Smaller and Smaller Circles (27 page)

 

 

 

Leave them alone. Leave them alone or I'll kill you. I will. I'll kill all of you.

45

Alex Carlos is
dressed and ready to go to work. But the minute he steps out of the gate of his apartment row, he senses, as a mouse senses the presence of a cat, that he is being watched.

He does not bother to look up, to scan the sidewalks and hedges for an unfamiliar face or vehicle, or anything else out of the ordinary.

Thinking quickly now. He rummages through his dental kit and pretends that he has forgotten something, shoves a free hand into his jeans pocket and fishes out his house keys. Then, he heads back inside the gate, back to his apartment.

He closes the door behind him, locks and bolts it. He drops the kit to the floor, runs his fingers repeatedly through his hair, smoothing it, rumpling it, then smoothing it again. He starts pacing, back and forth, bouncing on the balls of his feet, thumbs drumming a nervous rhythm on either thigh.

The feeling below his belt, between his thighs is familiar, all tense and loose at the same time.

Now the fear and the hate again, down deep in his stomach where the blood and darkness live, and then a wet stain spreading slowly from his crotch down the inside of the legs of his jeans. He does not seem to notice; the bouncing becomes increasingly agitated, up and down and back and forth, up and down and back and forth.

Watching me again, always watching me
, he says in his mind to no one in particular.
Well, come and get it. Come and get it.

He takes his kit and bounds up the stairs two steps at a time; he is light on his feet and can go very fast when necessary. He enters his bedroom, heaves the kit onto the bed, and throws open the closet doors.

No. I don't need anything. Not anymore.

He turns to the kit on the bed and opens it. The shiny metallic things comfort him; he begins to hum, no particular song, just a little here and a little there, and then he stops and then begins again.

He takes out a dental instrument and a thin knife from the kit. The handle is made from black, heavy-duty rubber molded to fit either right hand or left, the six-inch blade of excellent stainless steel; the whole thing is perfectly balanced from blade to handle. Its cutting edge is straight and fine and razor-sharp; Alex whets and polishes it after every use. He shelled out a lot of money for this German-made beauty, and she has served him well, effortlessly negotiating the curves and angles of bone beneath yielding flesh.

He turns and rips a shirt from its hanger in the closet, wraps the instruments up in it. He stuffs the bundle down the small of his back, in the waistband of his jeans.

Okay. Come on now. Come to me.

His mind is so sharp, so focused. He can see the way before him so clearly.

Sometimes he fantasizes that he is a cat, because he is so light and quiet on his feet. He throws the bedroom window open and jumps out, onto the roof of an adjacent bungalow. He lands on his feet with a dull thud, crouched compactly with his knees to his chest. He looks around, satisfies himself that he is hidden from view by a taller building.

He walks easily, silently over the galvanized iron, toward the edge, then bends low for a moment before swinging soundlessly onto the front lawn. The sidewalk is only a few feet away.

He looks up and down the street. All clear; nobody watching on this side.

Not so smart after all, Priest.

Saenz and Jerome
are among the last to arrive at Alex Carlos's apartment in the quiet, low-rise, lower-middle-class neighborhood of UP Village. It's on a pleasant-looking street, with shady trees on the sidewalk every ten to fifteen meters.

As Jerome parks the car, Saenz rummages through his utility kit, takes out two pairs of thin latex surgical gloves, shoves them into the pockets of his jeans.

From inside the car, Jerome is gratified to observe that Arcinas has had the place cordoned off according to Saenz's instructions. The media is in a small, irate huddle on the other side of the street, and curious onlookers are politely but firmly kept away. It is the most orderly crime or crime-related scene he has ever seen, and he takes a few moments to get used to it.

When the two men get out of the car, somebody shouts, and a gaggle of reporters and photographers surges against the human barricade of police officers. Jerome hears Saenz's name called out several times, followed by the usual string of uninformed questions. He smirks and privately thanks God that he is not as famous as his teacher; he knows he cannot muster the older priest's equanimity in the face of ignorance.

Then he spots Joanna Bonifacio on the fringes of the media crowd.

Unlike the rest of the reporters, photographers and cameramen, who are shouting and pushing and shoving against the police barricade for a better view, she is standing quietly with her hands deep in the pockets of her slacks, tall and solid and calm as a stone angel, a hint of amusement touching the corners of her mouth. She is watching their progress toward the apartment. Behind her, Leo is standing with his camera mounted on a tripod.

