Moondogs

by Alexander Yates

  Benicio turned to her, as though realizing for the first time that she was still there. “I just have one,” he said. “This is going to sound a little stupid. Does it ever snow in the Philippines? I mean … even if it’s just a freak thing? Do you know if that ever happens?”

  “No,” she said, flatly. “There are some mountains in the north that are pretty high, but I don’t even think it snows up there. That’s it?”

  He turned back to the window. “I’ve got lots of questions, but that’s the only one for you.”

  So she closed the door and left him there. And on the way home, she cried.

  Chapter 21

  GOOD STRANGE

  Benicio saw the stuffy, overdressed embassy woman every day after that. On Wednesday they sat across from each other in a little sandwich shop just inside the security gates of Ninoy Aquino International Airport, quietly drinking too-sweet lattes from paper cups as they waited for Alice to deplane. He’d called to tell her the news a few hours after hearing it himself, waiting for daytime to move to her side of the world before picking up the phone. She’d been on her way to work and pulled off on the shoulder as soon as he said the word kidnapped. Hearing her cry made him cry a little bit. Later that night she called back to tell him that she had a ticket to Manila and was on her way up to D.C. to see if she couldn’t get a rush visa from the Philippine Consulate.

  There was a bit of commotion on the other side of the security barrier as two photographers changed out their wide-angle lenses for telephotos. A reporter with curled hair and a short skirt tried to position herself so that Benicio and Monique would appear in the background of her segment. Just as Monique warned, the kidnapping had made the front pages of the Inquirer, Star and Manila Bulletin. They’d been followed ever since. Jeff—a security officer from the embassy who spoke with a drawl so long that it trailed on the floor after him—did his best to make the reporters’ jobs difficult. He leaned against the security barrier, screwing up their pictures. When the curly haired reporter began to tape her segment he took out his cell phone and launched into a boomingly animated conversation with his cable provider. She gave up and retreated a little ways down the terminal.

  “It’s good of your girlfriend to come,” Monique said as she emptied yet another pack of no-calorie sweetener into her latte. “You’ve been together long?”

  “A year. Not long.” He stared at the table as he spoke.

  “Well, don’t let her go. It’s a good thing to have someone who’ll be there for you. Especially when there is this far.”

  He nodded slowly, still not looking at her. They only knew each other because of what had happened to Howard, and the mere sight of her shoulder-padded lilac jacket, her peach lipstick and clumped mascara, set his stomach churning. She seemed to recognize this, and if she took offense, she hid it.

  “Are we going to be on time?” he asked. The police commander tasked with his father’s case was supposed to brief them this afternoon.

  Monique flipped her wrist so that her cuff fell below her watch. “We have a little over an hour. But don’t worry. He’ll wait.” Across the terminal the heavy jetway doors swung open with a loud clack and travelers began pouring out looking exhausted and lost. Benicio stood, fingers drumming against the back of his chair, weight shifting as he watched for Alice’s brown hair among the uniformly black and close-cropped. She was one of the last out, eyes red and watery, nothing but a bloated purse as her carryon. He rushed to meet her in the middle of the corridor, where they hugged tight, agitating the foot-traffic. Alice started to cry but stopped when she felt his whole body tighten. She kissed him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “About what?” She gripped his shoulders and extended her arms; a kind of taking-you-in gesture that an older relative might do to a child that had grown since the last time they’d seen them. She looked exhausted and pink. For a quick moment she glanced at the cameras beyond the security conveyors, their flashbulbs reflecting in her bloodshot eyes. “About nothing. It’s a stupid … it’s a silly thing to say.”

  Monique and Jeff joined them. They escorted Alice on the fast track through customs and out under the ugly concrete overhang where Benicio had waited for his father not a full week ago. Edilberto was out there, holding a handmade sign above his head that read Mrs. Bridgewater even though Benicio had been very clear that they weren’t married. Seeing the sign, Alice laughed a little. She loaded her bags into the Shangri-La car, but wouldn’t get inside herself.

