Her voice was husky from long disuse. When she gestured with her hand it seemed almost translucent in its frailty. She tried to roll over, and it looked as if her body was too heavy for anything to move it; then he helped her roll on her side, to face his chair, and he could feel how light she was, as if she had been shaped of air. Had she no bones? What was it that tied a creature so insubstantial to the earth? Gravity could not possibly hold her here.
"You've borne up well," she said.
He shook his head. "I've hardly been eating the last few days."
"Keep up your strength."
He didn't need motherly advice from this woman. He needed answers. But now that she was speaking to him, he couldn't think of what to ask.
"Why didn't you speak till now?"
"It's not safe for me to stay in my body," she said. "Eternal vigilance."
"That's the price of liberty, as I recall," said Quentin. "You don't look free to me."
"But I'm not dead."
"Who wants to kill you?"
"Rowena."
"Your own daughter?"
"We had a falling-out."
"I guess."
"She picked you, not me," said Mrs. Tyler.
"Picked me for what?" asked Quentin. "Why can't she just open the treasure box?"
"It's evil of her to call it that."
"What is it, then?"
"A coffin. A prison. The gate of hell."
"Yeah, I'm sure I would have opened it for her if she called it that."
"You must never, never open the box."
"Was it you that stopped me before?"
"I helped you stop."
"But I was trying to open it."
"You thought you were. But a wiser part of you was afraid to open it. A wiser part of you was already learning not to trust the succubus."
Until this moment it had not occurred to Quentin that that's what Madeleine had been all along. A succubus. An evil spirit sent to seduce a man in his sleep. He knew of the myths and legends, but he'd never heard of any stories in which the succubus stayed around long enough to marry the man.
"What's in the box?" he asked.
"Pray to God that you never have to know."
"That's not an answer."
"I didn't bring you here to answer your questions. You don't know enough to ask the questions that matter. And I can't stay long inside my body. It's too dangerous. Too much can happen while I'm not watching."
"All right, tell me what I need to know."
"Rowena keeps my body locked down on this bed, and when I send my spirit wandering, she shadows me. Wherever I roam, there she is, blocking me from this, blocking me from that. I try to watch her closely, but I didn't even know you existed until the succubus brought you to the house and she started raising the dead."
"Why me?" Quentin asked. "Do you know why?"
"All I can do is guess. Everything depends on how much she knows. Rowena was such a rebellious child. She hated me as soon as she was old enough to pluck memories out of my mind. She didn't understand what happened, and she wouldn't let me explain. She told me my mind was too loathsome for her ever to want to enter it again."
Daughters entering their mothers' minds. "What are you people?"
"Oh, Quentin, how dim are you really? We're witches. The real ones, not the silly ignorant women who prance naked and try to turn our affliction into a mystical religion. It's not something you can choose. Most people have only the faintest touch of the power. A glimmer now and then, that's all they get of the other side. But we grow up looking at the spirit as well as the body. We can see, we can touch everyone, both spirit and body. We hear words spoken aloud, but at the same time we can also hear the thoughts behind them. We can walk on our legs, but we can also send our spark out flying. We can see the living, but we can also see the dead, and when we know where they're anchored we can call them and make them come to us."
Quentin thought back to Sunday school, to the one story from the Bible that had a witch in it. The witch of Endor.
"That's right," said Mrs. Tyler. "It always bothers Christians and Jews that their scripture has such a tale in it. How could a woman who had chosen evil have the power to call a great prophet back from the dead? So they say it was fakery. Or it was Satan, pretending to be Samuel. But we know what she did and how she did it. All the dead are within reach. Saul knew Samuel. He must have had some relic of the old prophet—some of his hair. Maybe he even dug into his grave and took a piece of him. Brought it to the witch, and she used it to call him, and Samuel spoke to Saul through her. Maybe Saul was like you—he could see a little, if he really tried. It happened then, and that's how it happens now. That's how she called Jude and poor Simon and Stephen and foolish old Minerva."
"Dug into their graves?"
"Maybe not. They were all tied to the house, so she might not have needed relics. But why do you think Christians have always made such a big deal about relics of the saints? The power to call back their spirits—it was forbidden for them to use it, but they also coveted it. If you had a genuine piece of the finger of St. Peter, you could call him to you. There's nothing silly about it."
