Locked Inside

by Nancy Werlin

  CHAPTER

  11

  Waking up again—a few hours later? the next morning? afternoon?—was among the worst experiences of Marnie’s life. Not absolutely the worst; nothing could top the weeks after the plane crash that killed Skye. Marnie had retched helplessly nearly every morning then, too.

  Just not over a concrete floor.

  And her head had not hurt quite so much, perhaps.

  And beneath her, her bed—oh, God. Marnie rolled quickly to her side again and retched a little more. She hadn’t had lunch, so there wasn’t much to come up. She kept her eyes closed and rested her forehead on the back of her hand. Canvas was stretched on the cot frame beneath her, silence hung heavy around her, and dull artificial light burned beyond her closed eyelids.

  She remembered everything. Which did not help.

  Drearily, breathing carefully in and out, in and out, she reflected that she’d do anything for a glass of flat ginger ale. Well, she wasn’t psychic, but she had the feeling she was not going to get it. She felt her lips curve into an involuntary grim smile and then rapidly retreat to a compressed line.

  She reached up and gingerly explored her left temple with her fingers. There was a large bandage taped there. That was something; some care had been taken. She felt its edges; then a soft center of cotton. Beneath—She inhaled in a rapid little pant, and then took her hand down and tried to regulate her breathing again. She longed to curl up into a tight ball but was afraid to move. It wasn’t just her head. Her whole body ached, as if she’d been thrown down a flight of stairs.

  She opened her eyes and looked blearily out at the room. It was a small square, with cement-block walls, no windows, and the dank feeling of a basement. The only objects in the room seemed to be the folding cot on which Marnie was lying, and a child’s large plastic sand bucket that incongruously depicted Yertle the Turtle. A single bare lightbulb hung suspended from the high ceiling, at least twelve feet up. A wooden door—the only exit—sat in the middle of the opposite wall; the lack of visible hinges indicated that it opened outward.

  In movies, Marnie reflected sourly, doors always opened inward, so that imprisoned people could hide behind them and attack whoever took a few steps into the room. Of course, in movies imprisoned people didn’t lie as if paralyzed, afraid to cause more pain by moving, longing for ginger ale. Lack of a toilet never seemed to trouble them. They jumped briskly up despite any number of injuries and conceived clever plans.

  Marnie was not capable of a clever plan at this moment, but cautiously, as if this too would hurt, she began trying to think.

  Initially, after Skye died, Max had been very concerned about possible kidnappers. He’d conducted careful interviews about security at the first school Marnie attended, gotten references from the rich parents of current and previous students, and even consulted with Skye’s old bodyguard firm. Security was vital, he had said.

  But over time, the danger of kidnappers had somehow slipped down on the list of things to consider—if not entirely out of the picture. Marnie herself had not given it a thought in years. There’d been no reason; nothing to trigger any alarm.

  Ms. Slaight. Who’d have guessed it? Did she have coconspirators? Was this truly a kidnapping, or just some comedy of errors? Maybe Ms. Slaight had lost her mind temporarily. Given the whole sequence of events, this seemed most likely to Marnie. Everyone at the Halsett Grille had seen them together.

  Nothing about this felt like the professional kidnapping operations that had been described to her so thoroughly. She wasn’t in handcuffs or blindfolded or even tied up.

  Marnie was suddenly possessed by the desire to laugh hysterically. Simultaneously, her stomach contracted again, and she rolled instinctively into a ball, even though her head hurt more from the movement, as she’d known it would. She panted a little, and after a minute or two the pain retreated again to an intense background throb. Then, slowly, she became aware of feeling cold.

  She unlocked her knees and tilted her chin down to look in the direction of her feet. There was a folded blanket at the end of the cot. She snagged it with one foot and dragged it upward. She huddled beneath it and began to feel warmer. That was another mistake she’d made, getting into this dress instead of staying in her jeans and wool sweater. Not that she was counting mistakes.

  She wondered what was happening back at Halsett Academy. Had she been missed? It wasn’t like anybody would care that she wasn’t there. Jenna Lowry, for one, would rejoice.

  To think Marnie had actually believed she had a problem when she couldn’t find a computer to e-mail the Elf. What an idiot she was.

  She retched again over the side of the cot, though this time nothing actually came out. Looking distastefully away from the area, she spotted something out of the corner of her eye, on the floor near the head of the cot. Was it a bottle? A plastic bottle?

  By dint of heroic effort, Marnie reached out and grabbed her prize. Not ginger ale, but President’s Choice lemon-lime seltzer. It was ridiculous how weak she was; the bottle felt as if it weighed twenty pounds. Somehow she heaved it up onto the cot with her. For a minute, it was enough just to hold it. Then she began to think about having a drink.

  The best way to do that would be to sit upright. Marnie’s throbbing head told her she had exerted herself all she could right now. But her mouth and throat were desperate. She managed to prop herself up against the wall. There was one awful moment when her fingers couldn’t grip the twist-top sufficiently well to break the seal and open the bottle. Somehow she succeeded. She drank quite a lot, then firmly re-capped the bottle. But then she was attacked by a wave of dizziness. She dropped the bottle and heard it roll away. She closed her eyes. She thought again, still distantly, about the lack of a toilet. The Yertle the Turtle bucket?

  Please, no.

  Maybe this was worse, in some ways, than after Skye died.

  Somebody else—the Sorceress Llewellyne, for example—would be up now, examining the door closely, scouring the floor for possible weapons, figuring odds, strategizing. But this wasn’t Paliopolis. And she wasn’t the Sorceress.

  Marnie moaned, clutched her head, and slipped back into a state of unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER

  12

  “Wake up!” said a voice that Marnie did not want to recognize. Ms. Slaight sounded sort of panicked.

  Marnie kept her eyes closed. A cautious little voice in her head was wondering if she could fool Ms. Slaight into thinking she was so sick she was about to die. Which she was not. Oh, she still felt horrible—achy and dizzy. But she was better. She thought about emitting an artistic moan, tossing her head frantically, mumbling “Mommy.” She felt a hand on her forehead and only just managed to keep herself from shoving it away. The little voice believed, quite forcefully, that doing so would be a bad mistake.

  “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 m
e. 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.”