Milo
32.430416—116.900101
I stare at the numbers again and compare them for the millionth time to the map on my phone. My ass aches from sitting in my car for the last ten hours, so I get out and take a deep breath, then I wish I hadn’t. The nearby Tijuana River isn’t exactly a fucking bouquet of fresh flowers. More like cesspool of week-old death.
This is the fourth night in a row that I’ve sat waiting for the mysterious vehicle that’s supposed to take me to the healing angel. I have no proof I’ll find Mercy there, no indication that’s where she’s been taken, but I have to try.
I sit on the hood of the El Camino and lie back to stare at the stars like I did when I was a kid. I’m far enough away from the city that the sky is lit with a billion specks of light. I wonder if Mercy is out there staring at them too. Is she missing me as much as I’ve missed her? I hope so, because the alternative is that she’s left this world completely, and the thought that I’ll never see her beautiful smile, hear her laughter, touch her again is enough to make me want to swallow a bullet.
“No, don’t fucking go there.” I rub my eyes with my fists until they hurt. “She’s out there somewhere. I’m going to find her.”
Minutes melt into hours, and when the sun comes up, I pack my shit and skid out of the dirt lot in a spray of dust and rock. I get to the old black magic depot well before it opens and catch a quick nap in the car before storming in to talk to the old man who took my two grand for this bullshit.
I throw open the door with such force, it knocks the bones from the door chime across the room.
“Old man!” I don’t bother waiting for him and circle the counter then push through the black beaded curtain to the shop’s back room. “You here?”
Finding the place empty, I open another door that leads into an outer room and find the old fucker tossing seed into a pen of chickens.
“You’re back for more?” he says in Spanish and tosses a handful of seeds into a chicken huddle.
“I want my money back.”
He turns that foggy eye toward me. “No refunds.”
“You lied. I’ve been waiting for days and there’s no fucking pickup. There’s nothing.”
He sets down the bag of seed and motions for me to follow him back inside.
I take one last look around the space, thinking there has to be about fifty chickens. “You got some kind of a bird fetish?”
“They’re for protection spells, rituals, sacrifices.”
For a moment, I’m hit with an overwhelming sense of wrongness. This is all so messed up. Yet people are so desperate for good fortune, luck, and love, they’ll go to this extreme fucked up shit to get it. God forbid people just get a fucking job and make better life choices.
I catch my own reflection in a mirror just inside the back room. Case in point? Me.
“The healings only happen during a full moon,” the old man mutters through the gaping black hole in his face.
I follow him into the main shop. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I did.” He reaches into one of the cabinets to pull out a tray of small dishes filled with God knows what. “You don’t listen.” He pinches some of the items into a canvas drawstring bag. “All magic is more powerful during a full moon.”
“Okay, well . . . fuck, when is the next full moon?” I don’t have time for this shit. Every single day Mercy is out there is one more day she could be in danger, hurt, or worse!
He turns to a black calendar hanging on the wall adorned with a big white pentagram. “Two nights after tonight.”
“Three more nights?” I fist my hands in my hair.
“Three more nights, yes.” He continues to pinch shit into his bag.
“And you’re telling me you have no idea where this healing angel is kept? Not a single fucking clue?”
He grunts and shakes his head.
“Not even for fifty thousand pesos?”
He shrugs. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear for fifty thousand pesos.”
“The number you gave me, the longitude and latitude, are you sure the numbers are correct?”
He nods. “I get new ones every few weeks. They always change them up so people can’t find them.”
“How can you be sure these aren’t wrong?”
“I’m sure.”
I rub my face with both hands. “Fine. I’ll try again in three nights.”
He nods, but continues to make whatever pouch concoction he’s mixing up.
I turn and walk out of there. What the fuck am I going to do for the next three days waiting on a full moon?
I drive home feeling more and more depressed as I go. I’ve scoured every inch of Tijuana, Zona Norte, hit every contact I have, and there’s been no word. This is my only hope of getting closer to where she might be.
I have three more nights of waiting. I only hope I don’t die of alcohol poisoning during the process.
ONE HAND GRIPS the warm neck of a bottle and the other scratches a dog as I sit and stare into the darkened citrus orchard. My vision blurs and I swear I can see Mercy peeking out from behind the rows of tree trunks, tempting me to come find her.
“I’m trying, mi alma.” I bring the bottle to my lips and take another mouthful of tequila. The burn it caused at my first sip hardly registers now that the bottle is half gone. “I’m gonna find you,” I slur into the night.
I spin the golden-winged ring around my pinkie. I found it in the bathroom the morning she went missing. She was always so afraid to bathe with it on. I hate that wherever she is now, she doesn’t have it on her.
