Shadows of La Paz

By Rowena R. Conrad

It is 4:30 on a Saturday morning at Barrio Santa Inez, in the town of La Paz, Zambales. Gabriel Alvarez is roused from sleep by a farmer who has come to report that four thieves are making off with the coffin of a recently buried, rich Chinese businessman. Compelled to pursue the perpetrators but with no police in sight, Alvarez enlists the help of a gun-toting cousin.
While the two men scour the cemetery for clues, they stumble upon a body crammed in a sack. After it is identified, Philippine Constabulary investigators descend on the province, focusing on Gabriels relations and his past dalliance with a mysterious woman. Desperate and on the run, he gets help from a powerful politician with a great debt of gratitude to pay...but one who has much to lose.
As the story unfolds and secrets come to light, Barrio Captain Alvarez realizes that the past has come to revisit him, and that he has become a pawn in one mans grand ambition. His only hope of salvation lies in a faith healer whose unusual methods border the bizarre.
From the beaches of Zambales to the Hundred Islands of Lingayen; from the seedy strips of Subic to the slopes of a dormant volcano, Alvarez races for his life, his pursuers never far behind.
Meanwhile, in their midst lives a woman trapped in a nightmare whose dark tortured mind has a story to tell.
Love, heroism and diseased souls - La Paz has it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 22, 2016
• ISBN: 9781491787434

Rowena R. Conrad

Rowena R. Conrad was born and raised in San Marcelino Zambales, Philippines. A mother of three grown children, she and her husband live in Rhineland Pfalz, Germany. She is the author of Heteras Book 1: The Lake. Shadows of La Paz is her second book.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Barrio Santa Inez, La Paz

Zambales, Philippines

May 20, 1971

First comes the call of roosters, followed by a chorus of squealing pigs and the woeful bleating of goats. Five seconds later, as if on cue, the wail of an infant crescendos, then drops to gather strength before rising again. This parade outside my hut goes on for a while. I try to return to sleep, but it’s no use. I roll over and cover my head with a pillow, but my full bladder tells me that I might as well get up.

Crawling out from the mosquito net, I peel off the damp shirt plastered to my back and pause by my open window. I sigh with relief as a light breeze fans my skin. From where I’m standing, I make out the silhouette of a cart on the road, its trundling wheels joining the ruckus of a waking barrio. Giving in to one last yawn, I turn to the door and step out of my bedroom.

There’s muffled hammering coming from my front door. I glance up at the dim hands of the wall clock. It’s four seventeen. Who the hell could that be? I’m hardly surprised, though. It is Saturday morning. Everything that requires my urgent attention seems to happen on Friday nights. Probably another drunken brawl or a python on someone’s porch, another death or another birth. But oh Lord, let it not be another sick carabao.

The banging grows louder. Ignoring it, I scamper instead toward the outhouse at the opposite end of the hut. Halfway there I hear a voice.

Kapitan. Kapitan. Wake up.

Elvis? Blood surges to my head. I rush back to the bedroom and grope the floor for my shorts, putting them on while I skip to a window that looks out to the porch. Aided by the soft light of dawn, I spy a skinny ten-year old aborigine with knobby knees, pounding on my door with both fists. I push the window open.

I told you never to wake me up for pan de sal, I snarl. Just leave the bag on the porch table.

Elvis turns to me flashing his small white teeth. No no, he whispers. I am not delivering bread for you today. You haven’t paid me for the bread I delivered last week. He tilts his head toward the gate. Someone’s here for you.

I turn and see the outline of a man standing by the foot of the stairs.

It’s Felix Reposo, Kapitan. I am sorry if I woke you up, but you have to get to the cemetery before everybody else wakes up.

Felix Reposo? The Reposos live at the westernmost barrio of La Paz. What is he doing here at this hour?

Do you remember me? the man asks when I don’t respond.

Of course I remember you. I went to school with your sister. Did you say cemetery? What’s at the cemetery?

Someone stole a coffin, Felix says.

Coffin? What are you—

Chinaman’s coffin, Elvis explains, still standing by the door. The one buried yesterday.

It takes me a few seconds to absorb this information. Mr. Lee’s coffin? Someone stole his coffin? But he was in it.

Not anymore, Elvis says.

What? Now I’m really awake.

I saw Mario and three men carrying the coffin through the reed field, Felix explains.

Where is Mr. Lee? I ask.

Leaning against a neighbor’s headstone.

The sun is glowing mightily behind the mountain when I rush down from my hut dressed as decently as I can for town. From one of the houses nearby, I hear the clanging of pots and the hiss of something hitting hot oil. The baby wails again.

