by Alex Flinn
“I don’t know,” Carl said. “Could it be because you’re stupid and always saying stupid things?”
“That’s not nice.”
“That’s not nice,” Carl imitated. He reached into his pocket and handed Henry something. “Do you think you could, for once in your life, open the door?”
“I’m not sure I’m capable,” Henry said.
“Do it!” Carl bellowed.
“Okay, okay.” Henry squeezed past Carl and me to a small door in the wall. “You’re gonna put him in here?”
“Think so?” Carl thrust me forward and into the room. It was gray, empty like my mother’s basement at home. “Let’s see if he changes his mind.”
Again, with surprising strength for an old guy, he pushed me to the floor. While I was struggling to get up, I heard the door slam, the key in the lock.
My arm throbbed like maybe it was broken.
46
Rachel
Wyatt did not come, did not come, did not come. He had said he had something to do before he came, but that he would be here early. I took “early” to mean perhaps ten, perhaps eleven at the latest.
But now, it was noon (by both my own clock and the strange, glowing one I had discovered on his telephone), and he had not come.
Nor at one.
Nor two.
Mama always left me breakfast and lunch, feeding me, I now realized, as if I were a pet. I had been too excited to eat breakfast, and now, I was too excited for lunch. I longed to go, to leave my tower, to find him. But, though I might shimmy down my hair rope without him, how would I pull myself back up?
Did it matter?
Did it honestly matter?
I had lived half my life, now, atop this tower, if you could call it a life, sitting here, reading, waiting for Mama. The only thing that had kept me alive, kept me sane all these years, was the thought that, someday, I would leave. Someday, I would be released or, if not, escape. I realized that that was why I had woven the rope in the first place, why I had hidden my ability to do so from Mama. I had done it not for the contingency that someone would rescue me, but for the certainty that I might wish to rescue myself.
And now was that moment.
Yet, I hesitated. Wyatt might still come. He had said he would. But if I waited too long to leave, it would be dark and colder. Then, I might never find him. I realized I had so little idea of the outside world that it was likely I would be unable to navigate it. Would the world be a pleasant place like the town of Hertfordshire in Pride and Prejudice or a war-torn one like the Paris in Les Misérables. Or, perhaps it would be like the horrific world portrayed in The Time Machine with predatory Morlocks seeking to eat gentle creatures like myself. Of course, Wyatt had told me no such thing but, perhaps, he did not wish to frighten me.
Still, I decided I would wait one more hour.
At three o’clock, he had still not come. I determined to try once again to call the number that was Mama’s and, if he did not answer this time, I would go.
I pressed the part of the phone that would dial her number.
It was answered almost immediately.
By Mama.
“Wyatt? Wyatt, is that you? Are you all right? Where are you?”
I said nothing. She sounded worried.
“Wyatt, did you go skiing? That’s fine, but I need my car back. Wyatt?”
I pressed the button to disconnect the line.
I made my decision. I would go. Yes, it was highly possible that I might die, that I might freeze to death, be eaten by animals, or captured by the same person who killed my mother. But I might as well risk it. If I could not leave, could not find Wyatt, I might as well plummet from this tower.
So, I went to the closet and took my warmest dress, a sweater, an extra pair of shoes. All my shoes were thin and unfit for snow, but I could at least have a second pair. I put on the coat Wyatt had brought, my mother’s coat with the note in the pocket. Then, I took a blanket. Then all the blankets. Then, I put some back because I could not walk with all the blankets, but I took two. After all, I was leaving forever.
I remembered what she had said on the phone about needing the car. Did she need it to see me? If so, that would give me more time before I was discovered. And maybe Wyatt would still come.
I emptied the pillowcase from my bed and stuffed it with everything. I made myself eat something and took the rest of the food with me. It might be a long journey.
I walked to the window and stared down. The sun had already fallen below the trees. I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see anything but trees and snow. But on the wind, I heard a voice, whispering.
