Betrayal by John Lescroart Page A

when I come home.
    I know, as you said a hundred times, IF I get home. Well, here’s the deal. I’m coming home.
    I’m just having a hard time accepting that our slightly different politics have really broken us up. It’s true that I think sometimes it’s okay to fight for something, either because you believe in the cause or because you’ve signed on to fight. You’ve given your word. It’s as simple as that. Maybe you don’t think that, and we can argue about it more someday, I hope.
    If you could just write me back, one way or the other, Tara, I’d love to hear from you. I love you. Still.
     
    “Hey! Evan.”
    He looked up to see Ron Nolan standing in the doorway that led back to the dormitory where his men slept. He had written his letter sitting in muted light at a table in the otherwise empty mess hall. Now he’d just finished addressing his envelope and put his pen down, nodding in acknowledgment. “Sir.”
    Nolan stepped into the room. “Hey, haven’t we already been over this? You’re Evan, I’m Ron. What are you, twenty-five?”
    “Twenty-seven.”
    “Well, I’m thirty-eight. Give me a break. You call me ‘sir,’ I feel old. I feel old, I get mean. I get mean, I kill people. Then you’d be to blame. It’s a vicious circle and it would all be your fault.”
    The last words he’d written to Tara still with him, Evan had to force his face into a tolerant smile. “You’d just kill somebody at random?”
    Nolan was up to the table by now, grinning. “It’s been known to happen. It’s not pretty. You want a beer?”
    Evan had a nagging feeling that this recreational drinking could become a slippery slope. It would make the second time he’d had alcohol since his arrival over here. But then really, he thought, what the fuck. With everything else that was going on over here, who really cared? Nevertheless, he took a half-swing at reluctance. “We’re not supposed to drink,” he said.
    “Oh, right, I forgot.” Nolan cocked his head. “Are you fucking kidding me? Somebody here gonna bust you? You’re in charge here, dude.”
    “I know. I’m thinking about my men.”
    “What’s that, like a mantra with you? You see that in a movie or something? I don’t see any of your guys around who are going to be scandalized. They won’t even see. Don’t be a dweeb. I’ll get you a beer.”
    “One.” Evan was talking to his back as he turned.
    “Okay. For starters.” Nolan walked back into the kitchen, opened an enormous double-doored refrigerator, and returned carrying two bottles of Budweiser. Twisting off the top of one, he slid it down the length of the table to where Evan stopped it and brought it to his lips. When he finished his first sip, Nolan was sitting across from him. “There’s e-mail out here, you know.” He pointed at the envelope. “Mom or girlfriend?”
    “Ex-girlfriend. I e-mailed her all during training and she never answered. It’s too goddamn easy to hit Delete. Or change your address. So now I write letters.” He shrugged. “Stupid, but maybe some kind of physical connection.”
    “If she’s your ex-girlfriend, why are you writing her?”
    “I don’t know. It’s probably a waste of time. I’m an idiot.” He took another pull at his beer. “I’d just like to know if she’s even getting these damn letters.”
    “So that’s not the first one?”
    “It’s like, the tenth.”
    “And she hasn’t written back? Not even once?”
    “It was a pretty bad fight. We disagreed about the war.”
    “People don’t break up over that.”
    “We did.” He looked across the table. “But then sometimes I think maybe something’s happened to her. I can’t believe she won’t write me back. Maybe she’s not getting them. If she’s read ’em, I know she’d…maybe she died, or something happened and she can’t…”
    “Can’t what?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Nolan spun his bottle slowly. “Dude,” he said. “No offense, but you’re sounding a little