Forbidden Fruit (11 page)

“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.

D
ear 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.”

He looked into her eyes. The desperation in them told her everything. “No…Forget about it. Please,” he said again, when he had caught his breath. “I'm fine. Just promise…you won't call…anyone.”

Lily clasped her hands together, torn. The boy was in some sort of trouble, that was obvious. Running from someone or something. Maybe the law, though she doubted it. He had the look of the hunted, of the outcast. Not of the criminal.

And he was hurt. He could have internal injuries or a concussion. He was slurring his words slightly; he couldn't even stand, he was so hurt or dizzy.

So, how could she do as he asked?

She couldn't.

Lily came to a decision. She knew someone she could call, an old friend who wouldn't ask any questions. But she wouldn't share that bit of information just yet.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” she said softly. “And I won't call anyone…if you come with me.” When he started to protest, she cut him off. “I can't just leave you. I won't. So those are your choices. Come with me, or I call the cops. I don't think you have the strength to crawl far enough or fast enough to elude them. If you think I'm wrong, go ahead and give it a try.”

She took his silence for acquiescence. “I'm glad we're in agreement about this. Now, I'm going to try to get you to your feet, then to my car. You're going to have to help me, because I'm too old and too weak to carry you.”

She did as she said, and in moments he was on his feet, though unsteadily. “Like I said before, I live right across the street. I'm going to make sure you're okay. You'll be safe with me until you feel strong enough to continue on your way.”

He hesitated, as if considering fighting her, then nodded. They started for her car. With each step, he leaned more heavily on her for support, though she sensed he hated it.

It took several minutes, but finally they reached the vehicle. She helped him into the front passenger seat, then went around to the driver's side, climbed in and started the car. She drove the two hundred or so feet to her long driveway, and turned in. Only then did she dare peek at her young, unwilling companion.

He kept his gaze trained straight ahead; he held himself tautly, as if on guard, ready to spring from the vehicle at a second's notice. He had drawn his mouth into a tight line, and Lily sensed that it took every ounce of his strength to keep from slumping over in his seat.

Poor boy, she thought, understanding him more than he would ever have believed if she told him. She understood him because she knew what it was to be an outcast, to not belong. To be alone.

Alone, always alone.

Lily drew in a shallow, aching breath. The Lord had exacted a harsh and appropriate payment for her sins. For how much worse this earthly hell than the fires that waited could ever be.

She tightened her fingers on the steering wheel, the pain inside her a living thing, twisting and turning, squeezing at her until taking even the smallest breath hurt.
Her darling Hope. Her beautiful Glory.
She longed to be with them, longed to share their lives.

So much so, she had spent the entire day waiting, hoping to get just one glimpse of them. She had sat in her car, across the street from the St. Charles, alternately too warm and too cold, her gaze trained on the hotel's grand front entrance.

It hadn't been the first time; it wouldn't be the last.

And this time, her wait had been rewarded. Hope and Glory had emerged from the hotel, and for one perfect moment, as the sun spilled over their faces, Lily had drowned herself in the joy of just looking at them.

Lily sucked in a sharp breath, the pain of wanting so great, she thought it would consume her. It ate at her day and night, until she felt stripped of everything but hopelessness.

She flexed her fingers. All she had ever wanted was for her daughter to have a good life, a clean life untainted by her mother's sin. Hope had that now. And Lily understood why her daughter wanted nothing to do with her, why she had become so upset the one time Lily had approached her to beg for another chance; she understood why Hope feared association with her. After all, she had lived her life as outcast and leper.

Lily understood, too, why Hope didn't want Glory to know her grandmother, why she was ashamed for Glory to know who—and what—her ancestors were.

Lily was ashamed, too. She despised herself for her past actions.

But understanding didn't lessen the ache inside her. Until the day she died, she would yearn for what she could never have, she would grieve for what she had lost. And just as she would spend her last years living alone, she would die alone.

Lily drew the car to a stop at the end of her driveway. “We're here,” she said unnecessarily. “I'll come around for you.”

“I can make it on my own.”

“Fine.” She went around the car, anyway. He glared at her but said nothing.

Stubborn, she thought as she watched him grimace with each step. Prideful and pigheaded. But even as those descriptions moved through her head, she acknowledged admiration for the strength of will it took him to stand on his own, to refuse her help though he was hurt and no doubt frightened.

She had known others like him, had helped others like him. Kids who had no one to depend on but themselves. Kids who had been hurt and let down again and again. This boy hadn't had anyone in his corner for a long time. She didn't blame him his defiance; he had probably earned it.

They entered the house through the side entrance—the servants' entrance that led into the kitchen. She flipped on the overhead light. And saw that he was bleeding. His pant leg was wet with it, the blood creating a dark, ugly stain on the thigh of his jeans.

She made a soft sound of dismay. “Sit here,” she instructed, easing him onto one of the chairs set up around the old, oak table. “I'll get some bandages.”

He caught her hand. “You promised you wouldn't call anyone.”

She met his eyes, a modicum of guilt easing through her. Misplaced guilt, she told herself. Her first consideration had to be his physical well-being. “I know what I promised. I'll be right back.”

Minutes later she returned with antiseptic, bandages and a bath towel. She filled a bowl with warm, soapy water and got a washcloth. “You'll have to take off your pants. I don't think I'll be able to get to the cut if you don't.”

He flushed. “Lady, I am not taking off my pants.”

She bit back a smile at his embarrassment. It didn't fit his tough-guy image. “I've seen the male of the species without their pants many times. You have nothing to fear from an old woman like me.” She held out a towel. “If it will make you feel more comfortable.”

He snatched it from her hand, and fighting a smile, she turned her back to give him a little privacy.

“Okay.”

She turned back to him. He had returned to the chair, the towel wrapped snugly around his middle. He scowled at her, and she scooped up his jeans. “I'll just throw these in the washer. Don't go anywhere.”

Minutes later, his jeans safely in the washer, she returned to the kitchen. He scowled at her again. “You don't have to look so fierce, I promise I'll give you your pants back,” she said.

Lily knelt in front of him and gently probed his wound, relieved to see that, although long, it wasn't too deep. She dipped the washcloth in the soapy water. “This might sting. Sorry.”

“I'll just bet you are.” He stiffened and gritted his teeth as she moved the cloth over the gash.

“A friend of mine is a retired doctor—”

“No.”

“He lives close by,” she continued, unperturbed. “If I were to tell him you're my nephew, he would accept that. He and I share many secrets. In fact, I would trust him with my life.”

“It's not your life you would be trusting him with.”

“You could have internal injuries. You could have a concussion, or need stitches.”

“I don't need stitches.” He winced. “Besides, you promised you wouldn't call anyone.”

“I know. And I'm sorry about that. But, I would rather break a promise than have you die.” She lifted her gaze to his. “You're much too young to die.”

Panic raced into his eyes. “What are you saying?”

“My name's Lily Pierron. You may call me Miss Lily. Or, for the next few minutes, Aunt Lily.”