Locked Inside (8 page)

“Wake
up
!” said Ms. Slaight, and slapped Marnie hard across the cheek.

Marnie’s eyes flew open. Involuntarily she glared at Ms. Slaight, whose face was inches from her own.

“I knew you were faking it,” the woman said.

Marnie thought of several responses, including the unoriginal
You’ll never get away with this!
She said nothing. She was trying frantically to recall the kidnapping lectures she’d had to listen to years ago. Something about trying to make your kidnappers like you. Since that approach was obviously doomed, she hoped she could think of another. In a day or so, she’d be stronger … maybe she would pretend not to be, though. And surely Max would come soon. She’d be reported missing, and then the trail would clearly lead to Ms. Slaight from the Halsett Grille. It was just a matter of time.

“You’ve made quite a mess,” said Ms. Slaight, looking at the floor, her nostrils flaring in disgust.

Incredibly, Marnie felt abashed, even opening her mouth to apologize. But she caught herself. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. The words came out in a near-croak. She cleared her throat and added recklessly: “I may die.”

“You’re fine,” snapped Ms. Slaight. If she had been panicked before, she had gotten over it. “Even the black eye looks normal on you.”

Immediately Marnie’s hand was at her left eye, below the bandage. It did feel swollen, tender. She hadn’t differentiated that pain from all the rest. A black eye. Well, fabulous.

Meanwhile, warily, Ms. Slaight had begun to clean up, slopping a little seltzer on the area and wiping with paper towels she’d fetched from somewhere. When she finished, she moved the Yertle bucket nearer. “There’s soup here for you,” she added, indicating a Thermos she’d also placed
within Marnie’s reach. She regarded Marnie carefully and then shrugged. Marnie thought she saw a flicker of disappointment in her eyes. “You look horrible. Go back to sleep. We can talk later.” Ms. Slaight turned toward the door.

No
, said the little voice in Marnie’s head. It, at least, was sounding stronger.
Talk now! What kind of kidnapping is this? Doesn’t she need to take a picture or video with today’s paper, at least? Or is she just psycho? Please, please let her be planning a ransom note.

Dizzily Marnie got herself up on one elbow. “Wait a minute,” she croaked.

The door closed, and locked, behind Ms. Slaight. Marnie collapsed back on the cot, her mind whirling faster, now, than the room.

Marnie wasn’t quite asleep, but nonetheless she dreamed. She was the Sorceress Llewellyne, alone and crouched on the dusty floor of the Lair of the Rubble-Eater.

Something was up in Paliopolis. Even the air was alert; but Llewellyne felt prepared. She carried several prizes: a fabled ruby on her left hand; a pearl-handled sword that felt very familiar in her right hand; and the spellbook warmly pulsing in her pocket. And—most precious, although quite innocuous in appearance—the truth glasses of Paliopolis dangled around her neck from a string.

There was an old tale involving the truth glasses. A curse, some said. Llewellyne was superstitious enough to be wary. She’d never yet used them.

All at once Llewellyne heard a cawing, and from nowhere a cyber-construct hawk materialized. She frowned at it as it hung momentarily in midair, its stylized wings outstretched. She felt she ought to recognize it. The hawk stared red-eyed back at her and then swooped to land companionably on her shoulder, mechanical toes gripping hard. The perch hurt, but she suddenly knew that the hawk
was
hers. Her partner; her friend. How could she have forgotten it?

There came a rustling ahead: the Rubble-Eater. Llewellyne pressed closer to the wall as, head down, the huge blind creature lumbered into sight. She and the hawk were downwind, so if they remained very still, it ought to be all right.

The Rubble-Eater threw itself against the far cave wall as if it thought it could break through the rock. It did this once, twice, thrice, each time attacking with greater force, each time rebounding harder, each time backing up more slowly and wincingly to try again. Throughout, there was a peculiar high-pitched sound coming from the ugly creature.

One final time, with a force that shook the entire cavern, the Rubble-Eater hurled itself against the rock wall. Not so much as a pebble crumbled off. The Rubble-Eater collapsed, trembling, onto the floor. Llewellyne hand-signaled a question to the hawk.

No, I don’t have the slightest idea what that was about
, the hawk thought at her.
And we haven’t got time for it. We must go now. Quickly. Leave the Rubble-Eater! Who cares about it, anyway?