"So how did I call my sister Lizzy? I didn't have any part of her."
Mrs. Tyler was astonished. "You called back your sister? You called the dead yourself? When?"
"When I was a boy. The age your granddaughter is now. My sister was on the edge of death and I wasn't letting them take her organs for transplant. I sat alone beside her hospital bed, the way I'm sitting here beside you, and she came to me. Or at least she spoke inside my head. And told me that it was all right to let her go."
"You don't have to tell me the whole story. I see it now. Oh, my. Oh, no."
"What?"
"She hid that from me, the little spider. It changes everything."
"Changes what?"
"She knows more than I thought. She's not ignorant, she's just stupider than I ever imagined."
"What is it that she knows?"
"You aren't in thrall. She doesn't own you. Oh, why didn't I see it? Of course she sent a succubus instead of just enthralling you."
"Trust me, I was enthralled."
"On the contrary, you were enchanted, but not enthralled. You're still free."
"I guess."
"She thinks she can control the beast through you. Because you're so strong. And free. If you're enthralled when you let the beast out, it won't pay attention to you, it will go straight for her. But if you're free when it touches you, then it will want you. She's counting on your strength to draw it to you. It flows to strength. She thinks that when it's all inside you, taking possession of your body, then she can enthrall you and she'll control it."
"Control what?"
"The beast that took my little boy."
Quentin remembered the story Bolt had told him. "Rowena told Chief Bolt that you murdered your child before he turned two."
"I know she thinks that's what she saw in my memory, but it was not my boy that I killed. She didn't understand."
"Didn't understand what?"
"It had taken control of little Paul before his first birthday. Paul was beautiful and brilliant. He was going to be a glorious child of light. So few boys have the power, but he was the bright and shining one. But the beast saw him and came and stole his body. It took me a while to realize it. I thought at first that maybe some witch had enthralled my child, and I tried to find the link and break it. But the link was inside him. The thing owned his body, and finally I realized that it wasn't my Paul anymore, it was the beast using his stolen body. Paul was gone and I would never get him back. When the beast takes your body, it's his. There's no remnant of you left."
Now Quentin understood. "So Rowena did see you kill the boy."
"She saw my memory of cutting the living heart out of the beast. But she was a child. Of course she thought it was my little Paul. To try to stop me, the beast made his body cry and beg in Paul's little baby language. 'No, Mommy, don't hurt me, Mommy.' Rowena saw that. But I had seen the truth. He did things that none of us can do. He moved things with his mind. He destroyed things. We found them: a fly embedded in the midst of a pane of glass; locks opening without keys—ah, you've seen evidence of that? It was the beast."
"What's this beast? You mean the book of Revelation?"
"I mean the dragon. There might be many of them, but I've never heard of more than one upon the earth at the same time. It comes to a body that began human, but once the beast has it, the shape changes to whatever the beast desires. It came to Adolf Hitler when he was trying to paint in England, and it owned him from then on until it had no power left except to poison the body it dwelt in. It was in the ancient conquerors who built up piles of skulls and spread fear through the world. It loves death. It also hungers for strength. The stronger the human whose body it steals, the stronger the beast is until the human body dies."
"So it can be killed."
"How many suffer and die before it falls? Yes, it can be killed—eventually. And in this age, who is pure enough to kill it?"
"Pure? Like St. George?" Quentin couldn't help laughing. It was the cliché of romantic stories—slaying the dragon to save the maiden.
"Why do you laugh? Why do you think Rowena chose you?"
"Not because of my purity," said Quentin.
"What do you know about it?" said Mrs. Tyler. "You have to be pure to hold on to any of yourself in its presence. Her plan doesn't work if you're not pure."
Quentin laughed again, only bitterly this time. "She's going to be disappointed."
Mrs. Tyler ignored him. "If she had let me teach her, she would know that you can't control the beast. She must have seen my memory of the powers that Paulie seemed to have. How could she not have understood, if she saw so much?"
"Maybe she didn't believe about the beast," said Quentin.
"She knew the powers she herself had. She knew my memories were true. What other evidence did she need?"
