by Dawson, Mark
"No," she said. "That's bullshit. He shot Manuel. He might die. And we know he's already directly responsible for at least four deaths."
"What? The girl?"
"The owners of the bar and the hotel, too. At least. He threatened me and my son."
"How is any of that going to count when you set it against the trouble that this could unleash?"
"He killed someone. That counts. He can’t be above the law. I'm sorry, sir, I can't close my eyes."
"It doesn't matter what you can or can't do," he said. "You will process him and then let him out. That is a direct order."
"If I let that go, I—"
"This is the big leagues, Josie. You don't count for shit. I’ve been here for thirty years. I don't count for shit. Decisions get made at pay grades way above us and, if we want to stay employed, we do exactly what we're told to do. That's the way this works. If you can't deal with that, you might as well just hand in your badge and go back to whatever it was you were doing before."
Josie took a breath. There was no point in arguing. "Fine," she said. "I understand, sir."
"There's one other thing. I need you to take him to the marina. You are to see that he gets onto his yacht tonight. That's from me. He's not welcome in the Philippines any longer. You are to stay there and watch until he sets sail."
"Yes, sir."
"You've done good work. It'll stand in your favour when the time comes."
"Thank you, sir," she said.
He nodded down at her leg. "And go home, please. You shouldn't even be here."
He went back to the front of the station.
Josie limped to the bathroom. She took out her phone and stared at the blank screen.
She was shaking with anger.
Let him go?
How could she do that?
De Lacey had to pay for the things that he had done.
She thought of Manuel in the hospital. There was a good chance that he would die. She thought of his wife and child. She wasn't sure how she would be able to reconcile herself with that. She thought of the owner of the bar. Dead. The husband and wife who had been shot in their office and then burned. Dead. She thought of Mendoza's corruption. She thought of what Milton had been put through.
De Lacey cloaked himself in death. It followed him everywhere.
She thought of her mother and her son.
She knew that they wouldn't be safe.
No.
She woke the phone and dialled.
87
JOSIE STRAPPED on her weapon, grabbed her cane, and hobbled through the office to the stairs that led down to the basement. She paused for a moment at the top to gather her composure and, her nerves settled, she started down.
De Lacey was lying on the bench at the side of the cell. There were only four other detainees, and they had arranged themselves so that they each had space to stretch out. De Lacey looked reasonably comfortable; he was flat out on the bench, his legs straight and his arms folded across his chest.
She went to the clipboard where the paperwork was kept, took it down and signed that she was taking custody of prisoner 1535, de Lacey, Fitzroy.
De Lacey saw her and swung his legs around so that they were on the floor. "Ah, Officer Hernandez. Nice to see you again."
"Get up," she said.
"I told you," he grinned. "I'd be out before you finished your shift."
"You did," she said. "Turn around. Hands through the slot."
"What for?"
"I'm going to cuff you."
"No, you're going to release me. Why do I need to be cuffed?"
"My station commander has ordered me to transport you to the marina and put you on your yacht. He wants to make sure that you leave the country."
"I can get my own driver to collect me. This isn't necessary—"
"Turn around and put your hands through the slot, please, sir. The sooner you do that, the sooner I can put you on your yacht and watch you fuck off over the horizon."
"Where are my lawyers?"
"We told them that you're being released," she said. "They’ll meet you at the yacht."
He looked as if he was going to protest before he shrugged his shoulders, turned and put his hands through the slot. "Fine," he said. "Get on with it."
She took her cuffs and slapped them on.
"Careful," de Lacey said with a grimace of pain. "You caught my skin."
"Sorry about that.”
She called for the door to be unlocked and, when it was, she led him out.
* * *
SHE COULD have taken de Lacey in the back of a squad car, but that didn’t suit her. One of the station meat wagons was being hosed out after, she guessed, it had transported an addict into custody. The trucks grew hot and the druggies often threw up in the back. The smell always seemed to linger no matter how many times they were washed out. The thought of de Lacey baking in the back of the truck with the acrid tang of someone else's vomit in his nostrils gave her a small measure of pleasure. It was something.
An officer that Josie knew was playing solitaire in the office. His name was Carlos. The rumour was that he was part of Mendoza's crew, and he was certainly someone with whom she would not normally have chosen to speak. But he was here, she needed a driver and, she thought, he was well suited.
"Give me a ride?" she called out.
"I'm off duty," he said.
"Just to the marina. It'll take twenty minutes. Station commander wants it done."
"So take a squad car."
"He shot Dalisay," Josie explained.
That got through to him. “This is him?”
She nodded. "I want him to get a ride in the truck."
He tossed his cards down on the table and got up.
Josie led de Lacey around to the back and waited for Carlos to grab his keys and unlock the door.
"Get in," she said.
"It stinks," de Lacey complained.
