Lost Witness

by Rebecca Forster

  "I'll take your word for it," Amstrong said. "How does a guy like that get to where he got to?"

  "You mean dead or the head of a national agency?" Bree chuckled. "Okay, just kidding. His life is like some kind of Chutes and Ladders game. One day he's up, next day he's down. He was a street thug who managed to become a cop. He was dismissed from the PNP — the Philippines National Police —and prosecuted for the wheel game, but he wasn't convicted. That might be because three of the witnesses against him came to unfortunate ends before they could testify. Anyway, Rambo was kind of at loose ends until Duarte came to power. The new president campaigned on ridding the Philippines of all drugs, dealers, users etcetera," Bree said.

  "A lofty goal, and one that you hear from every politician in every country in the world," Armstrong said as he took a swig from his beer. "So what's the deal?"

  "It's the means to the end that's a little different. We aren't talking 'just say no' here. The administration — the president himself — puts out the word that he doesn't care how all this is accomplished. The rhetoric heats up until he gives carte blanche to any cop or citizen who wants to take the law into their own hands with impunity."

  "Wow, talk about open warfare." Armstrong whistled.

  "It's like that movie. You know, the one where everybody can kill anybody they want one night a year. . ." Bree snapped her fingers as she tried to figure it out, but it was Armstrong who filled in the blank..

  "Purge," he said. "Interesting approach to law enforcement."

  "And fully embraced by Duarte, but we're not talking a one night blood bath. It's ongoing and getting worse. First law enforcement got behind this whole thing, and then civilians formed death squads. They literally go into neighborhoods and take out anyone they suspect of doing drugs. It's called extra-judicial justice. If people object, then they're accused of covering up drug activity and boom, they're gone. If the people stay silent then it looks like they're trying to keep out of sight and are automatically guilty, and the death squads go after them. Nobody wins except the thugs."

  "So, where does Rambo come in?" Armstrong asked.

  "He started out small, roughing up people, pulling in a couple of stashes that were legit. He was creative and made a name for himself," Bree said. "He organized neighborhood vigilantes who answered to him. He managed to take out a few real drug dealers, and then he caught the eye of the Provisional Intelligence Branch. Those folks don't care about the whole Wheel of Torture thing or the fact that he and his friends were doing the equivalent of joy riding except people die before the ride is over." Bree ruffled her fingers. "Wheel of Torture was old news at that point, and now Rambo is running with the big guys. He's flamboyant, fearless, and he puts himself in the president's path. They become bros and the rest is history."

  Bree slid the top sheet of loose paper toward Charles Armstrong.

  "It's all there. Timelines and everything."

  "But. . ." Armstrong egged her on.

  "But there are a couple of rumors swirling around that he was in some kind of trouble with Duarte. One theory has it that he was getting too big for his britches and the president was tiring of him."

  "Then that makes it easy enough to do away with him, but why not just whack him on home ground?" Armstrong said.

  "I asked the same thing," Bree said. "It seems that Rambo wasn't just getting too big for his britches, he was giving the president a run for his money in the charm department. The media loved him. A certain moneyed portion of the population was speculating about his electability. People were beginning to think he was actually saving them from the violence associated with drugs and not just flapping his lips like Duarte."

  "But he was perpetrating the violence," Armstrong said.

  "People have short memories or they rely on gossip." Bree pointed out the obvious. "That's the way things go today. Deep fakes before there were even honest to God deep fakes. Remember, we're talking really regionalized law enforcement stuff. What he did in one city might not have become known in another, but the myth grew."

  "Any aliases?" Armstrong asked.

  "Just one. I don't know why. Remember, this is prelim stuff. It might be all that they've got or all that they think we need to know."

  "So where does that leave you and that ship? Or me and that kid for that matter."

