Forbidden Fruit (45 page)

G
lory drove like an insane person, blinded by tears, her head filled with the things Santos had said about her mother, about her twisted passions, her relationship to Chop Robichaux and her attempt to frame Santos.

There had to be an explanation, she told herself. She prayed there would be. She prayed her mother would put her arms around her and tell her it wasn't true. Promise her it wasn't.

Even as the prayer ran crazily through her head, Glory knew in her gut it would not be answered.

By some miracle, she made it to her mother's house without incident. She slammed out of her car and raced up the walk, pounding on the door when she reached it. Mrs. Hillcrest answered, her eyes widening with alarm when she saw Glory.

“Miss Glory, what's wrong? What's happen—”

“Where's Mother?” Glory pushed past her. “I have to see her.”

“She's in her room. Resting. She asked not to be disturbed.”

Glory ran for the stairs. “Some people are coming for her. Hold them off. As long as you can.”

“People?” Mrs. Hillcrest followed her to the bottom of the stairs, obviously confused. “Coming for your mother? I don't understand.”

Glory stopped and looked back at the woman. “Just do it, Greta! Please.” Feeling as if the devil himself were snapping at her heels, she ran up the remaining steps and down the hall to her mother's bedroom. She burst through the door and inside. “Mother!”

Her mother had been sleeping. She sprang bolt upright in bed, her eyes wide and disoriented. “Glory Alexandra?” she said, blinking, her hand going to her throat. “What are you doing here?”

“Mama, I…we have to talk.” Glory crossed to the bed, shaking so badly she wondered if she would make it. She sank gratefully to its edge. “Mama, they're—”

Tears choked her, and she fought to clear them. She didn't have much time. She had to talk to her mother; she had to hear the truth from her, whatever it was. “They're coming for you. We have to talk. I have to know—”

“Coming for me?” Hope interrupted, pushing the hair out of her eyes, her hand shaking. She reached for her robe and slipped it on. “Who? What do you mean?”

“Santos and…others.” She met her mother's eyes, heart breaking. “They have a warrant.”

“A warrant?” Hope repeated. “For whom?”

“You, Mama. They say—”

“For me?” Hope reeled back, an expression of horror crossing her face. “But whatever for? I can't imagine what—”

“They say you were involved with that Chop Robichaux. They say you conspired to set Santos up.”

Her mother didn't deny it; she didn't make a sound of outrage or disbelief. She simply stared at Glory, her mouth working, the expression in her eyes trapped, panicked.

Her mother was guilty of everything Santos had accused her. Dear Lord, it was true.

Glory's tears welled up, then spilled down her cheeks. Impatiently, she wiped them away. “They know everything, Mama. About Santos and your relationship to Chop Robichaux. About what he…about what he provided for you.” Her voice rose. “Is it true, Mother? Did you do those things? And while Daddy was alive, too? I can't bear to think it.”

“No!” her mother cried, the sound deep and desperate, as if it had emerged from the very depths of her soul. “No!”

Glory grabbed her mother's hands, clutching at them. They felt as cold and damp as death. “They have proof. Dates and pictures. A whole file on you.” She rubbed her mother's hands, trying to warm them. She shook her head. “Tell me it isn't true, Mama. And I'll believe you. Tell me how they got pictures like those, and I'll—”

Hope yanked her hands from Glory's and scrambled off the bed. She raced across the room, slammed her bedroom door and locked it.

“Mother?”

Hope wheeled around, panting, frantic. “The Darkness has come. We must try to hide. We must plan.”

Glory's heart began to thunder, and she struggled to stay calm. “You're hysterical,” she said as quietly and as evenly as she could. “Let's calm down, and together we'll find a solution to this problem. I promise you, we'll find a—”

“No…no, it's coming. The Darkness is coming.”

Glory crossed to her mother, catching her hands again, holding them tightly. “What are you talking about, Mama? You need to tell me, so I can help you.”

“Yes.” Her mother nodded. “I need to tell. Now, I must tell.” She met her daughter's eyes; the expression in them took Glory's breath. “The Darkness, The Beast. It comes for us.”

Hope swung away from Glory and began to pace, her long silk gown and robe billowing around her ankles. “I tried to protect you. Always tried, I never gave up. You see, I knew. I saw it in you and it was strong.”

Glory wetted her lips. “You saw what, Mother?”

“The Beast.”

Glory took a step backward, her mother's words hitting her like a blow to her chest. Her mind reeled back to her childhood, to all those times she had awakened to find her mother staring down at her as if she were the devil himself.

Glory made a sound of pain. All she had ever wanted was for her mother to love her.

Her mother looked at her and saw a monster.

“It's the curse,” Hope continued. “The Pierron legacy of evil. Passed mother to daughter…we all have it. We're sinners, we succumb. I fought as fiercely as I could—” She brought her trembling hands to her face. “It was too strong.”

