Forbidden Fruit

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.

Chapter 15

Dear Lord, she had killed him.

Heart in her throat, Lily Pierron crouched beside the young man’s still form. She reached out and touched his forehead, somewhat reassured to find his skin warm and damp. She brushed his dark hair away from his eyes, and he moaned and stirred slightly.

He was alive, Lily thought, dizzy with relief. Thank God. She lifted her gaze to the dark stretch of road before her, uncertain what she should do next. She doubted that at this time of night another driver would happen along anytime soon, and other than her home, there wasn’t another residence for nearly a half a mile. She brought a trembling hand to her forehead. Should she try to move him or leave him to go for help?

Neither option appealed. Depending on his injuries, she could seriously hurt him by trying to move him. She was neither young nor strong, and in all probability, without his assistance she could do no better than drag him to her car.

That left leaving him alone while she went for help.

Lily thought of the driver of the van. As she had called out to him to stop and help, he had flown back into his vehicle and peeled out, so fast he had sprayed gravel clear across the road. Whatever had been going down when she happened along, this boy had been trying to escape. Why else would he have been running across the road that way?

Another thought occurred to her, one that sent a shiver of apprehension up her spine. What if that driver was up the road a bit, watching and waiting to see what she did? Waiting to see if she left the boy alone and helpless?

A long shot, she told herself, rubbing her arms, noticing the cold for the first time. Most criminals didn’t hang around the scene, “just to see what happened.” No, criminals usually put as much time and distance between themselves and the crime as possible. But still, the idea of leaving the boy alone, hurt and vulnerable, frightened her.

The boy moaned again, and she returned her gaze to his face. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. He stared blankly at her.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her words tumbling out in a jumbled rush. “I didn’t see you. I came around the curve, and there you were. I tried to stop, I really did. I’m so, so sorry.”

His eyes drifted shut again, a grimace of pain twisting his features.

“Dear God.” Lily brought a hand to her chest. “Where do you hurt? How bad is it?” She made a choked sound of exasperation. “As if I could do anything about it if you did tell me. Dammit, where’s a doctor when you need one? Overpaid quacks.” She drew in a deep, calming breath. “Don’t you worry. I’ll go get help.”

As she made a move to stand, he caught her hand, his grip surprisingly strong. Startled, she looked at him. His eyes were open, but this time the expression in them was so fierce she caught her breath. He moved his gaze, looking toward the other side of the road.

Lily followed his glance, then understood. “Gone,” she said. “Just took off when I stopped the car.” She frowned. “If he was a friend of yours, you need to choose a little more carefully.”

“He…wasn’t…”

The boy slurred his words, and as he spoke his eyes fluttered as if he was experiencing a wave of dizziness. Lily swore. “Look, you need help. I hate to leave you, but I live just across the street.” She pointed. “I’ll call 911 and be right ba—”

N…no. I’m…fine.”

Lily watched in horror as he struggled into a sitting position, his face twisting into that awful grimace of pain as he did. “But, you’re not fine,” she said holding out a hand to stop him. “Son, you could be really hur—”

“I’m not your son.”

Though little more than a hoarse whisper, she heard the defiance and bitterness in his voice. His tone and words told her much about him, things he would not want her to know.

Even as her heart went out to him, she understood that with a boy like him, the last thing she could afford to be was a pushover. “You’re hurt,” she said firmly, brooking no argument. “I don’t know how badly. If you can help me get you to my car, I’ll take you to the hospital. If you can’t, I have to call 911.”

Fear shot into his eyes. He grabbed her hand. “Don’t call anyone,” he managed to say weakly. “I’m fine. I am.” As if to prove his words, he started to stand.

And ended up on his knees, doubled over.

Lily’s worry became panic, but she quickly got a grip on it. “You can be as pigheaded as you like, I can’t leave you here. And I won’t. When I hit you, you became my responsibility.”