Escape from Memory (18 page)

“I—I’m sure this won’t take that long,” I stammered.

Rona sat down—not in the chairs Mrs. Dotson had pointed to, but right behind us, as close to the vault as she could possibly get. Mrs. Dotson watched her for a second, then led me on into the vault.

I
’
D BEEN IN THIS VAULT ONCE BEFORE, ON SOME GRADE SCHOOL FIELD
trip. I can remember being impressed by the thick walls, the way you could see the stone between the metal on either side of the door. The bank official who led the tour had stressed how safe everything was in the vault—from fire, thieves, tornadoes, floods—“from all the dangers of the world,” he’d said.

I didn’t feel safe in there now. All I could think about was how those thick walls prevented me from seeing what Rona was doing. I had no way of knowing if she was right now raising the phone toward her mouth, giving the orders I would do anything to prevent.

Not that I could think of anything to do.

Heart pounding, I trudged behind Mrs. Dotson. She led me toward the farthest end of the vault. The numbers, I saw with surprise, were in the fifties and getting larger, not smaller. Finally, in the very back corner of the vault, she whirled around.

“All right, Kira,” she whispered. “What is going on?”

“You—You know who I am?” I whispered back.

“Well, based on the card I pulled, I should be looking at
Sophia Landon right now, not Kira. But, good grief, of course I know you. Carl had a crush on you all through seventh grade. All we heard for a whole year was, ‘Kira this’ and ‘Kira that!’”

In spite of myself, I blushed.

“And, anyhow,” Mrs. Dotson continued, “that’s all anybody’s been talking about today—where you and your mom disappeared to, and whether or not you took Lynne Robertson with you.”

My knees went weak with relief. Everything was going to be all right. Why did I think I had to solve my problems by myself? I’d just spill the whole story to Mrs. Dotson, and she’d take care of Mom, Lynne, and me.

“Lynne Robertson is sitting in a car out front, with a man pointing a gun at her,” I said. “And Mom’s being held hostage in California. And that woman who came into the bank with me—”

“Is no aunt of yours,” Mrs. Dotson finished for me. “That’s all I needed to know!” She reached for a button on the wall. I watched her as though the scene were in slow motion: her arm extending, her finger pointing, her jacket sleeve sliding back on her wrist….

“What are you doing?” I asked, dazed.

“I’m calling the police. This is our alarm system.”

“No, wait,” I said, suddenly jolted out of my daze. How could I have thought, even for a second, that this could be easy? “Don’t call the police. If they try to arrest Rona—that woman—she’ll signal to the guy in the car to kill Lynne. And he’ll signal the people in California to kill Mom.”

Mrs. Dotson’s finger hovered over the button.

“The alarm doesn’t sound inside the bank,” she said. “That
woman will never know what we’re doing. And the police can arrest the man in the car first,” she said, sounding as matter-of-fact as she had years ago, reminding second graders that they were allowed only one cup of Halloween punch.

I stared at Mrs. Dotson’s finger poised beside the button, and I experienced something like double vision: I could very clearly see another woman’s finger about to dial a phone, I could picture an old man’s finger on a trigger. I remembered Lynne’s look of stark terror. And I remembered Willistown’s police chief, a bumbling man whose greatest talent was playing Santa Claus every year on the courthouse lawn. I couldn’t imagine him managing to disarm the pilot before the pilot shot Lynne. Maybe I’d have had confidence in him if I hadn’t had my parents’ memories in my mind—I could remember seeing people shot. Through them, I’d witnessed plenty of murders.

I shook my head stubbornly.

“No, Mrs. Dotson. Please. You don’t understand. It’s very complicated. I don’t have time to explain, but the police can’t help right now!”

Mrs. Dotson looked at me questioningly, but she moved her arm back from the wall.

“All right,” she said briskly. “What do you want me to do? What’s your plan?”

It was the same question Lynne had asked me, back on the plane. Just that word, “plan,” practically sent me into the same kind of hysterical laughter Lynne had erupted into at the thought of airplane peanuts.
Plan, plan, everyone wants a plan. And all I’ve managed to do is grab a cheap ink pen
. Feebly, I raised my hand toward Mrs. Dotson, as if the pen itself could explain all
my inadequacies. Puzzled, Mrs. Dotson peered at the Bic balanced in my palm. I stared at it too. After a few seconds I opened my eyes wider, really seeing it for the first time.

