Ghosts of Infinity: and Nine More Stories of the Supernatural (10 page)

I wasn’t there, didn’t even think about her. Katy went home before I did, said that she wanted to rest before I went over to her house. I had no problems with that. We weren’t going to do much, anyway. I was still frustrated about the day before.

We cut classes and went to SM to see a movie. During the movie I kissed her and forced my tongue into her mouth. At first she pulled away, but when she asked me if I loved her and I told her that I did, she gave in.

She gave in to much more. Each time I tried something she resisted at first, but I assured her that I loved her, and told her that if she loved me she’d do it. Soon I had my hands up her shirt and skirt, things coming undone. I was surprised with myself how I could force her into it, could push her so far. I couldn’t stop myself either. When we finished I was tired and I slumped back into my seat. Katy looked like she wanted to cry, like she wanted to say something to me but was holding it back. I couldn’t understand what could’ve been wrong; it was my first time too, but I wasn’t reacting to it the way that she did. I was actually pretty proud of myself.

When we walked out of the movie I saw this tall girl with creamy-colored skin and plump breasts bursting out of her red tank top and I couldn’t help but let my eyes crawl after her, pecking at her flesh the way my mouth wished to. When my head turned back to Katy I felt the smack of her palm across my cheek.

I glared at her, asked her what it was for. She started shrieking at me about looking at that girl, “after everything that we’d done. After all that I’ve given you!” I told her I didn’t do anything, asked her what her problem was. She tried to slap me again, but I caught her wrist and told her to quit it. I told her I didn’t know what the big deal was, then I walked away from her and went home.

I left angry, and when we saw each other at school she asked me if we could talk. I told her I didn’t feel like it, but when she asked me to come over in the afternoon I said I would.

But I wanted her to wait, so I stayed at school for a long time. I didn’t want to go running back to her; I wasn’t sorry about anything, so I hung out at school, watching the school buses leave and the parking lot clear, shooting hoops with whoever was there.

So she was waiting for me.

From this street corner the memory remains sharp, sharper than the screeching of tires or the edge of the STOP sign, sharpened to a fine blade’s edge after it was torn free from its post and skidded across the uneven asphalt, slicing through the street and the leg of the man who was unfortunate enough to be standing half a street away from where it happened.

We were waiting beneath the STOP sign, her cold inside me and the night’s cold outside, leaving me stiff and shivering. And I heard her say, “This is the one.” I felt it, too. I braced my body as I saw the headlights come down the street toward us.

I felt Katy coursing through me, the cold and the pain, but suddenly there was hate I’d never known that she’d hidden, that I felt driving through my veins and instead of being on the other side of the street looking back at the STOP sign and the accident, I was frozen, the shiver combining with the energy that I’d felt earlier that night that was heavy and now piercing my muscles, going through me and planting me dead solid there staring at the headlights that were getting bigger and that blinded me.

I stood in the middle of the street, the red taxi rushing at me but in that moment it seemed to inch forward, a slow inevitability. Its driver clutched the wheel and I could see through the headlights and the black throbbing orbs that their beams had left in my eyes that he wasn’t looking at the street but at the mist that had formed on his windshield.

The STOP sign was scraping, then slicing like a shuriken across the street. The post that it had been attached to had bowed to the spectacle, taking its leave as it drove itself into the ground, trying to hide its unseen ears from the grinding and screeching of metal.

Things flashed, then slowed, then spun, meshed and overlapped then broke apart, and I was lost in all of it. I felt the energy, felt like gravity was changed and I was being driven into the ground, then a loss of the gravity and the energy came in with a final shock and was gone.

I could feel her leaving me, the mist that was her dissipating. The shiver that had frozen me for an instant now became a form, not an instant but an entity, engulfing me and surrounding me, my confines—the street corner.

Featuring Arturo Ganigan, NBI

Emil M. Flores

I

Old Green Eyes

M
AY
15, S
UNDAY
6:30 p.m.

There was a long dead silence before he spoke again. The voice was unnervingly calm.

“I was preparing for class. Yes. I was. I really was. Then I heard a sound from outside.”

“What kind of sound?”

“Rustling. Footsteps. I stepped out of my study. I looked around and shone my flashlight at the tree. Nothing.” The voice got excited again. “No! I saw them!”

“What did you see?”

“Eyes! Terrible green eyes! The third eye! The third eye! They’re coming!”

“Who was coming? Can you see them?”

“They’re coming for me! But I performed the ritual! Appeased them! Keep them away from my family! Please keep away!”

Dr. Maryam DeMarco turned off the recorder and slumped back in her seat. “That’s all, Mr. Ganigan. He was delirious so I had to stop.”

“He mentioned a family,” I said. “I thought he lived alone.”

“Maybe his family is in the province. I think he has brothers.”

“Okay,” I paused as I stood up. “The things he said, are you sure they came from his memories?”

“There’s nothing mystical about hypnosis, Mr. Ganigan. It isn’t mind control.”

Ma’am, I thought. The past several hours have been quite mystical for me. Keeping those thoughts to myself, I thanked the good doctor and proceeded to leave.

“You’re the agent who trained in the States, aren’t you?” I got that question a lot. “Did you ever think of emigrating?” That one too.

I turned, thought about what she said, and smiled.

II

Dream TV and Crazy 8’s

M
AY
14, S
ATURDAY
7:15 a.m.

