Betrayal

Evan placed his shaking hands on the steeering wheel and tried to get some physical control back into his body. Swallowing was difficult. Sweat had broken on his brow and down his back.

What was he going to do?

'C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon, c'mon,' he said to himself. But it was an empty imperative with no meaning. Seeing them together, knowing that they were in fact a couple, rendered unimportant the day's discovery that perhaps Tara hadn't cruelly ignored his injuries. What did that matter if she was sleeping with Nolan? If he was in her life, and Evan wasn't.

Suddenly, rocked with self-loathing and hatred, he allowed a steely calm to wash over him. Like most off- duty cops, he kept his weapon available for emergencies. His.40 semiautomatic was locked in his glove compartment, and now he took it out. Checking the chamber and the safety, he took a breath and then opened his car door, tucking the gun under his Hawaiian shirt into his belt.

He stepped out into the street.

Evan sat at one of the computers at police headquarters. There wasn't much call for accessing the Department of Motor Vehicles database with his work in the DARE program, and this was the first time he'd actually had occasion to use the department's software. So far, it hadn't gone as quickly as he would have liked. In a perfect world, he could have already been in and out and nobody would have seen him, which would have been his preference.

But his world hadn't been perfect for a long time.

And sure enough, suddenly, at nine-thirty on a Sunday night, when the whole station should have been all but deserted, somebody called out his name from the doorway. Straightening his back, he hit the 'ESC' button and jerked his head to the side so quickly he felt a crick in his neck as he looked over to see Lieutenant Spinoza from the Totems now coming toward him. Breaking a casual smile, he said, 'Hey, Fred, what's going on?'

'People keep killing each other, that's what. So we poor public servants have to burn the midnight oil and then some.' He gripped Evan's shoulder. 'But, hey, how are you feeling?' he said. 'I didn't like the way that dizziness came up on you all of a sudden the other night.'

'No, I'm fine. I don't know what that was. My brain whacking out on me again.'

'Well, whatever it was, you looked like you got hit by a train, and I mean that in the most flattering possible way.' He pulled around the chair next to Evan and straddled it backward. 'You're aware, I hope, that when you're not feeling good, you can call in sick. Everybody knows what you've been through. You don't have to push it. Nobody's going to bust your chops if you need a little time off. Plus, the major issue, just to keep life in perspective, we need you sharp for the game next Tuesday, rather than frittering away your energies trying to convince kids not to smoke dope.'

'I'm all right, Fred. Really. I don't need to take time off.'

'Obviously, if you're down here now. What's so important on a Sunday night?'

Evan gestured vaguely at the screen in front of him. 'Honing up on my computer skills.' He crossed his arms over his chest, all nonchalance. 'But why are you here?'

'I'd say the usual, but it's not.' Spinoza had clearly put in a long day already. 'Does the name Ibrahim Khalil mean anything to you?'

'Should it? Is that an Iraq question?'

The response slowed Spinoza down. 'No,' he said, 'but where you're coming from, I can see that's how it would hit you. But no. Mr. Khalil lives-lived-in this mansion in Menlo Park. He owns about half the 7-Elevens on the Peninsula. Owned. He and his wife don't own anything anymore, though. If it is him and his wife…'

'What do you mean? You don't know?'

Spinoza shook his head. 'Well, we know it was their house. And we know there were two bodies in it. But it's going to be a while before we can put the pieces back together.'

'The pieces of what?'

'Their bodies.'

Evan digested that for a second, then asked, 'Did somebody cut 'em up?'

'No. Somebody blew 'em up, like with a bomb or something. Which of course set the house on fire and burned half of it down around them. So we won't for sure know much of the details for a while. But the neighbors all heard an explosion and then the fire.'

'Somebody trying to get rid of the evidence.'

Spinoza broke a small weary smile of approval. 'Not only does he bowl,' he said, 'he also thinks. I think I see a detective badge in your future, my son.'

'Let's get me out of DARE first.'

'That's a good idea. How much longer you on that?'

'Well, after school's out.' Evan let out a tired breath. 'I can handle it if I can just keep from strangling any of the kids.'

'Yeah, don't do that. Parents get all upset.' Suddenly Spinoza's gaze went to the computer and he clucked in a schoolmarm fashion a couple of times. 'This, boys and girls, is a bozo no-no.'

'What is?'

''What is?' he asks. I'm sure. You think I'm an idiot?' He spoke in an exaggerated stage whisper. 'We-and by 'we' I mean the department-we officially frown upon this method of meeting pretty young women.' He lowered his voice further. 'But really, privacy issues, don't go there. If you got busted, it wouldn't be pretty.'

'I'm not trying to find a girl, Fred.'

Spinoza nodded. 'Of course you're not. Perish the thought. I just thought, on the off chance that you were, that I'd point out to you the department's policy. So whose address are you looking for, then?'

'Just this guy.'

Spinoza raised his eyebrows. 'Same rules go for cute guys,' he said. 'I know we're not supposed to ask about sexual orientation, but-'

'I'm not gay, Fred. Some of my DARE kids say this guy's selling dope.'

'So why don't you just kick it over to vice?'

''Cause they'd just put it on a back burner, and if I find out this guy is really selling drugs to my kids, I'm going to hunt him down and kill him.'

'That's different, then. Why didn't you just say so?' Spinoza moved in closer to the keyboard. 'So you got a plate number?'

For the first time since he'd left Walter Reed, Evan felt he needed to talk to his therapist, Stephan Ray. He didn't know if there was a technical term for what he was experiencing, but subjectively it felt somewhat similar to his inability to recall the names for things in the first months after his surgery. Except that now, and several other times in the past few days, he had found himself in the middle of some activity, or in the grip of some emotional reaction, and didn't seem to have a memory of how he'd come to be there. Or any control over his actions.

Earlier tonight by the Corvette with the gun, for example.

What did he think he was going to do with the gun? What did he want to do with the gun? He didn't know, didn't recall any moment of actual decision. First he was sitting in his car, waiting for Tara to come home so he could have a reasonable discussion with her. And the next thing he knew-the next thing he remembered-he was standing by the Corvette in the parking lot with his gun in his hand. Wondering why his gun was in his hand.

Surely he wasn't planning to shoot Nolan. Or Tara. Or, God forbid, both of them. Maybe he'd decided to shoot out one or more of Nolan's fancy-rimmed tires. In the dim light of early evening, that at least seemed like a semibaked idea. But his sentient mind realized that this would produce a loud noise and the very likely possibility that he'd at least be seen and possibly be recognized. It would also-perhaps-announce himself as interested in Nolan's activities in a way that he'd rather keep to himself, until he made some rational decisions about what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

With Tara.

The stop at the police station had been a rational decision. He knew what he wanted there, though he