Forbidden Fruit

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?”