by JB Salsbury
I can’t keep a hold on my emotions as they rise to the surface all at once.
“Shh, it’s all right,” he mumbles against my head. “You’re safe now. Finally going home where you belong.”
Milo
ONE WEEK. SEVENTEEN hours. Forty-two minutes.
I’m aimlessly walking the streets of Zona Norte, as I have been every day, searching for any sign of Mercy or the two fucks who took her. My feet drag against the cracked concrete and the sun beats directly on my head, making me dizzy and lethargic. But it’s not enough to make me give up.
I’ve been through every alley, behind every dumpster, in every bar and club, and found no sign of Mercy or anyone who’s seen her. Esteban has been all over me to get back to work, but he’s easy enough to avoid when I’m out of the house before he wakes and I ignore his phone calls.
He could send someone to look for me, drag me back to the estate and threaten me, but he’s lost his only bargaining chip. He knows my life means nothing to me now that Mercy is gone. Therefore, he has no more power over me than I have over him.
I suppose in a way, this is what he wanted. When you strip a man of everything he loves, he’s got nothing to lose. If Esteban is smart, he’ll wait for me to come around. He’ll wait for me to finally give up, to accept that Mercy is . . . fuck, I can’t even think it, much less say it out loud. I’ll never accept that she’s . . . gone.
So lost in my thoughts, I’ve left Zona Norte and am walking uselessly through the streets of Tijuana. It takes me a moment to get my bearings and realize I’m in a part of town I’ve only ever driven through before. The street is lined with tourist stands selling anything from jewelry to pottery. Even little kids have their arms adorned with shit to sell.
I stumble on the sidewalk and sweat burns my eyes. Up ahead is a patch of shade from a storefront awning. I lean against the wall of the small shop with no name. Only a black, five-pointed star is painted on the sign above the door. I need to get to some shade and water quickly or I’ll end up face-planting in the middle of the street.
I swing open the door to the sound of sticks knocking together above my head. Wait, those aren’t sticks. I squint in the dark and make out the distinct shapes of bones hanging on strings like some kind of morbid wind chime.
The good news is the place has a decent evap-cooler and I immediately feel a little less out of sorts. This place is fucking weird—herbs, dried animal parts, different colored candles. It’s like a CVS for witches. On the wall hangs a pricelist for curses and spells that cost anything from a few to a few thousand pesos.
There’s a shuffling from behind a glass counter, and a little man emerges from a beaded curtain doorway. He can’t be more than five foot two, and he has to crank his head all the way back to look up at me. When he does, I wish he hadn’t. One of his eyes is a milky white that reminds me of some possessed-ass shit I saw in a horror movie once.
“Are you lost?” he asks in Spanish.
“Aren’t we all?” I reply.
He grins, and fuck me . . . I hope he can’t see well out of that eye, because then there’d be a chance he didn’t catch me cringing at his lack of healthy teeth. The guy has only four I can see, and all of them are the color of driftwood.
“I’m just looking around,” I say and turn to check out the glass cabinet full of dishes that remind me of the petri dishes we used in biology. Each one is filled with what looks like tiny bones—maybe from mice or lizards. I suppress a shiver. “What is all this?”
He casts one gnarled hand over the glass case. “These are to curse enemies or unleash evil spirits.”
I frown at shelves stacked with bottles of potions claiming to help in love, sex, and fortune. “People really buy this crap?”
The old man’s expression remains cold.
There are tins filled with tobacco, tea leaves, and incense. Statues of all different sizes—a grim reaper with a white robe, the Virgin Mary, and many skulls—line the shelves.
I pick up a Virgin Mary statue and study it. “I don’t think Mary would be cool with all this.”
He studies my neck with his good eye. “Sometimes men require a different kind of faith.”
“Is that what you call all this? Faith?”
“There is no name. It is the best of all religion, magic, and medicine.”
A thought tickles the back of my brain, but I’m so sleep deprived I can’t focus enough to pull it forward, so I move on to study what the shop offers.
“Do you need medicine?”
I’m studying a display of black candles. “You got something for a broken heart?”
“I do.”
I jerk my head around to see him looking right at me, or rather through me. “What is it?”
He pulls what looks like a travel-size bottle of booze off the shelf. “Potion.”
The liquid inside is red. The white label has a big heart on it in the same color. He shoves it toward me.
“You think Kool-Aid is gonna fix what’s broken in me?” A humorless laugh bursts from my lips. “I may be desperate, compadre, but I ain’t stupid.”
“I can curse the bitch who—”
“Don’t.” My nostrils flare as I try to breathe through the fury coiling in my chest. “Watch your fucking mouth, old man.”
His heavily wrinkled lids drop low over his eyes seconds before he opens his gaping black-hole of a mouth with wheezing laughter.
“Crazy motherfucker,” I whisper and turn to leave. I have to get back to the estate and put together a better plan for finding Mercy.
“I like you.” He shakes a crooked, wrinkled finger at me. “You are much sicker than I thought.”
“No shit.” I grip the door handle.
“I think I can help you. If you can afford it.”
“How much?” I’m not actually buying this voodoo bullshit, but I am a little curious. What’s the going rate for healing a broken heart?
“Twenty thousand pesos.”
“Well fuck, if you’re making that kind of coin, why are you holed up in this shit hole?” That’s two thousand dollars.
“Not me.” He shakes his finger again and limps around the counter to reach for something. “Here.” He slides me a slip of paper.
There are two numbers on it. “What is it?”
“Location.” He stabs the paper with his finger. “You pay, you go to that place.”
I stare at the floor, feeling the itch of familiarity in my chest. “Wait . . . who . . .” I rub my eyes. “What is this?”
He leans in close, his rank breath making it hard not to cringe when he whispers, “A healing angel.”
