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 t
he 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.
Chapter 16
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.
When he opened his eyes again, a big man with shaggy black and gray curls stood at the end of the dim hallway. Ted, one of the ladder guys and Trent’s occasional drinking buddy, shook his head as if he’d seen a ghost, which wasn’t that far off from the truth.
“Trent, shit, why the hell didn’t you tell us you were coming in?” he asked.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” Trent said, coming closer and depositing his gear in front of the row of lockers that lined one side of the hall.
Ted clapped him on the shoulder, then inspected his shorter hair and crooked nose. “Well, at least you're not such a pretty boy anymore. Though you do look better than the last time I saw you.”
Another familiar face poked his head out of the lounge area a few doors down. “He still looks like shit to me. Barlow! Get the fuck over here!” Chief Burt Culmer said, joining them in the hall.
“Chief,” Trent said with a small nod.
Ted motioned him forward and he and the chief followed Trent into the largest room in the firehouse where they usually gathered when they weren’t in the kitchen or out on a call. Trent was instantly surrounded by men he considered brothers. The rumble of their voices welcomed him home.
“Damn good to have you back, man.”
“Our very own celebrity.”
The comments ranged from these to concerned silent looks and unasked questions. Trent looked at the familiar faces as he shook hands and felt their slaps on his back. There was one guy he didn't recognize. And one that was missing. “Where's Chad? The son of a bitch never takes a day off.” Trent said.
Dead silence. Awkward glances.
“Chief?” Trent asked.
“Why don't you come to my office for a minute.”
Trent took an angry step towards his boss. “Whatever it is, just fucking tell me. Why isn’t he here? Did he get hurt?” He looked around at the other guys in the room. No one met his eyes now. Not even Ted.
“My office, Trent,” the chief said, turning and walking out the door. “Now.”
Trent sighed and followed his boss down the hall. He put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows, waiting, while the chief shut the door and sat down behind his desk.
The chief shifted in his chair before he spoke. “There was a four alarm at an apartment building downtown about a week after you disappeared. It was bad, one of the worst I’ve ever seen. Chad was on the roof when it went down. He fell all the way to the basement.”
Trent looked down at the cracked linoleum floor then back up quickly. He leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the chief’s desk. “Are you telling me he didn't make it? Are you fucking telling me that Chad is dead?”
“I'm sorry, Trent, I know you two were close.” He looked down, cleared his throat, shuffled papers.
“Who went up with him? Who helped with the venting?”
The chief met his eyes. “Everything was by the book. No one screwed up. It just happened.”
“If I'd been there …”
Chief Culmer stood, rounded the desk, and put a hand on Trent's shoulder. “Don't you do that to yourself. Don't you fuckin' do that.”
Trent’s chest heaved. He needed air. He threw the office door open and took a step into the hall. He turned, backed up against the wall, and ran his hands over his face. “No,” he moaned. He turned towards the wall and pounded his fist against it. “No,” he said, louder this time.
He braced himself with his arms, leaning forward, head down, and forced himself to breathe. This couldn’t be real. Chad was the best damn firefighter in the entire department. He couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible. Trent halfway hoped he was back in that room in Caroline’s house, hallucinating.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, jerking him back to reality. “Why don't you go home,” the chief said.
They both raised their heads as the alarm went off and the tones for both the engine and ladder companies sounded.
“I'm not going home,” Trent said, turning towards Burt. “I'm going with them,” he said as the guys hurried past gathering up their gear.
“I understand, believe me I do, but you're in no shape to go out there right now.”
“I can do this, boss. Let me do my fucking job.”
“I don't doubt your ability. This company needs you. But we need you at your best. Go home. Come back tomorrow and we'll talk.”
Trent clenched his jaw as he watched the chief walk away. He didn't move again until the station was empty. He slowly walked into the kitchen and sat down heavily in the nearest chair. Chad was dead. He knew it was true, but still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that he'd never see his friend walk through the firehouse door again. He'd never have a beer with him after work. They’d never chase women together again.
They'd always worked the roof together. They were a good team. Would Chad still be alive if he'd been up there next to him that day? God, how could he live with that? How could fate be cruel enough to take away the two friends he'd been closest to and leave him alive?
He raised his head and looked around the building that had been a second home to him for more than ten years. A second family. The thought sent a sharp stab of pain through his stomach. He couldn’t save anyone. Not even himself. Maybe he should just quit. He'd do it in a heartbeat if he thought they'd be better off without him.
He clenched his fists. He had to pull it together. He was still a part of this family, still had a responsibility to them and he would not let another one of them down. He'd be there alongside them, fighting fires and saving lives. He had to be. Placing a hand on each knee, he forced himself to stand up.
Trent drove to work the next morning in a daze. He'd run hard the night before and his legs were sore. He looked at his gear piled on the seat next to him. The chief would never let him go out on a call, but the sooner they got his re-training scheduled and got his name back on rotation, the sooner he could get back to doing his job.
This time he walked straight to Chief Culmer's office and knocked once on the open door. The chief was on the phone but motioned him inside. Trent sat down in the worn visitor’s chair and glanced around the sparsely decorated space. Other than a framed diploma from Kansas State University and a football team photo from the chief’s senior year, the walls were bare. But that was the chief.
The chief hung up, glanced at Trent, looked down at his desk, then back up. “When’s the trial?” he asked.
“Two weeks,” Trent answered.
Chief Burt Culmer studied the man in front of him. Trent Barlow looked like a shrunken version of his former self. Hell, he didn't even look strong enough to carry his equipment, let alone battle a blazing fire. But it wasn't just the weight he'd lost, his eyes had taken on a wary, untrusting look.
“You sure you're ready to be back?”
Trent held his boss's gaze, his eyes regaining so
me of the old passionate spark Burt was used to seeing. “Don't ask me that again.”
Burt took a black notebook-sized calendar out of his top desk drawer. “Your EMT certifications are still up to date, so we don't have to worry about that. We’ll do your training next week. We’ll start you out with half-shifts three weeks from now. Bump you back up to full time a week after that. Okay?”
It wasn’t really a question, but Trent agreed anyway. “Sure, Chief.”
The unspoken message was clear. He was welcome, but he better not get in the way or let any part of his situation become a distraction to the house until he was one hundred percent back on the job, physically and mentally.
Burt’s face softened, though the change was barely visible. “It’s damned good to have you back. The guys will be glad to have you around again. We need you.”
Trent drove home not really seeing anything around him, relying solely on his instincts, his movements automatic. The trial. There was something he did not want to think about. He hadn’t stuck around to talk to the guys after his visit with the chief. They’d have questions and concerns he didn’t want to deal with at the moment. Hell, he couldn’t even remember any of them visiting him in the hospital. And knowing they'd seen him at his broken worst … One more thing he did not want to think about.
He turned down his street and stopped in front of his apartment building. He stared at the front door, unmoving, engine running. He put the truck back in gear and continued on. Nothing good waited for him inside, just ghosts and empty rooms. He looked at the dashboard clock. 12:30 p.m. He slowed down as he passed his favorite bar. Drinking himself into oblivion was tempting. Not smart, but tempting.
He made a u-turn at the next intersection and headed back towards his apartment. Inside, he changed into his running clothes. He shut and locked the door behind him and started for the park at a slow jog. He’d always run the trails at Cross Pointe when he’d needed a release. Maybe one day he would again. But not today.
The Drowning Man Page 6
