Ten Thousand Skies Above You

  Paul answers the question I didn’t ask aloud. “Her sister’s engaged to a billionaire. Wyatt Conley, the founder of ConTech. Ten minutes ago, at a press conference, he offered a million dollars for information leading to her safe return.”

  I could scream in frustration. If Wyatt hadn’t done that, they probably would have let me go within the hour! Even now, in a world where he’s actually trying to help me, he’s still screwing me over. Figures.

  Yet I take comfort in one fact: The price of my life is one million dollars. Wyatt’s reward might keep me imprisoned, but it might also keep me alive.

  16

  APPARENTLY THIS ISN’T THE FIRST TIME THESE GUYS HAVE kept a prisoner. Leonid’s men prepare for my captivity swiftly and efficiently.

  The bag goes back over my head before the duct tape is cut. They get rid of the zip tie around my ankles—blood rushes into my cold, tingling feet—but the one around my wrists remains. The large hand that closes around my arm doesn’t belong to Paul; I know from the way the fingers dig cruelly into my flesh, even through my thick wool sweater. Many footsteps follow and surround me, a dull ominous cloud of sound. The loudest thing I hear is my own ragged breathing within the bag. My half-numb legs make me clumsy as I walk along some corridors, turning that way and this, until someone jerks me to a halt and growls, “Down the stairs.”

  I reach forward with one leg and feel the first step—then almost lose my balance and fall. One of the men near me laughs at my uncertainty, and rage swells inside so hot my temples throb. It’s almost enough to turn me stupid, to make me start screaming at him. You think it’s so funny? I’m scared to death and I can’t see where I’m going and you’re trying to push me down a flight of stairs and if I ever get my hands free—

  But I remember the guns, and say nothing.

  A gentler hand cups my shoulder. “Here,” Paul murmurs. “I’ll walk you down.”

  I lean on him the entire way, as I feel each step with my toes. The space where they’re putting me is so damp I already feel clammy. Cold, too. I remain aware of the warmth of Paul’s body near mine.

  When I finally stand on a level floor, the door above us swings shut; several locks turn and click, sealing Paul and me within. One tug, and Paul lifts the bag away from my head. This room is smaller than the one I was originally held in, and quieter, too, farther from any sounds of the city above. More light shines from the few bulbs on the low ceiling, though, and the floor lacks a drain. Of the two rooms, I definitely prefer this one.

  In one corner I see a cot with a blanket; in another, a bucket with a lid. Normally the thought of peeing in a bucket would gross me out, but I’ve been on the verge of wetting myself since the first moment I was grabbed on the street. By now the bucket looks pretty good.

  Paul says, “We’ll bring you some food soon. A few bottles of water. The blanket should keep you warm, but if you need another, tell whoever comes in here.”

  “You. I want it to be you.”

  Different emotions flicker across his face—surprise, confusion, even some pleasure at being chosen. He says only, “Why me?”

  Because I have to get close to you if I’m going to have any chance of rescuing my Paul’s soul. Fortunately I have other reasons, ones I can say out loud. “You want me alive. And you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “No one here is going to hurt you,” Paul says. “They have their orders, and they’ll follow them.”

  I lift my chin. “It wouldn’t matter what the orders were. You wouldn’t hurt me, no matter what.”

  He raises one eyebrow, just like Mr. Spock—one of his favorite characters. If the situation were any less dire, I’d have to laugh. “You don’t have the necessary information to make a judgment.”

  A thousand memories of Paul flip through my mind: making lasagna together the night before Thanksgiving, riding in a submarine in an entirely new world, kissing in the train station, listening to music in the car as we drove to Muir Woods, simply holding each other in his dorm room and feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath my hands.

  That Paul is within this one.

  “I know enough,” I say.

  Paul studies me a moment longer, then breaks the connection between us as he turns away. “You have the necessities. And—like I said—let us know if you need another blanket.”

  Even now he’s trying to shelter me. “Okay.”