So, what happened? I ask Felix who is sitting on the edge of his cart, his carabao chewing on its tongue. The thick scent of frying fish and garlic wafts through the neighborhood making my stomach whine.

I’ve been contracted to prepare the Gonzales’ farm for planting season, he begins. Left my house at three coz I’ve got to start plowing by six if I want to get out of here before sundown. He pauses to peer at me. You know where I live, don’t you?

West. Past the cemetery.

He nods. This gives me time to stop at your bakery for pan de sal.

I hold up my hand. Wait. You went by the police station. Why didn’t you report it to the officer on duty?

I tried. The station was locked.

There is supposed to be a policeman there all night long, I say.

Felix chortles. Friday night, Kapitan. Probably at Elena’s Beer Garden.

I sigh. Of course. What was I thinking? I urge him to continue.

For the next ten minutes, Felix recounts that on his way to town, he heard voices by the tall reeds that obscured the rice farms half a kilometer from the cemetery.

I looked around but saw no one, he says. I felt such a chill.

After an exaggerated shiver, he goes on. Kept my eyes forward, trying my best to keep my wits together. Once I was past the reed field, I sensed movement to my right. There’s hardly any light, but it was easy to tell that there were four men.

You sure?

I’m sure, he says, nodding. They were struggling to carry something long and rectangular on their shoulders. I eased myself down from the carabao. I was curious to see what they could possibly be carrying at 3:30 in the morning. It didn’t take much time for me to catch up with them because they were going very slow.

That thing is made of metal, I say. Really heavy.

Then I heard one of them call Mario. He asked who it was they were going to sell a used coffin to. They were carrying a coffin, Felix said excitedly. I couldn’t believe it.

What was Mario’s answer? I ask, thinking that perhaps Mr. Hernandez was their buyer. Who else buys these things?

Heard him say he was selling it to a man from Olongapo, Felix explains.

Incredible. Mario has always been enterprising. I suppress a chuckle. So what did you do next?

At first I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking, was the body still in there or were they carrying an empty one?

I nodded. Good point.

So I went back to my cart and rode to the cemetery which was up ahead. I only knew of one fresh burial, so I went straight to Mr. Lee’s tomb. It wasn’t too far off the road. Imagine my fright when I saw the old Chinaman there. Leaning on Mrs. Dominguez’s headstone.

I shiver at the thought. I myself would not have done that. I’d have waited until daylight. So, why me? Why didn’t you go to Kapitan Esteban? He’s in charge of the barrio next to the cemetery.

Felix nods as if that may have made more sense, then shrugs and gives me a wry grin. I tried to convince him to come with me since he’s a witness and may need to make a statement, but he argued that his means of livelihood was more important and that he’s done his duty as a good citizen.

My jeep groans and rattles as I navigate a potholed dirt road made worse by the downpour that had postponed Mr. Lee’s burial by five days. The bereaved family had no choice but to prolong the wake. All in all, Mr. Lee had lain in their well-appointed, lilac-hued, thickly carpeted living room for twelve days.

A diminutive third-generation businessman whose ancestors (according to gossip I overheard during the wake) hailed from Hong Kong, Mr. Lee ruled over the most successful business in La Paz for over thirty-five years. From a small variety store, his business grew to a two-story, block-long building that sold all manner of construction materials, dry goods, rice, fabric, furniture, vehicle parts, tires. Empire General Store remains as the only source of hardware supplies in the province, thus making it a cash cow.

Dressed in a white Barong Tagalog instead of his usual soiled and tattered work clothes, the old Chinaman had lain in a top-of-the-line coffin purchased from Manila. Rumored to have cost 10,000 pesos, it was made of bronze, padded in velvet, and lined with lead - designed to seal him for all eternity from critters and destructive elements.

On the third day of the wake, I joined other barrio captains and paid my last respects. The house was swarming with relatives, friends, sympathizers, hangers-on, and the ever-present gawkers, majority of whom were there only for the merienda and free beverages that streamed from the kitchen.

Yesterday, the town awoke to clear skies. At two in the afternoon, Mr. Lee was carried out of the family home to a gleaming hearse. As I milled around with other barrio folks waiting for the procession to begin, a steady stream of people filled the street outside their gate. It seemed to me that all of La Paz showed up to bid him goodbye. The thought of his body being out in the open in this sweltering humidity, leaning on someone else’s headstone, was enough to get me going.

