Betrayal (17 page)

T
HE LAST CHILD HAD GONE
home two hours ago; the sounds from the hallway were small and distant. The occasional whirrings of the Xerox machine way down in the office barely registered on Tara’s consciousness as she looked out at the view from her classroom window. She’d always considered it a particularly fine view, with the small grove of scrub oak hugging the hilltop just across the street. She could imagine that the hilltop was far from anything mundane or suburban—say, in Tuscany, where she’d never been. Sometimes in the late afternoon like this, with the springtime scents of lilac and jasmine coming up on the breeze mingling with the closer smells of pencil and chalk, this classroom was her favorite place in the world.

She felt that she could count on her fingers the times when she’d been the absolute happiest and most content, and many of them had been right here. Some of the long-timers here at St. Charles had gotten perhaps a little cynical over the years, but either Tara hadn’t been here long enough yet, or she didn’t have the genes for cynicism; she wasn’t that kind of a person. She still loved her kids. Every year a new batch, and every year with fresh challenges—oh yes, thank you, challenges—but also with something new to learn, to connect with, to love. New clay. That was how she always thought of her classes when the year began. New clay.

Sitting back in her desk chair, she daydreamed, her face relaxed in contented repose, an almost infinitesimal upturn to her lips. It had been a day almost exactly like this one, soft and scented—had it been three years now? She remembered that the whole day she’d felt almost sick with herself since she’d been so easy on the first date with this new guy, Evan. Too easy. She’d been too attracted and let him know it and wasn’t really inclined to fight herself. Not against that kind of heat.

But what if it turned out to be that old cliché and he didn’t respect her and never called again? Hell, she was an intelligent woman with a fine career and knew that she would never build her world around some man, but the thought of never again seeing this man she’d met only one time just suddenly didn’t seem bearable.

And she had gotten up from her desk, sick at herself, and went to smell the outdoor smells by the window, which always helped when she was worried or depressed, and she looked down and there Evan was, getting out of his car with a bouquet in his hand. The happiest single moment of her life.

Sighing, she opened her eyes, surprised at how quickly the contented daydream had retrieved enough emotion to nearly bring her to tears. Breathing deeply, she dabbed at her eyes and pushed back from her desk, thinking that, oh, well, it was time to go home. No need to dwell on the past. It was still a beautiful day, with the incredible floral perfume outside on the breeze.

She crossed over to the window to smell the day one last time. And then she looked down.

In the street, Evan was getting out of his car. No flowers. But it was him nevertheless, coming to see her at last.

Tears welled again, and her hand went to her mouth. Then, after a moment, she brought it down to rest over her heart.

“H
I.”

“Hi.”

“I thought you might be here.”

“You were right. It’s a beautiful afternoon. My favorite time.”

“I remember.”

A silence. She’d been standing when he got to the classroom door, and now she boosted herself back onto her desk. “So how are you?” she finally asked. “You look good.”

“I’m okay. I still get headaches, but basically I’m Mr. Lucky.”

“That’s what I’ve heard. I’m glad for you. Glad you’re alive.”

“Me too.” He moved a step closer to her. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve been crying.”

She shook her head, smiled with a false brightness. “Allergies. The downside of all these blooming flowers.” She sucked in a quick breath and let it out, then tried another smile that died on the vine. “I tried to call you.”

“I know. I was a shit. I could say I was still recovering and don’t remember anything about it, but that’d be a lie. I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “I was a shit too. Too inflexible. Too stupid.”

“Okay,” he said, “we’re a couple of shits.”

“Stupid shits,” she corrected him. And finally a small smile took.

“Better,” he said. He looked away, over at the window to the oak-studded hillside. Coming back to her, his jaw somehow had a harder line. He drew a breath and blew it out sharply. “You still seeing Ron Nolan?”

Biting at her lower lip, she nodded, answered in a very small voice. “Sometimes.”

“Love him?”

She shrugged, shook her head, shrugged again. “I don’t know, Evan. We’ve had some good times, but I don’t know.
Love
’s a big word.”

