Betrayal

Evan shook his head, almost in admiration. 'Old Ron was on a roll.' Lifting his glass, he finished his drink, reached across, and took the second one from in front of Tara. 'He said it, all right.'

'He said something else today too.'

'I can't wait to hear it. What? Did I kill somebody now?'

But Tara had straightened up. 'God, Evan, why do you say that?'

'What?'

'That you'd killed somebody.'

'I didn't. I was kidding. What?'

She started to talk and stopped herself, then started again. 'Ron told me you broke into his house last weekend and left stuff that you'd somehow smuggled out of Iraq to make it look like Ron had killed this man and his wife, when in fact it was you who'd killed them.'

Evan's shoulders sagged. He slumped in his chair. He lifted his drink and put himself on the outside of it in one gulp.

'Evan?'

'That fucker. That motherfucker.'

She went on. 'He said you'd brought over hand grenades and guns to his place that you'd smuggled out of Iraq. And planted incriminating pictures on his computer.'

Evan's body molded itself back into his hard chair. He spoke slowly, with great caution lest his thick tongue betray him. 'This guy who got killed, Khalil. He was Iraqi. Think about it. Think about Ron's real job over here…'

'What do you mean? Ron's a recruiter mostly. He's…'

'No, listen. He's a mercenary mostly. Those were his weapons, his grenades, his pictures.'

Tara sat back and crossed her arms. 'You mean you do know about this? How could you know about this? Or about Ron?'

He just looked at her, opened his mouth, closed it again.

She came forward now. 'Are you telling me he wasn't lying about you breaking into his house? Did you do that, Evan? Tell me you didn't do that.'

'No, I…' Evan shook his head, hard, trying to clear away the fog of alcohol. 'I mean, okay, I went in.'

'You broke into Ron's house? And did what?'

'Nothing. I didn't do anything. No,' he said, 'that's not true. I got on his computer and got pictures of this guy's house before it burned down.'

'Why did you do that?'

''Cause Ron's a murderer, Tara. He killed this guy and this was the evidence…'

'So what did you do with it?'

'Mailed it to somebody.'

'The FBI, you mean?' She hit the table with her palm. 'Did you send your diskette to the FBI, Evan? Because Ron had the FBI over at his house today, and he told them you'd planted all that stuff there. And now you tell me you were actually inside, so they'll find your hair or fingerprints or something, don't you see that? He's trying to have you framed for this.' She ran both of her hands through her hair, over her scalp, down to her neck. 'God, God, God, how can this be happening? They may be at your apartment right now, wanting to talk to you, do you realize that? And then what are you going to do? What are you going to tell them?'

He stared blankly at her for a long minute, then brought his hand up and chewed at the knuckle of his index finger. 'Enough of this shit.' His words starting to slur.

'Evan.' She gripped at his hands. 'He's already got the FBI in on it, don't you understand? It's already happening.'

'Can't be. I've got to stop him.'

'No. Don't you do anything. Get a lawyer or talk to one of your bosses. Maybe they can deliver a message, get something through to Ron. But you stay out of it personally. Ron's dangerous, Evan. And he's out to get you. You've got to be smart. Get sober and get a plan.'

Evan slammed a heavy hand on the table. 'What do you mean, get sober? Is that what everything's about, whether I'm sober or not? I'm sober right now, enough for fucking Ron Nolan.'

'Evan,' she pleaded, 'you're not. Listen to yourself. You don't swear when you're sober. You don't slur when you're sober.' She stood up, reached out and touched his arm. 'Look, why don't you come home now with me. I could drive us.'

'And then what?' Evan's thick voice trembled with rage. 'And then the FBI finds me there? Or at work tomorrow? What do I do then?'

'Come home with me. We can talk about it and work something out.' She let her arm fall along his sleeve and took his hand. 'Come on. Really.'

'No!' He pulled his hand from hers, turned away. His shoulders rose and fell and then he turned back to her. 'I am not fucking dealing with him anymore! This has got to end. It can't go on.'

'You're right, but it can't end tonight, Evan.'

'Yes, it damn well can.'

Tara kept her voice low, conciliatory, restrained. 'Evan, come on. There's no way you can do anything the way you are now, so don't be crazy. You're just really mad-'

'Way more than that, Tara. I'm going to kill the son of a bitch.'

'Shh, shh, shh.' She moved up and put her fingers to his lips. 'Don't talk like that. That's just crazy drink talk. Let's just the two of us get out of here and-'

'Hey!' Taking her hand down, roughly, away from his mouth. 'Listen to me!' Low and deadly earnest. 'It's got to stop! It can't go on! It's not about fucking drinking. Are you hearing me? It's about honor. Who I am. What he's done to us! Don't you see that?'

'Yes, I do see that. You're right. You're completely right. But this isn't the time to fix all that.' She moved in close and stood straight before him, arms at her side. 'Please, Evan. I'm going to ask you one more time. Please come home with me. Whatever it is, we'll work it out together. I promise.'

But the glaze in his eyes was all that answered her. Standing, weaving slightly, he gripped the back of his chair. 'Enough's enough,' he said.

She looked him in the face one last time. 'I'm begging you,' she said. 'Please.'

If he heard her at all, he didn't show it. He stared blankly ahead at her, shaking his head, shaking his head. Then he started walking toward the door.

'Evan, please,' she called after him. 'Wait.'

He stopped, and for a second she thought that she'd convinced him. He turned back to her. 'Leave me alone,' he said. 'I know what I've got to do and I'm gonna do it.'

And then he turned and again started walking unsteadily toward the door.

PART THREE. 2005

18

Tara had never felt so grateful for her job.

It was getting to the end of the year, and her kids were handing in their big reports and concluding their projects on the ancient world in preparation for the school's open house on Friday night, when all the work would be displayed in the classrooms. In Tara's room, they had rearranged all the desks to make room for the papier mache pyramids, the dioramas of the growing cycle along the Nile, the plumbing schemes for the residences of the pharaohs. Hieroglyphics, the early domestic cat, the library at Alexandria, Moses and the Exodus.

So all day and much of the nights of Thursday and Friday, Tara was busy organizing and tending to last-