"Maybe she thought you had gone insane, and this was a paranoid fantasy about your own son being possessed by the spirit of a dragon. If all she saw in your memory was a few special powers that he had, and then you overreact and kill him—"
"It wasn't Paul, it was the—"
"How did you know it was the beast? Were you really sure?"
"Of course I was sure! What kind of monster do you think I am?"
"I don't know. What kind of monster do you think you are?"
"What are you saying?"
"Why did you wait until he was nearly two before you did it? If you were sure?"
"Because it was my son's face. Because it was my son's voice. Because it was trying to hide itself from me until my son had grown stronger and I no longer would have the power to resist. And it almost worked, I almost waited too long. It almost had the power to stop me. But I got my vengeance. I didn't set it free. I locked it up."
"Inside the treasure box."
"One time it was hidden in a bottle and cast into the sea, but bottles float to shore and are found."
"A genie?"
"It doesn't grant wishes except its own," she said. "Another time it was hidden with a corpse inside a mummy case in Egypt, but thieves found their way into the secret chamber and it was free again. Killing it solves the problem for today, but then it's free to find another host. I was not going to let it do to another mother what it had done to me."
"Had you ever seen this beast before?" asked Quentin.
"Of course not. But I knew the lore. Unlike Rowena I learned everything from my mother. And from my grandmother. I knew what to look for."
"Had any of them seen this beast?"
"Don't you dare accuse me of what you're accusing me of."
"I'm not accusing you of anything," said Quentin. "I'm just saying that maybe the reason Rowena didn't believe it was the beast was because deep down in your heart of hearts, you weren't sure either."
"Do you think I would have cut into that precious body if I had the slightest doubt?"
"Somewhere in the back of your mind you fear that you went mad and murdered your own son."
"No!" But it was not a word, it was a wail. Somehow from that frail body there came such a cry that it must have been audible in every room in the rest home.
Then, suddenly, her body went slack. She rolled onto her back and lay there, body symmetrical, eyes closed. Her spark was gone again.
But not far. On the wall the word was blazoned so brightly it almost blinded him:
LIAR
"I wasn't accusing," he tried to explain again. "I was just trying to figure out why Rowena could search your memory and still believe that you murdered him."
GET OUT
"All right." He went to the door and opened it. He could hear pounding footsteps and the jammering of many voices. Of course the others in the rest home had heard Mrs. Tyler scream. There was Sally Sannazzaro, rushing toward the room, a look of horror on her face.
"Sally," said Quentin, "it's all right! I didn't hurt her; I just said something that made her angry. She's asleep again."
I HOPE YOU DIE
The words covered the corridor wall like a mural. He turned and on the other side it said:
I LOVED MY BABY
"I know you did, Mrs. Tyler," he said softly, knowing she could hear him, knowing that she wasn't listening.
Sally pushed past him into Mrs. Tyler's room. Only when she had satisfied herself that the old woman was still breathing did she come back out. He was afraid she was going to beat him up on the spot.
"All we did was talk," he insisted, holding up his hands to forestall her.
"Get out," she said. "You're never coming back here, do you understand me?"
"Sally, I didn't hurt her. She called me here. She wants my help, and I want to help her. I just said something that made her angry because it was true."
Mrs. Tyler's answer fairly burned on the walls, the same word, over and over:
LIAR LIAR LIAR
"But she'll get over it," said Quentin, "and when she does we need to talk again."
"Not a chance," said Sannazzaro. "Now get out, you and your friend Bolt. You've caused enough trouble in this rest home."
"All right, I'm going."
"I've already punched the alarms to bring the police and paramedics. So you'd better go fast."
"Thanks for waiting to find out the truth before calling in the cavalry," Quentin said angrily. "I didn't violate your trust."
"My trust ended when my friend screamed. It sounded like you were tearing her apart with your bare hands!"
Quentin burned with frustration at having lost Sannazzaro's friendship so unfairly. Yet even her snap judgment of him made him want to be closer to her. Because she was the opposite of Madeleine. Instead of being exactly what he wished for, shaped to his every desire, she was completely herself, and whatever she gave him she would give him freely, as an equal. Most people Quentin knew were at least a little bit like Madeleine, trying to outguess him, trying to give him whatever he wanted to get on his good side. So he could never be sure who they really were. He might not understand Sannazzaro, but whatever she was, it was real. He wanted to reach out and shake her and shout at her until she believed him: I'm real, too. I'm as real as you are. But then, maybe he wasn't. Maybe you had to be as pure to stay in the company of good people as to survive among beasts.
