23 The Bed or The Grave (1/2)

Why am I at the dead end?

Is there nowhere to go? How can I move when I have nothing left? All our evidences are burned away. My partner is gone, sleeping somewhere I do not know. Two of my friends are trapped in a slumber that leads into another world. But still, today is another day. I know boss would urge me to put this story to one side and instead focus on daily journalism. He might just tell me that tomorrow is another day. I could just go on and get in a car to go around the city looking for stories. I could simply report on a new ordinance or some petty crime. Maybe some failed city projects that is hardly ever read. I could report that.

But no. I shan't do that. Let it be that I earn nothing this month (in any case, I have enough to support me for a year). I just need to solve this case. I need to end this as swiftly as possible. Inheritances are on the line. Jobs are on the line. Peace is on the line. This must end now.

The question is… how can I move when I have no more pieces left on the board?

Winter is drawing near. I could feel the little leaves that stayed for months slowly falling away. The days are getting colder each day, with me having to put on thicker coats each day. The days are getting shorter with my time feeling shorter and shorter each day – like the time I have left to find the truth. As I force myself to head for the newsroom, I could feel my feet aching… aching for this to end, aching for it to live.

As I walk in an uphill path towards the city center, I pass over green pastures, green pastures that lead up to a grand building of opulence – Word Miracle Church.

Maybe, the Lord has answers for me. In this silence of mid-morning, I hear the clatter of my heels as I walk through the asphalt paths of the church. Through the sides of the paths are Begonias in bloom, despite the falling leaves that are beside it. As I enter through the wide-open double doors of the church, there is only one man praying at the prie-dieu. From his now wavy mahogany hair, to his physique and style that he had years ago, there can be no doubt that it is him. He changed. From the time I saw him in October, he has changed. No more clean cut that of a professional. It was as if time had turned back, and there he is, just a normal person praying.

As I walk through the aisle, I take my rosary from my pocket and begin moving around the beads. Each step I take, I feel myself being drawn towards the altar. I offer my bow to the Lord and kneel. As I was about to begin my prayer, I see him. I see him praying deeply. With his flinching eyes and anxious lips, I know that something is wrong.

Slowly, I rise on my feet. All of a sudden, I find myself beside him. As much as I despise him for keeping secrets, I cannot help but care for him through these times. It is not only me who suffers, but he too.

On the vacant seat beside him, I gently lay down my briefcase and kneel beside him.

”Pater, nos omnes.

Pater, opus tuum auxilium.

Quo in tempore opus est tibi?

Futurum erat quid necesse?

Da mihi signum.

Da mihi responsum.”

That was his prayer. From the ”ums” and ”Paters” I have been hearing, I think he speaks of Latin. I do not know. All I can understand is that whatever he speaks, it is something close to his heart. As I fold my hands together, he suddenly stops his murmurs and speak in English. ”What is it, Ms. Aguinaldo?” he asks while still in a trance-like voice. ”How did you know I would be here?”

I look beside him, and I see him still kneeling with his folded hands and firmly closed eyes. I do the same and look straight ahead. ”I did not. There are just some things that have been troubling me.”

”Then what is it that you need of me?” he asks as if his very questions are still part of his prayer. ”Surely you would not kneel beside me had you no business with me.”

He's right. I know why I sat beside him, but I do not wish to admit that. I look at him again, and still, he remains to pray in Latin with his murmurs.

”...et ad te, Pater, commendo tibi animabus suis. Quin ullum afferat detrimentum dignitatis meam salva me verum loqui.”

Suddenly, he goes silent again. ”What's your answer, Ms. Aguinaldo?”

He found me speechless at this time of weakness. Yes, he is my only weakness as I try to keep my strength for those around me. As I was about to speak the truth, I shake away the thoughts. There is only one logical question to ask him. ”Tell me of what you know, Professor. You and I both know that justice needs to be served. Who is Ysabel? How can I find her?”

”I cannot tell you that. As I said, the only way I can prevent you from hurting yourself is by not telling you everything. Rosanna, the person you are dealing with is dangerous. I can take her on myself, but I believe you cannot face her. If it's not the bed, it is the grave.”

”The world needs the truth, sir. Stop protecting me. Do you remember Mateo Macedo?”

”Yes,” he says in that same trance-like voice.

”Well, he's gone. The nurse says he woke up from the coma and left without a trace. He resigned from Lucia City Times without a word. Someone even took his things for him.”

”That is no surprise,” he says, indifferently. ”Mateo's father, the CEO of AMC TV, disappeared too. It's not him, but his wife too. The Macedos are gone. AMC TV will soon fall.”

AMC TV… a leading television broadcast company of this country. Another attack on the press. How much will she pay for the silence that is going on in this country? How can she keep killing more and more people? As much as I want to things through, I cannot. His indifferent words and unperturbed tone spark a fire within me. ”How could you say that so indifferently, sir? Lucia City is falling down, and yet, you choose to defend this woman. You know of this before I do. How do you know? Are you an accomplice of Ysabel Javier?”

Despite my raising voice, he does not even seem to care. He remains still in his prayers with his knees on the prie-dieu. ”Rosanna, I am not indifferent, but rather, I expected that something like this might happen. As I said, my connections run deep, deeper than what you can fathom. I do not defend Ysabel. This issue is beyond your control. All of this will end with just a signature, but still, he will not sign”

Signature… Of course! The will! All these deaths… All these disappearances… They are not simply a means to remove people from the line of inheritance. They are not attacking against me. These are for the one who started all of these just by refusing to acknowledge a possible heir – Raphael Concepcion.

”Can she be stopped?” I ask as I realize this.

”No,” he says gravely. ”That is why I ask this of you. Stop your investigations. Not even your articles can convince Raphael Concepcion to acknowledge his bastard. You do not want to end up silenced, silenced like reporters from the dictatorship. If it's not the bed, then it's the grave.”