  “Screw that,” she said, “I’m going wherever you’re going.” She pulled a yellow steno pad from her purse that they used to keep atop his fridge at home. The front page reminded Benicio that he still needed cilantro, red onions and boullion cubes. “I came to be useful.” She pivoted to face Monique and Jeff. “You two are coming with us? What are your names? Wait …” she fumbled in her purse for a ballpoint pen. “Could you spell that, please?”

  ALICE SCRIBBLED NOTES as they boarded the embassy shuttle—a boxy minivan with tinted windows and doors so heavy they were hard to open. She and Benicio sat in the back. She left her seatbelt unbuckled and shot questions at the front seat, filling her yellow steno with the answers. Jeffrey Tober, Regional Security Officer, ext. 4415. Big guy, southern, green polo. Monique Thomas, Acting Chief, American Citizen Services, ext. 5656. Acting? Remember to ask B. Bright suit. Bright makeup. Going to E-R-M-I-T-A station for briefing by R. Ocampo. New to case. Green polo knows him. Doesn’t seem to like him. Benicio unbuckled his own seatbelt so he could sit closer to her. “If you get too tired,” he whispered, “just say the word.” Alice didn’t answer him, but she wrote not tired at the bottom of her notes. She tapped the words a few times with the tip of her pen before crossing the not out. She wrote, least I can do, underlining the first word twice and then circling it.

  They arrived a few minutes late and hurried into the station lobby, nearly slipping, the floors covered in runoff from a dripping air conditioner. A uniformed receptionist behind a chin-high desk directed them to wait on a pair of wooden benches sitting beneath a big clock ticking twice a second to catch up with the right time. Benicio sat and took Alice’s hand. Her notes lay ready atop her knees. He kissed her cheek and her ear. A few officers looked up from their desks and pointed. He did it again.

  “Sorry I’m late,” boomed a big voice behind them. A short Filipino stood in the station entrance wearing frayed jeans, a white T-shirt and a blue baseball cap. If not for the polished badge clipped to his belt he would have looked like just some dude who’d wandered in off the street. “The traffic in this city! A nightmare, am I right?” He smiled and showed off a set of orthodontic braces that looked out of place on someone already gracelessly pushing middle age. “The kind of nightmare you have every night. What’s the word for that? Fuck. Recurring.”

  Monique got up from her bench and stepped forward to introduce herself. She seemed to wince as the man shook her hand, vigorously. “Tickled,” he said. “Delighted. You’re the son?”

  She snapped her hand from his grip, and the force of it pulled him off balance and made him take a half step forward. His grin hardly slackened. “Jiff,” he went on, gazing past her, “a pleasure, as it sometimes is, to see you. I’m guessing you’re not the son, either?” Jeff stood as well and crossed his arms tight over his broad chest. “Well hell. It’s too early for police work, but here goes …” he pointed a finger in the air and let its aim drift until it settled on Benicio. “Elimination is the process.”

  Benicio stood and spoke with a voice slightly deeper than usual. “Yes, I’m Howard Bridgewater’s son.”

  “I’m glad to meet you, son.” They shook hands and became enveloped in a sudden and very strange silence. The policeman’s fingers went limp. He stared Benicio in the face and said nothing. “Sorry,” he finally managed, dropping his hand back to his side. “You just look … let’s say familiar. You look like some people I know. No matter.” He wiped his fingers, which had been sweaty, on his jean
s. “I’m Reynato Ocampo,” he said. “I’m the guy who’s going to save your father’s life.”

  Monique gasped a little and Jeff uncrossed his arms. “Christ, Reynato, what’s wrong with you? Why would you say that?”

  He smiled a bit and raised his small palms in the air—a mock surrender. “Hey, you got me. Zealous, as charged. Sometimes I carry myself away. Let me put it like this—Mr. Howard Bridgewater is a valued resident of Metro Manila, and I’ve been directed to spare no expense in securing his safe recovery. I run an elite task force and the resolution of kidnapping cases is one of our most special specialties. My team and I, we are very good at our jobs. Forgive me if that sounds immodest, I’m just trying to be as accurate as possible—we are really excellent at them. And as of right now, getting your father back is our only job.”