Chapter 2

Barrio Santa Inez, La Paz

It is nearly six in the morning. Any time now, the town will be up and about. I follow the road to the river passing a fenced in mango farm patrolled by an army of vigilant geese. They honk and flutter beneath the thick branches teeming with fruit.

A trickle runs down the hollow of my back. There is to be no relief from the heat. Elvis (named after the American singer) holds on to a bar bolted across the dashboard, his face inches from the windshield. Beads of sweat glisten on his dark skin and cling to his close-cropped kinky hair. He wiggles his narrow behind on the seat.

How is it that you ended up with Felix this morning? I ask while I wait for three goats to cross the road.

Told you already.

Tell me again.

After a heavy sigh, he repeats his story. I was at the bakery…getting my share of pan de sal, when the man showed up. He looked worried and said that he needed to contact the police or barrio captain right away. So I brought him to you.

Why me? Why not Filemon?

He’s not police. He’s PC, a soldier. Home on vacation, Elvis scoffs. You’re the barrio captain. You take care of these things.

Easing the jeep through the river at a well-trodden shallow section, I am relieved to see that the water has receded to normal levels. There’s a slight climb to a dirt road that flattens and stretches for roughly a kilometer; rice farms on either side. Then the asphalt road begins and we enter the town proper of La Paz, Zambales.

Saturday is market day. As we drive past the plaza, vendors are pitching stalls getting ready for the throng of shoppers. I follow the main road westward until it veers right toward the rice farms. It’s then that I see the familiar white city rise into view.

The cemetery is apportioned into three sections. Arriving from the east, we pass through the Protestant Zone first - a collection of modest whitewashed tombs close to the ground and earthen mounds hidden among overgrown weeds. The Episcopalian Zone is the same except for a few marble crypts. The last and largest section belongs to those of the Catholic faith. Here, some of the departed lie in elaborate tombs of marble and granite, some housed in mausoleums, most watched over by giant angels and the crucified Jesus.

The tracks from the hearse that brought Mr. Lee the day before are still fresh. I leave Elvis in the jeep and walk the few paces to a marble tomb on a dais surrounded by wilted wreaths. As I approach, I see the obscene black hole out of which the coffin was pulled. On the ground is the discarded slab of marble that was used to cover it. The seal must not have fully hardened, which made it easy for Mario and his men to pry it open.

To the left, the statue of an angel with outstretched wings hovers over the pink-granite tomb of the late Mrs. Dominguez, who died at thirty-two from a dog bite. There by the base of the square pedestal on which the angel stands sits Mr. Lee; his carefully parted silver hair ruffled on one side, his ashen face resting against his shoulder. The delicately embroidered Barong Tagalog is soiled with mud, black pants smeared with plaster. The air reeks of formaldehyde. I pull my shirt over my nose just as I hear someone scream.

I glance back toward the road and see the Lees’ blue Toyota parked behind my jeep. How did… Shit. Someone other than Felix knows about this and went to get the family. Pretty soon the whole town will be here.

From the backseat, the rotund Mrs. Lee struggles out supported by her daughter while her eldest son, Albert, rounds the front of the car and marches toward me. Mrs. Lee lets out another heart-stopping howl.

I run to intercept him. I don’t think this is a good idea. Go home. I’ll have Funeraria Hernandez come right away and take care of this.

Who would do such a thing? the son asks.

We have suspects. After I get a hold of Hernandez, I’ll go to the police station.

Who? Is it my cousins?

I can’t tell you. But no, it’s not your cousins. I steal another glance at Mrs. Lee who looks ready to keel over. Please, take your mother home.

We want the coffin recovered, Albert says. It was very expensive. We cannot have our father buried in anything else.

After a brief stop at the funeral director’s house, Elvis and I drive straight to the police station. I tell him to wait in the jeep while I go inside. To my relief, it’s open, but no one is there. None of the six police officers who have been sworn to keep peace and order in the town of La Paz are at their desks. I push open the swinging half-door that bisects the counter and walk to the back room where they have the holding cells. Not one soul.

Standing outside the station, I watch the market come alive. Fresh produce is being unloaded from carts, singkamas (jicama) are bundled and arranged on makeshift tables by the bus stop. Two barbecue stands fire up charcoal while a number of women scurry toward the back stalls, balancing thin flat baskets of freshly made rice cakes on their heads. New public transports called tricycles (motorcycles with sidecars) buzz about like angry bees.

I contemplate my options: I can wait for the police, who, as Felix may have correctly assumed, are most likely still in bed sleeping off their hangovers, or, I can go to the mayor’s house which isn’t too far away. But I don’t want to intrude on his Saturday.