"You want me to put you back in the cell again? Your choice, sir. You either get in and I get you on your way, or you can go back and wait for someone else to take you. What's it going to be?"
Carlos was a meathead, and Josie had plenty of reasons to doubt his morals, but she knew how he would react to attitude from a man who had shot a fellow officer, no matter how important he was reputed to be. He didn't give de Lacey a chance to answer. Instead, he grabbed him by the lapels, marched him up to the back of the truck and then bundled him inside. De Lacey's shins clashed against the lip of the entrance and he cursed in pain; Carlos slammed the interior door and then the exterior one before he could complain.
"Let's get him out of here," he said.
* * *
IT WAS a journey of around five miles from Police Station 4 to the marina. There were two ways that Carlos could have chosen: the fastest would have been to take the Skyway to Abenida Epifanio de los Santos, continue west to the Globe Rotunda and then go south on the J.W. Diokno Boulevard. The alternative was more direct but along slower roads: east on Edison Avenue, then Buenida Avenue and finally south on the Boulevard. Carlos paused at the top of the station ramp and indicated that he was going to turn right, toward the Skyway.
"Go the other way," Josie said.
"Why? It's slower."
"Traffic. There was a crash earlier. It was backed up then and it’s the rush hour. It’ll take forever."
"All right," he said, flicking the stalk to indicate left instead and pulling out onto Edison.
The streets were named after famous inventors: Edison, Morse, Faraday, Bell, Marconi. Edison was a narrow street for most of its length, with cars parked on either side and a series of stalls set up on the pavements. They passed traders selling knock-off T-shirts, containers of fresh water, and trays of withered vegetables. Trash had been dumped at the side of the road and the buildings were beaten up, many of them sporting tarpaulins where roofs and walls should have been.
"It's true, then?" Carlos asked.
"What's that?"
; "He shot Dalisay?"
She nodded.
"And we're letting him out?"
"Tell me about it."
"What do you say we pull over? I could have a word with him about it in the back."
"I wouldn’t mind that," she said, "but I don't think it's worth the aggravation. I'd rather just have him off my hands."
Carlos grunted his dissatisfaction. "I don't know what's happening right now. First Bruno, now Dalisay. If people think they can take shots at us and get away with it, then—"
A car raced out of Faraday Avenue and blindsided them, slamming hard into the wing on Josie's side of the truck. It had been travelling quickly, and the impact sent them skidding across the road and into the back of a car parked next to a repair shop. Carlos jerked forward, his forehead cracking against the wheel. Josie had braced herself, but the shock of the first and then second impacts had crashed her injured leg against the gear shift and sent a buzz of pain up and down her body.
Carlos groaned and spat out a mouthful of blood
Josie looked outside. The car that had hit them was an old Toyota Camry. It had wedged itself beneath the truck; their off-side wheel was up on the crumpled hood of the car. The driver of the Toyota opened his door and stepped out as a second vehicle—a white delivery truck—skidded to a halt alongside them.
The driver of the Camry was masked. He went around to the trunk of the car and took out a shotgun.
"What the fuck are they doing?" Josie said.
The man aimed his shotgun at them. "Get out."
Josie turned to Carlos. "What do we do?" she said.
The second man banged on the window. "Out."
"Call for help?" she said, pointing at the radio.
"Won't get to us in time," Carlos mumbled. "We're fucked."
"So, what—we get out?"
"No choice. That window's not bulletproof. If he shoots, we're dead."
"They're bluffing."
"Are they? They just rammed us. I'm not taking the chance."
Carlos opened his door and, after a moment, Josie did the same. The two men had circled around so that one man was on one side of the truck and the other man was on the opposite side. They had both doors covered.
"Out," the man facing Josie barked. "Hit the deck. Face down. If you move, you're dead."
"Relax," Josie said loudly so that Carlos could hear her. "We'll do whatever you want."
She lowered herself to the ground. The asphalt was hot, the grit abrasive against her cheek as she turned her head to watch.
The second man was behind Carlos, leading him at gunpoint around to the back of the truck. Josie could see their feet and ankles beneath the chassis, and heard the man tell Carlos that he needed to unlock the door.
"Stay down," the man above her ordered.
The rear door was unlocked. She heard the heavy thwack of something solid striking flesh and then saw Carlos fall to the ground and lie still. His head was turned toward her and she saw blood leaking out of a fresh gash on his forehead.
The doors—exterior and interior—were opened, and then she heard a single barked command: "Out."
She saw the feet and lower legs of de Lacey as he stepped down and watched as he stumbled around to where she was lying. The other man was behind him, his shotgun jabbing de Lacey in the back as he was shepherded to the delivery truck.
"Open the door."
Josie turned her head so that she could see. De Lacey said something and was rewarded with the butt of the shotgun jabbed against his ribs.
"Open it."