Glory swallowed hard, thinking of what Santos had told her of her mother's perversions. “So you…succumbed.”

“Yes.” Hope lifted her tear-streaked face. “I wanted better for you. I vowed to drive The Beast out of you. I promised you would not fall prey to its litany of sin. Didn't I try to cleanse you of it? Didn't I try to scrub you clean?”

The library. Little Danny.
Glory's stomach rose to her throat.

Hope grabbed Glory's hands. “You still have time. Do you understand?”

Glory shook her head, staring at her mother in dawning horror. Her mother was insane. Completely crazy. “You need help, Mama. We can get you help.”

“There is no help. No help.” Hope backed away slowly, then whirled and raced for the balcony doors. She wrenched them open and ran outside to the railing. She grasped it and leaned over, almost toppling, drawing in gulps of air.

“Mama!” Glory ran after her, catching her from behind, wrapping her arms around her. “You'll fall. Come away from there.”

Her mother struggled. They fell against the railing; the wood groaned, then bowed. Frightened, Glory dragged her mother away. She lost her balance, stumbling backward. She hit the door casing, pain shot through her shoulder and her mother broke free.

Hope backed away from Glory, not stopping until she reached the railing. “It waits inside you, waits to feed on your immortal soul. I tried to purge you of it. I tried to purge you of your need for sins of the flesh.”

Glory held out a hand. “Santos will help us. If I ask him, he will.”

Hope shook her head, her expression suddenly eerily calm. “He has The Darkness, Glory. The Beast has them all. It uses them to get to us.”

From downstairs Glory heard the sound of voices. Santos's voice. He would help her; despite everything, he would help her mother. “They're here, Mother. Let me talk to them. I'll buy us some time. We'll figure something out. Together.”

“All right, Glory.” Her mother nodded and walked back into the bedroom, her calm more frightening than her frenzy. “I'll do my Rosary now.”

Glory followed her in, closing the balcony doors behind them. “That's a…Good. I'll be right back.”

Her mother seemed not to even notice her leave. As soon as Glory cleared the room, she ran for the stairs, hysteria building inside her. Santos and Jackson stood in the foyer with Mrs. Hillcrest, along with two other officers she didn't recognize.

“Santos!”

He looked up. Tears of relief flooded her eyes, and she started down the stairs. He met her halfway, catching her hands. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, but Mother—” She clutched at his hands, struggling to keep from falling apart. “She's hysterical. She's…out of her mind. I'm afraid, Santos. I'm afraid for her. I don't know what she's going to do when you come for her.”

Santos looked at Jackson. “Call headquarters. Get someone from psychiatric down here. A.S.A.P.” Jackson went to do it, and Santos turned back to Glory. “Where is she?”

Glory told him and together they ran up the stairs. They reached the bedroom; Glory tapped on the closed door, then cracked it open. “Mother,” she said softly, afraid of startling her, “it's Glory. Santos is with me. He's going to help us. It's going to be all right.”

She cracked the door wider, peeking inside. She didn't see her mother and pushed the door the rest of the way open with dread. “Mother, where are you?”

And then she saw. Her mother stood on the balcony railing, balancing precariously, her rosary beads clutched in her hands. The breeze caught her robe, lifting the gossamer fabric, swirling it around her, creating billowing wings. Her mother looked like a dark angel, an angel preparing for flight.

“Mother!” Glory took a step into the room, hand out. “Don't move!”

Her mother met her eyes. The expression in them was clear and strangely calm. “The Beast has come.”

“Mrs. St. Germaine, please. Don't move.” Santos moved carefully into the room, his voice low, deep and soothing. “Everything is going to be fine. You just hold tight and—”

The beads slipped from Hope's fingers and clattered to the floor. Glory's heart leaped to her throat; Hope smiled. “Remember, daughter, The Darkness takes many forms.”

And then she flew.

S
antos checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time in less than an hour. It had been a slow day in homicide, though every day had seemed slow after the media frenzy surrounding Hope St. Germaine's suicide, Chop Robichaux's arrest and the story that had led to both; then on the heels of that, the arrest of the Snow White Killer.

Tina's bible thumper had finally returned to New Orleans. By the time he had, Santos and Jackson had already nailed down witnesses who placed him with two of the victims, one of them on the night of her death. Santos shook his head. Of course the guy, this Buster Flowers, denied he was the Snow White; he denied having ever killed anybody.

But if being a cop for ten years had taught Santos anything, it was that criminals rarely stood up and shouted their guilt. No, this was the guy. The Snow White Killer and the one who had killed his mother. He was certain of it.

Santos checked his watch again, then muttered an oath. He didn't know why he was so anxious to get out of here; he had nowhere to go and nobody who was waiting for him. Certainly not Glory.

