I called Ava instead. She picked up immediately.
“Ava it’s me. Can you—”
“I’ll call you right back.”
I hung up. The phone rang a moment later. I answered it.
“Tell me you have some good news,” I said. To my alarm, I didn’t sound very good. My voice was hoarser than ever, and weak, as if I’d just run a marathon, or aged fifty years in the last half hour.
“We’re doing lots, Jim,” Ava said. “We have about ten people up and on this now.”
“Doing what? What’s happened so far? Where are the police? Did you tell them to go to the cemetery?”
A pause on her end—during which I steeled myself for the worst.
“They’re there now,” Ava said. “We literally just heard back from them.” Another pause. “They didn’t find any freshly dug graves.”
“Did they check everywhere?” I demanded.
“They said they did.”
“Maybe they missed the one I’m in. Maybe…maybe it’s not actually in the cemetery, maybe it’s outside the periphery a bit?”
“There were ten police looking, Jim. Apparently it’s not a very large cemetery.”
My eyes turned watery; I closed them. “What about another one then?”
“There’s only one in Tinglayan. But we’re getting in touch with the police in the neighboring towns. Every cemetery will be searched—”
“Toto,” I said. “He texted me from Candy’s phone. He has her. I’m sure of it. You have to trace her phone, if your trace her phone, you’ll find Toto. He’s the only one who can tell you where I am.”
“We’ll definitely try that.”
“Try that?” I said. She’d sounded as if I’d offered her a new flavor of ice cream. “Just do it!”
“We’re trying, Jim. We really are. We’ve been in constant communication with Globe, to trace your phone. They want to help…but…it’s been…”
“But what?”
“We’re not dealing with AT&T. There’s been some…confusion. It took twenty minutes just to get someone on the line that even knew what a trace was, and I think we’re going to need a court order—”
“Fuck!” I said. “Fuck!”
“Jim? Jim? Jim! Hold on, I have another call. Just hold on one second.”
I heard her click over.
“Christ!” I shouted, punching and kicking the coffin lid, the claustrophobic space making me punch and kick all the harder. The adult inside me had left the building. I was six years old again, having a temper tantrum, only six year olds had temper tantrums because they couldn’t articulate themselves properly, while I was having one because I was losing my mind.
I funneled my rage toward Globe. How could they be so stupid? How could they be so fucking stupid? Everybody at the company deserved to be fired—
Ava clicked back. “Jim?”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Jim?”
“Who was that?” The words came out croaky.
“Someone from the police department. Officers are questioning a friend of Toto’s who knew about his plan to kidnap you.”
I would have sat bolt straight if it had been possible. “Does he know where he is?”
“No—but it’s a lead. The police are going to try getting in touch with Toto through him.”
“Get in touch with him? If they want to get in touch with him, they just need to call his number—or Candy’s number. But do you think he’s going to pick up, let alone tell them where he’s hiding out?”
“They’ve tried calling his number. You’re right, he’s not picking up. But they think if he sees it’s his friend calling, he might answer, he might tell the friend something.”
“Jesus,” I said, not very heartened by the plan.
“Jim, I need to make some calls. I’ll call you back as soon as we have something. Okay?”
“Ava…” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “It’s getting really hard to breathe.”
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise. Right away.”
“Ava…” The rest of the sentence died on my lips, because there was nothing I could say that would speed up my rescue, nothing to do but hang up and wait, which was what I did.
▬
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed since I’d spoken to Ava. Five minutes? Ten? Fifteen? A drowsiness had crept over me, as heavy as a lead cloak, sinking me into a depthless abyss. It was the oxygen, of course—or lack thereof. It was acting like an anesthetic drip, knocking me out. Yet I didn’t care. The blackness was soothing, blotting out my despair.
Even so, I couldn’t escape thoughts of Toto. He shared the abyss with me, his face floating in the nothingness above me like a dead fish in a stagnant pond. I reviled him with a vitriol I’d never before experienced. In fact, I thought I now understand the hatred he’d harbored for me, the hatred that had spurred him to do what he’d done, because I would do the same to him, I would bury him in a coffin, and I would throw a snake in it, I would get off on that.
The hypocrisy of these thoughts was not lost on me, and I told myself I was better than this. I was raised in a good family in an affluent suburb in Chicago, received a top-notch education, and never wanted for anything.
I was above vengeance and brutality, wasn’t I?
The answer came immediately: No. No, I wasn’t. Money, education, my nationality even—it was just buffer, a pretty coat of paint. Because when it came down to base instincts—jealously in Toto’s case, fear in mine—we were the same. We were both primitive animals, slaves to self-interest, adverse to anyone standing in the way of that self-interest.
Capable of murder—no, beyond capable, craving it, craving the savory high of making another suffer in the name of revenge.
▬
From somewhere in the abyss—below me, above me, I didn’t know—came a beeping noise. It was distant yet important, a homing signal. I locked onto it and felt myself rising, the beep becoming louder, more recognizable. Not a homing signal. My phone. I had a message.