Rocky. He’ll know what to do. He’s home for the weekend and should be up by now. I head back to my jeep where Elvis is chewing on sweet bread, his lips smeared with sugar.

Did you find someone? he asks.

I shake my head. No one there.

You’ll need help arresting Mario. There were four of them, you know. They may be armed.

The last thing I need is a ten-year-old aborigine telling me how to do my job. I restrain myself from swatting the little twerp and glower at him instead. He shrugs it off and continues wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Where’re we going now?

To Rocky’s.

Yeah! he exclaims, grinning. Boss Rocky will know what to do. I want to come with you when you arrest Mario.

That’s not going to happen. I’m dropping you off at the Escobars’.

Why not? If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t know about any of this.

And I would still be asleep instead of chasing a gang of grave robbers.

Elvis opens his mouth to argue.

I’m taking you to your mother and that’s that.

Rocky’s wood and bamboo house is located on the eastern side of town at the end of a street that leads to the rice farms. A coconut tree that rises high above a rickety fence is hung with fruit the size of bowling balls. I need to remind him to bring those down. A man died recently after a coconut fell and split his head open.

I unlatch the wooden gate. Elvis trails behind me. As I go up the bamboo stairs, the house begins to moan and grunt. I stop and hold my hand up. Another moan followed by another grunt. The bedroom is next to the stairs that lead to the patio. The walls, thin as paper, begin to shake. I realize what’s going on and turn to Elvis. Go back to the jeep.

Why? mouths the insolent Aeta.

Suddenly a woman shrieks in muffled ecstasy which is followed by more grunting. Elvis’ eyes pop as the carnal sounds peak and ebb. Then I hear a man’s prolonged groan. I drag the boy by his tank top and plant him at the gate. Wait here.

I stay with Elvis for a few nervous moments before heading back up the steps to the door. I tap my knuckles on the wooden slats and pray that Rocky doesn’t shoot me. After the fifth knock, the door inches inward. I move my head to the crack and see one furious eye squinting in the dark. The door opens wider and I’m staring down the barrel of a full-blown scowl.

Shit, Insan! Rocky hisses. I’m in the middle of something.

I know, but you need to come with me, I say, peering over his shoulder.

"Now? What the hell for?"

To look for Mario. He and three others stole Mr. Lee’s coffin.

What? Is this some kind of a joke?

I shake my head.

Then get the police, he snaps.

No one at the station.

But…but… Rocky hangs his head as a shadow crosses the room behind him. Then a woman’s voice calls his name.

Who’s that? I ask.

None of your business. Wait here.

After a few minutes, the door swings open. Rocky comes out shirtless wearing a pair of tan shorts. He pulls out a pack of Salem from his pocket and notices Elvis by the stairs. He throws me another scowl before he lights a cigarette.

He takes his time puffing away, flicking the ashes after each drag. He obviously doesn’t see the need to rush out of the house and track down the men who made off with the coffin.

I hope they didn’t go back to check on him, I say, prodding him to hurry up.

Who?

The Lees. They found out. I don’t know how, but I managed to catch them before they got too close to the open crypt.

Rocky chuckles. I don’t know why he finds this funny.

A woman wearing a floral sundress comes out carrying two cups of coffee. I recognize her at once. With an impish smile, she hands one cup to Rocky and the other cup to me, her eyes downcast. She takes a furtive glance at the Aeta boy, then tiptoes back to the house.

That’s Virgie from San Antonio, I whisper.

He nods, taking a sip from his coffee.

What’s she doing with you?

What do you think?

But…but she’s married.

He ignores my mumbling and sets his cup on the patio railing. Finish your coffee and let’s go get Mario. He turns around and goes back to the house. When he comes out, he has on a white shirt and dark blue bell-bottoms, his hair slick with Tancho pomade, a holstered gun hangs by his right thigh.

We drop Elvis off at the Escobars’. It takes a threat from Rocky to get him out of the jeep.

Let’s go to the cemetery first. I want to make sure that Hernandez has picked up Mr. Lee. We don’t want anyone else stumbling upon a very dead man.

By the time we drive by the market, it’s already nine and business is brisk. Passenger jeepneys painted with loud gaudy scenes unload shoppers from nearby barrios. The air is filled with the briny scent of the day’s catch as we pass parked trucks unloading fresh seafood from the north.

How long have you been sleeping with her? I ask Rocky who sits smoking, his right foot resting on the side ramp.

