Moondogs - Alexander Yates [127]
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked. “I mean, why take me on a mini-break to Subic? Why feed me tapsilog? Why bring me ballroom dancing? Why help me confront the girl who sold my son drugs? What the hell are we even doing here?” She looked around at the outdoor seating and caught the man with scarred arms staring again.
Reynato shifted his weight and smiled cagily. “You fascinate me.”
“What about me?”
“Your bruha powers, that’s what.”
“Be serious. Don’t lie to me.”
“Honest and serious are different. Which do you want?”
“Honest, then. Give me honest.”
“Fine. It’s your bruha powers.” He dropped the evasive smile for a stone cold poker face and stared at her. “I’ve never met a bruha before, and believe me, I’ve been looking. I think this could be the start of something special.”
Monique avoided his eyes and sighed like she was put out. “You’re exhausting.” She took another bite of tapsilog but the tangy, greasy beef was cold and had lost its charm. Reynato cleaned his plate, and hers, and said nothing more.
THEY GOT BACK ON THE ROAD, but instead of heading into the heart of the base they turned south, winding up the hills in the direction of Monique’s childhood home on Cubi Point. They drove just a few minutes and stopped at a cluster of low concrete bungalows that looked like opaque little greenhouses. It was the old bachelor officers quarters, subdivided and converted into a sort of interstate-style motel. An old administration building served as a front desk and lobby, and it looked out onto the officers’ pool that was dry and filled with brittle dead palm. “It’s no Shangri-La,” Reynato said. “But I thought we’d get some proper sleep, and maybe tomorrow we’ll see if we can find that house of yours. Does that sound all right?”
“It sounds great,” she said, too tired to go on questioning his motives. Reynato got out and trotted across the gravel lot to check them in. Monique got out as well, leaned against the Honda and gazed out over Subic Bay. From this distance the beaches looked like slivers of granite between the black water and the incandescent buildings. Cars pulsed between the shipping warehouses, now converted to nightclubs or shopping arcades or some such. Clouds rolled thick, blotting out most of the stars and Pinatubo, which didn’t bother her one bit.
Monique heard gravel crunching and turned, thinking Reynato had returned from the makeshift lobby. He had, but he wasn’t alone. The man with the horribly scarred arms who’d sat across from them at Junior’s Tapsihan stood beside him. Actually, slightly behind him. So close that they were touching. It took Monique a moment to process what she was seeing. Reynato’s right arm was pinned behind his back. The scarred man held a stubby little penknife to his throat. He must have followed them. He must have caught Reynato as he exited the lobby.
“It’s all right,” Reynato cooed. “Don’t panic.”
Monique was panicking.
“I think he just wants the car,” Reynato said, sounding less than calm himself. The man with the scarred arms nodded, exposing his face under his ball-cap as he did so. It wasn’t just his arms—his whole face looked like hamburger. Monique edged back to the Honda, pulled the keys out of the ignition and threw them at Reynato’s feet. The scarred man snorted and kicked them away.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked in Tagalog. “What do you want?”
The scarred man didn’t answer. His penknife sank a quarter of an inch into Reynato’s neck. Blood bubbled about the blade, trickling down his throat and disappearing below the fabric of his polo shirt. Monique remembered the nightmares she’d been having. Shawn and Joseph and Leila tied to palm trees in the jungle. Bandits hacking them to death with bolo knives, holding their heads in the air and posing for a digital camera. Her chest began to shake with sobs—she couldn’t help it. She felt pressure squeeze her lungs. Reynato’s eyes widened. “You’re almost there,” he whispered. “Do it. You can do it. Do it.”
“Wait,” she managed. “I’ve got