducive to her productivity. She went over old notes from the interviews right after Trent Barlow’s disappearance. Then read through them again. And again. Were Caroline’s anger and accusations against the young Trent Barlow just a mother's grief or something more? Did she blame Trent for her son's death after all these years?
She was still at her desk when Woods came in at 8 a.m. the next morning. As soon as he sat down, she put the Barlow files aside and spent the day working on her “official” cases and duties.
At 7 p.m., Woods handed her her jacket. “Quitting time,” he said.
Lora eyed the files on the corner of her desk. “I’m going to stay for a bit.”
He scowled. He knew her too damn well.
“Go home to your family. I'll call you if something pops.”
She watched her partner walk out the door. She knew she was losing it. Too much caffeine and not enough food or sleep. But she couldn’t stop. She was close. She could break this case. Every good cop she knew listened to their gut even if that was the only thing they had to go on. Hers was screaming at her.
Caroline Newberry was a prominent member of the community. If Lora was wrong and went after her with no evidence, there would be serious consequences to pay, mainly in the form of her career going up in smoke. She had no solid proof that Ms. Newberry had done anything wrong. Just her impression of the woman’s state of mind. Just a feeling of time running out. Just the fact that Ms. Newberry hadn’t been to work in three weeks.
The Drowning Man Page 3
