Moondogs - Alexander Yates [124]
“I don’t need protection,” Efrem said.
The Holy Man’s face loosened and went blank. The pistol in his hand, half concealed by garbage, was no surprise. Efrem had noticed it from across the street. “I cannot let you do this,” he said, his tone resigned but still pitchy with fear. “My death will be a martyr’s.” He raised the pistol and in one move Efrem snatched it from his grip and tossed it skyward. It didn’t land.
“You may be martyred,” Efrem said, “but not by me.” He turned and walked back across the street and into the recruiting office. Outside the Holy Man waited some moments for his pistol to fall back to earth before finally giving up and retreating down the street. In coming years Efrem would never regret letting him live. It pleased him to know that wherever the Holy Man was—the wreckage of a jungleside camp, picking garbage in Davao, riding through a dust storm to his made-up country—that he would forever be frozen in that aspect; neck craned and face up. Always afraid of the long fall. Always afraid of Efrem’s vengeance coming down, plummeting out of the cloudless afternoon sky.
Chapter 24
TAPSILOG
The next week was shit. Amartina returned on Monday morning, but only to demand that her résumé be passed along to incoming families—her threat to otherwise expose Monique’s affair unspoken but implied. Less than an hour after that news of the kidnapping hit casual morning radio, the wire services, international cable—the works. Her telephone rang all day, harmonizing with other telephones in empty offices. She begged the consul general to pull some interviewers off the visa line to help her screen and answer calls. He responded with a curt e-mail. You think you’re overwhelmed? Welcome to my world.
The calls didn’t stop all week. They followed her home. Colleagues back at Main State arrived at their desks a little after dinnertime on Monique’s end of the world, and they called her on the IVG line with taskings, action items and info requests. She spent most nights bleary-eyed in front of her laptop, trying to ignore the gecko—still swollen with the undigested lovebird—as it scampered across the ceiling and walls. She made the mistake of reading up on the Abu Sayyaf. She made the bigger mistake of watching one of their execution videos online. It left her with nightmares of Joseph and Shawn and Leila tied to palm trees, getting their heads hacked off with bolo knives.
It got so bad that Reynato couldn’t hide his concern when he came over on Friday evening. He went straight to the dirty kitchen, washed out two mugs and put the kettle on. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Nothing more than you’re already doing,” she said, listlessly.
Reynato rooted about the pantry for tea bags. The kettle began to steam and he rushed to switch the burner off, knowing she preferred warm to hot. He steeped the tea, set the mugs on the table and pulled a chair out for her. He’d been like this all week.
They sat. “Still awful at the office?” he asked.
She nodded. The ambassador had called her a fuckup in front of the whole Country Team that afternoon. Later he apologized, in front of no one. He was just a little on edge, with this kidnapping business and the divorce and all. He was sure she understood. And she did.
“Hey.” Reynato rapped his knuckles lightly on the table like he was knocking on a door. “You still with me?”
“What? Sorry. Yes.” She sipped, the temperature on her lips just right. “Can we not talk about it?”
“Of course.” He looked down into his mug. “You know what I think might help, though? If we got you out of this empty place.” He gestured at the dark apartment looming around them. “Out of this dirty city. You could use some fresh air. You could use … what do you call it? A mini-break.”
“That’s the English. The English