Their eyes meet, and Jerome acknowledges her presence with a barely noticeable movement of his hand. The tiny gesture is enough to catch her attention; she gives him the merest nod in response, then turns to give Leo instructions. Jerome quickens his pace to catch up with Saenz.

Arcinas meets the two priests at the door. His face is pale,
eyes ringed with dark circles, as though he hasn't gotten enough sleep. There is none of the swaggering self-confidence of the last few months, and when Jerome glances down at the lawyer's fingers, he notices that the nails are ragged at the ends, as though from repeated gnawing.

“I haven't let anyone in yet.” The tone is hopeful, seeking approval.

Saenz pats the lawyer's arm. “Good man.” He turns to Jerome, hands him a pair of gloves, snaps his own over his hands. “Let's go.”

Arcinas has an NBI photographer on standby—yet another of Saenz's instructions. The photographer follows the two priests into the apartment.

The living and dining area is small, uncluttered. Jerome and Saenz open cabinets and drawers. Nothing out of the ordinary: books, china, bric-a-brac. As if by some unspoken consensus, all three men go about their work wordlessly, quietly, except for the clicking of the photographer's camera.

Jerome feels a certain tension, as though the atmosphere inside the apartment were electrically charged, as though someone has just passed through the room and they can still sense his presence in the displaced air.

He glances over his shoulder at Saenz, finds him staring back.

Jerome spots a small writing desk in one corner. He walks over to it, opens the drawers. Bills for electricity and water, receipts from groceries and drugstores. Income tax returns.

He opens the last drawer and finds cream linen stationery and envelopes. He takes out a few envelopes.

“Gus,” he calls out and waves them in the air for Saenz to see.

Saenz nods, a look of understanding passing between them. He heads for the kitchen, and Jerome follows. Then they both begin opening drawers and cabinets once more.

Plates, pots and pans, canned goods, a coffee maker.

A strange smell—like old meat, old blood—permeating the room.

In the cabinet under the sink, Jerome finds several pairs of black rubber rain boots. He calls out to Saenz, and he comes, bending forward to take a quick look over Jerome's shoulder.

“Let's have the SOCO boys bag those.”

Saenz straightens up and then notices the avocado-green refrigerator. It is one of those American-made monsters, with two doors and a built-in ice dispenser. It is easily the most expensive thing in the apartment.
Must have bought it from a surplus supply store
, he thinks to himself. And then:
it's too big for a man living alone in such a small place.

He opens the freezer door, finds nothing but a large bag of tube ice. Next, one of the refrigerator doors. The racks are empty, except for a few beers, a jar of peanut butter, and a small, black plastic tray filled with wilted lettuce and what looks to be watery Thousand Island dressing.

He takes a deep breath, says a brief, silent prayer, then opens the second door.

The two of them remain quiet as they survey the contents, then step back so the photographer can take pictures. The only sound in the kitchen is the whir of film through the mechanism of the camera as he clicks away.

After about a minute, the photographer stops. He brings the camera down to his chest and looks first at Saenz, then at Jerome. His face is pale, and he's clearly upset. He shakes his head.

Before they can stop him, he runs out of the apartment.

46

This is not
how he usually hunts. But tonight is different.

He waits in the shadows, behind huge stacks of water containers made from blue, industrial plastic. Running water is a rarity here, and people have to buy containers in which to store it when the communal taps grudgingly yield it. The owner of the stall has closed shop for the day. Alex saw the man heading home around seven o'clock. He has been waiting here ever since. Someone is bound to turn up.

The rock is wrapped with a rag, to keep it from slipping from his grasp at the crucial moment.

He hears footsteps. Crouching low behind the stacks, he catches a glimpse of a young boy.

He could be eight or nine or twelve. Alex does not care. He'll do.

Dennis does not
scream when he wakes up. He whimpers a little. The pain in his head is intense, throbbing. Something warm and wet trickles across his forehead, pulsing from his temple. He feels like throwing up.

He realizes he is being carried, slung over the shoulder of a man. They are headed in the direction of the dump.

Fighting panic, Dennis remembers all the talk about the monster that wanders the dumpsite and the dark streets of the shantytown. His meager dinner of rice and salted fish bubbles up from his gut in an acidic gruel, and he has to swallow it back.

He clenches his fists and begins to pummel the man's back as hard as he can.

The man only grunts.

Harder still Dennis pounds on his back, hoping he will be dropped on the ground and he can make his getaway. He feels now more than ever in his whole miserable life the need for a voice, for the ability to speak, scream, shout. A deformity of his palate and upper lips has made it impossible for him to do more than grunt or moan. His mouth, his wretched mouth.

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
.