Not long. This is only the second time that we…you know, he says winking. He must have noticed the sneer on my face. Look, she came on to me, and to be honest, the woman is stale. But with enough Tanduay, every woman turns into a beauty queen. He snickers then belts out a hearty laugh.

What about her husband?

He scoffs and then frowns. That sounds strange coming from you.

I clam up. He’s right. I have no reason to be sanctimonious.

That woman has nipples the size of guavas, he mutters, making a circle with his fingers. And she knows a few tricks. I’m beginning to think that she used to work in the city.

I just hope I’m not around when her husband knocks on your door.

Yeah, well, me too. He chuckles again. But you know me. I’m ready for anything. Besides, I didn’t ask for this. You know what they say: If a pig is satisfied with the feed, it will stay in its pen. Clearly, Insan, this one is not.

I shake my head and sigh. How does one argue with that?

The cemetery is deserted. To my relief, Mr. Lee has been taken away. A gentle breeze stirs the leaves of a few scraggly trees that stand between tombs. As I watch Rocky traipse around the angel that hovers over Mrs. Dominguez, I catch a whiff of something that reminds me of the family of dead rats I found beneath my hut not too long ago. Before I can say anything, Rocky turns to me.

You smell that?

I nod. Yeah. Where’s it coming from? That can’t be Mr. Lee anymore.

Another gust of wind makes me glad that I didn’t have breakfast. We separate and begin our search.

The wind is coming from the east, Rocky calls out. Over there. It’s coming from that direction.

We move forward to the Episcopalian side of the compound and meander through the dying shrubbery. The tombs here are more modest. Some are just mounds of earth covered with stones and dried grass. A gecko slithers over a small flat slab of concrete. On it is a bouquet of withered gardenia held together with a pink thread. The tomb of a girl — Roselyn Aguirre 1965-1968. So this is where she’s buried.

Then I hear Rocky. I take my eyes off the grave and focus my attention on what sounds like the outcome of one of his twenty-four hour drinking sprees. The retching continues as I move forward. To my right, his hunched form appears behind a white wall lined with spent candle stumps and then quickly disappears behind the next tomb.

I follow a dirt path between earthen mounds marked with crosses. The stench of death stops me in my tracks and stuffs its fist down my throat. A strange hum begins to fill the air.

I clamp my hand over my mouth and nose and inch toward Rocky’s bent figure. He shoots his arm up and points to something behind a raised crypt of gray hollow blocks overgrown with weeds and vines. The front part is open. Whether its occupant is still there, I can’t tell from the darkness inside. I choose not to look closer.

Rounding the crypt, I see the reason for the buzzing. Thousands of flies - no, millions - swarming over the top of a bulging sack leaning on the side of the tomb. Rocky heaves again. Before I turn away ready to do the same, I notice what appears to be a tuft of hair beneath the frenzied black cloud.

Chapter 3

La Paz

We drive from the cemetery and stop at a sari-sari store where we buy Coca Colas.

Rocky takes a drink, gargles, then spits by the roadside. "You’re lucky you didn’t get too close. I literally bumped into it. Ugh."

From there we drive straight to the police station. To my relief we find two policemen: Sergeants Valdez and de la Cruz. After reporting our discovery, we are now on our way back to the cemetery. The chief, who was immediately summoned, asked that we be present to make statements.

We get there just as Mr. Hernandez and two assistants are loading the sack onto a gurney. The flies follow it all the way to the hearse. Sergeant Valdez, holding a kerchief tight over his face, squats near the spot where the weight of the sack has left an imprint on the dead grass. Featherlike smudges smear the gray crypt where it leaned.

Sergeant de la Cruz is bent at the waist peering inside the opening of the old tomb. It could be that they meant to push the sack in there, but had no time because you showed up.

Possible. I nod in agreement.

Where did you come in when you came back for Mr. Lee? asks Sergeant Valdez.

The highway entrance, answers Rocky.

Did you see any other vehicle anywhere? Valdez asks.

No. I really didn’t notice, Rocky answers again, though we both shake our heads.

Tire tracks?

Nope.

Sergeant Valdez makes his way toward the back of the cemetery. Right outside the bushes that fence the compound is a narrow road that cuts across the rice farms beyond. This alleviates traffic during All Saint’s Day and provides easier access to the tombs at the rear of the cemetery.

We step out of the entryway. Look at this, he says, pointing at the jumble of tire tracks on the dirt road. These are marks when it arrived and these are when it sped off. Did you hear anything before you found the body?

The flies, I reply, looking over my shoulder. Listen. You can still hear them.

The policeman ignores me and keeps frowning at