My head lolls to the side, and I look into Toro’s silver eyes. “Why’d you let her go, huh?” I take another sloppy sip. “Bad dog.”
He whimpers and lies down, looking off toward the citrus trees.
“Yeah, I know. I miss her too.” A lone tear falls from the corner of my eye, but I don’t wipe it away. I’m getting used to them and well past trying to fight the all-consuming defeat and guilt. “It’s my fault. She’s gone because of me.”
“Pity party for one?”
My lip curls in disgust at the sound of Esteban’s voice as he emerges from the darkened pathway and climbs the steps to the porch. I bring the bottle to my mouth and nod. He takes the seat next to me, slouching, and glares at me through cold brown eyes that look a lot like mine.
“What? A guy can’t fucking mourn in privacy?”
I’ve kept my search for Mercy to myself. He knows I’ve been hunting her down, but I refused to give him any details. I’m not convinced he’s not part of the reason she’s gone. His influence stretches down the coast of Mexico and all the way up past Los Angeles to Santa Cruz. Making people disappear is his thing, after all.
“I didn’t fucking do it, ese,” he says.
“I never said—”
“Don’t bullshit me. I see it in your face. You think I got something to do with her leaving.” He runs a hand over his goatee.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I mumble into the bottle before taking a healthy gulp.
“You’re shitfaced.”
I roll my head to the side to meet his gaze. “And you’re a pienche pendejo.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up a little, but he immediately goes back to a stone-faced expression. “I didn’t kill your mom.”
“Whatever.” I scoot my chair back and get up only to get stopped by that fucking unforeseen force called gravity and stumble back into my seat. “Shit.”
“I loved Josephina.”
“Yep, sure.” I attempt to get up again.
“She left us because she hated the life.”
I prop my elbows on my knees to wait out the skull-spin I threw myself into by trying to stand. “She hated the life for us—me, Miguel, and Julian.”
He grabs the tequila bottle from me and sucks back two long gulps.
When I feel like I can do it without falling off my chair, I turn and glare at him. “You wouldn’t let her go. I heard you threaten to kill her if she tried to leave.”
He stares at me and doesn’t deny it.
I shrug. “So. There it is.”
“Love is a weakness, ese. Look what that shit has done to you.”
I’m already shaking my head. “It’s not.” I don’t want to look like a pussy in front of Esteban, but the tears don’t fucking care and fall down my nose to drop between my feet. “It made me stronger.”
“Oh yeah, like right now? You look like a fucking panocha.”
I laugh because he’s right. I’m a fucking pussy, but it’s not from loving Mercy. I’m a better man for knowing her, even if I’ve done horrible things for the LS. I’m a better human for loving her.
“Just tell me the truth. I know you know where my mom is. Why can’t you just tell me, is she dead or not? If she’s alive, then why wouldn’t she come back for Miguel and Julian? They’re kids . . . fucking kids . . .” I whisper the last words into the wind, missing my brothers, Laura and Chris, Damian, Tia Carla, all of them now more than ever.
“She wanted to leave. I wouldn’t let her. She threatened to go to the cops, take you boys. I told her to disappear or I’d make her disappear. So she did.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“No? But you’ll sit here crying over a woman who looks like a fucking ghost and manages to poof into thin air without a single witness?”
I rub my eyes.
“You said Mercy was happy here. She wasn’t. She left you, cabrone. Deal with it.” He stands and hands me back the bottle. “I did.” He walks toward the door.
“I’m not letting her go.”
“Que?”
I stand and this time manage to stay on my feet as I face him head-on. “Difference between you and me?” I poke my chest. “I’m not letting her go.”
And with that, I stomp past him, manage to get upstairs, and fall flat on my bed with my face buried in Mercy’s pillow before I pass out.
Mercy
“I CAN DO it.”
Papa’s mouth makes a thin line. “It’s only been two days. I don’t think—”
“Please.” I blink at him from my kneeling position and try to force innocence into my expression when all I’m feeling is blatant defiance. “Let me serve you and my people, Papa. It is the least I can do after you saved my life.”
He seems happy with my response as he rewards me with a caress to my cheek. I fight the urge to resist his touch, and instead I press into his hold as I would back when I craved the contact.
My gratitude for his rescuing me from what was sure to be a long and painful death doesn’t overshadow the knowledge that I have gone from one form of captivity to another. I don’t belong behind four walls for the remainder of my existence. I belong outside, in the world, living the life of a free woman with Milo and my family. And there is only way I can think of to get back to him.
“I don’t know, Angel. You’ve been through so much. Your lip isn’t even healed. You’re covered in bruises.” He drops his hand and sits on the edge of my bed.