Chief Bolt sauntered out of the elevator. "Anybody dead?" he asked cheerfully.
"You are, if you don't get out of here right now," said Sannazzaro. "I'll kill you myself and call it self-defense."
They got in the elevator, Sannazzaro with them. "I'm going to see you out the door and into your car and driving away."
Wordlessly they rode down. But as she followed them to the door, she thought of something else to say. "I'm going to have a guard posted at her room. Her estate can afford it and I'm going to make sure you never get in there again."
Quentin stopped just outside the glass front door, the snow blowing around him. He could hear the sirens of the approaching emergency vehicles. "Sally," he said, "I kept my word and did no harm. When you want me back here, just call me. I'll come."
Sannazzaro closed the door in his face and locked it.
Bolt was already waiting beside the car. "Get in, bonehead, we don't want to be here all night answering questions."
Quentin didn't want to stay with Bolt, but there wasn't much choice right now. There was only one car that would get him away from here before the police arrived, and Bolt had to be in it. Quentin had a hard time opening the door, trembling as he was with rage and frustration and weariness and fear at the things that Mrs. Tyler had told him, at Sannazzaro's unfairness. No, it wasn't that at all. He was trembling from the cold. That's all.
He backed the car out of the stall and headed for the parking lot entrance.
"Don't turn right, you fool, turn left!"
"But that's where the sirens are coming from."
"We don't want to look like we're running away from them, Quentin. Do we?"
"Fine, whatever, you're the cop." Quentin pulled out onto the snowy road and drove back the way he had come. They were passed by an ambulance and a firetruck. But no police. Sannazzaro hadn't called the police after all. Or else the police were slower than the others. He didn't linger to find out.
Not till they got back on the freeway did Bolt finally ask the obvious question. "Now do you mind telling me what the hell happened?"
"I should ask you, Bolt. What got into you back there?"
"What are you talking about?" said Bolt. "I didn't do anything. You were the one who got to talk to the old lady. Fill me in."
Back when they were eating chili together, Quentin had told him everything he knew up till then. But now, having seen the way he acted with Sally Sannazzaro, wondering if there might be something to Sally's belief that he had tried to smother the old lady—now Quentin didn't feel like telling him anything.
"She didn't make any sense," he said. "She was delusional. I don't know what she thought I was, but she got frightened and screamed."
"Well, since she's been a turnip for several years now, do we count screaming as an improvement or a deterioration?" asked Bolt. The wry tone was back in his voice, now. He was himself again. Or maybe he had been himself back in the rest home. How could Quentin know?
"I liked Sally," said Quentin.
"Yeah, she's a real charmer."
Quentin looked up at the freeway sign announcing the next exit. Only it didn't say the name of a town.
GO AHEAD
Go ahead?
"I got news for you, Quentin," said Bolt. "From what I know of women, Sannazzaro doesn't like you."
She did, though, for a little while.
The sign that should have announced restaurants at the next exit had also been altered.
OPEN THE BOX
"Of course, what do I know about women?" said Bolt.
The sign promising gas stations now said:
I WANT YOU TO
Go ahead, open the box, I want you to. Gee, thanks, Grandmother.
The little exit sign had also been changed.
DIE
"By the way, have you been noticing the signs?" said Bolt.
"Have you?"
"Somebody doesn't like you," said Bolt. "Can Sannazzaro do that?"
"I doubt it," said Quentin. "It's the old lady. She's a witch. Rowena's a witch. My wife Madeleine was a succubus."
For a moment Bolt was angry. "Rowena's not a witch!"
"Just think about it for a second," said Quentin. "Those words aren't going up on those signs by themselves."
"It's the old lady."
"Yes, it's the old lady. But the other stuff wasn't her. Rowena's the one who keeps her tied down to that bed. It's a war between witches, fighting over a dragon, flinging succubuses around to win the cooperation of the occasional man. Don't think for a minute that just because you loved Rowena, she isn't one of them."
"Yeah, well, what do you know about Rowena?"
