Locked Inside (9 page)

No, she thought wildly. I’m imagining it.

Marnie choked out, “I am really—I am really in shock. I had no idea you—” But she couldn’t say it. She knew she ought to, she knew it would please the lunatic, but she couldn’t.

“Of course.” Disappointment. “You’ll need time to get used to this. I hoped, once I told you, there would be a kind of click—you know, that cosmic ‘Aha!’ that Skye talked about. But maybe you don’t have her kind of intuition. She was deeply connected to the universe.”

Marnie managed, somehow, to turn the beginning of a scream into an almost inaudible yelp. Quickly she moved her right hand behind her left forearm and began pinching her own skin, hard. The pain helped clear her head. Her little voice whispered a suggestion and she listened to it.

“Maybe … Do you think you could tell me the story?” she said. “How you—How you found out?”

“Oh,” Ms. Slaight said. Her cheeks pinkened. She watched Marnie for a long moment and then nodded, as if she’d made some decision. She said slowly: “The most important thing to understand is that, from the time I was a very small child, I knew I didn’t—
couldn’t
—belong to the people I lived with. And I was right. I found out later I was adopted.” She scowled. Her hand—unconsciously, Marnie hoped—tightened around the grip of the gun. She looked Marnie in the face again, intensely.

“I know that feeling,” said Marnie quickly. “Of not belonging.” She said it purely out of policy, of course, because she’d always known she
did
belong with Skye. But she was astonished at how truthful it sounded.

She saw Ms. Slaight relax a little.

“What was it about them?” asked Marnie. A little eddy of curiosity stirred inside her.

“They were … they were—” Ms. Slaight stopped. Her eyes went a little blank. She said softly, “When I was about your age, I heard her sing. Skye, that is. Of course it was just a recording.
Arms of the Lord.
You know that one?”

Marnie nodded cautiously. It was actually her least favorite of Skye’s recordings. It was maybe disloyal of her, but the songs were so … so heartsick. So desolate. Late-night blues stations tended to play cuts from it long after midnight.

In fact, it had been Skye’s last album. After it was released, she had unexpectedly ended her singing career, and then, at thirty-one, she had published her first book on moral philosophy.
A Spiritual Guide to Ordinary Life.

“When I heard ‘Leah,’” said Ms. Slaight to Marnie, “I knew she was singing about me.” A pause, then she added flatly, “That’s my name. Leah.”

“Yes,” Marnie said. A cold finger touched her spine. “What did you do then?” she asked inanely. She tried to remember the exact lyrics, but Skye’s songwriting strength had lain in the music itself, and in her expressive voice, not in an ability to create poetic, multilayered lyrics. Still, Marnie thought she remembered some of the words:

The rest of the song vanished, and Marnie couldn’t get it back. Meanwhile, dreamily, Ms. Slaight—Leah Slaight—was saying, “She would have been seventeen when she had me.” Then she frowned. All at once she looked at Marnie the way she had when she’d been Marnie’s chemistry teacher. Venomously. Involuntarily, Marnie shrank back on the cot.

“What could I do, once I realized?” said Leah Slaight bitterly. “I was sixteen. And Skye was having another baby right then. Right exactly then. You. You were the one living with Skye. You were the
Skyedottir.”
She spat out the name. Then she got up abruptly and grabbed her stool. For a moment Marnie actually thought Ms. Slaight was about to hurl it at her.

Marnie’s head had cleared; the anger was under
control.
What does she want from me?
she thought.
How can I make her hate me less?
She said carefully: “How could I have understood—
cared
—when I didn’t
know?
I had no idea we were—you were—I don’t know what to believe….”

Ms. Slaight stilled. Then, slowly, she shook her head.

“Wait,” Marnie said. “Wait, please.” She heard the “please” with astonishment and some fear. And then she said it again. “Please. Would you at least answer a few questions?”

Ms. Slaight turned slightly—so slightly—back.

It would have to do. Marnie asked: “What day is it?”

Ms. Slaight seemed to ponder. Then she shrugged. “Friday.”

