Читать книгу Forbidden Fruit - Erica Spindler, Erica Spindler - Страница 25

New Orleans 1980

He’d had it. Santos dug his duffel bag off the top shelf of the bedroom closet. He had taken all the paid-for caring, all the phony concern he was going to. He was out of here.

And this time the state wouldn’t find him. This time they wouldn’t be able to drag him back; they wouldn’t be able to force him into another foster home.

In the year and a quarter since his mother’s murder, the state had provided him with four foster families. Each family had been a learning experience. The first had taught him not to think—even for a minute—of them as a real family, as his family. He was nothing more than a job for them, a crusade, an income-earning cause.

The second family had taught him not to cry—no matter what was said or done to him, no matter how much he hurt. They taught him that his pain was a private thing, something that mattered only to him. He learned quickly that when he exposed his true feelings, he opened himself to ridicule.

The third family had taught him to expect nothing from other people, not even basic human decency. He had learned nothing from this, his fourth family, because he had no spot left that was vulnerable to such a lesson. He had no hopes, no illusions, no small, secret wishes of love from them. He had closed himself off from his foster family and everyone else, as well.

Consequently, he had been labeled difficult and uncommunicative by the families who had taken him in and by the social workers, his teachers and the school administrators.

Santos fisted his fingers. In a little over a year, he had suffered through the aftermath of his mother’s murder, he had lived with four different families in four different areas of the city and had attended four different schools. He had lost all his old friends and made no new ones. His whole life had changed. And yet, he was branded as difficult and sullen. It was just as his buddies had always said, the system sucked.

This time they wouldn’t find him.

Santos emptied his drawers and stuffed his meager belongings into his duffel. They wouldn’t find him because now he understood where he had gone wrong, the mistake he had made each time he’d run away.

He hadn’t run far enough.

He had to leave New Orleans. If he stayed, they would find him, they would drag him back, put him in another home. He couldn’t bear another “new” family. He couldn’t bear another school, new surroundings, new faces. Not ones that were forced on him. He was sixteen now, practically a man. He could make it on his own.

He had planned his escape carefully. He had saved—a dollar here, a dollar there—fifty-two dollars. He had studied a Louisiana map and decided on Baton Rouge as his destination. It was big enough to disappear in, it was a university town with a lot of kids and was close to New Orleans. A mere ninety or so miles.

Santos hadn’t forgotten his vow to find his mother’s killer. As soon as he was old enough to be beyond the state’s grasp, he would return to New Orleans and make good on that vow.

His mother.

A catch in his chest, he fished a small jewelry box out of the back of his desk drawer, leaving behind the school supplies he would have no need for now. He opened the box and drew out the earrings, made of colored glass beads.

Carefully, almost reverently, Santos trailed the earrings across his palm. Inexpensive, more than a little gaudy, his mother had loved these earrings. “Austrian crystal,” he could hear her telling him the day she had bought them. He remembered her laughing as she clipped them on. They had almost brushed her shoulders, they were so long. She’d called them shoulder dusters. With his mind’s eye, he could see her wearing them, see how they caught the light when she moved, sparkling like colored diamonds.

The memory was at once sweet and painful, and he laid the earrings back onto their bed of cotton, then tucked the box with the rest of his things into his duffel. He began to zip the bag, then thinking better of it, retrieved the box and slipped it into one of the front pockets of his jeans. The earrings would be safer there.

His mother had had nothing of monetary value, but these earrings meant more to him than a thousand real diamonds. He couldn’t bear to lose them.

He finished zipping his bag, then took one last glance around the room that had never felt like his. He had no regrets, he thought. Not about leaving this family without a goodbye, not about sneaking out in the middle of the night or about the twenty dollars he had borrowed from the coffee can in the pantry. This family would not be sorry he had gone, and as for the money, he would return it when he could.

Santos crossed to the window and carefully slid it open. After checking below, he tossed out his bag, then headed out into the night.

Thirty minutes later, Santos climbed into the front passenger seat of an almost-new Chevy van. “Thanks, man,” he said to the driver who had picked him up. He rubbed his hands together in front of the heater vent. “I was afraid I was going to freeze before I got a lift.”

“Glad to help.” The guy smiled and held out a hand. “I’m Rick.”

Santos shook his hand, though it made him feel strange. “I’m Victor.”

“Good to know you.” Rick slipped the van into gear and eased back into traffic. “Where are you heading, Victor?”

“Baton Rouge. My grandmother’s in the hospital.” Santos leaned toward the vent and rush of warm air again. “She’s in pretty bad shape.”

“Sorry to hear that. But you’re in luck—” he flashed Santos a smile “—I’m heading back to L.S.U. I can take you all the way in.”

He was on his way. Santos smiled. “Great. I really didn’t want to go back out in that cold.”

