Locked Inside (18 page)

Sometimes your fate is your fate
, Skye had written.

Marnie moved through the sitting area, past its shabby sofa. Past the incongruously big, new television. Past a coffee table piled high with catalogs. Marnie had never felt so inexorably compelled to keep moving, moving. Moving toward the open archway between the living room and the kitchen. Moving toward Leah Slaight. Moving toward her fate—and the Elf’s.

Marnie stopped.

“Hello,” Leah said tightly. She was seated at the kitchen table, facing Marnie. Beyond her, Marnie could see the door of the house. On the other side of it lay hope, freedom, rescue. But between Marnie and the door sat Leah Slaight, with her elbows on the table and her gun in her right hand.

The gun was aimed, steadily, at Leah’s own head.

Marnie heard herself utter a tiny sound.

But that’s her head, not ours!
screamed the Sorceress, suddenly divorced from Marnie.
Throw Yertle! So what if the gun goes off while she’s aiming it at herself? Think of your own life, think of the Elf’s.

At the same time, Marnie heard Leah say, “Put that stinking bucket down, then sit. We need to talk.”

Throw Yertle! Who cares if she’s hurt? Don’t wimp out on me … on the Elf …

Marnie took a deep breath. She knew that the Sorceress was right. Again. But what she was able to do instinctively in the heat of a fight was something
quite other than what she found she could do now, with Leah aiming the gun at her own head.

She watched Leah smile and knew that somehow the woman had understood her thoughts. Marnie was filled with hatred for Leah; she thought of the Elf in the basement, crippled, counting on her; and still she couldn’t …

“Sit down,” Leah said again. “I can talk more easily that way.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Marnie heard herself say. “I want to go home. Will you just let us leave? Isn’t that why you unlocked the door downstairs?”

Actually Marnie had no idea why Leah had unlocked the basement room and slipped back upstairs to wait. Unless—her stomach lurched—it was to make Marnie, and only Marnie, witness her suicide.

“I did it,” said Leah patiently, “because I wanted you to come talk to me, alone. I knew you’d come. Now
sit down.
Or I’ll—” Her fingers seemed to tighten on the gun.

Marnie spoke quickly, too quickly, and her voice went high. “Why should I care if you shoot yourself?” she said to Leah.

Why should you?
whispered the Sorceress.

Leah looked back at Marnie steadily. “I know you don’t believe I’m your sister,” she said. “I’ve realized that. But I know that I am. And I know you better than you think—because I know Skye. You won’t want my blood on your hands. Not this way.” Unexpectedly, eerily, she grinned, and the muscle movement made the gun’s mouth seem to shift closer to her temple.

Marnie did not make a conscious decision. But suddenly she found she had placed the bucket on the table and sat down across from Leah.

“I really hate you,” she said evenly.

“That bucket stinks,” said Leah, wrinkling her nose. Then, smoothly, she moved her gun arm and aimed the weapon directly at Marnie.

Marnie ceased to breathe. She was vaguely aware of the Sorceress snarling viciously in her inner ear. She knew herself for a weak fool. Elf, she thought. Max. And then: I’m sorry.

But then, bizarrely, Leah looked at her own hand, frowned as if she had momentarily lost her train of thought, smoothly shifted the gun back toward her own head, and actually shrugged as if in apology.

The silence stretched. And stretched. Marnie was very aware of Yertle. And of the Sorceress, her point proven, waiting impatiently for Marnie to act.

“You know what I want from you,” Leah said.

Marnie did. And suddenly intolerant of the danger, she burst out: “Yes, but nothing I say can change who you are or aren’t! I don’t even understand why you’d
want
to be Skye’s daughter. It’s not an easy thing to be. Can’t you see that—” She stopped. Leah Slaight was so full of need that she was incapable of seeing any such thing.

All those sessions on kidnappers, and not one had covered dealing with someone like Leah Slaight.

And what if Leah changed the direction of her gun again? It would only take a second, and Marnie was so close … And the Elf was downstairs, waiting … except that now Marnie had a horrible certainty he wouldn’t stay there, not as the relative
silence continued. She could almost see him limping grimly up the stairs.

