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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.
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.”
