Betrayal

HARDY AND FRANNIE were trimming the roses that bounded the fence in their backyard on a cool Sunday afternoon in the second week of June, talking about the arrival of their children, who'd both be returning home from their respective schools in the next couple of days. "I think they should both work," Hardy said. "I worked every summer of my life."

"Of course you did," Frannie said. "I can see you now, four-year-old Dismas out plowing the fields. To say nothing of walking ten miles to school every day, in deep snow."

"Leave out the snow part," he said. "This was San Francisco, remember."

"Yeah, but back when you were a baby, wasn't the climate different here?" Frannie enjoying the little joke at the expense of the eleven-year difference in their ages.

"You're a very funny person." He reached over and clipped a newly budded rose just at its base.

"Hey!" She turned on him.

"It's my old eyes," he said, backing away. "I was aiming for lower down on the stem."

"Yeah, well, keep it up and I'll aim for lower down too." She took a quick and playful swipe at him with her cutting tool.

Hardy backed up another step, then cocked his head, looking over her shoulder. "Well, look what the cat dragged in."

Glitsky was just emerging into the yard from the narrow walkway between their house and the neighbor's. He was in civilian clothes, hands in the pockets of his battered leather jacket. Getting up to them, he gave Frannie half a hug and accepted her kiss on the cheek, then turned to her husband. "You should leave your phone on."

"I know. It's bad of me," Hardy said. "But it's Sunday, I figured whatever it is can wait. But maybe not."

"Maybe not, after all. You know anything about this?"

"About what?"

"Jack Allstrong."

Hardy felt his stomach go hollow. He caught his breath, cleared his throat, tried to swallow. "No. What about him?"

"He got in his car this morning down in Hillsborough and turned it on and it blew up him and half his house. It's all over the news."

"I don't watch TV on Sunday either."

Glitsky just stood there.

Frannie touched Glitsky's arm. "Abe? What's wrong?"

"I don't know, Fran. I don't know if anything's wrong. I was thinking Diz might be able to tell me." He kept his eyes on Hardy.

Who drew another breath, then another, then blew out heavily and went down to one knee.

EPILOGUE. 2008

ON A WARM LATE-SUMMER DAY about fifteen months after Jack Allstrong's death, an excellent jazz quartet was doing arrangements of big band material in her backyard as Eileen Scholler came out of her house. She wended her way under the balloons and through the large crowd of well-wishers, touching an arm here, a back there, smiling and exchanging pleasantries and congratulations with her guests. At last she came to the table under one of the laden lemon trees where Dismas and Frannie Hardy sat drinking white wine with Everett Washburn.

"Ah, here you are, way in the back. Do you mind if an old lady pulls up a chair?"

"I don't see any old ladies," Washburn said, "but glowing mothers of war heroes are always welcome."

Hardy pulled out the chair and as she sat, her eyes started to tear up at Washburn's words. She smiled around the table. "War hero. I never thought I'd hear anybody say that about Evan again. And now…" She indicated the overflow crowd and turned to Hardy. "How am I ever going to repay you?" she asked.

"Believe me, Eileen," he said, "the result was plenty payment enough." After the court of appeals had ordered a new trial for Evan, the San Mateo County district attorney declined to prosecute further. The FBI, it seems, was reluctant to cooperate, citing national security and the need to keep its own internal investigation confidential. Over the impassioned objection of Mary Patricia Whelan-Miille, the DA had been only too happy to use that as a reason to dismiss the charges. "Seeing Evan walking around a free man. Look at him over there, laughin' and scratchin'."

They all looked to where Evan stood with his arm around Tara in a knot of people comprised of his father, several other guys and women about his own age, Tony Onofrio, and even Stan Paganini.

"I still feel like it's a dream," Eileen said. "Like I'm going to wake up and he's going to be in prison again."

Frannie reached over and put a hand over hers. "That's not going to happen. What's going to happen is he and Tara are going to get married next month and I wouldn't be at all surprised if you become a grandmother in pretty short order after that."

Eileen squeezed Frannie's hand, looked briefly skyward, then came back to her. "Your mouth to God's ear," she said, "but I almost can't bring myself to hope after all this time."

"You'll get used to it," Hardy said.