“I’ve got a thermos of coffee in back, if you want some.”

“No, thanks. I can’t stand the stuff.” Santos glanced around the interior of the car. It looked even newer from the inside than it had from the outside. There wasn’t even a parking or inspection sticker on the windshield. “How long have you been at L.S.U.?”

Rick glanced at him, then back at the road. “I’m graduating this year. In psychology. I’m going to have a ‘doctor’ in front of my name.”

Santos thought of what his mother had said about staying in school, and experienced a pang of regret. And guilt. He hadn’t kept that promise to her. Or any of the others, either.

He pushed the regret away, though not without effort. “What does a doctor of psychology do?”

“Works on people’s heads for a living. You know, help nut cases work out their problems. We studied all sorts of abnormal shit. You wouldn’t believe some of it, Victor. Unfucking-believable.”

He doubted that. Santos pictured his mother’s face, twisted in death. He swallowed hard. He had a feeling he would believe it all.

“I’m kind of tired,” Santos said. “You mind if we don’t talk for a while?”

“No problem.” Rick flashed him a smile. “You look wasted. If you need to crash, have at it. I promise I won’t fall asleep at the wheel.”

Santos glanced at the guy, finding something about him disturbing. Something about the man affected him like fingernails on a chalkboard. “Thanks, but I’m okay.”

Rick shrugged. “Suit yourself. We’ve got a couple-hour trip ahead of us.” He flipped on the radio, playing with the dial until he found a station he liked. Suddenly, the Rolling Stones’ classic “Satisfaction” filled the quiet.

Santos leaned back in his seat and gazed out the window, watching the traffic, scarce though it was this time of night, gazing at the eerily dark buildings they passed.

Seconds became minutes as the van ate up the interstate. Relaxation crept up on him; his limbs and head grew heavy, his head lolled back against the seat. It felt as if his muscles were loosening for the first time in a year. It felt good.

Santos drew in a deep, even breath, lulled by the rhythm of the van and the highway. This time they wouldn’t find him, he thought sleepily. This time they wouldn’t be able to drag him back. And when he was older, he promised silently, when he was safe from their reach, he would come back and find his mother’s killer.

Santos awakened with a start. As he often did, he had been dreaming of his mother. And of Tina. He rubbed a hand across his forehead, and found that he was sweating. In the dream, both women had been crying out for his help. He had tried to reach them in time, but he had been too late. Both had slipped through his fingers, falling into a great, dark chasm he had known was death.

The van hit a rut or pothole and lurched sideways, and Santos came fully awake. He blinked and looked around, disoriented and confused.

“Welcome back, man.”

Santos smiled, embarrassed. “Sorry about that. I had no intention of dozing off.” He caught a yawn. “How long was I out?”

“Not long. Thirty minutes.”

It felt longer, Santos thought, rolling his cramped shoulders and neck. A lot longer. He ached as if he had been sleeping hard for a long time.

He glanced out the window. They appeared to be on a deserted country road. He frowned, a prickle of unease moving up his spine. Something about this ride felt wrong.

He shook his head, hoping to clear the sleep from his brain. “Where are we?”

“On River Road. Near Vacherie.”

“River Road,” Santos repeated. He had studied the map, had planned his route. Baton Rouge was a straight shot from New Orleans—Interstate 10 west all the way.

Why were they on River Road?

As if reading his thoughts, Rick said, “A chemical truck overturned on the spillway. They’ve got the whole damn bridge closed down. I figured we could take River Road clear to Baton Rouge.”

Santos struggled to recall if River Road went to Baton Rouge. He couldn’t even picture it on the map.

“Ever visited any of the old plantation homes, Victor?” Santos shook his head, and Rick continued, “They’re located all along River Road, and they’re really something. Back then, they needed the river for everything, their supplies, to ship out their crops, for travel. You should go see one someday.”

Santos rubbed his forehead. How could he have fallen asleep? he berated himself. How could he have been so stupid? So trusting and naive? “Won’t River Road take us a lot longer?”

“Not longer than sitting in traffic, waiting for a chemical spill to be cleared away. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to chance breathing in any of that shit.”

“Good thinking,” Santos murmured, willing away his unease. Rick was an okay guy, he told himself. Taking River Road sounded like a sensible idea.

Then why couldn’t he shake the feeling that something was wrong?

“You okay, Victor?” Rick looked at him in concern. “You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine.” Santos inched a fraction closer to his door. “Just tired.”

Rick began to talk, telling Santos more about L.S.U. and psychology. Every so often, Rick questioned Santos about his life and his family, and each time Santos steered the conversation away from himself and back to Rick.

And as the other man talked, Santos kept repeating to himself that Rick was okay, that the ride was cool.