  "Nowhere at the moment. We'll just keep the ship corralled until someone else figures out what we should be doing. I don't like it, I will admit." Bree picked up her glass and swirled the Burgundy in the bowl. "You know, this is the kind of stuff the media loves. If this goes on much longer the other agencies will wash their hands. Without a resolution those hounds will come after me and the Coast Guard. I don't want to go out that way."

  "I don't blame you," the detective said.

  "I'm starting to feel squeezed, buddy. I think everybody's just hoping I'll do something to bring this to an end. That way they can call me before Congress and grill me about how I screwed up."

  "Or give you a medal if you don't," Armstrong suggested.

  "Fat chance," Bree laughed. "That would leave State, FBI and Homeland with clean hands. The port business goes on and I'm screwed. Unless. . .”

  Bree took a drink.

  "Unless?" Amstrong prodded.

  "Unless the weather picks up and that damn thing sinks."

  "It's a little stormy outside, but I wouldn't count on anything sinking."

  "Then maybe you can come up with something that will prove Billy Zuni went postal on good old Rambo and we're done."

  "Maybe. I mean the only way he could have gotten off that ship is to jump and swim for it. If that's what happened, then he had a real good reason for not waiting 'till that thing docked. Maybe he did just go postal on Mr. Rambo."

  To which Bree countered: "Then what's his really good reason for wanting back on?"

  To which Armstrong responded:

  "What do we care about why? We've got the knife. The coroner will see if he can match the stab wounds. The lab will hopefully lift prints. If we got a match with Billy Zuni, you're off the hook. It goes to the courts, the ship sails, the Philippine government raises a ruckus for a little while, and then everything is forgotten.

  "All we have to do is sit tight until I hear from the coroner, or you hear from the State Department. Since there's nothing we can do 'till then, I say we pass the time with another drink."

  "I like the way you think, detective."

  "Charles," Armstrong said as he raised a hand and hailed the waitress.

  "Bree," she said as she collected her reports and put them back in her valise.

  Charles Armstrong was right. As soon as they had something solid they would find Billy Zuni, arrest him, and turn the whole thing over to the DA. Bree would order her people to stand down, the Faret Vild would be on its way, and the system would probably eat Billy Zuni for lunch.

  As far as anyone knew, the Philippine government hadn't even noticed Rambo was missing.

  And Tala Reyes? Well bless her heart, Bree Nelson thought. If she was a figment of Billy Zuni's imagination that was sad, if she was real and hurt that was a tragedy, but the bottom line was this: no one really cared, which it was.

  TALA REYES

  THE PHILIPPINES

  SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER

  "Estrella. . . . Estrella. . ."

  She woke with a start. Her thin t-shirt was drenched with sweat and stuck to her body, between her breasts, and under her arms. Her long hair, tied up before she called it a night, had come undone and was pasted to her neck and shoulders. The sheet — which was unnecessary in this hotbox of a hostel where she had spent the last two weeks — was tangled around her legs. On the bunk below, a man from Switzerland slept on, unaware that the woman in the bunk above him was reliving a night of terror in her dreams.

  Tala blinked, but it was Estrella who shuddered. Tala breathed hard, but it was Estrella who couldn't catch her breath. Tala. Estrella. In the fog of sleep and memory, the woman on the top bunk of the ma
ngy flophouse was neither one nor the other. She was both women: terrified, confused, hurt, in pain, bloody. She was living as she always did these days, in the present and the past as neither one nor the other.

  She pushed aside the cover, threw her legs over the side of the rickety bunk, took her phone from under her pillow, and flipped it on. The light hurt her eyes. It was three in the morning.

  Three bunk beds were smashed into the windowless room. They were occupied with people like her: mariners between voyages, a few travelers, nere-do-wells or just tired men and women. In the light of day they would be all over the docks vying for work, but now they slept off their liquor or their loneliness. She was the only one awake; she was always the only one awake.

  Taking care not to make any noise, she climbed down the cold rungs of the metal ladder, dragging her clothes with her. She pulled on her pants and then picked up her boots, her work shirt, her pack, and left the room.