  “The door overhead will be padlocked. No one outside this building will be able to hear you, regardless of what you do. I argued that you should be given a cot, even when the others pointed out that you could break it down and use the pieces as weapons against anyone who comes into this room. If you’re considering that plan of action, don’t. It will be futile, because others will be outside, ready to stop you through any means necessary. Then you won’t be able to keep the cot any longer. Have I made the conditions of your stay clear?”

  My stay. Like I’m at the Hilton. “Crystal.”

  Paul hesitates a moment longer—like he thinks I haven’t really understood, or that I’m not taking it seriously. I don’t know how he can think that; somebody got shot to death while standing about three feet from me, less than an hour ago.

  What he senses—what he knows, I think—is that I’m not afraid of him.

  Paul says nothing else, simply nods as he heads up the concrete steps.

  The door thudding shut ought to sound ominous; instead, when I hear it, I smile. I can smile because I know something the others don’t, something Paul himself doesn’t know yet.

  Paul can’t stand not understanding why something happens. It doesn’t matter whether that’s some freak behavior of subatomic particles in an experiment or people laughing at a joke he doesn’t get; it drives him nuts. He responds to uncertainty by charging at it, determined to force the mysterious to make sense. This tendency of his can be frustrating—Paul wants people to behave logically, at least most of the time, and there’s no way to get him to accept that they just don’t. But it’s also one of the reasons he’s such an amazing scientist at an age most people are still picking a major. The easy explanation is never enough for Paul.

  Right now, he’s asking himself why I’m so sure he won’t hurt me. Why I trust someone I met while I was duct-taped to a chair. Obviously he can’t begin to guess the real answer.

  Paul will want to talk. I can prove that I know him like nobody else ever has, or ever will. If I can win him over enough to untie my hands, while we’re in here alone together—then I’ve saved the next part of my Paul’s soul.

  As I lie on this cot, I have no way of knowing how much time has passed. Forget a phone or a clock—I don’t even have sunlight to go by, if the sun has come up yet, which I doubt. So maybe an hour passes, or maybe three do; it doesn’t make any difference. I just have to stay here, studying my makeshift cell and waiting for a chance to talk with Paul again.

  My surroundings don’t give me much to work with. The room probably measures about ten by ten. Walls: unpainted cinder blocks. Ceiling: not sure, but whatever it is, it’s solid—forget any removable panels or inviting air ducts. Floor: concrete, no drain, which is a good sign I wouldn’t have known to look for yesterday. I’m lying on a sky-blue comforter, which was nice once but has seen wear; something about the cozy fabric plus the hard use makes me think this blanket belonged to a child, long ago. Who takes a blanket from their kid’s bed and uses it when they’re kidnapping someone? How can anybody be that schizo? I can’t understand it. Add another entry to the extremely long list of reasons why I would make a bad mobster.

  The eerie quiet is the worst part. This blank, cold room could stand in for a sensory-deprivation chamber. Once I didn’t understand how solitary confinement could drive prisoners insane, but when I try to imagine being in a place like this for months or years, I see how it could happen.

  But nobody comes down to harm me. Except for my wrists, I’m in no pain. I tell myself it’s not so bad.

  (So far, the worst part was I had to use
the bucket once, which was about as gross as you’d imagine. At least the Russian mafia politely provided a lid.)

  Honestly, I’m probably doing better than my parents right now. I close my eyes tightly, thinking about how scared they must be. Their only comfort must be Wyatt’s reward offer.

  But I can’t rely on Wyatt Conley’s “good heart.” Yeah, it looks like he loves Josie in this universe, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s corrupt to the core. If anyone could be callous enough to screw around with a ransom for my life, it’s him. Maybe he’s trying to get the Russian mob to give him a discount.

  Some sense of time returns when the padlock clatters against my door. I sit upright as the door swings open. The hair on my scalp prickles in fear when I hear the heavy tread on the stairs. Within moments I realize something very good—they’re bringing me food—and something very bad—Paul’s not the one bringing it.

  One of the ski-mask guys carries a paper sack and a plastic bottle of Sprite. From the paper sack he pulls out a damp-looking sandwich that has probably been Saran Wrapped for at least a couple of days, and a small bag of ranch-flavor potato chips. I hate ranch flavor, but right now? I can’t wait to stuff the chips in my face as fast as possible.