“Yes, it is. What are we going to do about it?”

“What do you mean, we?”

“You and me. We. The usual meaning. The fact that I love you.”

“Oh, God, Evan.” She shook her head from side to side. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“Well…” She slipped herself off the desk and walked over to the windows again, stood still a moment, then turned back to him. “Please don’t say that,” she repeated. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything. Although that’s one of the reasons I came here. To tell you that. Just so that if you were wondering, you’d know.”

Her gaze settled on his eyes. “Okay,” she said softly. “Okay, now I know.” Bringing her hand up to her forehead, she pushed until her fingers went white, then pulled her hand away. “Were there other reasons?”

“Other reasons for what?”

“For why you came here. You said one reason was to tell me you loved me. What was another one?”

Evan’s brow clouded over—he couldn’t remember. For an awful moment, he thought he might have forever lost the real reason he’d come to see Tara today. He hadn’t come to tell her he loved her. He hadn’t been sure of that until he was with her. But then they’d started talking and that had come out and now he was unable to retrieve the real purpose of his trip here. “I’m trying to remember,” he said. “Can you give me a couple of seconds?”

This was the first time she was seeing an effect of his injury, and he was acutely aware that this moment might change everything forever between them. He might, in her eyes, now be damaged, challenged, handicapped—somehow not as sharp as he’d been, not quite exactly the same person. Not quite her equal.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Closing his eyes, concentrating, he thought,
“Come on, brain, come on. Retrieve it.”
Then he opened his eyes as the answer found its way to his tongue. “The other reason I came here,” he said, “is I wanted to ask you a simple factual question.”

At once, she was all the way with him again. Her expression now relaxed, she moved a few steps toward him, her arms crossed over her chest. “I can do simple factual,” she said. A smile played around her mouth.

“Okay. Do you remember when you first heard about me getting hurt?”

Her quizzical look stayed on him for a long moment, as though she were surprised that he would have to ask that question at all. “Sure,” she said. “I ran into your mom at the grocery store one night. I think it was a few days before Christmas. I know it was a few days before I called you.”

“You mean called me at Walter Reed? When I didn’t talk to you?”

“Right.”

“You’re sure of that? The time, I mean. Just before Christmas.”

“Of course. That’s when it was. When else would I have heard?”

“How about back when it happened? Say, September?”

“No way, Evan. How could I have known then?”

He shrugged. “Well, when did you start seeing Ron Nolan?”

“What does Ron have to do with that?”

“I would have thought he’d have mentioned it, that’s all.”

“He never knew about it, Evan. You guys all got transferred out of his base the week he got back.”

Evan canted his head a bit to one side. Studying her expression, he read only sincerity, openness, perhaps a bit of confusion. But one thing was clear—she was telling him the truth as she knew it.

“We got transferred?”

“That’s what Ron said.”

“Where’d we get tranferred to, Tara? Did he tell you that?”

“No. I don’t think he knew.”

“Right. He didn’t know. You know why? Because we weren’t transferred. We ran our last mission out of Baghdad Airport, where we’d been with Ron all along. You can look it up.”

The germ of confusion spread like a plague over her features. Mouth tightened, brow furrowed, eyes darting, seeking a place to land. “But…” The word hung in the room between them. Her arms hung down, inanimate at her side. “I don’t get this.”

“Ron was with us in the convoy, Tara. He was in my Humvee. He was next to me when I got hit.”

“No. That can’t be true.”

“Why would I make it up, Tara?”

“I’m not saying you’re making it up, Evan. Although I could see a reason why you might. But I don’t think you’d do that.”

“I wouldn’t. I’m not making it up,” he said. “It’s what happened.”

She held his gaze for a minute, and then, her voice barely audible, grabbed at the next straw. “Maybe…I mean, I’m just thinking, could it be with what happened to your head…maybe you don’t remember it all exactly?”

