The Drowning Man (15 page)

Ted laughed. “Well, that's all the confirmation I need. She did save your life after all, I guess it's only natural you'd want to show your
gratitude
.”

“You're wrong and if you like how your face looks you'll shut the fuck up right now,” Trent growled.

Ted put his hands up. “Whatever man, I know you can hit. But I also know how you look when you're sleeping with someone,” he said, turning to pack up his gear.

“Ah, hell,” Trent muttered, watching his friend walk away. Once one of the guys in the house knew, it was only a matter of time before the rest did. Though part of him was glad the relationship would be out in the open now. He had no intention of giving Lora up anytime soon so it was bound to come out sooner or later, he'd just been hoping for later. At least until he had a better grasp on where exactly their relationship was going.

He felt a headache start behind his eyes. Breakfast at the house when they got back was not going to be fun.

“It's damn good to have your scrawny ass back out there with us,” Scott said as Trent walked into the kitchen after his shower and poured a cup of coffee.

Trent lowered his coffee mug and looked up in surprise at Scott, his fellow fireman. Scott looked like a shaggy red-haired, freckled mountain man with a beard. He was the strongest guy in the house. He also made damned good pancakes, which he was in the middle of cooking up.

And he never, ever, gave compliments. “Thanks, man,” Trent said. “Though anyone looks scrawny compared to you.”

Scott didn't respond, just began pouring perfect circles of batter on the hot griddle.

When he was done, he opened a package of bacon, the sizzling of the hot grease the only sound in the room.

Then Scott turned and grinned at Trent. “That cop that rescued you, she’s hot. Nice ass
and
a gun. Now there's a combination worth going after. I sure wouldn't mind her giving me some mouth to mouth.”

“She’s a detective and don’t fucking talk about her like that,” Trent shot back.

Scott put his hands up. “Okay, okay. When did you become so sensitive?”

“I’m not, it’s just that she’s a hell of a cop and that deserves respect.”

“Oh, right,” Scott said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “So tell me, has she handcuffed you to the bed yet?”

Trent shot him a glare, then stood and got the butter and syrup out of the refrigerator.

Ted and the chief came into the kitchen, the probie on their heels.

“Set the table,” Ted ordered the probie as the other guys started trickling in, following the smells of coffee and a real breakfast cooking.

The alarm sounded and a collective groan came from around the room. Scott unplugged the griddle and moved the bacon to a cold burner as they rushed out of the room to gather up their gear. Trent sighed. Saved by the bell.

Simon Hewett was one of the lucky few who were able to completely distance his mind from the actions his body was taking. He wasn't without a conscience, he'd just learned very early on in his life how to separate what needed to be done from any feeling or emotion. If he hadn't been able to do that, he'd either be dead or insane.

As far as jobs went, this one had been a relatively clean one. No blood. No mess. Some booze, some pills, a little creative persuasion, and a match. Nothing to it.

He allowed himself one last look back. Smoke was starting to drift out into the night sky along the roofline. How he wished he could stay and watch the show, but the risk was too great. Revenge was more satisfying the longer it took anyway.

Trent felt it as soon as he walked into the station at the start of his next shift. It was in the air, in the faces of the guys in the house. Tragedy.

“Ted?” he said, as his friend came out of the kitchen.

Ted's face was pale, his eyes sunken.
Jesus, God, what now?
Trent braced himself for whatever was coming.

Ted cleared his throat. “Let's go to the chief's office.”

Trent immediately started scanning the house, looking for who was there. And who wasn't.

“Not one of us,” Ted said tightly, then turned and walked down the hall.

Trent followed Ted into Burt's office and stood, looking from one of them to the other, waiting for someone to talk. No one did. “One of you want to tell me what the hell's going on?” he asked.

Ted looked at the chief. The chief started talking. “The boy you saved died last night.”

Trent didn't need to ask which boy he was talking about. “How?” he asked.

“A fire. At the apartment they were staying in.”

“The mother?”

Burt shook his head.

Trent closed his eyes briefly, muttered a curse. Then he stared down his boss. “What happened? Was it one of our calls?”