“Rachel,” it said.
It sounded like his voice, Wyatt’s voice. He said he had sensed me in my tower, that he had known I was there. Perhaps that meant I could sense him as well.
No, I just wanted so much to hear him.
I made up my mind. I tied the rope, dropped my belongings to the ground, then slid down the rope behind them.
“Ouch!” I fell, hard, on my ankle. It twisted strangely. Had I broken it? I rose, careful as possible. I could walk, but it ached. I gathered my pillowcase and the blankets. It was cold, so cold. I had been foolish to do this.
On the wind, I heard Wyatt’s voice, saying, “Rachel!”
“I can hear you. Where are you? Are you in danger?”
“Rachel?”
I wanted to run, but the snow was too high, the ground too rocky. My pretty shoes did nothing to protect my soft feet. I had no hat. I pulled up the coat’s hood, wishing I had my long rope of hair. But there was no way to get it. I looked behind me, and saw it, waving good-bye, already distant. I imagined myself, leaning out the window, seeing my hair touch the ground. No time for silly rememberings!
I turned away and trudged on. Ahead was nothing but snow and evergreens. And Wyatt. Wyatt. Behind me was the whole rest of my life. Which was nothing. I looked back at the tower. I knew, somehow, I could never go back there again.
I willed myself to walk faster. I had a dim memory (not a silly one this time) of being a little girl, running in the snow and feeling warmer. Yes! Movement made one warm. Stillness, cold. So the faster I walked, ran even, the warmer I would feel.
My ankle no longer ached. I kept going. I counted my steps. One, two, ten, a hundred. Surely, if I could walk a thousand steps, I would see something. A house. A town. A person who would help me find Wyatt. But I never reached even a hundred steps, much less a thousand. I kept losing count. The sun sank lower still in the sky. Though I did feel warm from walking, with night, the air would grow colder. Say what I might about my life before—I had never been cold, never hungry. Mama had always protected me.
Mama!
If only I could talk to her. I could, I knew, on Wyatt’s telephone. I had the means. But what would she do if I called her. Would she help me find him? Or would she send me back to my tower, where I would wish to die, having lost my only chance at happiness.
The sun was setting, and I looked at the red sky and begged for a sign, anything, to tell me what to do.
I heard only Wyatt’s voice, the voice saying, “Rachel!”
But that was enough. I decided I would chance it. I could, after all, show Mama the letter, the one to her daughter, Danielle. My mother. It said that I was destined to do . . . something together. And was it not destiny even that I had found the letter, at this exact moment? Surely, that would persuade her.
I took the phone from my pocket. Even though I was in the wool coat, the phone was ice cold against my face. I almost dropped it with my fumbling hands. Finally, I found the place on the screen. I touched it.
Nothing happened. No ringing. I looked at the phone.
Words came up as if by magic.
“Call failed. Try again.”
Yes. Yes! I wanted to try again. I did. And again. But each time, the same thing happened. I shook the phone. Why would it not work?
Then, I remembered Wyatt’s surprise that it had worked in t
he tower. He said it must have been because of the height.
Now, I was on the ground, and my calls were failing, as was my courage. I had no way to contact Wyatt, Mama, or anyone. I had only to keep walking and hope someone would find me.
Someone who did not mean me harm.
Oh, what had I done? What had I done? Wyatt might be trying to call me at this very minute, but unable to. And I was far from my tower, so far I could never get back before darkness fell. Mama or Wyatt would find nothing of me. No, I had to try. I had to move on.
The ground was clearer here, due to the abundance of trees. I walked faster, almost ran. My hood slipped down, down my back. I adjusted it.
Again, it fell.
I pulled it back up. Then, I realized why it had fallen. My hair was in the way. I adjusted it, placing my hand around my thick locks and pulling them over my coat.
The hair spilled down to my ankles.
