Erica Spindler - Forbidden Fruit

“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.