“It was. They were already dead when we got there.”

What were the chances? Two fires in less than two months?

“It may not have been an accident,” Burt continued.

Trent snapped his head back up.

Burt passed the day's paper across the desk. Trent scanned the article.

Weeks after being saved by Trent Barlow, the Drowning Man, three-year-old Peter Tran, was found dead in another fire. Also dead at the scene, was his mother, Amy Tran. Multiple bottles of sleeping pills were found near the bodies. Investigators are awaiting toxicology reports.

“No.” Trent looked back up at Burt. “You saw her with her son. No way would she
kill
him.”

A glimmer of sadness crossed Burt's eyes. “The truth is, we never really know
what
people are capable of.”

Trent felt the rage coursing through his body. Burt had sent him home, worried about how the boy's death would affect him. Some of his own company still didn’t think he could do the job anymore. His boss doubted him. Hell, he hadn’t exactly proven himself since he’d been back. The rage turned inward. He couldn’t blame Caroline anymore. He couldn't. The actions he’d taken since he’d been back were his alone. And one of the few good things he'd done had still turned into a tragedy. A little boy's life erased. Gone, in a flash of flame.

And Lora. He had no business starting a relationship right now. Not with where his head was at. It didn’t matter how good he felt when he was with her. He was too self-destructive to be of much use to anyone else.

It was hot and humid, even at midnight. The miles continued to go by. Trent’s lungs burned, his head ached, his eyes blurred until he could barely see in front of him anymore, he couldn't feel his feet at all, yet the dark thoughts wouldn't subside. He couldn’t stop. He ran until he fell to his hands and knees in the grass and threw up what little food was left in his stomach.

It took several long minutes before he had the strength to stand back up. Somehow, he was able to make his legs work again, make it out of the park, and back home. Though when he got there he had no memory of the long walk back.

He collapsed into bed and slept a deep, dreamless sleep. It lasted two hours. If it was a nightmare that woke him, he didn’t have any memory of it. He was suddenly wide awake and sitting up in the bed, heart pounding, head swimming. An hour later, sleep still wouldn’t return. He thought about another run, but knew he’d never make it through work in the morning without dropping of exhaustion if he went out again.

Burt looked up, took one look at Trent’s pale haggard face the next morning when he walked through the door and scowled, then cursed. He knew better than to ask him if he was okay. The man would never admit it if he wasn’t. But Burt would sure as hell watch him closely and if he saw any signs of behavior that would endanger the company, he’d pull him. He wouldn’t have a choice, no matter what the decision would do to Trent. Goddamn it to hell and back.

Trent dumped his gear at his locker and headed for the coffee pot. He settled down in front of the TV in the lounge with his second cup. For once, he hoped for a quiet day. It was all he could do not to fall asleep in the chair he was sitting in. Forget trying to carry on a conversation.

The alarm jerked him back to consciousness. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and pushed himself up, shaking his head to clear it. He grabbed his gear, wasn't surprised when he was the last one to hop on the truck.

The truck careened around corners on the rain soaked streets. The slate gray sky suited Trent's mood perfectly. The only sounds were the truck's siren and the rain splattering against the windows as they sped along. No one spoke. Even the radio was silent for the moment. He looked at the familiar faces seated around him. No one met his eyes. His job had always been the one thing he'd had that made him feel like he was a part of something good. Now he felt like the outcast no one wanted to risk associating with.

The call turned out to be a false alarm, reports of smoke at an abandoned warehouse. Trent quietly and intensely did his job, checking and clearing the rooms. He didn't speak to anyone and dozed off on the drive back. At the firehouse, he fell into his bunk and was so exhausted he didn’t stir when the alarm sounded again three hours later.

A hand shook him roughly. He jumped up out of bed and wrapped his own hand around the throat of whoever it was, shoving the smaller body up against the wall with a loud thud that brought two other guys running into the room.

“What the hell? Barlow! Let go!” Ted shouted from the doorway.