Your fault if he lands in more danger
, whispered the Sorceress viciously.

“Before,” said Leah, “you
told
me you’d be my sister.” She repeated aggressively: “You promised me, on Skye’s soul.”

Marnie tried to absorb this. She supposed there was a distinction between being Skye’s daughter and Marnie’s soul-sworn sister … maybe. Was that what Leah was getting at? Oh, Marnie’s head hurt. Her throat was dry. Her heart was pounding as if it would burst from her chest in a bloody mess. She didn’t know what to do.

Leah was looking at her as if Marnie held the keys to the universe. Marnie wondered how much time had passed. A few minutes? It felt like forever.

And this feeling of déjà vu. They had been here before; they had been exactly here before, she and Leah Slaight. No. She, and Leah, and Skye. And Skye had …

All at once the fear and discomfort seemed to drop away from Marnie. And within her a warmth bloomed small and then spread into calm, calm. She leaned forward instinctively and looked into Leah’s mad, sad eyes.

She didn’t think. She didn’t need to think. She said, quietly, in a voice that was not quite her own: “Doesn’t anyone love you, Leah Slaight?” And when Leah looked back at her, wearing the same expression that Marnie knew she herself had worn when the Elf had said … what he had said, Marnie opened her mouth and sang, huskily:

The last words drifted from Marnie’s lips. Leah’s hand, she saw, was trembling now. Her cheeks were wet, and so, Marnie realized, were her own. She was vaguely aware of astonishment—she hadn’t known she knew all the words to that song. She felt as if she were not quite in her body, as if she were outside. Watching. Listening. Feeling.

She looked into Leah’s dark eyes. “Why, Leah? Why?”

Marnie didn’t know what question she was asking. Which “why” she meant. There were so many. The situational whys—why had Leah fixated on Skye, on Marnie; why had Leah become who she was; what forces had taken her to this place, at this time?—but also the bigger questions. Skye-type questions. Why was there pain at all? Why was anyone alone, unloved? Why couldn’t one person simply connect to another; why was it so complicated?
And why did desperate measures—measures of terror, like Leah’s; or passive-aggressive methods like Marnie’s—seem sometimes the only way to tell the world that you existed, that you mattered?

Was that what Leah had been trying to say, somehow?

But she’s dangerous
, whispered the Sorceress in despair.
Don’t forget … she’s dangerous … you’re
not
like her! Don’t be a fool.
…

I’m not a fool, Marnie thought, out of that deep sureness. Trust me, Sorceress.

Leah’s gun hand was still shaking, but Marnie couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Marnie took a breath, and then said, starkly: “Give me the gun. We both know you don’t really want to hurt anyone. Not me; not yourself. We can work out the rest. I promise—I promise for real—that I will help. On Skye’s soul, Leah. I
promise.
”

This time she meant it. She held her breath. She held out her hand.

And there was a moment. A moment when Leah’s eyes flickered, and Marnie could tell, could feel, that she was thinking about it, was wondering if she could risk it. A moment in which Marnie knew,
knew
, that Leah wanted nothing more in this world than to put down her gun and believe that she could start again.

But then the moment passed.

Leah said, calmly, almost sorrowfully, “I’m sorry I shot that boy. He shouldn’t have come. This was between you and me. And Her.” Marnie could hear the capital letter. “She’s the only one who can tell us the truth. We need to talk to Her. Both of us.”

Marnie’s hand was still outstretched. It began to shake. Within her, she felt her sympathy for Leah—the curious warmth toward the woman—retreat completely.

And she felt the Sorceress tense.

Okay, she told the Sorceress. Now. Now you are right.

Leah’s gun arm began to swing outward. “If we can’t be sisters alive, then—”

I will kill you, Marnie thought with a pure clarity that she had never before experienced. If I can, I will.

Now!