  On her way out the front door, the night man took no notice of her. A lot of good he would do if terrorists decided to take them all out. Not that terrorists would give this place a second look. Blowing up a mariner's hostel would simply wipe a bunch of fools off the face of the earth. This was not the glamorous life full of fine uniforms and exotic ports that she had imagined all those years ago. Crew was lucky to grab two hours free time in a port, accommodations onboard were tighter than a closet, and the men who made up most crews were pigs. They touched a woman, said things, and sometimes tried to do bad things to the female crew only to smile at the lady passengers like gentlemen.

  Disgusting.

  She threw her stuff on the sidewalk and spread her arms. It was a hot night, but the small breeze cooled her as she finished dressing. She strapped on her belt that was strung with everything she needed to walk the dark morning streets, stepped into her boots, laced them up, and headed for the port.

  Because this was Manila, Tala knew the streets as well as the back of her hand. The early morning was quiet but not silent. There were those who woke with nightmares like she did, and those who were the nightmares. She knew enough to avoid those streets where the bars served foreign sailors, and drugs were plentiful. Some people didn't mind taking a chance that a death squad was around the corner, but she wasn't one of them.

  She turned toward the water. As always the port lights made her smile. There were five ships docked: two cruise ships, and two cargo ships and a tanker.

  She hopped a fence that couldn't have stopped a rabbit and took a short cut through a field that would lead to another fence. She knew that fence was broken, and she could cut twenty minutes off her walk if she squeezed through.

  Half way across the field, Tala paused and listened. Something was moving and it was no rabbit. It was bigger than that, and it wasn't running. The sound stopped, and started again. It was so faint she could hardly hear it yet it was distinct enough to put her on notice. Perhaps it was someone lying in wait to rob her or worse. She reached in the pouch on her belt and pulled out the one thing she was never without - her knife.

  Standing still, she listened. She clicked her head to the right and heard it again. It sounded like a swish. No, it sounded like something was being dragged. She bent her knees and scanned the field. There it was, a shadowy figure moving slow, staying low to the ground. It was a man, and he was much closer than she liked. Wanting no trouble, she turned to run but she never took the first step. She heard:

  "Help me."

  Tala knew it was best to run; whatever happened to him was not her problem.

  "Please," the man said.

  The minutes ticked by and still she didn't move. He no longer dragged himself across the field of scrub or begged for help. He was in bad shape, as bad as she had been after that night in Santa Cruz. She closed her eyes tight, hearing those words in her mind, hearing them in her voice.

  Help me.

  Help me.

  Laughter had been the answer to her plea. Harsh, horrible laughter was what she heard as she lay dying. Even when she was saved at the last moment, it was not done out of love or kindness but out of fear. She needed to be removed, healed, put away, forgotten. Perhaps someone wanted this person forgotten too, and she could not be a partner to that.

  Taking her phone out of her belt she turned on the flashlight and held it above her head. Dull eyes stared at her from under a fringe of blood-matted blond hair. She held the knife in her right hand, blade forward, ready to defend herself if this was a trick. It took no more than a moment to know it wasn't.

  The man at her feet was badly beaten, his face mottled and swollen. Blood had caked on his nose and lips, and smeared across his cheek. It was impossible to make out his features, but she could see he was young and probably American. He could be English, but one didn't see the English much in the Philippines. He was curled into a ball. She saw no blood on the back of his jacket or on his pants, so he had not been shot or stabbed. That was a good thing.

  "I'm coming close," she said. "You better not jump me. Don't move, or I swear I'll stick you."

  Inching forward, she felt no danger from the man who lay still in the dirt, but he was not defeated either. She had no doubt that he saw her knife. She had no doubt that he knew she was a woman, but in this part of town a woman was just as dangerous as a man. Flipping off her light, Tala hunkered down and pushed him over onto his back. He moaned and in the moonlight she could see that he was younger than she thought and in a worse way.