Having been abroad puts things in perspective. Much of this country perplexes me. Then again, much of me perplexes me. Maybe that’s why I’m into investigating things. To lessen the puzzles of my life by trying to solve other people’s. This particular case was the abduction of UP Professor Jaime Dizon. At that time we thought he was abducted from his home on campus the night before. The Prof was an anthropologist who was interested in ancient cultures. He was most probably involved in something big since the chief didn’t want any publicity. No photo ops, now that’s unusual. The first thing I did was check with the campus cops.

Now the cops were supposed to be investigating an abduction right in their own backyard but instead, the ones on duty were watching TV. I guess with meager pay comes meager work. The SPO1 guy I just talked to went to “look into” the reports of the break-in at Prof. Dizon’s place. I took a peek at the 14-inch television set sitting on top of a rusty green filing cabinet. It was “The Infinite Dream Crusade with Daniel Salvacion.” And there he was, the one who asked the Bureau to find the missing Dizon. I wanted to talk to Mr. Dreamer but I had to schedule an appointment with him for my investigation. He was concerned but apparently his show came first. On TV, he looked serene in his light green kimono as he espoused the power of dreams. “Dreams can be reality” was the idea he was selling. Subconscious positive thinking or something like that. Perfect for people who have nothing left but dreams. The cop watching the show had his eyes plastered on the white man of wisdom on TV. At least he wasn’t watching a pirated X-Rated VCD. Finally SPO1 Morales gave me a copy of the initial report of the break-in. As I left the station, I could hear a newscaster bellow out a report about stolen military equipment. I figured that another coup or mutiny was going to happen but I had work to do.

For this case I worked with Barbara “Barbie” Benigno, a shorthaired petite mestiza who was a computer and trivia geek. She also had a mean right hook, according to some guys who had dated her. She could be clumsy at times but she was dependable. When we got to the Prof’s house we saw a policeman sitting outside the patio. The Prof lived alone so the cop must have been assigned to guard the place after the preliminary investigation. I showed him my badge and went inside the house. Barbie followed.

The break-in happened at the Prof’s study, which was basically an extension of the back part of the house. Right outside the window was a balete tree. On the mud near the tree were shoe prints that looked like those of heavy work shoes. Boots possibly. Around the huge twisted roots, black beans were scattered about. From what I got from the report, the neighbors called the police at around 3 am to report a break-in. A motorcycle cop came but immediately left to call for back up. Apparently there were armed men involved. Three combat booted men, I surmised. When the cop returned with three other cops, the armed men were gone and so was the Professor. Nothing was reported stolen. But then, no one would know since the Prof lived alone. The study was in shambles. The screen door was forced open and the eastern screen windows were ripped or cut by a sharp object. According to the SOCO’s* findings, there weren’t any other fingerprints in the room aside from the Prof’s. I looked at the Prof’s desk where papers were scattered around a Compaq notebook. I looked over the papers. Most were graded student assignments and photocopies of maps and essays. I had hoped to find some personal notes but the only writing paper I found had number eights frantically scribbled on it with red ink. At the bottom of the sheet were the words “stop” and “ghosts.” The words were practically etched on the paper. He must have used the same pen for checking his class papers. I also found a diskette underneath the papers.

“Barbie!” I called out. She peeped into the room. “Can you check this out?” I held up the diskette as she entered the study. Despite her cautious entry, she still bumped into a chair.

“But sir,” she said as she rubbed her shin. “Don’t we need a warrant to …?”

“No we don’t,” I interrupted. “It’s the Prof’s disk and it might help us find him.”

And those wise words still echo in my mind.

III

School Daze

7:47
A
.
M
.

Well, I was wrong about one thing. It wasn’t the Prof’s disk but Salvacion’s. After getting through a number of encrypted safeguards, Barbie found a folder named “Crusade” in the disk. What was Dizon’s connection to Salvacion? Was he a believer? A business partner? Or was he some sort of academic contact studying the movement? Salvacion wanted a hush-hush investigation, no doubt, to avoid negative publicity. Not wanting to read them on the spot, I asked Barbie to copy the files. She also found Prof. Dizon’s class schedule in the laptop. It was Saturday and he didn’t have a class. Still, I wanted to cover the bases and so we drove to my old school.

Within the great green enclave of the University of the Philippines was where I spent many wonderful and inspiring years as a law student. The campus wasn’t so green anymore and the Faculty Center looked grayer than ever. While Barbie went to the Anthropology Department office, I asked one of the security guards if he had seen Prof. Dizon around during the past few days. He said that he wasn’t on the night shift but one of his buddies was. And from the bored guards’ idle talk, I found out that lately Prof. Dizon had been working in his office up to midnight. He guessed that the Prof was working late last night as well. Not really sure of what I was after, I went to the third floor where the Prof’s office was.

As I walked towards his room, I noticed the beams of sunlight under the door were flickering. Someone was inside. With my .38 Lorcin in hand, I gave the door a hard kick. It always looks easy in the movies. Another kick sent the door crashing open.

“N.B.I.!” I shouted and pointed the gun at the man rummaging through the desk.

“You!” he screamed after he had spun around to look at me. “He sent you!”

It was Prof. Dizon. He wore torn and dirty clothes over his thin form and he had a wild look in his eyes. He actually reminded me of Rasputin for some reason.

“Just calm down, sir.” I held out my left hand and slowly holstered my gun.

He looked at me for a second and then suddenly jumped on his desk and hurled himself towards the window behind it. To my surprise, the glass shattered and Prof. Dizon toppled over.

I quickly leaped on the desk and reached for him but I was too late. He had fallen over the low concrete ledge outside. I rushed out to the ledge and looked down. I could see his twitching and bleeding body sprawled on one of the stone tables below. Then he got up. He got up and ran towards the street. Right then he looked like a springy daddy-long-legs.