I didn’t come awake as much as burst through the membrane separating unconsciousness and consciousness. For a moment I was completely disorientated. Then my phone beeped again. I fumbled for it in the dark, felt it, held it before my face. The light from the screen seared my eyes.
One new message. From Toto:
How was surprise?
With a shot of revulsion, I remembered the dead spider next to me.
I typed:
Please let me out.
You love Candy, right?
To be truthful, I didn’t know. I’d never told her I did. I cared for her. A lot. But love? I wasn’t sure I’d ever been in love. My girlfriends in high school were infatuations; those in college, flings, never lasting more than a couple of weeks. Yumi had been transient. I’d known I was leaving Japan at the end of the year; I didn’t let myself get too close.
So what did I know about love?
Anyway, it didn’t matter. Even if I did love Candy, I would be insane to tell Toto that. He might let me out of the coffin only to slit my throat.
I typed:
No, I don’t.
Make her video. Tell her you don’t love her.
Make her a video on the phone? Was he serious? Candy would obviously know it was coerced from me. Toto was an idiot. A fucking idiot. And what guarantee did I have that after I made the video he would release me from the coffin?
I typed:
Let me out of the coffin. I’ll make the video. I promise.
Make it now.
How do I know you will let me out?
Make video. Make it good.
“Come on!” I said to myself, wondering how to gain a hand up in the negotiation. I could refuse to make the video, force a stalemate until Toto decided to let me out. But that was a big “if,” given I didn’t have the luxury of time. I didn’t think I had enough air to last me an hour. I needed out
of the coffin now.
Which meant I would have to do the unthinkable: hold the guy at his word.
I typed:
If I make a good video, you swear to let me out?
A long ten seconds later:
Yes.
Feeling as though I’d just gambled my life on a bet, which in a way I suppose I had, I navigated to the phone’s video app. I hastily composing what I would say, keeping it short and to the point. I sparked the Zippo, held it next to my face so Candy could see me. My heart pounding rapidly, I pressed Record:
“Candy, it’s Jim,” I said rather stupidly—she could see me, after all. I recalled Toto’s words: Make it good. I cleared my throat. “I—I’ve been thinking about things. Us. Actually, it’s been on my mind a lot lately. And…this is hard for me to say…but I don’t think we’re working. We’re not as compatible as I thought. I guess…I guess what I’m saying is, I think we need to take a break. No, I think we need…it’s over, Candy. I don’t love you. I need to move on. I think I’m going to go back to the States. It’s probably best we don’t speak again either. Bye, Candy.”
I replayed the video. My voice was shaky and I was speaking too quickly, not to mention I looked like total shit. But whatever. I sounded sincere.
I attached the video to a message to Toto, wrote “For Candy” in the subject line, and pressed Send.
▬
For the next several minutes I remained on edge as I waited for Toto’s reply. I tried to lift myself into a positive mentality, thinking about what it would be like to hear the dirt moving above me, the strike of a spade against the pine coffin, the lid creaking open. Daylight—God, daylight and fresh air. If I got out of this mess, I don’t think I would ever take another sunny day for granted, or the perfumed scent of flowers in bloom, or the green smell of cut grass.
And Toto? Would I thank him for setting me free?
Hell, no. I didn’t know what I would do. Actually, I did. I’d find out where Candy was, make sure she was okay. Then I’d go back to the hotel, get my stuff, and get on the first bus out of town. I usually hated long bus rides, the too-small seats, the crowded conditions, but oh man—the possibility of being on one in the very near future, looking out the window at the passing scenery, seemed like paradise.
Once I arrived in Manila, and was back home, I would order a pizza from Shakey’s—no, Yellow Cab, the eighteen-inch New Yorker—and eat the entire thing. Then I’d get a massage. Two hours. Screw it, three. That was only fifteen bucks or so, and I would deserve it. I imagined the masseuse saying, “Sir, so many knots!” And with my face in the pillow I would reply, “I was in a coffin all night.” She would probably laugh and ask me if I had a girlfriend, like they always do. I would tell her…what? The break-up video wasn’t real, of course. But seriously—would I stay with Candy? Dating her had already cost me seven stab wounds in a knife fight and a night in a coffin. Maybe it would be better if we really did go our separate paths. It would be the only way to rid Toto from my life forever. Because even if the police threw him in jail this time—or the “monkey house,” as I’d heard it called a few times here—who’s to say for how long he would stay locked up. And the last thing I wanted was to be always looking over my shoulder.
My stomach rumbled hungrily. I shouldn’t have thought about pizza. I hadn’t eaten anything since dinner at Candy’s, which had been early, about four p.m.
I checked the phone. No messages.
What was taking Toto so long to get back to me? He had the video. He’d had plenty of time to view it. He should have sent me a message by now.
I typed:
Was the video okay?
And waited.