It was growing again, growing even faster than before. A mere hour ago, it had only reached my shoulders. Was it responding to the cold to warm me? Or something else?
The awareness of its magic strengthened me, made it possible for me to keep going. One step. Ten. One hundred. Five hundred. The sky was blue-black dusk, but I was not cold. I felt as if I could see even in the darkness.
Now, my hair touched the ground and streamed far behind me. I searched the trees around me for a bit of vine, to tie it. In so doing, I noticed something. A clearing. Holding my hair the best I could, I walked forward and peered between the trees.
A road. I remembered roads from long ago, when I was a child. Roads led to towns, to people. Suddenly, I heard a whooshing sound, then a crackling as something went by, something red.
A car.
It had to be a car, though so far away still.
There was a road up there, and cars, a town and people. But what should I do about it? If I approached the road, would good-hearted people see me and help me find Wyatt? Or would bad people, the people who had killed my mother, come and kill me?
I had to try again to call Mama.
This time, the telephone worked. Perhaps it had something to do with being closer to the road.
“Mama?” I tried three times before I was able to form the words, her name.
“Who is this?”
“Mama, it’s me, it’s—”
“Dani? Oh, Dani, can it be you, after all these years?”
It was darker now and so cold. In the distance, I could see the lights from the highway. I listened to Mama’s voice, calling, “Dani,” and for a moment, I wished I could be Dani, alive, on some roadside somewhere, calling for my mother. I longed to pretend I was her, to make Mama happy, to make Mama not angry.
But it was cold, and I was me, only me. I had to make her understand.
“It’s me, Mama. Rachel.”
A sharp intake of breath.
“Rachel? But how?”
I had to talk before she put it all together herself. She would be so angry. “I’m on Wyatt’s phone. Wyatt has been visiting me, in my tower. He gave me his phone to make me safe. But, Mama, I am afraid something has happened to him.” I began to cry, feeling, as I did, my red, wind-burned cheeks begin to heal. “Something terrible. He is missing.”
When I said, missing, I wondered if it was more dire, if he was dead. But no, I had heard him. His voice. In my head. Surely, if he was gone, I would be able to sense it.
“Stay in your tower, Rachel. Do you hear me? Someone could—”
“I have already left my tower.”
“What?”
“I have left my tower, Mama. I have gone to look for Wyatt. I am standing under a tree beside the road.”
A wail of some wounded thing met my ears. I realized it was Mama. Mama, wailing as if learning of the death of her child. It was a horrible sound.
“Mama, please. I am fine.”
“Do not move, Rachel. Do not! I will borrow a car. Wyatt has taken mine. I will come to get you, but in the meantime, hide. Oh, please hide.”
I had come so far. I did not want to hide. Yet, I knew nothing about towns or roads or directions, and my hair was now more than three times the length of my body. I remembered seeing a small house, shuttered for the winter, with no car in the driveway. Perhaps I could hide there.
“Yes, Mama. I will wait for you. But come quickly, for I feel he is in grave danger.”
“I will come. I will come soon.”
“Thank you, Mama. We must save him.”
A pause, and I could almost hear her shaking her head as she did, lately, when I expressed doubt at anything she said. The wind howled, and I gathered my still-longer hair around me. “I love him, Mama.”
“I will come right away. Now, hide!”
47
Wyatt
The room had no light. Even when my eyes should have adjusted to it, nothing. I reached out with my foot, feeling to see if there was anything in either direction. With my one good arm, I checked my pockets to see if there was something, anything that would help. Nothing but Mrs. G’s keys. I pulled them out and touched to see if any of them had a sharp edge, something to use as a weapon. Nothing.
I felt a slight movement and saw the flash of a light. A flashlight. On the keychain. I pressed it again, and a tiny light shone. The floors, the walls, all made of gray concrete. The room was empty, the size of a closet. I walked to the door and spent several minutes trying first one key, then the next, in the old lock. I took the flashlight off the keychain, then tried to slide the big car key into the space between the door and the wall, to jimmy the lock. But since I couldn’t simultaneously see the lock and use both hands to try and open it, it was hard. I stuffed the keys back into my pocket.