  With that he turned abruptly, crossed the station lobby and disappeared through a saloon-style door. He clearly expected them to follow, and they rushed to do so. Benicio glanced at Alice’s notes as they walked and saw that beside Ocampo’s name she’d written nothing but a series of deeply inked exclamation points. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “He’s strange.” She gestured to a group of officers and secretaries who’d stopped typing as Reynato passed and were peeping up from their desks as though desperate to watch him but afraid of being caught doing so. “But, good strange.”

  Benicio looked back at his father’s self-anointed savior, thinking that Charlie Fuentes was an odd pick to play him in the movies. Reynato was duckfooted and had a bobbing, almost boyish stride. He walked not just like he owned the place, but like he’d thought it up. As though the entire collection of walls, ceiling tiles, telephones and the people who spoke on them were gathered there as a special treat for him. Something to play with. “I’m not so sure,” Benicio said.

  Reynato brought them to a conference room with maps pasted across the dusty glass walls and invited them all to take a chair. Once they were seated he paced around the table, asking questions as he went. When was the last time Benicio had spoken to his father? Did Benicio know of any enemies his father might have? Did Howard have any outstanding medical conditions like heart disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, peptic ulcers, acid reflux disease, schizophrenia, priapism, bipolar disorder, chronic cough, and if so was he taking any prescription medications to combat the ailment or ailments? How familiar was Howard with the city? With the country? Did Howard speak Tagalog? Did Howard speak Cebuano or Visayan? Did Howard speak Spanish? Did Howard speak anything other than English?

  “Mr. Ocampo,” Monique raised her voice over Reynato’s questions. It looked like speaking to him made her nervous, but she went ahead anyway. “Benicio already gave a statement. If you need another we’ll arrange it. But I thought our meeting today was for a progress update. At least that’s how Director Babayon …” she lingered for a moment, “described it in his memo to our embassy.”

  Reynato quit circling the table and went to stand beside Monique’s chair. He got down on one knee, moved his hand over the carpet and stood again. “Excuse me,” he said as he extended his cupped hand toward her. “You dropped this name. Do you need it back?”

  She glared at him. “If you’re not taking this seriously, then I’ll request that someone else brief us.”

  Reynato was quiet for a while, his hand still extended in mock offering. Then he gingerly pantomimed putting Director Babayon’s name into his pocket. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I take this very seriously. That’s why I ask questions—things just don’t seem real to me until I hear them for myself. But you’re right. I’m sure you’re all exhausted,” he nodded toward Alice, “and very busy, besides.” The room was quiet, and uncomfortable, and he seemed to revel in it for a moment before stabbing his pen at one of the maps of Luzon pasted to the glass wall. “This is the location of the Blue Mosque, some two hours south of Manila, in Cavite province. On the afternoon of Wednesday, May 12, a group of as-yet unidentified persons apparently entered this mosque and engaged the Imam in some discussion regarding Mr. Howard Bridgewater. Since then our detectives, myself among them, have thoroughly interrogated this Imam. Naturally we haven’t ruled him out as a potential suspect, but as of now there’s no credible evidence of his involvement. He’s been very forthcoming, and I try to be open-minded about these things. We can’t pigeonhole an entire people, after all. Frequency does not a rule make.”

  Reynato paused a moment, presumably to let them all consider his fair-mindedness, before drawing an X on the map at the location of the Blue Mosque. Then he traced a big uneven circle around the city limits of Metro Manila. “Based on materials recovered from the mosque we have good reason to believe that your father is still being held somewhere in Manila, though we’re not sure he’ll be here much longer. The Imam was a little vague on the suspects but we’ve gathered that there were likely three men. Two Filipinos, and some kind of foreigner with a high degree of martial arts training.” He assumed a karate-chop stance to demonstrate. “We’ve had our best sketch artist working with the Imam for the past few days, but as of now we don’t have a realistic likeness of this individual.”

  Alice looked up from her notes and blinked a few times, as though trying to clear her eyes of dust. “So, what do they want? I mean, they’re not ransoming Benicio’s dad, right?” She took a long breath. “Are they terrorists?”