It was just a cheap ink pen. But that was exactly what I needed right now.

I had a plan.

“P-P-P
APER
,” I
SPUTTERED AT
M
RS
. D
OTSON
. “I
NEED PAPER
. B
UT
she can’t see you leaving the vault to go get it.”

Mrs. Dotson patted her pockets and came up with one of those half-size pads that businesses give away all the time. It said
FIRST BANK OF WILLISTOWN
at the top of every sheet.

“No” I objected. “It has to look like something my father might have written on thirteen or fourteen years ago in California.”

Mrs. Dotson frowned and looked down at the key ring she carried in her hand.

“Let’s see what your mom keeps in her safe-deposit box,” she said.

We walked back toward the front of the vault, to box number 27.

“Your father, you say?” Mrs. Dotson muttered curiously. “How’s he figure in all of this?”

I shook my head impatiently. Mrs. Dotson got the hint and focused on opening the box.

“Your mom has always had our biggest box size,” Mrs.
Dotson said. “Everyone at the bank always wondered why—not that any of us ever looked,” she added virtuously.

She discreetly stepped back while I slid the box out and opened the lid. There, on top of the pile, were the important papers I’d searched our entire apartment for only two days ago: my birth certificate, my parent’s citizenship papers, their marriage license. I didn’t have time for those documents right now; and, anyhow, through my parents’ memories, I knew all of them by heart already. I whipped through the papers, just praying for a blank sheet. There wasn’t one. I reached the bottom of the stack, uncovering a shoe box underneath.

I knew what was in the shoe box, so I ignored it for now. I pulled out the blank, white envelope from my parent’s marriage license and began scrawling on it in my best imitation of my father’s writing. It was weird—I could
remember
how to form the letters the way he had, but my hand balked at writing the unfamiliar script.

“Kira? What are you doing?” Mrs. Dotson asked behind me. “Are you—Is that
Russian
you’re writing?”

“Yep,” I said grimly, and kept writing. I threw in a diagram or two for good measure, the way I did on geometry tests when I wasn’t sure of my answer and I hoped I could distract the teacher.

I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been before. I felt like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz,
wandering around all over the place searching for a way to get back home, when the whole time she’d been wearing the ruby slippers that could take her there. The whole time I’d been worrying about what Rona would do when I emerged from the vault empty-handed, I’d had the very information she wanted tucked away in my mind.

I just wasn’t going to give her quite what she expected.

I lowered my pen and reread what I’d written. Could I fool Rona? Because of my parents’ memories, I knew the exact limits of her computer abilities. But what if she’d learned a lot in thirteen years?

I had to take my chances.

I eased the shoe box out from under the papers and tucked it under my arm.

“I’m done, Mrs. Dotson,” I said. “Thanks for everything. If you don’t hear from me first, could you call the police and tell them to come and arrest a pair of kidnappers at my house at”—I did some mental math—“eleven o’clock tonight?”

Mrs. Dotson looked at me doubtfully.

“Are you
sure
you don’t want me to call the police right now?” she said. “This isn’t some kids game. You don’t want to fool around with people with guns.”

“I know,” I said grimly. “But I’m trying to save my mother’s life.”

I could tell that Mrs. Dotson believed me. I looked at her, an ordinary woman in an unfashionable navy blue jacket, and I realized that she was showing an incredible amount of faith in me. It seemed like I really ought to say something else, to make her understand how much I appreciated that.

“Mrs. Dotson?” I said. “I always thought you made the world’s best pumpkin cookies.”

Then I walked out of the vault toward Rona.

R
ONA JERKED TO ATTENTION AS SOON AS
I
WALKED OUT, THEN
I could see her reminding herself to act casual. I’m sure I was the only one in the bank who saw her eyes narrow, her lip curl.

“What’s in the box?” she asked as soon as I got close enough that she could talk to me without being overheard.

“Computer disks,” I said, doing my best to match her fake nonchalance. “I thought they might be important. Here are my father’s notes.” I handed her the envelope I’d just covered in Cyrillic letters.