In the pitch-dark room, I could hear the waterfall, people moving around. Who were they? Henry and Carl’s employees? They seemed more like captives, prisoners. Should I try to get their attention? Would they help? Or would they turn on me?
I didn’t know. I decided to think about it. I had time.
Then, in the darkness, I heard the sweetest voice, the only voice I wanted to hear.
“Wyatt!”
“Rachel!” Was she here? I wanted but didn’t want her to be. What if she was hurt, in danger?
“Where are you?” I asked.
And, somehow, I knew she’d left her tower to come to me. In fact, I sensed her in the freezing cold, walking through the snow to find me. She was walking toward a road, a road where these guys might be looking for her.
“Rachel.” I whispered it. “Be careful. God, be careful.”
“Wyatt?”
“Call Mama.” Could she hear me? I couldn’t tell. “Rachel, call Mama.”
I sensed her shivering. Then, I heard her voice. “She is coming. But where are you?”
Could she really hear me? “The Red Fox Inn. In Gatskill.” I began to shiver myself. It was like I was with her, inside her. “But Rachel, be careful. Don’t go with anyone but Mama.”
I hoped she heard me.
48
Rachel
Walking had, indeed, been keeping me warm. Now, in the still dusk, I was cold, colder than I have ever been. My hair had grown still longer, and I gathered it around me, realizing as I did that it would impede me, make it impossible for me to run from anyone who wished me ill. I brought the scissors with me when I left, in case of trouble. I could cut it. Yet, I suspected it had grown for a reason, as it had grown before to enable me to escape. I remembered, also, the biblical story of Samson, whose strength had come from his long hair. Could it be that my hair would empower me? That it grew when I needed it?
I heard a sound, a car flying past. Was it Mama? Or someone else, looking for me? No, it was gone; it was nothing. But the car had created a wind, which bit into my arms, my shoulders. I gathered my hair around me. I hoped Mama would come soon!
I remembered something else. When my hair first began to grow, that was when I first began to dream about Wyatt, had first sensed he was coming. That
was why I had made the rope, to allow myself to escape. That was also when he had, he said, begun to hear me singing.
Did my hair do that?
Only one way to find out.
I looked around, to make certain no one was there, that no one was coming, looking for me.
Then, I opened my mouth and yelled with all my voice.
“Wyatt!”
“Rachel!” His voice. It was coming to me on the wind.
“Wyatt?” Still, I could not believe it was him.
“Call Mama,” his voice said.
I answered him. “She is coming. But where are you?”
“The Red Fox Inn. In Gatskill.”
The Red Fox Inn! I remembered him mentioning that. I was shivering so hard, but through my chattering teeth, I heard him say, “Rachel.”
It was so soft I could barely hear it. But I whispered back, “Yes, love?”
“You have to get the key.”
The key? Had he said the key? What key? “I don’t understand.”
But suddenly, the wind was frantic, furious, blowing snow up around me, whipping it into my face. And then, another car, a red one, big. What I thought might be called a truck. Yes, truck. It was huge, and it was slowing, stopping near me. Oh, no. Was it someone, someone come to take me? I tried to crouch as low as I could, hide behind the snow-banked bushes, but I knew that if someone were looking for me, he would find me.
49
Wyatt
The key! I remembered, now, the key in the hairbrush. Danielle had shown me. Or was it a dream? Still it might be important.
“Rachel,” I said, “you have to get the key.”
A pause. “I don’t understand.”
“The key. The key! It’s in my car, outside the Red Fox. It’s inside the hairbrush on the front seat. I think it opens the door or something here. You have to get it. Or, better yet, go to the police with it.” Because, even as I said it, I knew I didn’t want her coming here. If they’d locked me up, what would they do to her?