He opens it and tries to bite the man, as hard as he can, through his shirt. But it is difficult to find a good spot on the flesh of his back. Finally Dennis arches his neck far enough to be able to sink his teeth into a portion of the man’s arm, just above his elbow. He puts all his fear and terror and years of hunger and damp and deprivation into this bite. Maybe this time his mouth will serve him.
Still the man walks on, unflinching, toward the dump.
47
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do this.” Director Lastimosa is shaking his head, his lips set in a tight line. “We have people who can bring him in. Jake? Ben?”
“Of course you do,” Saenz says. “But as far as we can tell, he’s already tried to contact us twice. If there’s a chance we can persuade him to come without a struggle, don’t you think we should take it?”
It’s Arcinas who is adamant. “We can’t allow you to put yourselves in that kind of danger. Anyway, now that we know who he is, we can just pick him up.”
“Ah, yes. And where will you start looking?”
“The dump, of course. And if he’s not there, we’ll organize a manhunt. We’ll go national if we have to. We’ll find him.”
Saenz can already visualize the parade of guns and uniforms, the crackle of static from handheld radios, the flapping of feathers in a wild-goose chase. He shuts his eyes tight, the strain of the last few months beginning to take its toll now that the whole thing is almost over.
“We’ll save you the trouble, Attorney. If you just work with us one last time.”
“No,” Arcinas says, folding his arms together and shaking his head. “Not this time, Father.”
Without opening his eyes, Saenz asks quietly, “Director Lastimosa?”
“He won’t agree, either,” Arcinas says, but he casts a furtive glance at the director, unsure of where he really stands. “Father, be reasonable. You’ve no training in the apprehension of criminals. No field experience. If you—”
“It’s not your decision to make, Ben,” Saenz says, also looking at the director now.
An awkward silence follows, and for a minute or two, nobody feels compelled to break it. As they sit nursing coffee mugs in the director’s office, Valdes turns up the volume on the television set. The Payatas killings are the top story on the early evening news. Saenz filters out the sensationalist babble of the anchor, focusing instead on the footage.
Onscreen, a clip of the exterior of Alex Carlos’s apartment. Jerome’s car pulling up to the curb, cutting to a shot of Saenz in his jeans, striding resolutely to the gate, his face grave and deeply shadowed in the late afternoon sun. In another shot of Saenz, Jerome is visible in the background, looking even grimmer than usual, his lips pressed together tightly.
The phone rings and Valdes picks up. He listens to the caller for a minute, then frowns and cups the mouthpiece.
“Missing boy. Mariano’s barangay tanods just alerted our people. Someone saw a man who fits Alex’s description dragging a boy of about twelve or thirteen away, toward the landfill. He apparently left a vehicle parked near the location of the sighting.”
“A vehicle,” Jerome repeats. “What kind of vehicle?”
“Small sedan, old model.” Valdes returns to the person speaking on the phone and makes a few more inquiries. “Toyota. SBN253. That’s Alex’s license plate.”
Director Lastimosa looks up at Valdes. “The boy—was he alive?”
“Looks like it, sir. Witness said he tried to fight back.”
The director turns to Saenz. “We’ve got a boy alive. You still think you might be able to bring Alex back without a struggle? With adequate backup?”
“We can try, sir.”
“But, Director,” Arcinas begins to object.
“With adequate backup, Ben,” Lastimosa says, silencing him. He fixes Saenz with a hard stare. “Just remember, my boys are authorized to take extraordinary measures if they see you or the boy are in grave danger.”
Saenz rises to his feet. “Extraordinary measures, sir? How am I to interpret that?”
“Any way you please, Father, as long as you don’t forget it.” The director turns to Valdes and Arcinas. “Provide any assistance and support he needs. And bring that boy back alive.”
Where Alex Carlos is, the air is alive with many voices, thick with unquiet memory. He is vaguely aware of how filthy he must be, but he can let that go for now or maybe for good—he can’t be sure.
He can hear the boys whispering quietly among themselves, and they stand just far enough from him so that he cannot hear what they are saying very well. Once in a while one of them will look in his direction, and he fancies he can see a small smile on that boy’s face.
The smile fills him with anger.
The boy is lying on the floor, his hands and feet bound with tape, a dirty rag stuffed in his mouth. He’d tried to fight, but Alex was stronger. He is scared but defiant. Every time Alex tries to come closer, he thrashes about like a fish caught on a hook, trying to kick him with his bound feet.
You think you’re so brave, but you’re not. You’re no better than I am. Go ahead, shake your head. You think making fun of me will make things easier for you? It won’t.
The past is alive and immediate in Alex’s head. It meshes seamlessly with what’s here and now, and this boy’s face fits into the parade of faces that torment him in his nightmares: living faces and dead ones, from decades or months ago, each one smiling slyly or laughing openly at him.
I can take it. I don’t care what you say or think about me. Go ahead, laugh. It’s not like I’m the only one who gets it.
He could join the circle, but no, better to stay here, motionless in the dark, where maybe he won’t be found. But he’s always found anyway. And every time it hurts more and more, or is it less and less? And he is getting used to it so that it doesn’t matter anymore.