▬
According to the clock on the iPhone, another twenty minutes had passed. Toto, I had become convinced, was not going to dig me out. He was full of shit. I should never have trusted him to keep his word. I should have refused to make the video. It had been my only bargaining chip, and I had tossed it away freely.
My only remaining hope was Ava and the embassy, but in this case, no news was definitely not good news, and the fact they hadn’t contacted me indicated they had accomplished little.
Which meant I was going to die, I thought wretchedly. I was going to die. I couldn’t stop thinking about this. When I was a kid, and my mom told me God had always existed and always would exist, I couldn’t get my mind around the idea of eternity. Likewise, now, I couldn’t get my mind around the concept that my lifespan was finite. My ego was too strong or stubborn to allow for a world in which I didn’t exist.
I would have thought the prescient knowledge of my impending end would terrify me, and it did, it numbed me to my bones, but the overpowering emotions I experienced trapped in the coffin, alone and in the dark, were sadness and regret. I was too young to die. I had too much to learn about myself, too much to experience. Marriage, kids, what I might make of myself.
My life was wasted.
That’s what people would tsk-tsk about me too. “He was so young” and “Such a waste.”
Would anyone even care if I died?
My parents obviously. Correction, my mom. My dad had Alzheimer’s and barely remembered who I was anymore. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters. My grandparents would care. Both pairs were still alive, and they would care, which was marginally comforting.
The rest of my relatives, on the other hand, would be shocked but probably not much else. I wasn’t close with any of them except a cousin named Amy. She was a year younger than me. I never knew her growing up, but she went to the same college as me, I saw her around at some parties, and we became close.
And my friends? I wasn’t sure how they would react. After all, surviving to a ripe old age was a numbers game, and the more people you met, the greater the chance of one of them getting a bad roll and checking out of the game of life early. It was the cold truth. I was only twenty-four, but I’d already outlived both Janet and Crystal and a handful or so acquaintances such as Heinrich.
You can’t change the rules we play by. You can only march forward.
People understand that; they’re hardwired to accept that.
With these existential thoughts smashing about inside my head, I picked up the phone and navigated through the call log until I came to my parents’ number, which I had most recently called the previous weekend. I dialed it.
“Hello?” my mother answered. She sounded happy.
Hearing her voice, tears sprang to my eyes. “Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to sound upbeat.
“Hi, Jim! Are you feeling okay? You sound sick.”
“I’m okay.” The reception was surprisingly good. I cleared my throat. That did nothing to loosen the tightness in my chest. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, you know. Cleaning, gardening. This place might not be as big as the old house, but my to-do list seems to get longer every day.”
“The neighbors and everything…they’re good?”
“I told you about the Johnston’s, and the fence?”
“Yeah.” A few days after my parents had moved in to their new home, the lush vine on the fence separating their property and the neighbors’ had started to wilt. My mom peeked around the fence and saw that the neighbor, Mr. Johnston, had trimmed back the vine on his side all the way to the posts and wire mesh, severing vital stems in the process. It was his right to do so, but my mom would have liked him to have consulted her first, because she could now see through the vegetation to the unsightly, rotting skeleton holding it upright.
“Well,” my mom said, “it turns out Mr. Johnston’s not as bad as I made him out. He approached me the other day and said he was willing to go in halves on a new fence. He also said I could choose the design.”
“Build a tall one.”
My mom laughed. “But he has such a nice yard! You should see his flowers. I don’t really want to cut off the view.”
I recalled my vow never to take the smell of flowers for granted again, and I realized it had been an empt
y declaration. A lump swelled in my throat. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
My mom filled the brief silence with, “Your father is in the next room watching television. Did you want to say hi?”
I forced out the word, “Sure.”
I heard my mom call my father’s name, tell him who was on the phone, then tell him again, explaining that I was his son.
A moment later my dad’s gruff voice said, “Hello?”
“Hey, Dad, it’s Jim.”
“Hi, Jim. How are you?”
“Okay. How are you?”
“Oh, you know…” He trailed off.
“Mom says you guys are getting a new fence?”
“Are we? Yes, that’s right, I think we are. Are you coming by today?”
“I—no,” I said. He always asked me this, and I would always tell him I was in the Philippines. He’d be surprised, ask me what I was doing there. I’d tell him I was teaching. He’d ask me what I was teaching—and on it would go. I didn’t think I could deal with that now. Instead, I said something I’d never said to him before: “I love you, Dad.”
Silence. Then, “Let me get your mother.”
“Jim?” she said
“I love you, Mom,” I said.
“I love you too, Jim.” A pause. “Is—is everything all right?”
Tears were spilling down my cheeks, and I was nodding, biting my bottom lip.
“Jim?”
“I have to go.”
“Jim, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Mom. I miss you. Take care of Dad.”
“Jim?” Panicked now, and I realized I’d screwed this all up.
“Gotta go, Mom.”
“No, Jim. Don’t go. Don’t hang up. I want to talk—”
Box of Bones Page 5
