Moondogs - Alexander Yates [112]
Benicio Bridgewater took the news of his father’s kidnapping better than she thought he would—better, even, than she thought he should. She’d expected some glazed shock, sure. The kind of disbelief that paralyzes you. The kind of disbelief she felt when doctors told her that her son had died. But this didn’t seem like shock. Benicio Bridgewater sat on the edge of the bed and stared out at the hazy city. His eyes teared up a little and he wiped the tears away, as though embarrassed by them. Monique was embarrassed, too.
She talked through her script, which sounded so much lamer now. She gave him contact information and reading materials—a local crisis hotline, a support group for expats, a long privacy statement he’d have to read and sign before the embassy could say anything on his behalf. She promised to be available whenever he needed her, even though the thought of keeping that promise was unpleasant. She collected her things to go. “I can’t imagine how awful this feels,” she said, even though she was pretty sure she could. “And I know it’s a lot to take in, all at once. But are you sure you don’t have any questions?”
Benicio turned to her, as though realizing for the first time that she was still there. “I just have one,” he said. “This is going to sound a little stupid. Does it ever snow in the Philippines? I mean … even if it’s just a freak thing? Do you know if that ever happens?”
“No,” she said, flatly. “There are some mountains in the north that are pretty high, but I don’t even think it snows up there. That’s it?”
He turned back to the window. “I’ve got lots of questions, but that’s the only one for you.”
So she closed the door and left him there. And on the way home, she cried.
Chapter 21
GOOD STRANGE
Benicio saw the stuffy, overdressed embassy woman every day after that. On Wednesday they sat across from each other in a little sandwich shop just inside the security gates of Ninoy Aquino International Airport, quietly drinking too-sweet lattes from paper cups as they waited for Alice to deplane. He’d called to tell her the news a few hours after hearing it himself, waiting for daytime to move to her side of the world before picking up the phone. She’d been on her way to work and pulled off on the shoulder as soon as he said the word kidnapped. Hearing her cry made him cry a little bit. Later that night she called back to tell him that she had a ticket to Manila and was on her way up to D.C. to see if she couldn’t get a rush visa from the Philippine Consulate.
There was a bit of commotion on the other side of the security barrier as two photographers changed out their wide-angle lenses for telephotos. A reporter with curled hair and a short skirt tried to position herself so that Benicio and Monique would appear in the background of her segment. Just as Monique warned, the kidnapping had made the front pages of the Inquirer, Star and Manila Bulletin. They’d been followed ever since. Jeff—a security officer from the embassy who spoke with a drawl so long that it trailed on the floor after him—did his best to make the reporters’ jobs difficult. He leaned against the security barrier, screwing up their pictures. When the curly haired reporter began to tape her segment he took out his cell phone and launched into a boomingly animated conversation with his cable provider. She gave up and retreated a little ways down the terminal.
“It’s good of your girlfriend to come,” Monique said as she emptied yet another pack of no-calorie sweetener into her latte. “You’ve been together long?”
“A year. Not long.” He stared at the table as he spoke.
“Well, don’t let her go. It’s a good thing to have someone who’ll be there for you. Especially when there is this far.”
He nodded slowly, still not looking at her. They only knew each other because of what had happened to Howard, and the mere sight of her shoulder-padded lilac jacket, her peach lipstick and clumped mascara, set his stomach churning. She seemed to recognize this,