Mercy
THE BACKSEAT OF Papa’s car feels like a luxurious bed under my bruised skin and aching bones. I struggle to keep my eyes open against the sun that flickers over my face as we speed away from where I was being held. Impatience at my inability to sit up and gauge where I am has me anxious, but I’m too tired to do much beyond simply staying awake.
“I can’t believe my luck, Angel. I never expected to see you again.”
In all my years with Papa, I’ve never heard him so excited, so hopeful and unrestrained. “How.”
“How? How did I find you?” He turns to look at me but only briefly before his eyes go back to the road. “There are places to go, people who specialize in things of this nature. When I heard there was a girl who fit your unique description, I made an offer they’d be stupid to refuse.” He grabs my hand, holding it firmly while his eyes stay glued to the road. He grins. “Things are going to be much better now, Angel. I promise.”
I swallow the lump that forms in my dry throat. One name pounds as furiously in my head as it does my heart. Milo.
I want to go home.
Safe for now, I close my eyes and allow sleep to take me. I need to figure out a way to get back to Milo, but dehydration, hunger, and sleep deprivation make my thoughts sluggish and uncoordinated. Sleep, then I’ll make a plan.
All too soon, I wake to
the feeling that I’m flying and grasp at whatever I can to keep from falling.
“Shh, calm now.” Papa’s voice rumbles against my temple. “We’re home.”
I relax into the cradle of his arms, but my eyes flash open wide as we pass through a large set of ornately carved wooden doors and into a long, dark hallway. I try to pick up on something that might identify where I am—a building, a home, a warehouse. The lack of light makes it impossible for me to see clearly. We twist and turn down winding passageways, and although I can hear mumbled voices coming from the other side of the walls, I don’t see another person. A few steps up, another turn, and soon he stops at a lone door.
“Can you stand?”
I nod against his chest. He lowers me slowly and holds me until he’s sure I’m stable. I lean heavily against him while he fumbles with a set of keys and unlocks the door.
I don’t have to see to know what’s beyond the door. My body recognizes it on a cellular level. The scents, the sounds of the keys in the locks, the emptiness that thrives inside calls to me like an old friend. The door creaks open, beckoning me to return to the cage I lived in for as long as my memory goes back.
“Your room.” Papa guides me inside. “Nothing much has changed. I suppose I always hoped you’d return.”
I hate myself for feeling relieved to be somewhere familiar, grateful for my rescue, peace that I am finally safe. Without the conscious thought to do so, I find myself wrapped up in Papa’s arms.
“Thank you, Papa.” My face heats with tears of humiliation. He is the devil I’ve been forced to depend on.
He runs his palm over my head and down my back. “Angel, you will always be mine. No matter where you go, I will find you.”
The first sliver of unease pierces through me. Papa’s words sound similar to Milo’s. I remove myself from his hold and turn toward the bed.
“Wait.”
My muscles respond instantly, freezing me in place.
“You’re filthy. I will send someone to help you bathe before you sleep—”
“I can bathe myself.” I cringe inwardly, expecting Papa’s rage over my newfound independence.
He clears his throat. “Very well. I’ll send someone up with food.”
“That would be nice.” In my dirty, stinking rags, I bow like the angel I once was. “Thank you.”
His footsteps close in and stop right behind me, but he does not touch me. “It seems your adventure into the world has taught you much, Angel.”
I want him to believe I’m the complacent Angel I used to be. I want him to think he has all the power or he’ll see me as a threat. “I did not leave you willingly, Papa. I never would’ve left you.”
“Is that the truth?”
I turn and fix my eyes on his. “My kind are unable to lie.”
His expression softens, and he nods once. “Very good. Now, clean up, eat, sleep. We have much to discuss.”
I bow low and grit my teeth through the pain in my bones as I hold the position. Thankfully, he leaves with the familiar sound of the lock sliding closed behind him.
AFTER A HOT bath, my head still hurts, my face is sore, and the cut on my lip came open during my furious scrubbing to rid myself of the evil that touched me. I slip on one of the white robe-like sleeping gowns and crawl between soft sheets that carry the scent of detergent and dust and quickly fall asleep.
A soft female voice wakes me from a dreamless rest. Her face isn’t familiar and she refuses to meet my eyes. Whether she is uncomfortable or afraid, I’m not sure. She sets down a tray of roasted meat and dry bread. Starved as I am, I eat everything within minutes and fall back to sleep before the woman leaves the room.
With a full belly, my dreams come crashing on in Technicolor. Milo reaching for me and never making contact, me slipping off the edge of a cliff I’m unable to hold onto until I wake up in a pool of sweat tangled in my gown.
I sit up, breathing heavily, and wipe the tears that streak down my face. “Just a dream.”
I get up and pull the sweat-soaked fabric off over my head. I look down at my body to see bruises in all stages of recovery—some blue and black, others ringed with yellow.
How long have I been here? On instinct, I look toward the window, half expecting to see the sun before remembering there’s nothing but a brick wall. I cross to it and press my cheek to the cool glass, looking up to see the sky is purple. From sunrise or sunset, I don’t know.
I grab another gown and slip it on, then I make my bed and sit cross-legged on it. I never thought I would be back here, and despite the many weak moments when I wished I could be back here, back where life is simple and safe, now that I’m here, I’m frantic to be free again.
I drop my head into my hands. “I’m so sorry, Milo. I never should’ve left.”
What must he be feeling right now? Is he searching for me? Or does he think I’m dead? I drop back on my bed and stare at the rickety ceiling fan spinning in slow circles. I need to get out of here. But first I need to figure out exactly where I am.
My fingers drum against my belly as a plan takes shape. It’ll take some time, but if I play this right, I might be able to walk out of here a free person.
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 i
nside 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.