She grabbed Yertle with both hands and hurled the contents in Leah’s direction, simultaneously shoving her chair back and throwing herself across the table toward Leah. Just as she did so, she was hit by the impact of a body, a big body, knocking her sideways off the table, landing familiarly on top of her. The Elf, the macho nitwit—

And then the gun exploded, just as the kitchen door burst open with a tremendous crash and Marnie heard someone’s agonized shout: “Marnie!”

Max, she thought tiredly, dully. Max, with the cavalry.

A second too late.

I
t took Marnie three days of quasinormal routine at Halsett Academy to realize that the cancerous, constantly mutating knot of feelings and images involving Leah Slaight were not just going to disappear. The clues were small but definite. A constant low-level anxiety. A tightness in the small of her back. A nagging headache. The insane certainty that someone was watching her … hating her. She’d caught herself staring suspiciously at teachers, at other girls, even at Mrs. Fisher.

And then there was the image she saw whenever she closed her eyes. Leah’s body. What was left of her head. Yet the visual memory was not the worst thing. The worst thing was the music that was attached to the memory. That played, softly, in her inner ear behind what she saw.

Skye’s voice. Skye’s song. Attached to Leah Slaight.

Other memories from those confused minutes—the first sight of Max; the reassuring presence of what looked like some kind of special operations team; the way Marnie hadn’t, at first, been able to let go of the Elf; the seeping, astounding knowledge that neither of them had been hurt; even the utterly indescribable series of expressions that flitted across Max’s face when he recognized the Elf—all of this faded, in the end, beside the fact of Leah Slaight.

Leah Slaight, dead by her own hand.

Sitting on the edge of her dorm bed, Marnie’s stomach squeezed; turned over.

You survived
, said the Sorceress sharply, and Marnie sighed. Yes. She looked at the door of her room, which she now left ajar at all times. She winced. Every day—at least once—she tried to shut that door but couldn’t. Just couldn’t.

The corridor outside was semidark now, at after ten at night. Absently she fingered her new necklace. It was rather gorgeous—a strong, twisted silver chain from which an amethyst geode hung suspended—and the fitting that held the geode also concealed an emergency signal button. “Oh, of course,” Marnie had joked with Max. “I’ve seen something like this advertised for senior citizens who live alone.” The weight of the geode felt reassuring against her skin, beneath her shirt. She imagined obtaining other James Bond devices. Homing beacons inserted beneath the skin. Winged cars. Strange poisons held in lockets—well, no, that would be more Paliopolis than Bond. She felt the corners of her lips turn up for a second before dropping back into a straight line. She glanced over
at her computer. It sat on her desk as if it had never been gone. But she didn’t move toward it.

One day at a time
, the specialist counselor said. Max said. Mrs. Fisher said. The dean said. Even the Elf said.

Marnie thought about calling the Elf. Frank. Frank Delgado, although she kept having to remind herself of his name. She had called him, or he her, every one of the last few nights, since Marnie had been discharged from the hospital and returned, at her own insistence, to Halsett. The Elf—Frank—had gone home from the hospital today. Marnie had his phone number, but what if his mother answered? She had picked up the telephone in his hospital room this very afternoon. Marnie’s shoulders tightened defensively, remembering. It was remarkable how much the Elf’s mother had managed to say to Marnie, silently, in that single, little pause after Marnie identified herself.

He too had been … different today. Looking forward, for the first time, rather than back. “Listen, Marn,” he’d said, with excitement ringing clearly in his voice. “College letters just came, and I got in everywhere I applied—even Harvard! I’ve still got to work out some money things, weigh up who’s offering what in scholarships before deciding for sure, but …” Marnie wasn’t surprised to hear about the college letters—their receipt and the attendant excitement and disappointment had been all over Halsett Academy that day too—but somehow, listening to his voice as he spoke about it deepened the sensation that he was rapidly moving away from her, returning to his regularly scheduled
life. The life that included college plans, and buddy Dave, and, yes, that angry, frightened, possessive mother. By next September, he’d be at Harvard or wherever. There’d be girls there—lots of them. Smart girls, who got good grades. Shrewd girls, who’d see past the bald head. Pretty girls, wearing preppy clothes. Nice girls, whom his mother would like.