  “Can you take this off?” I say to Masked Guy, holding up my zip-tied wrists.

  He laughs. “You want food badly enough, you can eat it with those on.” Then, perhaps reconsidering, he leans down and opens the Sprite bottle for me. Thanks, Mr. Hospitality.

  I start working on the bag of chips. Masked Guy just stands there, staring at me. Probably he’s watching to make sure I don’t do something brave/stupid, but I’m reminded how much I’m at their mercy. Paul is only one man in what appears to be a very large, very ruthless organization. He would protect me, but with all the others, I have no guarantees.

  Then I hear Paul’s voice from above, loud, and in proper Russian I understand, “Stop wasting time down there. Come back.”

  Masked Guy huffs. I don’t need any background knowledge to know exactly what he’s thinking: The boss’s kid thinks he can order me around? Snot-nosed brat! But he doesn’t dare defy Leonid’s son.

  For the first time, though, I realize that Paul can’t be with me every second. What do I do if someone escalates this? What if someone is on the verge of raping me, or torturing me? As long as Leonid’s in charge, if Paul were gone for some period of time—that could happen. Could I really bear that for this world’s Marguerite?

  I’d like to think I wouldn’t abandon her here no matter what. But even if I wanted to leave her behind and get out of this universe, at least for a while, I couldn’t. While I can touch the Firebirds with my hands bound, even kind of get my fingers around one, I just don’t have enough flexibility to work the controls. So there’s no getting out of this one, no matter what.

  As long as my hands are bound, I’m trapped here.

  Masked Guy stomps up the stairs—wow, Russian mobsters are brattier than I would have thought. But he doesn’t shut the door behind him. Instead, Paul descends the steps, returning to my side.

  “He didn’t bother you?” he says.

  Still protecting me. “No. I’m all right.”

  The door overhead swings shut with a clang. Paul glances upward, eyes narrowing in irritation, or anger. Maybe he and Masked Guy have clashed before. At any rate, he didn’t fully trust the guy with me. “If he ever says or does anything that scares you, shout for me. Or scream. I’ll come.”

  Like this whole scenario doesn’t scare me. But I nod, and Paul turns away, ready to go upstairs and tell Masked Guy to watch his step. I ought to be glad about that, but instead, I’m desperate not to lose contact with Paul again. The word comes out of my mouth almost before I can think about it: “Stay.”

  He stops. “Why?”

  “It’s so quiet down here I can’t stand it much longer.”

  After a moment, Paul says, “I meant to talk with you anyway.”

  Don’t overreact. Be casual. You have an opportunity here. “Okay. Good.”

  He folds his arms across his chest as he leans back against the far wall. “You trust me. And you shouldn’t. Why?”

  “You’re not like the others.” Should I risk it? Might as well try. “Not like your father.”

  His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t disagree.

  In my own dimension, Paul will never talk much about his family. Finally I understand why—but even when he learns I know the awful truth, he’ll resist telling me more. I’d already realized how ashamed he was of his family. Not embarrassed. Ashamed. Like it kills him a little every time he thinks of it. When he told me his parents were “bad people,” I thought they were alcoholics or maybe even abusive. Now I see how they actually failed him: Paul’s parents never even gave a damn. If you love your kids, you don’t live a life of total corruption. You don’t expose them to violence. You don’t try to shove them into following your own wretched example instead of going after their dreams. Mr. and Mrs. Markov did all that to Paul and more. His good heart had to be so strong to survive that intact, but it did. In my world, and in so many others.

  Has he always thought I’d hate him if I knew?

  Maybe this is my chance to find out the rest of the story. Then I can tell Paul I’ve discovered it all, and I love him even more.

  “What’s your mother like?” I ask him.

  “Why should you care?”

  “I’ve been down here too long. I’m bored. Is she in the family business too?”

  “Family business?”

  “What else should I call it?”

  Paul doesn’t provide another term, probably because most of the alternatives are worse. “She’s not directly involved.”

  “Does she, um, approve?”