He hadn't seen her since her mother's funeral. Even then, they had hardly spoken to each other. She had been withdrawn and in pain; he had tried to reach her, had tried to comfort her, but had been unable to. There had been a wall between them. Brick-solid and impenetrable. It was as if, with the shocking revelations and suicide of her mother, they had lost the ability—or wherewithal—to reach beyond it.

He missed her. He longed to scale that wall and claim her as his. But he didn't know how.

And even if he did, a relationship between them wouldn't last. Too much stood between them, too much past, too much pain. They came from two different worlds. She wouldn't be happy with a cop, not for long. It was better this way.

His phone rang; he reached for it like a drowning man would grab for a lifeline. “Detective Santos.”

“Help me,” a woman on the other end whispered. “Please, help me.”

He straightened. “Who is this?”

“Santos, please. You have to help me, I have nowhere else to turn.”

“Tina? Is that you?”

“He's following me. I know it's him.” She began to sob. “He's going to kill me.”

A chill ran up his spine. “Tina, we've got him. Buster Flowers, the guy who gave you the cross.”

“It's not him! Santos, I don't want to die!”

Her cry shook him clear to his soul. She was scared witless. “Tina, where are you?”

She drew a shuddering breath. “At a pay phone on the corner of Toulouse and Burgundy. Right by the Corner Drugstore and a church.”

“Okay.” He checked his watch, calculating the time it would take him to reach her at this time of day. “Stay put. Do you hear me, Tina? I'm coming now. It'll take me no more than ten minutes.”

“Hurry, Santos. Please.”

He hung up the phone and jumped to his feet, grabbing his suit jacket as he did.

Patterson, the detective with the desk across from his, looked his way. “What's up?”

“The hooker who made our guy. She says he's still stalking her.” He shrugged into the jacket. “If Jackson gets back before I do, fill him in. She called from the pay phone at the corner of Toulouse and Burgundy.”

Patterson's lips curled with distaste. He had taken some heat for his sloppy handling of Tina when she was first in and was still stinging from the captain's dressing-down. “The bitch is nuts. We've got our guy. Let it go.”

Something about Patterson's statement, his arrogance, had the hairs on the back of Santos's neck standing up. What if they did have the wrong guy? He didn't think they did, but…what if? Everything they had on Buster Flowers was circumstantial. Everything pointed toward him, none of it proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was their guy.

What if Buster Flowers wasn't the Snow White Killer?

That would mean he was still on the street. Tina could be in real danger.

Patterson snorted. “Did you hear what I said? The bitch is nuts. Certifiable. Do yourself a favor, it's almost quitting time, let it go.”

“Yeah, I heard you.” Santos swept his gaze over the other officer. “But what if she's not nuts? What if a killer
is
stalking her? You may be willing to take that chance, but I'm not.”

The trip from headquarters to the French Quarter took just over the ten minutes he had promised. Santos found the pay phone. He found the drugstore and church. He wheeled his car to the curb and jumped out.

No Tina.

Santos glanced around, checking to be certain he had the right corner.
Toulouse and Burgundy. The Corner Drugstore. Not a church, he realized. A convent. Mary Queen of Peace.
This was it.

So, where the hell was she? He scanned the area, looking for a place she might have ducked into or behind to hide, looking for a place she might feel safe. The store's glass front door caught his eye. The Closed sign swung slightly, as if it had just been tipped over.

Santos checked his watch. Five-twenty. Early for a store like this one to be closing, especially in the Quarter. He stared at the sign, remembering something Tina had said, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling with the memory.

“They're rubbers, Detective. A hooker's best friend. Me and the other girls buy them by the gross at the Corner Drugstore.”

The Corner Drugstore.

Santos crossed the street. He went to the door and peered in. A guy stood at the register, counting the cash. Otherwise, the store appeared empty.

Santos tapped on the glass. The young man at the register looked over. Santos held up his shield. “Police.”

The guy paled, shut the cash drawer and came over. He peered through the glass at Santos's badge, studying it for long moments before unlocking and cracking open the door.

“What can I do for you, Officer?”

“There've been some burglaries in the area,” Santos said. “Mind if I come in and take a look around.”

“Burglaries?” the guy repeated. “In the area?”

“That's right.”

“Okay, then.” The kid—Santos judged him to be in his early twenties—stepped away from the door and let him in.

The shop's interior was cool, too cool, and dimly lit. It was the kind of store found on many corners in New Orleans: dirty and cluttered, with an eclectic assortment of goods for sale—pain relievers and snacks, sundry items and cold drinks, magazines and newspapers, all jammed into the bottom floor of a building dating from the thirties or forties.

Santos's gaze landed on a basket of apples on the counter. His pulse began to thrum. He turned back to the other man. His name tag said John. He was of medium height and build and had an average, almost nondescript face. His eyes and hair were light-colored, his eyebrows so pale they were almost nonexistent.