"Nothing. I know absolutely nothing about anything, Bolt."
"Me too."
"You can say that again. If you hadn't been acting like a prick back at the rest home, Sannazzaro wouldn't have gotten so angry at me."
"I don't know what gets into me when I'm around that woman," said Bolt. "If there's any witch in this whole business, it's her."
I'm not calling them witches metaphorically, Quentin wanted to say. I'm telling you that the woman you love probably had you enthralled, under control. That's probably what was happening to you back in the rest home.
But there was no point in saying it. Because if it was true, Bolt wouldn't be able to understand it.
"Anyway, it's been a long time since lunch," said Bolt. "If by some chance one of these signs actually says something about food instead of carrying your hate mail, you up for dinner?"
How could he think of eating?
But now that he mentioned it, Quentin was hungry too. "You sure the police won't be looking for us?"
"We've changed counties now," said Bolt. "That sign that said liar about eight times was the county line. Besides, I don't think Sannazzaro really called the cops."
"No, I guess not."
"See? She likes you, Quentin. Not calling the cops on you—man, that's love."
Quentin had to laugh in spite of himself. Bolt was back to himself again. Things would settle down at the rest home, too. Sannazzaro would realize that she overreacted. Mrs. Tyler too. Everything would be fine.
In the meantime, what had he learned? He thought of all the stories of witches he had heard and read. The warty noses and pointy chins were obviously just prejudice against age. The magic potions were the stuff of alchemy, or the lore of folk medicine, which was used to both cure and curse. But the idea of witches calling upon the dead, sending succubuses to sleeping men, collecting macabre body parts from people they knew, all of these must have had roots in true incidents. Even the stories of witches worshiping Satan... for what might happen if this beast that Mrs. Tyler talked of should succeed in taking control of an adult body? There were plenty of people who worshiped Hitler. Caligula made himself a god. What if the beast took over some poor devil of a druid? What would that look like to people who didn't understand what those witches were doing, or who the man they worshiped really was? For the lifetime of the man it inhabited, the beast might well make witches into his personal slaves, holding bacchanals that would fit even the most bizarre medieval accounts. Witches, succubuses, dragons, the devil. To some people they would always be myths. But not to the people who were born with a greater ability to commune with spirits living and dead.
What about me? Quentin couldn't help but wonder. He certainly had nothing like the power of these women, but he had some. He had called to Lizzy without realizing it—and without having any relic of her, either. The moment he imagined having a relic of her, he thought of what that would have entailed, taking some fragment of her body. Wasn't that just what the transplant doctors had done? Organs of her body had been scattered across the country and kept alive, binding her spirit to them until at last they died. He shuddered in revulsion.
"Turn the heat up if you're shivering," said Bolt beside him.
Quentin thought of how Bolt, poor man, was in love with a witch and never realized it. Rowena kissing him in the kitchen. Quentin had been pretty thoroughly enchanted by a succubus; how much stronger must it have been for Bolt, who kissed the witch herself? Was that the exact method a witch used to enthrall a man? The kiss that wakens the sleeping princess. The kiss that turns the frog into a man. A kiss before dying.
He tried to sort through all that Mrs. Tyler had told him about thralls. A man with no will of his own. The beast would leap right past him to the woman who owned him. So if Bolt was enthralled, that would explain why Rowena couldn't use him to open the box. It would expose Rowena as surely as if she opened it herself. But what could a thrall do? Had she sent him to try to murder her mother? Maybe he wouldn't even know that was what he was about to do? His rational mind would have to make up some alternate explanation for his own actions, such as wanting to rearrange the old lady's pillows. He loved and honored Mrs. Tyler; he couldn't possibly imagine killing her. Even if he found himself in the act of murdering her, the idea would be inconceivable to him.
Dangerous people, these witches. As dangerous when they loved you as they were when they hated you. That is, if they ever really loved anybody, instead of just using them.
Quentin pressed the long-distance speed dial number for Wayne Read on the cellular phone. It didn't really matter now if Bolt heard him or not. Rowena and Mrs. Tyler and half the witches in the world could be listening in on all his conversations and he'd never know it.
The salutations over, Quentin got to the point. "If you don't have the address for the so-called Duncans yet, I have more information. The wife was born Rowena Tyler. And their address is probably in the file of Mrs. Anna Laurent Tyler at the Willoughby Retirement Home." He gave him the address.