But he didn’t believe his own assurances. Something felt wrong. Santos couldn’t put his finger on it, but whatever it was lay heavily in the pit of his gut, warning him to get the hell away.

“You can be straight with me,” Rick was saying. “Your grandmother’s not really sick, is she? There’s no one waiting for you. No one in the world.”

Santos looked at the man, the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. Rick took his gaze from the road and smiled at him, an open, friendly, you-can-trust-me smile.

People weren’t always what they appeared to be.

The last year had taught him that lesson. Big time. Santos worked to look totally surprised—even a little indignant—at Rick’s comment. “Of course, my grandmother’s sick. She’s very sick. And she’s waiting for me.” He shook his head. “Why did you say that?”

“Look,” Rick said, handling the van effortlessly, hardly looking at the winding road, “I’ve been around. A kid like you, your age, out alone this time of night. It doesn’t add up. You’re on your own, aren’t you?”

Without waiting for Victor to reply, he added, “I could help you. Give you a place to stay for a while, whatever.”

“But why would you? I’m nobody to you.”

“Because I’ve been where you are now, Victor. I know how tough it is. Believe me, it’s a lot tougher than you can even imagine.”

A part of Santos wanted to capitulate, to come clean and accept Rick’s help. The guy’s offer sounded so sincere, so inviting. But another part, the cautious part, the part that had learned more about people and their real motives than he had ever wanted to, didn’t believe the man’s offer was anything but a lie. Or a trick. People didn’t help other people for no reason.

“I bet it is tough.” Santos met Rick’s eyes evenly. “But I wouldn’t know about that. I’m not on my own. And my grandmother is waiting for me in Baton Rouge. She’s expecting me.”

“Suit yourself.” Rick shrugged and grinned.

Something about the curving of the man’s lips was cold. Cold and cunning. Santos hid his shudder of distaste. “I will. But thanks, anyway.”

Rick slowed the van, then pulled to the side of the road. “I have to take a leak.”

Santos nodded and turned toward his window and the dark hump of the levee beyond. He heard Rick unfasten his seat belt, then from the corners of his eyes saw him reach under the seat.

Get the hell out now.

The warning shot through Santos head, and he reacted without hesitation. He grabbed the door handle and yanked; at the same moment, Rick lunged, knocking him sideways. Santos’s shoulder slammed into the door, and it cracked open. Light flooded the interior.

Something clattered to the floor. Santos swung around with his fist, catching Rick in the side of the face. With a grunt of surprise, the man fell backward. It was then that Santos saw the length of yellow nylon rope on the floor between the seats, saw the knife, its blade glinting coldly.

His mother’s image, battered and bloodied, filled his head. For one unholy second, panic stole his ability to think, to act. In that second, Rick recovered from the blow and reached for the rope. With a cry of fear, Santos lunged for the door. It flew the rest of the way open and the cold night air stung his cheeks and the smell of the River rushed over his senses.

He was almost out.

Rick caught his foot, his fingers closing over his ankle like a vise, dragging him back. Santos felt the bite of a rope as Rick tightened it around his ankle.

Santos looked back at his attacker, nearly hysterical with fear. He couldn’t think. His heart was pounding so wildly, beating so heavily, he could hardly breathe. His thoughts, lightning fast, raced from one thing to another, one image to another. His mother, her murder, her beautiful face frozen into a terrible death mask.

As if understanding—and enjoying—Santos’s fear, the man smiled. “We can do this easy, Victor. Or we can do it hard. And easy is always a lot nicer.” He grabbed Santos’s other ankle. “Now why don’t you be a good boy for your uncle Rick and cooperate.”

He would not die this way. He would not allow his mother’s death to go unavenged.

With a cry of rage and fear, a cry primordial in its intensity, Santos wrenched his foot away, drew back and struck out at the other man. His foot connected with Rick’s jaw, and the man’s head snapped backward at the blow.

Rick released his grip, and Santos dived out of the van. He tumbled onto the muddy shoulder, then scrambled to his feet, slipping in the mud, falling to his knees. He tried again, half crawling, finally making it to his feet.

Heart thundering, he looked around frantically. His labored breathing sent puffs of condensation into the air. The car was flanked on one side by the levee and the Mississippi River beyond, on the other side by fenced property, heavily wooded.

The driver’s-side door flew open; Rick leaped out. Without pausing for thought, Santos ran, darting into the road.

Headlights sliced through the night. A car whipped around the curve, moving too fast to stop, too fast for him to dodge. As if from a great distance, Santos heard the blare of a horn, the screech of tires.

Pain shot through him, exquisitely sharp, piercing in its intensity. Brilliant white light filled his head, followed by the the sensation of weightlessness, of flying, soaring like an eagle.

A moment later, his world went black.