The boy is trying to say something, mumbling and moaning through the rag.
What did you say? Come on, say it louder; say it so I can hear it, and I’ll punch your faces and knock out your teeth. I will tear your flesh and rip out your guts and kill you, kill you all.
48
“At least wear the vest.”
Jerome shoves the heavy, black bulletproof vest toward Saenz, but the older priest makes a face and waves it away. It still smells of all the bodies that have worn it before.
“No, no. It will only slow me down. I’ll go as I am or not at all.”
“Pity you can’t be excommunicated for pigheadedness.” Jerome uses his bare hand to wipe the sweat from his brow. He cannot understand why he should be perspiring so when the rain has been pouring for half an hour, the wind dipping low every now and then and whipping furiously around them.
They are in the covered porch of the parish church, and a few of the agents are gathered around them, preparing for the apprehension of Alex Carlos.
Jerome blows a puff of air out of his mouth, scratches his head and turns back to Saenz, searching the older man’s face for reassurance. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”
“To begin with, I didn’t think the priesthood was such a good idea, but here we are,” Saenz quips. He reaches out and playfully rumples up Jerome’s hair to annoy him, as he used to do when he was still his student.
Then, as Jerome smoothes his hair down, Saenz clutches the wooden crucifix hanging from its cord down to his chest, closes his eyes and says a brief prayer.
Arcinas walks toward them. “Okay, everybody’s ready. We can go.”
There are three unmarked cars waiting for them. Jake Valdes is standing by the first with three other agents; Arcinas and another set of agents are climbing into the last one. Saenz sees the familiar faces of agents Ed Borja and Norman Estrella through the windshield of the middle car.
Norman, who’s at the wheel, waves at Saenz. “Over here, F
ather.”
Saenz waves back. As he and Jerome enter the car, he sees two familiar figures in the rearview mirror, also entering another car parked some distance away—a woman and a man. He doesn’t mention it to Jerome.
“It’s too bad we haven’t seen the interior of the gymnasium,” Jerome says.
Saenz is looking straight ahead, at the rain lashing against the windshield.
“He won’t be inside the gymnasium.”
“Where, then?”
“You’re the psychologist. Think about it. He wouldn’t feel safe inside the gymnasium; it’s the place where he was violated. No. He’ll make his stand in the one place where he feels he’s safe, in control.”
“The mobile clinic.”
“We know enough about the killings to know that he left very little blood at the sites where the bodies were found. Remember what we were saying? Someplace easy to clean. A garage. A bathroom. Possibly a vehicle.”
“And a converted bus would be a logical place.” Jerome pauses. “He tidies up afterward. The rubber boots. Everything can be washed.”
Saenz nods. “If his safety zone is violated, he’ll be forced to act.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
The older priest sighs. “Get in line.”
“Joanna, where the hell are you?” Wally Soler’s voice booms over the cell phone.
“I’m following Arcinas and his boys. They’ve got Saenz tracking Alex Carlos.” The woman has her hands full steering through the rain, keeping the phone balanced between her right ear and shoulder.
“Why didn’t you bring Manny along?” The man’s voice is a snarl. “You know you’re not supposed to do these things alone.”
She smiles. “Aw, Wally Bally FoFally, are you worried about me? No, really, that’s okay; you can tell me. I’m touched.”
“Shut up and give me your exact location, Bonifacio. I’m sending Manny to meet up with you.”
She grimaces in the darkness. “Manny is old and slow. And smells bad. Anyway, I’ve got Leo with me.”
At the mention of his name, Leo grins widely, his teeth the most visible part of him in the darkness of the vehicle.
“Leo is small and can’t protect you.”
“It’s okay, Wally. Why you know, come to think of it, maybe my mission on earth is to protect Leo,” she chortles, as Leo’s grin turns into a pout.
She can see her boss now, standing by the phone with his sleeves rolled up, rubbing the bridge of his nose in weary resignation.
“Joanna, what am I going to do with you?”
In the past, sitting on the staircases and in the living rooms of houses she grew up in, Joanna has heard this same telephone conversation many times, with her dead father’s voice in place of her own.
The voice at the other end of the line was always Wally Soler’s.
“Worry about me, Wally,” she says quietly. “Just like you did for Papa.”
The man has nothing to say to this, and she knows that at this moment he is remembering his best friend, a big, tall, solemn man with a deceptively gentle face and manner. Many years ago, on a night very much like this one, Antonio Bonifacio went out on an assignment and did not come back alive.
Wally Soler will not lose the daughter the same way; no, sir, not if he can help it.
Ahead of her, the NBI cars slow to a stop.
“Have to go, Wallykins,” she says with forced cheeriness. “Buy some doughnuts for when we get back.”
When the line goes dead, Wally hangs on for a moment.
If anything happens to the stupid, mule-headed bitch, I’ll skin her myself, dead or alive, God help her.
God, help her.
49
Just minutes after they leave the church, the agents’ two-way radios crackle to life. It’s Valdes. Ed responds, trying to keep his voice low, but it’s clear something’s wrong. He looks over his shoulder at Saenz.