Friday! Surely, surely, Max should have figured out where she was by now! Why hadn’t he? What was wrong? Marnie took a deep breath. “All this stuff about Skye aside—you
are
asking for a ransom, right? That is—even if you haven’t done it yet, you’re going to? If you’re Skye’s daughter too, then you’re entitled. You’re entitled to half of everything.”

For a very long moment Ms. Slaight didn’t answer, and Marnie was filled with terror. If this wasn’t about money, could not be
made
to be about money, if it was all about Ms. Slaight’s craziness … Oh, God.

But Ms. Slaight said tightly, “That’s right. I’ve thought of that.”

Marnie knew dizzying relief. She watched Ms.
Slaight go to the door. But as the woman turned the knob, Marnie heard herself call out.

“Wait! One more question, please—what are they thinking at school? Do they know I’m missing—do they know—what do they think happened to me?”

Ms. Slaight shrugged, as if it were of no concern to her at all. “Oh,” she said, “it’s actually a bit funny. I told them you must have run away after our fight, and they believed me. They seem to think you’ve gone to see someone you met on the Internet. Someone you met in that game you play.

“You’re such a rebellious, irresponsible teenager,” said Ms. Slaight. “Just the kind who always gets into trouble.”

M
s. Slaight left. This time, Marnie heard the distinct click of a padlock being shoved closed on the other side.

She ran to the door anyway, turned the knob, and, with all her strength, pushed, and pushed, and pushed. She heard a sound that might have been her own sobbing. Like Jenna’s, the other night.

Then Marnie lost time. When she came to herself, she discovered she was wandering back and forth in the little basement room, sometimes staggering with dizziness. She had no idea how long she’d been doing this. She was cold. Her cheeks were damp. She grabbed the blanket from the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders, and kept going at a brisk, more measured pace. After a few minutes she felt warmer. She continued to walk.

Remnants of illness or not, it was time to do some serious thinking.

Yes
, said the little voice firmly.
Get a grip.

So. They thought she had run off to meet someone from the Internet. The Elf? Must be. Well, she wished she had. In fact, she didn’t dare dwell on how much she wished it. Marnie blinked hard. But
why
would they think that? Her mind spun. Had Mrs. Fisher just concocted the idea out of thin air and Marnie’s old Internet statements, or did they have something more? Had they contacted Marnie’s ISP and read her stored e-mails? But if that were the case, they’d have talked to the Elf by now!

Was it at all possible that Max did know she’d been kidnapped, but was pretending to believe the running away stuff, for investigative purposes? But if that were true, he’d have already tracked down Ms. Slaight.

By sheer will, Marnie pulled herself back from the spiraling universe of maybes and what-ifs. She took one deep breath. She sank down on the cot and took another. She imposed fierce order on her mind. She mustn’t waste her time and energy on things that she had no knowledge of and no possibility of affecting. This was one of those rules of gaming that also applied to real life. At least, she thought it did. It made sense that it would.

One thing she knew was that Max would be out of his head, no matter what, once he knew she was missing. He’d do everything he could to find her. She could be sure of that.

Still, it was utterly stupid to pin your hopes on other people—on what they might or might not do, or say, or think. Even Max. She’d been tough on
poor Max … maybe part of him, a secret part, felt he’d be better off without Marnie.

Almost absently, Marnie reached up and wiped her face with her palms. She exhaled. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.

Concrete reality mattered. And okay, right on schedule, here was some concrete reality to deal with: She had to use that stupid, stinking bucket. Afterward, with sudden clarity, she wondered: Why not scream? Why not yell for help? Maybe there were other houses around, with people in them, people who would hear sustained yelling and call the police. She paused, and then shook her head; it felt too risky. They had to be fairly close to Halsett, because Ms. Slaight seemed to have full knowledge of what was happening there. And Halsett was not someplace where you
knew
there were neighbors. Halsett was rural; houses were built with acres between them. But okay. Yelling. It was an option; it was a possible strategy.

It was a start.

She began pacing again. This was not Paliopolis, it was not a game, but … strategy was strategy. You figured out what you knew. You figured out what you didn’t know. You evaluated the other players—and yourself. Then you figured your options, and for each one, the pros, cons, and risks.

