Betrayal

made his bed, he can lie in it.''

It took Tara three days to work up the nerve to call Evan. Still uncertain exactly about what she was going to say, even once she'd made up her mind to call, she actually wrote some ideas down so she'd hit all the notes-she didn't know he'd been injured, she missed him. Mostly-she wrote it five separate times-she was going to say she was sorry. She was going to tell him that when she'd found out what had happened to him, she was resolved to reach out and try to connect with him again. In spite of how badly she'd treated him by not answering his letters, she hoped he could forgive her. She had been wrong, and she was sorry, sorry, sorry. Now she had to know where she stood with him before she could go on with her life anymore. In spite of their philosophical differences, they'd had something rare and special. He knew that. She was sure they'd both changed since he'd left, and possibly it could never work between them, but maybe they could at least start talking again and see where that led.

Sitting in the big chair in her living room, she listened to the ring at the other end of the line, three thousand miles away. Her mouth was dry, her heart pumping wildly. She realized that she was holding her breath and let that go with an audible sigh, reminding herself to breathe again.

'Hello.'

'Hello. Evan, is that you?'

'No. This is Stephan Ray. Do you want Evan Scholler? I'm his therapist.'

'Yes, please, if he's there.'

'Just a second. Can I tell him who's calling?'

'Tara Wheatley.'

Stephan repeated her name away from the phone and then she heard Evan's voice, unnaturally harsh and unyielding. 'Tara Wheatley? I don't want to talk to any Tara Wheatley. I've got nothing to say to her.'

Stephan must have covered the mouthpiece with his hand, because his next words were muffled, but even through the muffling, there was no mistaking what Evan said next. It was loud enough they probably heard it at the Pentagon. 'Didn't you hear me? I said I'm not talking to Tara Wheatley. Get it? I'm not talking to her! Tell her to get out of my life and stay out! I mean it.' Next she heard what sounded like a heavy object being thrown against a wall, or knocked onto the floor. And swearing, Evan insane with rage.

Or just insane from what he'd been through.

Back in Redwood City, Tara stared at the mouthpiece that she held in her shaking right hand, then slowly, as though the violence she'd heard in it might escape and hurt her further, she lowered it into its cradle.

11

Five months later, at the main Redwood City police station, Evan Scholler sat waiting in a hard chair just outside the room to which he had been summoned, the small wire-glass-enclosed cage that was the office of his boss, Lieutenant James Lochland. Evan's shift had ended twenty minutes ago, at five o'clock. The summons had been taped to his locker downstairs. Now, as he sat, he could see Lochland at his desk, moving paperwork from a pile in the center of it to one of the trays at the far right corner. When the surface of the desk was clear, the lieutenant drew a deep breath, looked through his wired glass, met Evan's eyes and, in his no- nonsense style, crooked an index finger at him, indicating he should come on in.

Lochland was a young forty and considered a good guy by most of his troops, who, as patrolmen, were by and large, like Evan, young themselves. The scars from a severe case of teenage acne marred what would have been an otherwise handsome face, so that now he came across as approachable. He wore his brown hair a little long by cop standards, and cultivated a mustache that could use a trim. Now he told Evan to shut the door behind him, to take one of the two seats that faced his desk. He had his hands clasped loosely in front of him on the pale green blotter and waited while his visitor was seated.

'What's up, sir? You wanted to see me?'

'Yeah, that's why I sent the note. I thought maybe it'd be a good idea if we had a little informal chat and maybe nip a couple of habits, or tendencies, in the bud before they get you in trouble. But before we go into any detail on those things, I wanted to ask you how you think things are going in a general way. In your life, I mean.'

'Pretty good, sir, I think. But, listen, if there've been complaints-'

Lochland held up a restraining hand. 'If there have, we'll get to 'em, promise. But we're not there yet. Meanwhile, what I'm really asking about is your state of mind. How you feel about being back here, in the job.'

'Pretty good. I feel okay about it. I'm glad to be back.'

Lochland nodded, put on a tolerant look. 'You sleeping?'

Evan let out a breath, started a smile that went nowhere. 'Most nights. Whenever I can.'

'You need help with it?'

'What's that?'

'Getting to sleep?'

'Sometimes I'll have a drink or two, yes, sir. When I can't get my mind turned off.'

'What are you thinking about?'

Evan shrugged.

'Iraq?'

He let out a long sigh, lifted his shoulders again. 'I can't seem to get it out from inside me. The guys I lost. My girlfriend. The whole thing.'

'You talking to somebody?'

'A shrink, you mean?'

'Anybody.'

'I talked to some woman at the Palo Alto VA until my discharge came through.'

'And that was just before you started here, right?'

'April nineteeth. Not that I'll have a party on that date for the rest of my life or anything. So, yeah, a couple of weeks before I started here.'

'And you're not talking to anybody since then? They didn't give you any referrals for when you were done with them?'

This brought a snort. 'Uh, no. I'm reading between the lines here, but you're saying you think I've still got issues.'

'I'm asking, that's all. I'm asking if maybe it's a little too soon. If you feel like you're under too much stress.'

'You mean post-traumatic stress?'

Lochland shrugged. 'Any kind of stress. Stress you don't need if you're trying to do a good job as a cop. What I'm saying is that there are programs we've got here, and people we could recommend if you think you need it.'

'I don't want to go down that road.'

'What road?'

'PTSD. You get that label, you're damaged goods. The Army says I'm good. Physically and mentally I'm the miracle child. Now, if one of our own shrinks says I've got PTSD, I'm done.'

'That's not exactly accurate.'

Evan shook his head. 'It's close enough. Post. Traumatic. Stress. Disorder. Disorder, Lieutenant. That's a mental illness. I'm not copping to that, period. That's not what I'm dealing with. I'm fine, sir. Maybe I just need to let a little more time go by.' Again, Evan let a long breath escape.

'There!' Lochland said. 'That's what I'm talking about.'

'What?'

'You don't feel that when you do it? You're sighing like a bellows, Evan. Every time you open your mouth, it's like you're lifting this burden and dropping it on the side before you can say anything.'