Читать книгу Forbidden Fruit - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 15

Santos passed a shop that had a neon clock hung in the front window. Chartreuse light spilled through the glass, staining the sidewalk and his skin an eerie yellow-green. The clock registered just after 4:00 A.M.

He was a dead man.

Unlike earlier that night, Santos didn’t bother with stealth. He took the fastest, most direct route home, alternating between a jog and a flat-out run. Even the streets that were normally well-populated were deserted.

As he ran, he thought of his mother’s fury and of how he was going to convince her to let Tina bunk in with them, especially in light of his behavior. And he thought of Tina’s mouth against his, of her fear and the way she had begged him to stay with her. He flexed his fingers, frustrated, torn between what he had done and what he could have done.

He should have brought her home with him. He could have insisted his mother let Tina stay. If that hadn’t worked, he could have pleaded with his mother. If Lucia Santos was anything, she was a soft touch. One look into Tina’s desperate, frightened eyes, and his mother would have caved.

His steps faltered and he thought of going back, then decided against it. It was nearly dawn already; Tina would be safe at the school. He would smooth things over with his mother, then go back for her in the morning.

He darted down an alley off of Dauphine Street. The cutthrough dumped him out onto Ursuline, two blocks from his home. Up ahead, police lights shattered the darkness. Three squad cars and an ambulance, their lights flashing, were stationed in front of a building down the block. One near his.

His steps faltered; he narrowed his eyes. Not just near his apartment building, Santos realized. His building; his home.

He started to run.

The police had cordoned off the area. Despite the ungodly hour, a small crowd had gathered. He saw an old lady from the first floor. “What’s going on?” he asked, out of breath, his heart thundering.

“Don’t know.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Somebody’s dead. Murdered, I think.”

“Who?” He sucked in a deep breath, willing his heart to slow, frightened by the panic tugging at him.

She shrugged and lit a cigarette, squinting against the smoke. “Don’t now. Maybe nobody.”

Santos turned away from the woman. He searched the assembled crowd for his mother, the panic inside him growing. She wasn’t here.

That didn’t mean anything, he told himself, struggling to stay calm, struggling against the black fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Other of his neighbors were missing, probably asleep in their apartments. She could have brought a “friend” home with her; she could be out searching for him.

“Merry lost her kid. Social Services found out she left him alone nights.”

This could be about him. His mother could have called the cops and reported him missing.

Then why the ambulance?

Santos shook his head, feeling light-headed suddenly, feeling like he might puke. He had to see her; he had to make sure she was all right. Even as he told himself she was, he pushed through the crowd, ducked under the police line and started for the building’s front entrance.

“Hey, kid.”

Santos turned. One of the police officers strode toward him. Santos could tell by the cop’s expression—and by the way his right hand hovered over his revolver—that he meant business. “Somebody’s dead,” the old woman had said. “Murdered, I think.”

“Yeah, you.” The cop pointed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Inside.” Santos swallowed, his mouth so dry it felt as if he had been eating dirt. “I live here.”

“That so?” The cop looked him over.

“Yeah.” He rubbed his damp palms on his thighs. “My mom’s waiting. I’m late, and she’s…she’s probably pretty worried.”

Another officer came up to stand beside the first. He looked too young to be wearing a badge, let alone carry a gun. He had a face that had never lost all its baby fat; his blue eyes were kind.

“You got a name?” the first one asked.

Santos moved his gaze from one to the other. “Victor Santos.”

The cops exchanged glances. “Santos?”

He nodded, his stomach turning.

“Where’ve you been tonight, Victor?”

“Hanging out with friends. I…I snuck out while my mom was at work. I promised I wouldn’t, but—” Santos took another deep breath, feeling as if his world was crashing in on him. “Have a heart. I mean, she’s probably worried sick.”

“You got ID, Victor?”

He shook his head. “No…but my mother can—”

“How old are you, Victor?”

“Fifteen.” He swallowed hard, thinking again of his mother’s warning about Social Services. He started to shake. “Look, don’t blame her. She’s very careful, a really good mother. It’s my fault.” He looked pleadingly at the officer with the kind eyes. “I snuck out. She’s going to kick my butt when I get in there. Please don’t call Social Services.”

The cops looked at each other again. “Calm down, Victor,” the baby-faced officer said, looking uncomfortable. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

“What do you mean?” Santos looked from one to the other again, panic rising like a tidal wave inside him. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” He grabbed the officer’s sleeve. “Why are you guys here?”

The young officer pried Santos’s fingers loose, then put an arm around his shoulders. He steered him toward one of the squad cars, speaking in a calm voice, one meant to soothe. “Have a seat over here, Victor, and I’ll call someone to come speak with you.”

“But my mother—”

“Don’t worry about that right now.” They reached the car and the cop opened the rear door. “You need to sit here for a few minutes and I’ll call a friend of mine—”

“No!” Santos broke away from the man and started to walk away. “I’m going home. I’m going to see my mother.”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” The officer clamped a hand over Santos’s shoulder, his voice now devoid of sympathy and discomfort. Suddenly, he seemed plenty old enough for both the badge and the gun. “You stay here until I tell you otherwise. You got that, Victor?”

Santos stared at the officer in horror. His mother. Where was his mother?

The crowd made a noise then, a collective gasp, a murmur of appreciation that their wait was finally over, that finally their curiosity would be appeased. The sound spilled over Santos’s nerve endings like acid.

He swung toward the building’s entrance, toward the cops and paramedics emerging from the entrance. He stared at the stretcher, at the body obscured by a white sheet.

Somebody was dead.

Murdered.

Santos tore away from the police officer’s grasp and ran toward the building, toward the stretcher and the lifeless form it carried.

Santos made it past the barricade before the officer caught him and held him back. Santos fought him; freed himself. He reached the stretcher; he ripped away the sheet.

The cops grabbed him from behind and dragged him back. But not before he saw the blood, not before he saw the victim’s face, frozen into a twisted mask of death.

His mother’s face. His mother’s blood.

A cry of pain sawed through the night, shattering it. His cry, Santos realized, clutching his middle. His mother. Dead. Murdered.

His stomach heaved. He doubled over and puked on the baby-faced officer’s shiny black shoes.