Called home from war - to bury his wife

The new novel from Inquirer columnist Lisa Scottoline, "Don't Go"

(St. Martin's Press), is in bookstores now. This is

the third of three excerpts.

Mike climbed the jetway at Philadelphia International Airport in a sort of trance, numb. His backpack hung off his shoulder, and his iPod buds were plugged into his ears, though he played no music.

He'd turned off his phone in Afghanistan to avoid the condolence e-mails and calls from his former partners and friends. The one call he would have answered wouldn't come, ever again.

Mike lumbered into the gate area, where the fluorescent lights hurt his eyes and the Christmas music bled through his buds. It was inconceivable that Chloe was dead. She was worried about him, not the other way around. They'd even made wills and upped their life insurance, in case he died. So it made absolutely no sense that she had died in a household accident, a stab wound, an SW. His wife. It wouldn't have happened if he'd been home. He had failed her.

Chloe had died alone.

He fell behind the excited and happy travelers, a swollen scrum of scarves and puffy coats who bustled along, rolling suitcases and carrying shopping bags of wrapped gifts. He kept going, head down and one boot in front of the other, past the Jamba Juice and a Gap decorated in red-and-green lights, blue-and-white menorahs, and signs 30% OFF EVERYDAY PRICES. The most time the Army would give him was 10 days' emergency leave, so there was a lot to do in a short time, and Mike told himself he'd get it done, just like in surgery.

He'd drape the blasted flesh and perform the steps in the procedure, which was burying his wife and making arrangements for the care of their child.

He tugged out his earbuds, tucked them in his pocket, and felt his senses assaulted by the sights, sounds, and colors. Afghanistan was tan and brown, except for what was gray; the dry earth was a gray-brown powder that the soldiers called moondust, and the flat roofed Afghani houses of the Kunar Valley were hewn from gray-black indigenous rock, built into the mountains and covered with gray stones and grayer rubble. Camp Leatherneck, where he'd first flown in, was in the gray-brown-red desert, but at least it had a portable toilet, and he'd been in camps that smelled like smoke and feces, which they burned, creating a stench all its own.

Mike shook it off, trying to leave it behind, but caught betwixt and between. The aroma of fresh pizza filled the air as he passed the Sbarro's, and he caught a whiff of a flowery scent from a perfume kiosk.

It reminded him of Chloe, so he tried not to breathe. He reached the security exit, where the crowd crammed together into a chute.

They'd all be dead if they came under enemy fire, and he felt a bolt of reflexive fear. His heart rate picked up until he reminded himself he was home. A TSA lady smiled at him, showing a gold tooth, but he looked away.

"Mike! Over here!"

Mike spotted Bob, who clearly wasn't himself, showing the strain.

Robert Ridgeway was a tall, sandy-haired lawyer, usually a commanding presence, but tonight his shoulders slumped in his camel hair topcoat and his brow furrowed all the way to his hairline, with its expensive layers. Mike threaded his way through the crowd and hugged him.

"Hey, Bob," he said hoarsely. He wanted to hold it together, in public. "Thanks for coming."

"I'm so sorry, Mike." Bob hugged Mike back awkwardly, either because of the backpack or the emotion.

"I still can't believe it."

"I know, Mike."

"It wasn't supposed to happen this way."

"No, it wasn't." Bob gave him a final squeeze, then let him go. His smallish eyes were a weary blue, and he looked older than his 40 years. "What can I say?"

"Nothing. There's nothing to say. It's not possible." Mike tried to clear his throat, but it wasn't working. People glanced over, seeing it wasn't a typical holiday homecoming.

"Let's go. Did you check anything?"

"Nah, I got it." Mike didn't remark on the naïveté of the question, which touched him. He hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder.

"I parked in short-term, so no muss, no fuss. Traffic's crazy." Bob walked down the corridor, and Mike fell into step beside him, trying to recover. Maybe he wasn't as good at compartmentalizing as he thought.

"How's Danielle taking it?"

"Terrible. She was in bed the whole first day, crying her eyes out, but she's coming around." Bob moved quickly, his topcoat flying open. "The baby's keeping her in the game, and she's worried about you."

Mike knew Danielle would be devastated. The sisters didn't always see eye-to-eye, but their differences seemed to dissolve after Emily was born. Danielle was the older of the two and she had helped Chloe with everything. "How's Emily?"

"She's great. Big. She's really cute, wait'll you see her, and she laughs, like, a belly laugh." Bob didn't look over. "Danielle will show you. She makes her laugh."

"Thanks for stepping in. You guys are a Godsend."

"Not me. Danielle did most of it."

"Nah, come on. Credit where credit is due. I saw you in that photo at the waterpark. Where was that, Dorney?"

"No, Sesame Place."

"They have a wave pool?" Mike reached the escalator, piling on behind Bob.

"No. You can't put that young a baby in a wave pool. It was a kiddie pool."

Mike reddened, oddly ashamed. He knew Emily was too young for a wave pool. They reached the bottom of the escalator, where limo drivers lined up in front of glowing hotel ads. The crowd flowed to the right toward the baggage carousels, and Mike sped up to stay with Bob, who kept talking.

"Glad I bought the snowblower. Snowed yesterday, for six more inches. You believe this weather?"

Mike couldn't make small talk right now, so he didn't try. He knew that Bob felt as awful as he did, but just dealt with it differently.

Wednesday

7 p.m. at Cherry Hill Barnes & Noble,

911 Haddonfield Road

Thursday

7 p.m. at Willow Grove Barnes & Noble,

102 Park Ave.

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