  “Not exactly.” Reynato flashed his braces. “We don’t believe they have any ideological or religious grudge against the United States. But they realize that there are plenty of people in the world, and plenty of people in this country, I’m sorry to say, that do. It’s to those people that they would like to sell your father.” He paused, only briefly, and the word sell filled the room. “The fact that a sight-unseen visit to a mosque was their first try is a good thing. It means that they’re idiots. And they don’t have leads.”

  “Have they hurt him?” Alice asked.

  The fact that Reynato didn’t answer right away was answer enough. His slick, too-cool-for-school persona dissolved and, for the first time since hearing the news, Benicio really started crying. He wasn’t even embarrassed about it, he just cried. Because this was so fucking awful. Because somebody had hurt his father. They’d probably hurt him badly. And they would maybe kill him. And his father’s best hope for being rescued was this guy, who, let’s face it, was looking more and more like a maniac.

  “He’s not in immediate medical danger,” Reynato said. “The kidnappers left a mobile phone at the mosque with a picture of Mr. Bridgewater on it—a proof of life for the Imam. The director told me not to use the word torture, but I know it when I see it.” Now it was Alice who started crying. Benicio had moved on to nausea. “I know this is difficult to hear, but you should consider that mobile phone a little Finnish-made blessing. Not only does it leave us with a record of the kidnapper’s contacts and call history, but with any luck we can use it to track down the vendor. If he keeps good receipts he’ll have a record of who bought it.”

  Alice wiped her cheeks and wrote this all down in her pad. When Reynato finished talking she asked for a copy of the map he’d marked up. He peeled it right off the wall, rolled it up and handed it over. He shook hands with everybody and walked them to the station door. Outside it had begun to drizzle—a sunshower—and everything was incongruously beautiful. Reynato stood in the doorway, waving as they made for the shuttle, like a homeowner would with departing guests. Despite the rain, Benicio cracked his window open, sure that he’d be sick. Then, when he wasn’t sick, he felt guilty. Like maybe he still wasn’t sad enough. A good son, a son who loved his father unreservedly, would be vomiting his guts up right now.

  IT WAS ALMOST DARK by the time he and Alice got to the Shangri-La. They ate a quick, quiet meal in the hotel restaurant and took the elevator up to his suite. Edilberto had left Alice’s bag sitting at the foot of the bed and she squatted down to open it. “Where should I put these things?” she asked, holding up a stack of poorly folded bl
ouses.

  “Let me.” He took the clothes from her and laid them in the dresser. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching as he slung pants and dresses over dark wooden hangers. He lined her toiletries up beneath the bathroom mirror. He placed her shoes beside the door.

  They fucked. She initiated. It was filthy, and good, the way filthy sex is good. He thought about his dive instructor, and about Solita, a little bit. He wondered what Alice was thinking of, because she was going wild. Upon finishing they were rendered messy and embarrassed. The same thing had happened, he remembered, when his mother died. Sex was excellent after his mother was dead. Now, with his father kidnapped, sex was super-excellent. He was a lousy person.

  Alice slept and Benicio took a shower. Steam filled the bathroom. It was velvety in his throat and lungs, and when he got out the towels were damp with it. Alice’s toiletries sat where he’d lined them up below the big mirror. He began going through them. He unzipped little pouches, wheedling through face cream, generic painkillers, some cheapo perfumes and foundation a shade darker than she could pull off. It didn’t take long to find—a blue envelope with slots for twenty-eight little pills, most of them custard-yellow but the last seven pure white. He popped each pill out of the packet and dropped them, one by one, into the toilet. Then, using a small pair of scissors, he cut the packet into tiny pieces and dropped those into the toilet as well. This wasn’t sabotage. It’s not like he wanted children—God, he wanted the opposite of children. He just wanted—needed—some space to think. And he couldn’t find that space in the dirty routine they’d settled into; the fucking, the rough play. It was getting corrosive and had to stop. It was a way of moving farther apart, not closer together. And he didn’t want them to move apart. He was so afraid of moving apart that his fingers shook as he flushed her birth control pills.