Llewellyne did not obey. Instead, she groped instinctively for the truth glasses and made to train them on the now motionless Rubble-Eater.

The hawk’s claws tightened.

When Marnie opened her eyes she was aware of two great needs: to pee, and to eat. Grimacing, she got up and used the Yertle bucket Ms. Slaight had left, only afterward becoming aware that she’d actually been able to stand and even squat. She moved her shoulders, arms, and legs carefully. Yes, the aches and pains were still there, but all her parts were usable. She could walk all the way to the other corner of the room and leave the bucket there. She wobbled some getting back, but that was okay. She was only feeling, as Skye would have said, a little puny.

She sat on the edge of the cot and took a swig of seltzer. Then she opened the Thermos and sniffed. Tomato soup, still relatively hot. She poured some into the Thermos’s plastic cup and drank it gratefully. It tasted okay. She examined the Thermos. It was small and light, and featured an atrocious plaid pattern.

Enthroned on the cot, Marnie took stock. She had Yertle. She had the plaid Thermos. She had half a bottle of lemon-lime seltzer. She had a canvas cot. She had a blanket, seventy percent polyester, thirty percent wool; do not remove tag under penalty of law. She did not seem to have shoes, or her bag, but otherwise she was dressed as she had been at the restaurant: short black knit dress, black tights. And
one black eye, of course. She suppressed a hysterical giggle.

At least you match
, said the little voice in her head.

And she had her brain back. That was her mind in there, and she could feel it clicking away. Ms. Slaight wasn’t so very frightening, was she? Marnie would figure something out, and soon she’d be strong enough to act. Already she had one or two intriguing ideas. Not to mention some puzzling questions, the first of which was: What did Ms. Slaight think she was doing?

We can talk later
, she had said to Marnie.

There was something messed up about that. About this whole setup. You didn’t have to be an heiress to have a basic understanding of kidnapping policies and procedures. Rule one was discretion, but half of Halsett had seen Ms. Slaight quarreling with Marnie at the restaurant.

Also, weren’t you supposed to have a meticulous plan, with synchronized watches and alternate strategies and at least one or two accomplices in stocking masks, rather than a battered old Jetta and whatever it was that Ms. Slaight had used to conk Marnie on the head? A rock? A tire iron?

It screams improvisation
, said the clear little voice in Marnie’s head.
Amateur. Not to mention, the woman doesn’t seem all there.
…

“Not to be overly critical,” said Marnie aloud. “I am effectively kidnapped, after all.” Her voice sounded nearly normal. That was good. She had another swig of seltzer. She pressed lightly on her
forehead bandage and then explored her eye area. Only the vaguest of headaches. She was definitely going to live.

She wondered what time it was, and what day. She asked herself to guess, and decided maybe two days had passed since lunch at the Halsett Grille. Maybe it was now afternoon. Early afternoon on Thursday.

There was a rattle at the door. A key, turning in a lock? Marnie stiffened. Suddenly her skin felt too tight on her bones.

The door opened. Ms. Slaight stood in the doorway. Behind her, Marnie saw an expanse of what looked like a typical unfinished basement. Surely that was a washer and dryer at the left? Stacked boxes to the right? Before Marnie could be certain, Ms. Slaight closed the door. Marnie blinked at her. Ms. Slaight was holding a canvas folding stool in her left hand and in her right, a small gun.

Oh.

Marnie sat very still on the cot.

Ms. Slaight shook out the folding stool in front of the door and sat down on it. She rested the arm with the gun on her lap. “So,” she said.

“So,” Marnie echoed. She tried not to look at the gun but found her gaze drawn there anyway.

Ms. Slaight saw where she was looking. “Just in case,” she explained. “I really don’t want to hurt you. My having it protects both of us.”

Marnie nodded, although she didn’t quite see how the gun protected
her.
She ostentatiously folded her hands in her lap.

“You’re feeling better, I see,” said Ms. Slaight.

“Um,” said Marnie, “still a little weak.”

There was silence. Ms. Slaight frowned, seemingly searching for words.

Marnie controlled her breathing. If Ms. Slaight didn’t understand the professional way to proceed, Marnie would help her. She began brightly: “Have you sent a ransom note yet? Maybe you’d like me to write one? You could dictate it if you want. Oh, and you ought to enclose a picture of me. Something with the date in it, to prove I’m okay. I can give you my guardian’s address. No problem.”

