Moondogs - Alexander Yates [106]
BENICIO WOKE WITH A START. It took him a few moments to remember where he was. The Philippines. A beach south of the city. A hard, uncomfortable cot, in a rented bungalow. He lay there for a moment, blinking at the ceiling. It was still dark outside, and geckos chattered in the trees above. An odd bird called from very close by. No, not a bird. A telephone.
Benicio got up and rushed out to the deck. His pants were slung over the sanded driftwood railing, still wet to the thighs from when he’d waded out to Katrina. He frisked the limp pockets for his phone, found it and flipped it open. “Hello,” he said. “Dad. Can you hear me?”
“Benicio?” It wasn’t his father. It was Alice. “Hello?”
“Alice. Hi.” He sat down on the deck and scooted backward to rest his spine against the wall. “Sorry, I was sleeping.” He pulled the phone away from his ear for a moment to check the time. “Is everything all right?”
“Of course. Everything’s fine,” she said. She was quiet for a while, and Benicio wondered if maybe she’d done the time zone math wrong. But no, of course she hadn’t done it wrong.
“Why are you calling so late?” he asked.
“Oh,” she paused. “I didn’t think I’d get you.”
“You didn’t want to get me?” He gently banged the back of his sweaty head on the wall. He’d called, sent e-mails and texts, and this was the first he’d heard from her since arriving.
“No, I mean, I thought I’d just leave a voicemail. I wanted to give you and your dad some space. This trip is about you guys, after all.”
“I don’t think I want space,” he said.
“Well, babe, I think you need it.” She paused again and Benicio heard a clicking sound in the background. The turn signal on her truck. She was driving somewhere. “Anyway, I can’t talk,” she said. “The roaming charges are probably costing both of us a fortune. I just wanted to check-in.”
“My dad’s not here,” Benicio said.
Alice was quiet for a moment. “What?”
“My father. He wasn’t at the airport. And he’s not at the hotel.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. It means that I’m here, and he’s somewhere else.”
“Are you worried?” she asked. Even over the poor connection, she must have heard his voice break. “Honey,” she said, “don’t be. Have you spoken to any—”
“I’m not,” he cut in. His eyes had watered and he pinched them closed. He was embarrassed. “I’m with his friends now. They say he pulls this shit all the time. So no, I’m not worried. I’m angry.”
“Well,” she said, “try not to be angry, either.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “I’m trying.”
HE SLEPT FOR ANOTHER few hours after they hung up. Then, when the sun rose, he dressed in his still-wet clothes and shared a tense, silent breakfast with Katrina. Bobby was nowhere to be seen, at first. Then he appeared at the far end of the tide-stretched beach, presumably returning from an early-morning walk. Or maybe he’d been up all night, walking. Even as a distant silhouette his limp was pronounced. Benicio and Katrina watched from the restaurant as he approached, so slowly.
“He knew them,” she said. Her voice had a faraway quality that sounded put-on. “He knew the people who did that to him.”
Benicio turned to her. “What?”
“The people who hurt him,” she said.
So. It was an attack. Bobby had been attacked. Benicio was startled—taken aback by the depth to which this news shook him.
“They used to work together,” she said. “They all used to work for the senator.”
“You mean, Charlie—”
“No.” She glanced at him sidelong. She would have looked annoyed but for her eyes, which had gone wet and shifty. “Bobby left the senator to work on Charlie’s campaign. And they, those fucking meatheads … they grabbed him. They grabbed him right off the street. Took him to an empty house and beat on him for hours. Bobby had his dogs with him—he’d been walking his dogs. They killed the dogs. They almost killed him.”
She stopped and brought her napkin up to one of her eyes. Her napkin had ketchup on it. Silence settled over them. Benicio wondered what he should say. Or was it better to say nothing? There was nothing