And he was nervous. Fidgety.

“You own this place, John?”

He shook his head. “My uncle.”

“A family business,” Santos murmured. “That's nice. Where is your uncle tonight?”

“Prayer group.”

“No kidding?” Santos started moving slowly up and down the aisles. “He goes every night?”

“Pretty much.” John followed him. “My uncle says that if you know the Lord, you'll never know darkness or pain.” John rubbed his hands on his blue jeans, as if to dry them. “Are you looking for something in particular, Officer…?”

“Detective Santos.” Santos smiled, ignoring his question. “Early to be closing for the night. Seems to me you'd get a lot of business if you stayed open. Quarter's busy after dark.”

The kid shrugged. “The crime's gotten too bad. We were getting held up almost nightly.”

“What about the working girls? You must get a lot of them in at night.” Santos looked him straight in the eye; the kid held his gaze a moment, then slid his away.

“They don't come in. My uncle doesn't like hookers. He doesn't like them in the store.”

He was lying.
The store was chill as a tomb, but John was sweating. As he turned his head, Santos saw the fine sheen of the stuff above his top lip.

“Actually, I'm looking for a hooker named Tina. You know her?”

“No. I told you, hookers don't come in here.”

“But maybe you saw who I'm looking for. She was using the pay phone across the street. Just a little bit ago.”

He shrugged again. “I see lots of people at that phone. What did…does she look like?”

Santos described Tina, carefully watching John. The kid's face remained completely impassive.

“Come to think of it,” he said finally, nodding, “I did see a woman who looked like her. She took off.”

“She did?”

“Yeah, she was on her way toward St. Peter.”

There was something sly in the kid's voice, or rather, slyly amused. Santos indicated a door at the back of the store. “What's back there?”

“Stockroom.”

“Mind if I have a look?”

John hesitated, then lifted a shoulder. “I don't mind.”

“After you.” Santos followed the guy, his neck hairs prickling again. This might be nothing. But it didn't feel like nothing. It felt like something, something dirty. But what?

Which brought him back to Tina. Where was she?

“Here it is.” The guy opened the stockroom door. Empty save for stocked storage shelves and shipping boxes, Santos made his way through the room, nudging boxes, checking for doors.

He found one. The exit-sign light above the door was burned out and there were boxes stacked in front of it. “Where does that go?”

“The alley. We don't use it.” John indicated a key pad on the wall. A green light flashed. “It's electronically armed and barred from the outside, too. Criminals were breaking in through the back to rob us. It's bad enough when they come through the front. But that's why you're here, right, Detective Santos?” John folded his arms across his chest. “Because of burglaries in the area?”

“That's right.” Santos turned to the kid and smiled. “I guess that'll be it. You've been very helpful. I appreciate it.”

John walked him to the front door and unlocked it. “You know,” Santos said, “blocking that exit is a fire hazard. If the fire marshal came in here, he'd close you down for that.”

“I'll talk to my uncle.”

“You do that, John.”

“I hope you get those guys.”

“We will.” Santos met his gaze. “We always do.”

Santos stepped out onto the street; John locked the door behind him. Santos turned and watched as the kid returned to his counting.

He narrowed his eyes. Something wasn't right with that kid. He felt it in his gut. But whatever he was up to, it might not a have a thing to do with Tina. And she was his first priority.

But what if it did have to do with her? The kid had lied about hookers coming into the store. He was certain of it. And that bothered him. It bothered him big time.

Santos swore, aware of each second ticking past. Tina could have taken off. It wouldn't surprise him if she had; she wasn't the most stable person. Santos shook his head. But she had been scared, really scared. And she had known he was coming for her. So, why take off?

He walked to the corner and gazed in the direction of St. Peter Street. The kid said she had been heading toward St. Peter Street. Santos started in that direction, stopping mid-block as the realization hit him like a thunderbolt. The kid had said she'd been
“on her way toward St. Peter.
”

St. Peter.
The saint who guarded the gates of heaven. The saint who checked the books and decided if your soul was clean enough to pass through those gates.

The kid was sending Tina to see St. Peter.

Santos doubled back at a dead run, ducking down when he reached the Corner Drugstore, not wanting the kid to see him, wishing he could call for backup but afraid to chance it. Every second counted for Tina—if he wasn't already too late.

Dear God, let it not be too late.

As he reached the corner, a late-model Buick eased out of the alley behind the store and turned his way. The driver's eyes met his. It was the kid from the drugstore.

Santos drew his gun, leaped into the street and shouted, “Freeze!” At the same moment, the kid hit the gas, barreling straight for him.

Santos dived out of the way, rolled, took aim and fired. Once, then twice. The car skidded out of control, slammed through the convent's wrought-iron fence and into a statue of Jesus blessing the masses. The statue rocked, then toppled forward, smashing into the driver's-side windshield, crushing it.