Ms. Slaight seemed a bit taken aback, and then displeased. Her forehead furrowed. Marnie thought it advisable to move on to a more attractive aspect of the conversation.

“Do you have any idea how much money you want? Five million? Ten? Why not go for a lot?”

Ms. Slaight stared. Something about her look made Marnie babble even more fluently, even as the little voice in her head began to wail,
Shut up, shut up, shut up!
“Do you have a Swiss bank account set up, or do you want small unmarked bills? I’m pretty sure Max—my guardian—will be able to handle either. If I were you I’d go for the bank. You can set up an account over the Internet if you haven’t already, I’m pretty sure I could tell you how, I can give you the names of some banks—”

“Stop it,” growled Ms. Slaight.

Marnie felt her jaw clamp smoothly upward and close.

“Money,” said Ms. Slaight, after a moment, “is not without importance. I’d be the first to admit
that. But it’s not the only thing. Family is important too.”

She seemed to want a response to this. Marnie attempted a nod.

Once more Ms. Slaight was frowning thoughtfully. “I would have told you this the other day. After lunch,” she said. “I really would have preferred that. I had hoped we could be friends. I still hope so. Now that you’re here, you’ll have some time to think about things, and maybe your attitude will change. In some ways you’re not really to blame. I do see that now. After all, you didn’t know. You still don’t.”

She paused expectantly. She was looking right at Marnie. Waiting.

“Know what?” said Marnie.

“That I’m your sister,” said Ms. Slaight. A timid little smile appeared on her lips. “Well, half sister, probably. I’ve already picked up the papers—to change my name legally and make it what it always should have been. What it rightfully should be.

“Leah Skyedottir.”

M
arnie wondered if she was going to be sick again.

“I can tell you’re surprised,” said Ms. Slaight. “All this time at Halsett, I wondered if you would guess, but you didn’t, did you?”

Marnie croaked out a syllable: “No.” A clear, oddly calming thought slowly took shape in her mind: This woman was crazy.

Certifiable. Cracked. Bats in the belfry. Deranged. Unhinged. Dippy. Looney Tunes.

Ms. Slaight was smiling uncertainly. Marnie’s eyes edged to the gun and then back to Ms. Slaight’s face, which was full of … shyness. Hope. And—expectation.

Marnie’s stomach turned completely over. Why was that look on Leah Slaight’s face more terrifying than anything Marnie could ever have imagined?
Even when she woke up ill and cold in this place, Marnie realized, she had not truly been afraid.

In Paliopolis, the Sorceress Llewellyne could always figure a way out. There were rules. There were elves wandering around to jeer at you and steal your spellbook and otherwise keep you company. You played at fear and danger, at having courage and cunning and strength and brains … but it was all a game. A game.

“Maybe you should have a little water,” Ms. Slaight said.

Automatically Marnie reached down for the bottle of seltzer and swallowed a very small amount.

“You really didn’t guess?” said Ms. Slaight, as if she couldn’t believe it. “Not even subconsciously? You didn’t feel we were kin? Feel the sibling rivalry?”

Sibling rivalry. Dear God. Marnie shook her head. She put the bottle back down.

And then she did feel something. Rage. Rising, lavalike …

No
, said the little voice frantically.
No! She has a gun. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t be an idiot!

Marnie knew then, with sudden clarity, that the danger was not just this psychotic person with a gun. It was also herself. It was the way she’d been feeling lately, all untethered.

She had no idea if she could control herself.

“I think I have Skye’s cheekbones,” mused Ms. Slaight. “I’ve studied her pictures very carefully. But you and I don’t look at all alike. Different fathers, I suppose.”

Marnie inhaled through her nose. She clenched
her teeth against the words that battered them from behind.
You are out of your mind. You are not related to me. I am my mother’s only child. Don’t you speculate about my father!
She fought the rage back, down. Skye had had some wise words about self-control, but Marnie could not remember them.

“Don’t you have anything to say to me? Marnie?” Ms. Slaight was looking … displeased? Needy? Angry?

And suddenly there was something about the way her eyes had narrowed, something about the expression deep within them, that reminded Marnie of Skye. Skye, in one of her very rare, very tightly contained rages …