The Mamacita Murders (9 page)

I look beyond the gray cat further up the dirt path of the RV Park to the exit leading to the city road. The driver in a black car points a gun into the air and begins shooting. “Pow, pow, pow.” I see Christina outside with Riley.

Dust from the ground fills the air like an explosion.

“Get down!” I yell.

We all drop to the ground. Someone is slouched down in the driver seat. The roaring of a car engine echoes through the RV Park.

Riley yells, “Where’s Christina?”

Christina stands up and starts running in the same direction towards the car. One last shot from the driver side of the car rings out, deafening me. I see a black pistol and sparkles of dust.

I scream, “Get down!”

The car screeches off and I see Christina’s bright yellow shirt down on the ground in between two cars parked in the RV park. My heart pounds against my breastbone. Don’t be dead, please don’t be dead. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening.

“Christina, Christina, are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay,” I yell, running as fast as I can.

The distance to get to Christina feels like an eternity. The idea of having to tell Christina’s grandmother, bottom bitch or drug addicted mom something happened to her, frightens me. If The Mamacita Club is not a safe place, where will incorrigible girls like Christina go? She calls this place home, showing up every week, even when she runs away from the RV Park to probably prostitute. I can’t lose another girl. I’m supposed to protect her. And now I’ve failed. Again. Christina is my only link to Laura. I need to ask her if she knew anything about what happened. Please don’t be gone. Please. My heart beats fast and my legs aren’t moving fast enough to get to Christina.

Riley pops up from behind a truck parked close to the cars Christina is in between.

“She’s fine, she’s fine,” says Riley.

I stare out into the distance watching the car fly down the street as the taillights get smaller and smaller. A distinct rattle and ticking of an engine fades in the distance. Riley and Christina grab onto me, crying.

“Get back inside and get everyone to the back of the Airstream until police get here. They might come back,” I say.

Christina and Riley run back inside the Airstream.

Several different people stand in front of their mobile homes.

“Did anyone get a license plate?” I yell to them. No one answers.

“Did anyone see what kind of car that was?” I yell to them again.

A woman stands in the middle of the RV park.

“They’re not gonna help you,” she says, turning to walk away. Everyone standing outside walks inside their motorhomes and mobile homes without saying anything. I stop counting after I hear five doors slam shut.

Falling asleep has always been hard for me to do. From the moment I crawl into bed, I’ve always been that kind of sleeper that stays in one place the whole night long. To make my bed in the morning, I just have to pull the covers back into place. It’s from lying in bed, stiff-as-a-board, in sheer terror, every night growing up and listening to my stepfather and mom fight. They say that people go to sleep based on how they were put to sleep as a child. So I usually go to sleep terrified. It’s a little better if I have a TV on, someone holding me, or a locked and loaded gun within arm’s reach, especially after tonight’s shooting.

I lie in my bed naked under a sheet at home in Blackbird Beach a few hours after the drive-by. I pull myself up and lean over to my night stand. I open the cabinet that sits next to my bed to take out my Smith and Wesson Lady Smith .38 special. The revolver’s weight and the cool temperature of its steel barrel make me feel safe.

I place it on top of my night stand furthest from my door and position the muzzle facing away from me. I look over at the corner of my room and smile at my twelve-gauge shotgun leaning up against the wall. I let out a deep sigh. That shotgun is the only good thing I inherited from my stepfather.

Just as I start to doze, my outside light turns on. It’s on an automatic sensor. I open my eyes and tuck the covers under my chin, trying to listen. All I hear is the waves crashing from a distance. Then I hear rustling against the bushes outside my bedroom window. I strain to listen harder. I hear my side gate creaking. I stay quiet and listen. My outside light turns off.

I pull my body up, bracing myself to reach for my revolver. I feel the resistance as I pull the hammer of my gun back, trying to stay as quiet as possible. I swing my legs around to the edge of my bed and stand up. I walk over to my dresser and rest my revolver on top of it, before heading to my closet.

I make it to my gun safe and rest my fingers in the hand impression on top of it, sticking my index finger into a drop down compartment. The safe door flips open towards me and I reach inside for my Glock. The light outside my window turns back on. I curse myself for buying the discount window shades. Whoever’s outside can see in more than I can see out.

I grab my nine millimeter magazine that is fully loaded with bullets and push it into the chamber of my Glock. I hold the top of the gun and rack the slide. The clicking sound makes me feel ready. For what? I have no idea.

Another sound from the bushes outside my window gets my heart pumping fast again. I take two deep breaths in and out. I walk to my bedroom door, close it, and crawl back into bed. I sit up, spread my legs, and balance my body. Then, I hold my Glock. Steady. Good job, Grace Under Pressure. I aim it at my bedroom door.

I’ve been a prosecutor long enough to know that no 9-1-1 call will ever protect you like you can protect yourself. I’ve always learned it’s best to stay in one place, armed and ready, waiting for someone to come find you. It’s better than walking around my place. I know the layout of my place much better than any intruder would know. I’ll wait for him to come to me.

I listen to the waves crashing and sit in darkness. I look at my dresser, wondering if I should put some clothes on. My mom used to tell me to always wear clean underwear when I leave the house in case I was ever taken to the hospital. But I’m too nervous to get up. And the only person who’s going to the hospital tonight is going to be the intruder who’s about to get a nine millimeter bullet right through his chest.

The only sound I can hear is the rush of blood through my body, which sounds like I’m under water. And then, my beating heart, a sound I’m starting to hear a lot more lately.

I hear the screen on my front door open. I look at my alarm clock on my night stand. 10:05 p.m. I grab my cell phone and dial a nine, deciding whether to call 9-1-1. Who would be coming to my door at this hour, on a weeknight? If I call 9-1-1, they’ll think I’m crazy.