  "What happened to you?" she asked. His lips moved but she heard nothing. She leaned closer and asked:

  "What's your name?"

  This time she heard something surfing atop the shallow breath.

  "Billy."

  27

  Day 2 @ 11:00 P.M

  The guard was taking his sweet time passing the van through the gate and Miguel was getting nervous. Then again, he had been nervous the minute Sparkle walked into the cafe dressed to the nines in her low-cut blouse and fake leather pants, her face all done up like some fashion model. When she came to the cafe for breakfast he often fantasized about how she would look dolled up, and the reality was enough to stop his ticker beating.

  If that hadn't been enough to make him nuts, she had her friends in tow and they were quite a crew. There was Hannah, a girl with incredible green eyes and a riot of black hair. No matter how she dressed up — and she was dressed up in a short skirt and sweater cut down to there that showed the rise of her small breasts — Miguel knew she didn't work at the club. She had too much class. And she was smart. She didn't have to say anything for Miguel to know that. Smart just rolled right off some people. And then there were the men: Billy looking like a bantamweight and Jamal like some sort of enforcer.

  They fanned out behind Sparkle while she did the talking. No matter how sensible she made it sound, what she was asking him to do was off-the-charts crazy. No, it was more than that. What she was asking him to do was dangerous and really, really stupid. But when Sparkle put her arm around him, when he smelled her perfume and her long blonde hair touched his cheeks, when she got close to explain how important his help was, Miguel was besotted and bewitched. From Sparkle's lips stupid sounded reasonable. What other explanation could there be for what he was doing: driving a van, using his day-pass to get into the port and onto the pier, with a load full of people he didn't know. Miguel was sweating under the brim of his cap as the security guy eyed his passengers.

  "Sparkle what?" The guard leaned an elbow on the open window so he could get an eyeful of the busty blonde's assets.

  "Just Sparkle, baby. In my line of business you want to make it easy for your customers to remember who to ask for."

  The man snorted. Sparkle touched the man's arm.

  "Look, honey, we've got a good gig waiting for us. I'd hate to miss our pay day."

  It was hard not to smile at someone who looked like Sparkle, but that didn't mean he was buying what she was selling.

  "What about you?"

  The guard raised his chin t
oward Billy who was lounging near Hannah in the back seat. His shirt was open to his belt, the collar popped up. He was wearing sunglasses. Sparkle had put him in the back hoping the shadows in the panel van would hide the bruises on his face that make-up didn't cover. He looked lazily at the man in uniform, but it was Sparkle who answered.

  "We got a special request," she said.

  The guard snorted again. "Faggot hookers for a ship? What's the world coming to?"

  "Can we go?" Miguel said.

  He had no stomach for intrigue and he was worried that this man would want to search the van. If he discovered Jamal hunkered down in the bay they would all find themselves in big trouble.

  "Look, honey." Sparkle tapped the guard's hand with one of her long fingernails, gave him good gander at the girls, and said: "We won't be long out there. Let us get on with the job, and when I get back I'll hang around and wait for you to get off work. Then we can both relax."

  The man hesitated. He was tempted by the offer but his job was plum and he didn't want to jeopardize it. While he knew about the love boats this was the first time he'd come face to face with the ladies who sailed on them. He had no idea what protocol there was until Billy spoke up.

  "Call Andreeve. You can get him out of bed if you want to check, but he's the one who called us."

  "Gregor Andreeve?" The man in uniform straightened up.

  "Yeah, Andreeve. He called us," Billy said.

  "I wouldn't want to wake him, but you go right ahead if you think you need to check," Sparkle said, picking up on Billy's bluff.

  "It's okay. If Andreeve approved it, then you're good," He said. "Just be back before three. That's when I get off. I want to see you go. Understand?"

  "You got it, baby," Sparkle said as she gave him a double-watt smile.

  With a quick wave, the gate opened, and Miguel drove through.

  "Smile, Hannah," Sparkle said through her frozen grin.