Trent heard the words, not sure where they came from. He dropped one hand back down to his side and whirled around. He blinked, looking from Ted and Scott to the probie who was still up against the wall with Trent's other hand at his neck. He shook his head. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, dropping his hand.

Ted came forward and gripped his arm. “Everything okay, man?”

“Nightmare,” Trent said softly. He turned back to Drew, put his hands up. “I’m sorry, man.”

Drew gave a shaky smile and rubbed his throat. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I didn't want you to miss the alarm.”

The alarm. He hadn't even heard it. “My fault,” Trent said.

“Ladies,” the chief called from downstairs. “Get your asses on the truck now!”

They ran down the stairs. Burt cursed under his breath as his crew went past – Trent even paler than he’d been when he’d come in that morning, the probie looking shaky, Ted with his mouth set in a grim line. No time to deal with any of that shit now. They were already twenty seconds late getting out the door.

Luckily, the fire was a minor kitchen grease fire that was easily controlled. For the first time in all his years with the department, he had doubted the ability of his company. It was a feeling he did not intend to repeat.

Back at the house, Burt cornered the three of them as soon as they got their gear put away. “Something going on I need to know about?”

Trent looked at the ground.

Drew swallowed hard.

Ted gave an easy smile. “Just Trent trying to scare the probie.”

“That all it was, son?” Burt leveled his gaze on Drew.

“We were just screwing around. Sorry we were late,” Drew said.

“Barlow, anything to add?” Burt asked.

“Nothing,” Trent said, looking ready to throw up.

“I don’t need to remind you that once that alarm goes off, we have one minute to be on the road. That means you wipe your butts fast and get your asses ready to go. Understood?”

“Yes, Chief,” they answered in unison.

Burt looked each of them in the eye. “Every time we leave this building in that truck we’re going to a fire. It doesn’t matter if it turns out to be just an alarm, or a cat up a tree, or a minor kitchen fire. We don’t know until we get there and we damn well better be ready for anything when we do. We weren’t ready today. And we got lucky. I don’t trust luck, so I have to trust in the ability of my men. So you better get it together and fast.”

He let the words sink in. “Dismissed,” he said when the three men remained silent, neither looking at him nor each other.

Trent followed Ted to his car when their shift was over. “Thanks, man,” he said.

Ted turned and studied him. “You want to thank me, you get your shit together. You’re goddamn lucky the chief and I know what you can do in a fire.” Ted didn’t say another word, just got in his car and left Trent staring after him in the parking lot. Perfect end to a damned perfect day.

Trent lay on the couch, an arm thrown across his face while his TV blared in the background. He could still see the terrified look on Drew’s face. Fuck. He could have really hurt the kid. He could have killed him. He didn’t want to believe he would have, but the lack of sleep and all the other shit in his head had put him on edge. Shit, he was so far beyond being on the edge. He’d taken that plunge long ago.

Lora had left a message on his answering machine and as appealing as losing himself in a night of hot sweaty sex was, screwing her brains out was about all he was good for at the moment. He had nothing else left. If she had been anyone else, he'd already be in his truck and on his way to her place. But he couldn’t do that. Not to her.

His empty stomach forced him into the kitchen some time later. There wasn't much in the way of selection. An overripe banana and peanut butter straight from the jar at least stopped the rumblings in his stomach. He cursed as he opened the fridge. Not even one damned beer. Though it was probably a good thing he didn't have any, given the condition his head was in right now. Slamming the door shut, he retreated back to the living room.

He should be asleep already but couldn’t seem to shut his mind down. Running was out of the question. He’d be doing good to get his exhausted body from the couch to his bed. He had nothing left. Not after the day he’d just had. Thank God he had three days off. He needed to get his head straight. Before he really fucked things up.

Cross Pointe Trails.

Trent sat in his truck, staring at the familiar faded wood sign early the next morning. He hadn't planned on going there and was surprised to find himself in the parking lot. Had to happen sooner or later. He had to face it down. His hand shook as he reached for the door handle. He made a fist and tried again. The tremor was still there, though not as noticeable. Anger coursed through him. He jerked himself out of the truck.