Skye had written:
Even doing nothing can be an active choice.

Yes
, said the little voice in Marnie’s head,
but it’s not my preference.

Okay. Marnie steered her thoughts forward.
Figure out options. Figure out players. Then strategize …

So. What were her options, given what she did and didn’t know? So far she had one: Make a great big noisy fuss. A second, unacceptable option was to do nothing. In a bit, she’d think about others.

Now, players. Outside: Max. Halsett and its people. Max’s security people. Maybe the police, the FBI. Maybe even the Elf …

No
, said the little voice.
Wrong. Concern yourself with the players here. Inside.

Marnie sat back down. “There are only two,” she said aloud. “Leah Slaight …” She winced internally over the last name, hearing, in her inner ear, Ms. Slaight saying
Skyedottir.
“And me.”

Really?
said the voice skeptically.

“Yes.” But even as she spoke, Marnie knew that was wrong.

In Paliopolis, if you overlooked an important player, you weren’t just a fool. You were dead.

“Skye,” said Marnie. “Present physically or not. Skye is the third player.”

Yes,
purred the voice in her head.

“Okay,” Marnie continued aloud. “Leah Slaight is obviously one of those people who imagines she’s connected to a celebrity to make herself feel important.” She suddenly heard, again, the bleakness in Leah Slaight’s voice. “Or … or just to make herself feel connected at all. But—” She stopped. Her stomach filled with a rumbling dread. Suddenly she longed to fling herself down, curl into a ball beneath the blanket, and sleep. Not think, not go down this road. Could this all be some nightmare?

It’s real
, said the voice, grimly.
Now go on. But
what?

After a moment, Marnie did. “But …,” she said slowly. “It’s not that I believe her; that’s ridiculous. She’s based this whole fantasy on a song. The whole thing would be pathetic if—well, if I weren’t here. But the thing is …”

A fact had appeared, crystalline, in her mind, and she faced it squarely.

The thing was, it was certainly possible for Skye to have had another child before Marnie. She had been thirty-three when Marnie was born. So, theoretically speaking …

Theoretically, anything is possible about Skye’s early life
, said that clear, cool voice in Marnie’s head. At once, she recognized the voice, and was astonished that she hadn’t before. The Sorceress Llewellyne. It felt utterly natural to talk to her, as if the Sorceress were separate from, as well as contained within, her own consciousness.

“No,” Marnie whispered slowly to the Sorceress. “I knew Skye.”

Did you really?

“She’d have told me if I had a sister.”

You were only eleven when she died. She might have planned to tell you later. It’s the holes in Skye’s life that make Ms. Slaight’s fantasy at all possible. Face it; look at the holes….

But there were so many things about Skye she didn’t know, Marnie thought stubbornly. There were so many holes that there was simply no point in taking the few pieces, the little she knew about Skye, and trying to make them into another picture
that accommodated Leah Slaight. The alternate picture of Skye was no more likely to be valid than the old one.

She stopped dead.

Yes
, said the Sorceress-voice.
Exactly. The old picture is very likely to be invalid.

That’s not what I meant!

Elementary logic. Come on.

No, Marnie thought stubbornly.

You were eleven. You loved your mommy. What did you know? At least consider the possibility.

Marnie was silent. Okay, it was theoretically possible. But …

But suddenly, with her heart, with her mind, with her very self, she could feel Skye. She closed her eyes and saw Skye’s face, felt her arms, felt her love and warmth and goodness. In her lifetime Skye had blazed so full of light that all the world had known and felt her presence. The world was a little bit different—perhaps better, kinder, more thoughtful—because Skye had lived and sung and thought and written.

Yes. Nobody’s arguing with that. This is something else.

Marnie wrapped her arms around herself.

Look, you don’t need to believe she
did
have another child
, said the Sorceress-voice patiently.
You don’t need to decide she didn’t love you, or anything like that. You just need to acknowledge that you didn’t know her. That your picture is composed of a few pieces only. You see? Don’t you see? Say it out loud. It’s the thing you’ve been running from for a long time. It’s the thing you’re most afraid of.