She lay asleep before him. Drugged. Helpless. In only a nightshirt and panties.
He gently brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek, glided his hand along her thigh, and then pulled a chair up beside the bed. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill her when all of this was over. It just wouldn’t be right using the thread and needle on her, marring such a flawless and magnificent body.
So beautiful.
So young.
So alive.
And all his.
He positioned her on her back, placed the robotic arm beside her, and sat in the chair to watch.
Then, using his thoughts, he uncurled the hand, leaned it out over her, and laid it gently on her shoulder.
And moved on from there.
Up in the Air
The four members of the Philippine National Police, or PNP, don’t roll in until dawn. They do a cursory search of the trails surrounding the village, but there’s no sign of Tomás, and they make it clear that they’re not interested in tromping around the jungle any longer than necessary looking for him.
When I show them the thumb drive, they stare at me somewhat dumbfounded that I would think it has anything to do with Emilio’s death.
They just shake their heads when they hear, through our translator, about the escape Emilio was trying to do, calling it a dangerous publicity stunt gone bad. Considering the circumstances, I’m amazed when they label his death accidental.
From past conversations with Emilio, I know that corruption is rampant in the PNP. Bribes aren’t uncommon at all — in fact, they’re expected — and I can’t help but wonder if these officers might have been paid by Tomás or a cohort of his to turn their backs on Emilio’s death.
My stage shows over the years have done quite well, and finances aren’t a big concern for me. However, even after making it known that I have substantial resources at my disposal, I still get nowhere with the police, which tells me it isn’t simply financial gain that’s motivating them.
I can’t think of too many things that are bigger motivators than greed, but I can think of one — fear.
What do they want?
What are they afraid of?
When all of that proves to be a dead end, I finally give up, realizing that our best bet will be talking with the US ambassador in Manila. Emilio might have been born here in the Philippines, but most of his life was spent in the States, and I’m hoping that Ambassador Whitehead will be able to pressure the government to have the authorities look into his death.
I’m not familiar with the specific religious beliefs of the people in this village, but I’m guessing that, like most of the indigenous people in the region, they practice a mixture of spiritist religions combined with strands of Roman Catholicism.
Whatever their religion is, it’s clear that everyone here is deeply shaken by Emilio’s death. They demand that we bury him quickly to avoid more calamities or curses. Based on what Emilio told me earlier about where he wanted to be buried if the escape proved fatal, we decide to hold a funeral right there at the graveyard, now, this morning.
Xavier and I say a few words, then Charlene, who isn’t afraid of expressing her faith, gets up. She reads from 1 Thessalonians 4:13–14: “But I would not have you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus will God bring with him.”
She speaks for a few moments about hope and how much it matters and how vital it is that we place ours in the right person — she says “person” rather than “place,” which strikes me as a bit of an odd way to phrase things. The villagers and police officers listen quietly to her translator.
Finally, she recites the 23rd Psalm from memory, and a line about walking through the valley of the shadow of death strikes me. I guess I’d always thought the Bible said the “valley of death,” but it’s just the “shadow of death” instead. And if a shadow is covering the valley, it means there’s a brighter light shining somewhere beyond the horizon.
That thought at least brings me a little comfort.
Then we lower Emilio into the grave again and, for the second time, cover his coffin with the damp jungle soil.
But unlike last night, this time I know there’s no chance that I’ll be seeing him rising from the ground alive.
To get to Manila we need to drive more than two hours through the jungle to Kabugao, then grab a charter plane. Xavier made prior arrangements, and it’s waiting and ready for us when we get there.
The consulate is downtown in an older part of Manila. Battling traffic is a nightmare, and it’s nearly six o’clock by the time we finally arrive. If we were in America, they might have already been closed for the weekend, but they’re on Filipino time and Ambassador Whitehead is still in his office. However, he’s packing up his things and obviously on his way out.
Xavier gets on the phone to work at trying to get us an earlier flight home while Charlene and I speak with the ambassador. I tell him about the USB drive, and although he seems doubtful that it’ll lead to anything, he at last offers, “We could have someone dust it for prints.”
Even though Xavier and I have already handled the drive, likely obscuring any other prints, I accept the offer. They take samples of our prints and lift Emilio’s from his luggage, which we have with us because we weren’t about to just leave it there in the village.
“We don’t have the resources to run these here,” the ambassador explains. “And it’s a Friday night, so we’re not going to be able to process them until Monday.”
“Monday?” I shake my head. “That’s—”
“We’re not at the FBI Lab,” he says curtly. “We’re not set up for something like this. It’s not what we do. We process visa applications, we’re not a law enforcement agency.”
He’s being just as helpful as the PNP.
“You must have the ability to run this through some sort of fingerprint scanner.”
“I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t sound especially sorry, and his attitude perplexes me.
I decide it’ll be better to get the drive back to the states for Fionna to work on. Maybe the FBI or the Las Vegas PD will be able to run the prints.
With that settled, he makes me all sorts of promises, hands me a stack of papers to fill out, and then excuses himself for an important dinner appointment with some sort of cultural tourism group that’s evidently trying to work more closely with Americans.
“Just fax those back to me or scan them in and email them to my office.” He smiles in an artificial, political way that drives home once again how cavalierly he’s taking this. “Honestly, I have to go, and there’s nothing more you can do here. Go home. I’ll do all I can to get to the bottom of your friend’s death.”
He checks the time, announces that he really must be leaving, and then reaches out to shake my hand, but I make no move either to leave or to take his hand.
“You’re not going to do anything to find out who killed him, are you?”
“I just told you that I am.”
“Yes, you did.”
A stiff moment closes in around us.
At last he lowers his arm, and the look on his face is all the answer I need — even though he reassures me again, in well-practiced diplomatic tones, that he will do whatever it takes, I’m doubting that he’ll do anything more than make a few obligatory phone calls.
Charlene is as exasperated as I am. “What if it were a friend of yours who was murdered?”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am. I’ll see what I can do working with the police, encouraging them to look into this, but since he’s not an American citizen, I’m not sure what role I have in all this. I wouldn’t want to make you any promises I can’t keep.”