He nodded—sober, patient, restrained. “That’s a legitimate question. I have forgotten some stuff. I don’t remember whole days and weeks from when I woke up. But Ron was with us in that convoy. I remember everything about that. If you still don’t believe it, you can look it all up on the Web. Just Google Masbah.” He spelled the name of the neighborhood in Baghdad. “It’s all there. He’s the reason it all went down. And that’s the reason he had to get out of Iraq so fast. They were starting the investigation, and he knew it led straight to him.”

The color had drained from her face. Her eyes flitted to the corners of the room as though she hoped to find some answer there. She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Placing her hand flat on one of the students’ desktops for support, she lowered herself into the connected chair. “He told me he had no idea you’d been hurt,” she said, “that he found out about it from me after I ran into your mom that night and she told me.”

“Christmastime.”

She nodded. “Definitely.”

“And he told you he knew nothing about it before?”

“Nothing. I swear, Evan. No, he swore. He’d never heard a thing about it.”

“He didn’t have to hear about it, Tara,” Evan said. “He was there. He fired the first shots.”

S
PINOZA POURED THEM
both a cup of coffee and took Evan out into the backyard so they wouldn’t interrupt the movie Leesa and their four young kids were watching in the family room. The day, with at least another half hour of light in it, continued warm and fragrant. The two men sat down at a picnic table under a vine-covered trellis. “So,” Spinoza began, “did you get your dope dealer yet?”

“Not yet,” he said. “He’s out of town.”

“Timing’s everything,” Spinoza said.

“I don’t know,” Evan replied. “Timing’s important, but I’d give points for location too. A quarter inch either way and my story’s different. That’s been pretty good nightmare material.”

“I’d imagine so.” Then, going back to his original subject, Spinoza said, “You know he’s out of town?”

Evan shrugged. “His car’s gone. Nobody answers the door.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Ev,” the lieutenant said. “If you think there’s really something to this guy, send him to the narcs.” Spinoza blew on his coffee and took a sip. “And in other news, you know Mr. Khalil, who we talked about at lunchtime? As of a couple of hours ago, Mr. Khalil is officially a joint-jurisdiction case. You remember the frag grenade issue we talked about? Well, the feds have conclusively determined that that’s what blew up the room and started the fire. So they’re in the case, in spite of the fact that it also looks like Mr. Khalil and his wife were first shot in the head with a nine millimeter bullet.”

Evan’s face must have betrayed something. Spinoza abruptly put his coffee cup down on the table. “What?”

“Nothing,” Evan said.

E
VAN LEFT
S
PINOZA’S HOME
in great frustration. He’d planned—hoped—somehow to get the picture from Nolan’s computer in front of Spinoza, but there was no way he could tell his lieutenant how he’d gotten it—that he’d broken into someone’s home—and that rendered hopeless his entire ill-conceived plan. But cruising down to the Khalils’ ruined house, Evan had satisfied himself that the house in the picture was in fact theirs, then decided that the thing to do would be simply to send the disk to the FBI. The Bureau would have Nolan in their database and know all about his history. The advantage to his new idea was that both the ATF and the FBI were known to play fast and loose with due process and probable cause. If they came to think that Nolan had killed the Khalils, especially if there was an Iraqi or terrorist connection, they would find a way to question him and perhaps even get inside his house, where they would discover the grenades, the other pictures, the guns. In any event, after they got the disk, Nolan would be on their radar. After that, it would only be a matter of time before they could take him down.

Now night had fallen. In his kitchen, Evan’s head throbbed and again the pinpricks of bright light at the edges of his vision presaged the onset of a migraine. He’d already taken a couple of Vicodin, and as soon as he finished the last of his business, he had to get to bed if he was going to work tomorrow.

Wearing blue latex gloves, he pulled the self-adhesive manila envelope over closer to him. It had taken a while, left-handed, to write down both Nolan’s address on a piece of notepaper and the FBI’s address on the envelope. But now he was satisfied—the writing was legible yet unidentifiable as his own. He slid the slip of paper with Nolan’s address into the envelope along with the disk, then pulled the paper strip from the adhesive and closed the top. He peeled off ten self-adhesive stamps from the roll he’d bought and stuck them on. Tomorrow he would stop off in another neighborhood and drop the envelope into a mailbox.