I take a deep breath and do my best to steady my racing heart. I press my sweaty palms against my thighs and say a quick prayer to the Holy Mother that my plan doesn’t backfire. “I have been into the world.”
His eyes snap to mine and narrow a fraction.
“I know about the muti.”
Those five words deliver a punch so fierce, it drains the color from Papa’s face.
“Mikkel. He came for me.” I dip my head to catch his gaze that has dropped to the floor between his feet. “You were trying to save me from him. Weren’t you?”
He shifts uncomfortably. “He told you.”
I nod. “I almost didn’t get away.” If it weren’t for Milo and the Saints, I never would’ve managed to escape him. “I ran here, back to you.”
This gets me his eyes, and pride pours from his expression. Good, it’s working.
“I realize now that you were right. The world outside these walls is unsafe for someone like me.”
“Yes, Angel, it is.” He stands from the bed and paces the room. “He could come back for you.”
He won’t. But I can’t tell Papa that.
“I’ve learned how terrible the world is, Papa. I know how badly it needs me. Now more than ever.”
His pacing subsides, and he comes close to look down over me. “This is true. Your powers—”
“Are a lie.”
The statement sends him back a step, and he scowls.
“It’s okay, I understand now. I know why you did it. This world is in need of hope, and they’ll pay a high price for it.”
He remains so still, I wonder if he’s even breathing.
“My life’s purpose is to give hope. I can do that. Without the lie, without the serum, I can be the angel you need me to be. Better than I was before.”
“What are you saying?”
“I will do this for you. Just allow me my freedom.”
“I can’t do that, it’s too risky.”
“I am here of my own free will. My eyes have seen and I have felt the pain that comes with living outside these walls. I assure you, Papa, I don’t want that.” The lie makes my voice crack. I want my old life back, my life with Milo.
His eyes pinch in what looks like skepticism, and I wonder if I’ve said too much, appeared too bold, so I bow low at his feet.
“I only wish to serve you in exchange for your protection, but not behind locked doors.”
“You wish to roam free? To leave this place—”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not this place. Just this room.”
“I can’t allow that, Angel, I’m sorry.”
I peer up at him, and my eyes fill with tears as I realize I may never be free of this place again. “You saw what those men did to me.” Even as I speak the words, my split lip throbs and bruises ache. “You know what they intended to do to me if you had not shown up when you did.” The tears make their escape to run salty rivers down my cheeks. “I cannot go back out there again. I will surely die if I do.”
Silence stretches between us.
He finally swivels toward the door. “I will think about it. In the meantime, your midday meal should be here soon. Eat it all please.”
“Yes, Papa,” I whisper as the weight of defeat presses my upper body to the floor.
I rest my cheek on the hardwood planks and pray that he see things my way. It would be easier for him to run his scam on these desperate people if he’d allow me to be his partner rather than his inmate. My pleading fades into stillness as I doze off in a prayer position.
When I hear footsteps outside my door, I jump up to the bed and lie flat on it as the locks click open and the woman who was here before comes in. She sets the tray with my lunch on the table and turns to leave.
“Excuse me.”
She turns to me with terrified eyes.
“I remember you. You brought my meals after Señora left.”
She shakes her head adamantly.
I cross to her, and it seems as if she’s fighting the desire to flee from me. That thought alone makes me feel powerful, so I tilt my head slightly and bore my eyes into hers, maintaining eye contact the way Milo taught me back at Washington High.
I close the space between us, and her lips quivers. “Are you afraid of me?”
Her eyes glaze over with tears.
She is. I know it’s wrong, but I’m desperate, so I take advantage. I’m a good five inches taller than her and look down at her through narrowed eyes. “Where is Señora now?”
“I-I don’t know.”
“Where did she go?”
Her eyes dart around the room. “I cannot say.”
“No one will hear you, but if you do not tell me, I will tell Papa that you’ve been disobedient.”
Her eyes close, and she cries. “She . . .” She sniffs. “Your papa thinks she’s the one who stole you away. I think . . .” She shakes her head.
“You think what?” When she doesn’t answer, I put my hand on her shoulder and squeeze so hard her knees give out. “Tell me!”
“I haven’t seen her since.”
I remove my hand as if her skin burned me and stumble back. “She’s dead?”
“I don’t know. I know she loved you. Maybe she freed you.”
“Are you free?” I don’t know why I ask, but I need to know.
Her gaze drops to my feet. “No. Not me or the others are free.”
A deep, sinking feeling settles in my chest. “The others?”
“Yes, Angel. The others like me.” Her gaze comes to mine. “And the others like you.”