Rona’s jaw dropped. “It’s in Russian,” she said. Even she wasn’t able to hide the dismay in her voice.

I shrugged, pretending not to understand why this bothered her.

“That’s where he was from,” I said.

“No, he was from Crythe,” she hissed at me.

“Well, he was educated in Russia,” I said. “Anyhow, you have what you want now. Call Crythe and tell them to let my mother go. And tell Jacques not to shoot Lynne.”

“How do I know if I have what I want or not?” Rona
demanded. She was still speaking quietly, but her voice was packed with fury, an explosion waiting to happen. “I can’t read Russian.”

It took every shred of acting ability I had not to let out a deep sigh of relief.

“Lynne can,” I volunteered. “She’s been taking Russian since sixth grade.”

This was my biggest gamble. The high school in Willistown doesn’t offer Russian—the middle school doesn’t offer any foreign languages at all. And even Lynne wasn’t brilliant enough to pick it up on her own. But I had to make Lynne seem essential to Rona, at least for another hour or two.

Rona forced her lips into one long, narrow, bitter line. She was deciding.

“Let’s go see how good she is at translations,” she said finally.

We walked out of the bank together. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Rona shaking her head at the pilot as we walked down the steps. As soon as we got to the car, she whipped open the door and said to the pilot, in Crythian, “Don’t kill her.”

So I had been right, and they’d been planning to kill Lynne no matter what, as soon as Rona got what she wanted. My body wanted to go limp at this revelation, to slide down into a terrified heap right there on the sidewalk. But some combination of my parents’ grit and my own dumb hope and loyalty kept me walking.

I circled around Rona and slid into the backseat with Lynne while Rona climbed into the front. I immediately leaned over and whispered in Lynne’s ear.

“I told Rona that you know Russian,” I said quickly. “You
have a terrible accent, so you sound awful when you speak it, but you can read it pretty well. When she gives you a document to translate, say she has to have the computer first. Say it’s really technical and it only makes sense if she’s got the special computer in front of her.”

I was done talking and had backed away from Lynne before Rona was completely settled in the front. Lynne looked totally baffled, but she might have looked like that anyway, wondering what had happened in the bank. Rona turned around and gave the two of us a warning look.

“We’ll proceed to the next phase of my plan,” Rona said. “There’s been a little complication. Neither of you is safe yet. Sophia isn’t either. So get down!”

She added that last part because a car was driving past. Lynne and I both immediately lurched inward, almost clunking heads.

“But I
don’t
know Russian!” Lynne protested quietly. Both of us had our cheeks pressed against the vinyl seats, our hair covering our faces.

“You’ll have to pretend,” I said grimly.

“Tell me what to say!” Lynne pleaded.

“Shh,” I said.

In the front Rona was giving Jacques directions in Crythian. Their voices were muffled and, I realized, Rona’s accent was bad. But I could mostly follow their conversation.

“We’ll go to Sophia’s apartment,” Rona said. “We can hide there and get the girl to translate.”

“And then you’ll help me?” Jacques said quietly.

“Of course,” Rona said impatiently. “I’ll fix you right up. After you carry through on your end of the bargain.”

I didn’t want to think about whatever it was that Jacques had agreed to do. I already had enough suspicions. As Jacques pulled away from the curb I started quickly telling Lynne exactly what to say about my father’s forged notes.

“How am I supposed to remember all that?” Lynne protested.

“Well it’d be natural if you stumbled some,” I said. “Just remember to ask for the computer first.”

Lynne was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “I feel like the girl in ‘Rumpelstiltskin.’”

“Huh?” I said.

“You know, the one whose dad said she could spin straw into gold.”

I had to grin behind my curtain of hair. Trust Lynne—even under threat of death, she was coming up with the kinds of analogies and allusions teachers loved.

Then my grin faded. Threat of death. Lynne knew. She knew the girl in the fairy tale would have been killed if she hadn’t produced the gold, and she knew she was going to be killed if she couldn’t fake knowing Russian.

“What if they figure out that the paper doesn’t really say what I’m telling them?” Lynne asked.

“Oh, but it does,” I said. “I know. I wrote it.”