  He laughs softly, in contempt. But only when he speaks do I realize the contempt isn’t for me. “My father’s word is law, for all of us. My mother insists on that even more than he does. She worships him.”

  “Did she want you to work for your dad?”

  “Insisted on it.” Paul shakes his head at some scene in his past that must be playing out in his mind. “She even gave me my first tattoo.”

  Okay, that took a left turn. “What does a tattoo have to do with, um, this life?”

  For a long moment Paul stares at me, like he can’t understand why I’m asking or why he wants to answer. But he does want to tell me; I can see it in his eyes. Finally he says, “In Russia, members of ‘this life’ are always tattooed. The images reveal the crimes they’ve committed, the time they’ve served in prison. Or the things they believe.”

  “What tattoos do you have?” He can’t have done terrible things like his father, or those awful men upstairs. Paul’s not like them, and never could be. Yet I see the lines of ink at his open collar, testament to a divergence between this Paul and my own.

  Paul notices my gaze on his skin. He says, “This is just to show you. No other reason.” And then he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

  Once again I remember the day Paul posed for me as my model. Not what I need to think about right now. Instead, I concentrate on the fact that he told me not to be afraid, that he’s trying to comfort me as much as he can.

  He doesn’t strip off his shirt, doesn’t even open it all the way. But the top half of his chest is mostly exposed now and I can see the tattoos for myself. They’re simple, drawn only in blue-black ink, but artfully done. The largest tattoo is in the middle of his chest, a surprisingly devout image of the Virgin Mary with baby Jesus. On one shoulder is a rose that looks withered, or dried; on the other, a dove perches on a twig.

  In my mind I hear Lieutenant Markov whisper, Golubka. He called me his little dove as he held me in his arms.

  “You like this one?” Paul gestures toward that shoulder. “It means ‘deliverance from suffering.’ The rose, that says I would prefer death to dishonor. And the Madonna tells anyone who understands that I was born into—what you call ‘this life.’”

  The Madonna
requires no explanation. The meaning of the rose doesn’t surprise me either; Paul’s sense of decency and kindness holds true even in a reality where he didn’t escape his parents’ corruption. But the dove . . .

  I look into his eyes. “What suffering were you delivered from?” I ask as gently as I can. “Or are you still waiting for deliverance?”

  Paul stiffens. Immediately he begins buttoning his shirt. “You ask too many questions.”

  “But you want to answer me. Don’t you?”

  He pauses for a long moment, and I know he feels it too—the electric connection between us that spans the worlds. Yet Paul can’t understand why he has this bond with a stranger, why he felt the need to show me the secrets inked on his skin, or why I reach out for him even now. Baffled, almost hurt, he simply goes up the stairs without another word.

  As the door shuts and locks again, I take a deep breath and realize I’m shaking. I trust him so deeply, but this scenario is unlike any I’ve ever faced while traveling between the universes; I could make the wrong move at any moment and upset a very delicate balance.

  Getting closer to Paul in this dimension means playing with fire.

  17

  WHEN THE HIGHLIGHT OF YOUR DAY IS SOMEONE GIVING you a fresh bathroom bucket—it’s not a good sign.

  Masked Guy hauled the old bucket upstairs. He seemed about as thrilled with his errand as you’d expect, but I was still sort of sorry to see him go. After so long in this featureless underground cell, seeing anyone—even him—was fuel for my understimulated mind. But by now he’s been gone for a while, however long a while is, and I feel the room shrinking around me, sealing me farther away from the real world.

  My sense of time has all but collapsed. I have no idea how long I’ve been down here. More than three hours since they brought me food, though, because I’m hungry. Beyond that, I can’t tell.

  I’m exhausted. At this point, this world’s Marguerite must have been awake for more than twenty-four hours straight.

  Surely the negotiations for my release have begun. Wyatt Conley might already have bankers bringing him a million dollars in unmarked bills. Or instead of collecting a cash-stuffed briefcase from under a park bench, Leonid’s probably giving Conley the number of some Cayman Islands account that will mysteriously disappear the moment after the ransom deposits.