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the pneumonia, though it appears Dr. Newberry had already started treating it.”
    The doctor paused. “It's his mental state I'm more concerned with. We're running an EEG to check for brain damage. The thing is, he's not responding at all to me, the nurses, or anyone else. Not even his brother. If his brain scan comes back clear, it's most likely a catatonic state due to severe trauma. In that case, he could come out of it in an hour or, never.” He paused. “Do you know how many times his heart was stopped and restarted?”
    “No. We're still processing the evidence, but it looks like she dropped him in that tank on several occasions, watched him drowning, then resuscitated him. She had him for almost two months,” Lora said.
    The doctor said nothing, just nodded solemnly. It was likely that Trent Barlow had suffered at least some brain damage from lack of oxygen. “Well, we'll know more soon.”

Chapter 11
    The Kansas City community is shocked today after receiving word that doctor and arts patron, Caroline Newberry, has been arrested for the kidnapping of firefighter Trent Barlow, who was present when her son drowned twenty years ago. An unknown male accomplice is still at large.
     
    Simon Hewett read the rest of the newspaper article and grimaced. He had always been good at ignoring pain, but the first few days after he was shot had put his resolve to the test. He’d barricaded himself in a shithole of a motel room and hadn’t moved from the bed for three long days and nights. The bitch cop was a good shot. But not good enough.
    He peeled back the bandages and studied his wound. No infection. He’d be sore for a while, but he could live with that. He’d had worse. The bullet had lodged in his right pectoral muscle, right against his upper ribs. He’d dug it out himself and would wear the scar on his chest proudly. A badge of honor, like the one on his face.
    That one had come from the first man he'd killed. He'd been young then, and the other man had quickly gained the upper hand. But as Simon felt the sharp steel cut through his skin, he'd also felt pure clean rage. And with it had come clarity. He was an instrument of justice, escorting the deserving to the gates of hell.
    After he'd met Caroline, he'd thought those days were long over. He'd had no reason to deal out his special brand of justice. Until now.
    He had no quarrel with Barlow, actually respected the man. Few would have been as brave under the same circumstances. But the cop, she was responsible for taking the only person he’d ever loved away from him. Though not dead, Carol was still lost to him.
    He’d snuck into her room at the mental hospital where they were holding her until the trial late one night and all she’d done was sob uncontrollably before lying down on the tiny bed and turning away from him. He'd thought about taking her with him, but her mind was gone. The woman he loved was gone and wasn’t coming back. He'd smoothed her hair, kissed her one last time, then left without a backward glance.
    But Simon would avenge her. He at least owed her that. It would be his final gift to her even if it was his last act.
    First, he needed to heal. He had to do this right. No shortcuts, no going off half-cocked. He'd be thorough, methodical. That's why he'd been the best at what he'd done. He was out of practice, but the kind of skills he'd acquired didn't just go away, they lay in wait, dormant, until they were needed again.
     
    Nathan Barlow continued talking to his brother, even though Trent's eyes were staring at the wall straight ahead and he hadn't even acknowledged that he knew Nathan was in the room at all, much less talked to him.
    He paced the small space in front of the bed. It had been a week. If Trent didn’t snap out of it soon, he'd wind up in a mental hospital. Dr. Hender had shown him his brother's brain scan results. They were all normal, thank God.
    And yet, Trent remained unresponsive. The doctor had patiently explained