“Tanods found the missing boy not far from here. Side of the landfill nearest the school.”
“Alive?” Jerome asks, but from the looks Ed and Norman exchange with each other, the answer is obvious.
“So we’re heading there.” Saenz says it not as a question but as a matter of fact.
“It’s just up the road.”
It’s not long before they see the flashing lights of police vehicles. A checkpoint has been set up, manned by barangay tanods and policemen, and the three NBI cars are waved through. They all come to a halt near the line of police and barangay cars.
Valdes steps out, motions for Ed and Norman to follow with Saenz and Jerome. They leave the car, walk bareheaded in rain that has dwindled to a drizzle. The smell of the garbage is overpowering. The ground is wet with rain, streaked with mud.
Valdes stops to talk to a uniformed policeman. After a few seconds, the policeman points toward the dump, and Valdes turns to make sure they’re all following before heading in that direction.
It’s less than two minutes before they see the body.
“It’ll be at least half an hour before Rustia gets here,” Valdes says.
Saenz nods. Tonight they cannot wait.
Somebody—Ed or Norman—hands him a large flashlight, and then everyone else steps back. Saenz switches the light on and then bends to examine the ground around the body. Two black rats, their fur glistening with droplets of rain, turn toward the light but boldly stand their ground. Jerome hisses, a sharp and threatening sound, and the rats scurry away, startled.
Saenz moves the flashlight’s beam so that it traces the outline of something in the mud: a footprint. “Men’s size six?” he asks, seeking another opinion.
“Looks like it,” Jerome answers. “Same garden-variety plastic rain boot.”
Satisfied, Saenz steps carefully toward the body. He feels more than a bit ashamed of the way excitement and anticipation are warring with the sorrow and horror and revulsion within him. The shame feels like sand in his mouth, rough and gritty, and he wishes he could spit it out.
This is important; this is the closest they have ever come to him. They’re separated from this young boy’s death and the presence of his killer by a mere hour or two.
The body is lying facedown in the mud. Saenz holds up an open palm, and Jerome knows what he wants. He unzips a small plastic case and fishes out a pair of disposable gloves. He hands them to Saenz, who gives him the flashlight and quickly pulls the gloves on.
He lays a hand on the dead boy’s back, between the shoulder blades.
“It’s still warm.” Saenz shakes his head, as though clearing away cobwebs in his brain. “I mean, he’s still warm.”
The two priests look at each other a few seconds in mutual understanding. How easy it is to see the dead person as a body, a thing, a piece of evidence.
Saenz holds the corpse by the shoulders, turns it over gently on its back.
The face is gone.
Jerome backs away; it is the first fresh corpse they have seen in this series of killings, and although he has seen dead bodies before, he is not fully prepared for the raw, bloody pulp above the child’s neck. The yellow glow from the flashlight and the headlights of the police vehicles enhances, rather than diminishes, the ghastliness of the sight.
“You all right?” Saenz glances up at him just as a beam from one of the police cars’ flashing lights catches Jerome’s pallid face. “Why don’t you go back for a while? I can handle things here.”
“No. I’m fine,” Jerome says, more to convince himself than Saenz.
Saenz turns his attention back to the body.
Domine, dirige nos.
With his gloved forefinger, he tilts the chin up and traces the clean horizontal slash he had expected to find there.
The boy is still wearing shorts. He has been stabbed several times in the chest. This time, aside from the fla
ying of the face, the body bears none of the usual injuries—the evisceration, the removal of the heart and the genitals.
Saenz sees a tiny glint of metal in the mud. He reaches out with a gloved hand, wiping away as much mud as he can to expose the object but leaving it where it lies. It is a dental elevator with a rubber grip. He moves aside a bit so that Jerome can see it.
The sense of his presence is so strong, like the unsettled air in his apartment when the two priests arrived there earlier. Saenz remains absolutely still, listening as though he might still catch his voice or footfall receding in the darkness.
The rats begin inching closer to the body again, watching the men with eyes like small, shiny beads. One rears up on its hind legs unsteadily, sniffing the air.
“Gus, look,” Jerome says, gesturing toward the body with the flashlight.
Saenz follows the path of the beam. On the inner side of the upper arm, two thin, deep, blood-caked circles, a small one on top of a slightly bigger one: the number 8.
The priests’ eyes lock again, a terrible understanding passing wordlessly between and through them, like a thin shaft of glass.
Saenz stands up, peeling his gloves off.
“What are you thinking?” Jerome asks.
Saenz shakes his head. “He falls outside of the normal pattern somewhat.”
“Because of the absence of the other usual injuries.”
“He’s in a hurry, then. Dispensing with the rest of the ritual because he knows we’re getting close.” Saenz studies Jerome’s face. “You all right?”
“I’m good,” he replies, but Saenz can feel his profound disquiet when he asks, “We can stop here, right? And leave the rest to Valdes and Arcinas? There’s nothing more we can do for the boy.”
The rats begin squealing at each other, restless to have their turn at the body. For some reason, this makes Saenz unspeakably angry. “Not for this boy, no.” He turns in the direction of the school. “But perhaps for the other one—”
Smaller and Smaller Circles Page 26