I close my eyes and grip onto the handle of my Glock.
Please tell me what to do.
Nothing. Why do I do what I do? Is this really worth being a prosecutor? I hate living in fear. I don’t get paid enough for this. I think of my mom. And I remember that if my life ended right now, it would be the beginning of a new one with her. My eyes flutter as I grip tighter, careful not to touch anywhere near the trigger.

I look at my other night stand and see my homicide pager lying there. I’m not going to be the next homicide victim. Just as I dial the next number, I hear the screen to my front door close. I stay quiet, then hear a car door open and close, before an engine starts. The sound of a car driving away makes me hang up the 9-1-1 call. I listen. The sound is so familiar. The ticking rattle of an engine, the same one after the drive-by, fades in the distance.

I get up and walk down my hallway, holding my Glock in one hand and my cell phone in the other. I get to my front door and look through the peephole. I can’t see through it because something is blocking it. I dial Dylan’s number and listen to his voicemail pick up, then hang up and open the door.

A note lies in the iron trap design around the peephole of my door. I grab the note as my sensor light turns on. The sound of my beating heart gets louder as I stare beyond the light. A coyote stares eagerly at me. I slam the door shut, flip my inside light on, and let out a deep breath. I put my phone and gun down and open the note. In purple ink, it reads:

8

ANGEL’S DEN

The morning after receiving the note, I sit at a small round table inside my Airstream with Angela. She flips over the “Kiki’s Closet” chalkboard sign hanging from a pink satin ribbon on the door to read “Angel’s Den.” I love how she sets the mood, turning our wardrobe closet into our private angel reading room, even during broad daylight.

She pulls the black fabric curtain with bright pink symbols and designs to shut it closed and make the Airstream as dark as possible. Then she lights a candle on the table next to the threatening note I received last night. We study the note.

“This means one thing for sure. There’s more to this. Whoever left this note last night was driving the car with that same rattling sound I heard during the drive-by shooting. That’s the same noise the housekeeper described at the motel Laura was assaulted at,” I say.

“Do you notice all the capital R’s?” says Angela.

I look closer at the note. “Yeah. What do they mean?” I ask eagerly.

“I don’t know. Nothing specific. Your angels are just alerting me to them,” says Angela.

I let out a big frustrated sigh.

“Not everything has significance. Don’t get frustrated. Just take mental note of it,” says Angela, picking up on my irritation.

“Look, Gaby,” Angela continues. “I think you really need to tell someone about this. Someone is threatening you. And it’s a direct threat towards The Mamacita Club. I don’t think we should be hiding this, especially after the drive-by.”

“Give me one good reason. What is the police department going to do with this note? Nothing. They’re not going to find fingerprints, DNA, or anything on it. The only thing turning it over is gonna accomplish is shutting us down. My office is already talking about the liability of us being here. You know what people like Stevie Sapp and Ed Vanderbilt think of us,” I say angrily.

“I’m just concerned about you and for us. They’re targeting the club. You guys have Clown in custody for what happened to Laura, but obviously there’s more than just him involved. Maybe they can relocate you or our club for a bit,” says Angela.

“Angela, they’re going to shut us down. And they’re not going to relocate me or even give me any kind of protection. I’m leaving soon on vacation anyway,” I plead. “Is this what my angels are saying or is this coming from you?” I say suspiciously.

“It’s coming from me, as a concerned friend. For you
and
the club,” says Angela.

I look away from Angela, upset.

“Tell me more about the animal you saw last night. Are you sure it was a coyote and not a wolf?” Angela asks changing the subject.

“It was definitely a coyote. It was limber and slender. It was staring at me; really curious,” I say.

“Hmmm. Well, coyotes are known as tricksters. They give you the impression that things are not as they seem, until the lesson is learned and the wisdom is gained,” says Angela.

“So what am I supposed to be learning?” I ask skeptically.

After pausing and closing her eyes tightly, Angela looks up at me. “I don’t know. I’m not getting a read,” she replies. “Maybe just the obvious, that this case is not as clearcut as it seems. That there’s more to it,” says Angela.

“Well, that’s obvious from the note,” I say sarcastically. “No one would know about the flamingo vase except law enforcement or Clown.”

“Are you gonna tell Dylan about it?”

“He already suspects someone’s targeting us. I’m not gonna confirm his suspicion. It will get back to my office. I don’t want our club to be blamed for Laura’s assault,” I say.

“Gaby, just hear me out,” Angela says. “What if something happens to you or to the girls again? Do you realize the liability for us? Knowing that you’ve received this threat, then to stay up and running here at the park.”

“Do you know how hard we’ve worked to build The Mamacita Club up? I can’t believe you would even think of jeopardizing it by telling police. It’s only going to mean one thing. That my office will shut us down. That doesn’t mean the same thing for
you
as it does for
me
. You have a family. You don’t need The Mamacita Club. I don’t have anyone. This is all I have. Plus threats are just that, threats. Terrorism is in the eye of the beholder. I don’t want my office to shut us down over terrorist threats. If someone wants to take me out, fine; let them. At least I’d be back with my mom,” I say, starting to shake.

“You’re right, you’re right. We at least owe it to the members to let them know about the threat. And then let them make a decision about whether they want to come back,” says Angela persistingly.

“Fine, you can tell them. But tell them they’re not welcome back if they quit,” I say dramatically.

“Gaby, you’re being paranoid. The club will always be their home. They’re not going to leave us forever. They love it here too much. It will just be a temporary thing. And I’ll tell them to keep this confidential,” says Angela.