He did as he was told, and, before he could complain again, he was bundled inside. The door was slammed shut and the man hurried around to the front of the vehicle.
"Stay there," the man behind Josie said before running across to get into the truck.
The engine whined, the tyres squealed, and the truck left tracks of hot rubber as it raced away.
88
THE BACK of the van was uncomfortable. De Lacey was sprawled on the floor, his hands still shackled behind him. He felt every bump as the van set off. The interior was divided into two compartments. The first was for the driver and co-driver. A tinted glass screen partitioned that area from the rear. It was dark in the back, with just a little dim light filtering through the tinted glass screen. De Lacey could see the shapes of the two men in the front compartment. He saw them remove the balaclavas that they had been wearing, but their features were hidden by the opacity of the glass.
He managed to turn himself around so that his feet were facing the door. He started to kick out at them, putting all his weight behind each blow, but the doors were solid and didn't budge.
"Help!" he called out as loudly as he could manage. "Help!"
The van set off.
* * *
IT WAS difficult to judge the passage of time. They seemed to have been travelling for an hour, but it might have been longer. De Lacey managed to arrange himself so that he could get up onto his knees and looked forward, trying to see the detail of the road ahead, but the glass in the dividing screen was too opaque and he couldn't make out much of anything at all.
"Let me out!" he shouted.
Nothing.
"Do you have any idea who I am?"
The co-driver turned; he was little more than a silhouette.
"What do you want? Money? I'll pay you."
The man glanced back at him, said something to the driver, and then turned to face the road again.
"Come on!"
De Lacey lost his balance and toppled onto his back. He kicked out, both feet thudding against the partition, but neither man turned around. They faced ahead and the van kept moving along.
* * *
DE LACEY TRIED to guess. They must have been on the move for two hours now. The vague outlines of buildings that had been visible through the screen were no longer there. The light was fading as night drew in. They had left the city and must have been somewhere in the countryside that enclosed it. De Lacey was about to kick the partition again when the van slowed. He settled down, bracing his back against the wall and wedging his feet to keep him there as they bounced off the asphalt onto rough ground. The axle vibrated and the back of the van bounced up and down, each small impact jarring him.
They slowed.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Hey! Let me out!"
The bouncing subsided and then the van drew to a halt.
The driver and then the co-driver opened their doors and stepped outside.
The rear door opened. The sun was setting and de Lacey was unable to make out the man who was standing outside.
"Get out."
De Lacey squinted into the fading light.
"Oh fuck."
It was Milton.
He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. His face was still marked by the beating that he had taken in Bilibid, dried cuts and bruises that were only now starting to heal.
The second man joined Milton. De Lacey recognised him: it was the man who had tried to fool him as Logan. Milton had a pistol. The other man had a shotgun.
"Get down, Fitz," Milton said.
De Lacey backed away, but the compartment was small and there was only so much space he could retreat into.
Milton clambered up, grabbed him by the lapels and hauled him toward the door.
"Come on," de Lacey protested, unable to resist with his wrists still cuffed. "Come on, Milton, this isn't necessary."
Milton didn't reply. Instead, he gave a final yank and propelled de Lacey out of the door. He managed to land on his feet but he stumbled, his boot catching against a patch of scrub. He fell heavily, his face grinding into the small stones and gravel on the surface of the road.
Milton jumped down from the back of the van.
"Get him up."
The other man reached down with one hand, grabbed the back of de Lacey's shirt and hauled him up.
“You want me to come?” the second man said.
“No. Just me and him.”
D
e Lacey got his feet back under him and took the opportunity to look around. The road here was little more than an off-road track, scattered over with stones and littered with scrub. The van had left the track and driven for three hundred yards; he could hear the sound of traffic passing on a busier road to the west. They were surrounded by stands of bamboo on both sides, with taller palm, pili and durian trees stretching out overhead. There were splashes of colour from sampaguita flowers, and bright orchids littered the way ahead. It would have been beautiful in other circumstances.
"Where are we?" de Lacey asked.
"Walk."
“Take the cuffs off.”
“Walk.”
Milton pushed de Lacey between the shoulder blades hard enough to make him stumble forward. He turned. The second man stayed by the truck.
"Where are we going?"
Milton pushed him again. "Walk."
There was a pit of fear in his stomach.
"Hernandez was in on this?"
Milton said nothing.
"You set me up. You're working together."
He said nothing.
"She wants to think carefully about that."
“Do you think it was a good idea to threaten her family, Fitz? She’s a good officer. Honest. She wanted to do this by the book. But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? And this is what happens.”
“You think I was bluffing?”
"No, I don’t. And neither did she. But look where it’s got you. It’s just you and me now. You can't make threats anymore."
"Come on. This hasn't gone too far. Take me back."
"I don't think so."
"They'll lock me up again. You don't need to do this."