"We're still checking out other leads too," said Wayne. "If you were just there, why didn't you get the address yourself?"
"I didn't part on good terms with the management."
"So how is our investigator going to get the information?"
"It doesn't have to be admissible in court, Wayne."
"You've been reading too much detective fiction, Quentin. Most private investigators have no burglary skills whatsoever."
"Most burglars have no burglary skills. Just walk in during business hours, take the file, Xerox the sheet with the address, and walk out. They're shorthanded right now."
"Quentin, you live in a fantasy world."
"We all do, Wayne. I just found out I was married to a succubus who was created by a witch. It's year-round Halloween now."
"We'll find a sane way of getting the address."
"Thanks."
"By the way, Quentin, you asked me how to go about divorcing a woman who doesn't exist?"
"I thought it might be a problem."
"No problem at all. No divorce needed. There wasn't a marriage."
"What do you mean?"
"All the documents—license, certificate—she never signed them."
"I watched her." But of course that meant nothing; Quentin knew it as he said it.
"It's your signature on both lines of every document. You're married to yourself, Quentin."
"At least I know I'll be faithful."
"Good-bye, dear lunatic. Try to stay uncommitted for a little longer—at least until you've paid my bill."
"I'll do my best."
Bolt laughed when Quentin hung up the phone. "Listen, if Rowena doesn't want you to find out where she is, nobody's going to get a true address."
"So I guess we'll have to hope she does want me to find her."
"I don't imagine you'll take me with you."
"Believe me, Bolt, if she wanted you to go to her, I wouldn't be able to stop you."
"Damn straight," said Bolt, pretending to be joking.
Rowena existed in the real world somewhere. Sooner or later, Wayne Read's investigators would find her; if she still had a use for Quentin, she would let them find her. The creator of the succubus that Quentin had loved and lost—yes, he would have something to say to her when they met.
It usually wasn't hard for Quentin to wait for other people to do their work. His career for many years had consisted of giving people the money and support to make a go of something. He would get periodic reports about how things were going; he would meet with them now and then; but by and large he let them do what they loved to do, what they had dreamed of doing, and waited until it was fairly clear how things were going to turn out.
In a way this was the same thing. Caught up in other people's dreams, waiting to find things out. The trouble was that he wasn't sure what the dream was, or who was the dreamer, or whose nightmare it would be when all was done.
He toyed with the idea of waiting in Mixinack for Wayne's report—Bolt even offered to let him stay on the couch in the study of his big old Victorian house. But Mixinack was the place where the treasure box was, and it wasn't the treasure box Quentin wanted to get into at the moment.
What did he want? After dropping off Bolt at his office to pick up his car, Quentin drove south on a road denuded of traffic by the storm. The advisories on the radio begged people to stay off the highways during what they were already calling the "Blizzard of '96." The airports were closed. Quentin wouldn't be catching a flight tonight. He should have looked for a motel and holed up to wait out the storm. Instead he kept driving south. Not because the weather would be better there—word was that the storm would do a better job of shutting down Washington than the budget impasse. The people that the grande dame had known as the Duncans, who were almost certainly Rowena Tyler and her husband and child, lived somewhere in the DC area. And they were the people he had to see. To find out how much of Mrs. Tyler's story was true. To find out what they really wanted of him. And to get some idea of how to extricate himself from all this.
Because he did want to get out. A few days ago, all he wanted was Madeleine. Now all he wanted was his liberty. A man who has loved the perfect lover isn't likely to find a substitute very soon. Rowena could give him that lover back, possibly, but he had a feeling her price for such a service would be too high. So why look for her and her family? Why not drive west until he found some open airport and fly on to California, to Hawaii, to Tokyo or Singapore. He thought of places he had always wanted to see but never took the time for, because there was no one to see them with. Jerusalem. Kilimanjaro. Machu Picchu. The Great Barrier Reef. The Himalayas. Tashkent. Timbuktu. There was no more reason to wait for a companion. Either he would see them alone or not at all.
But was there really anyplace on earth where he could be free of this? Maybe they would give up on him and find someone else to do their bidding. But was that better than having him do it? After all, their next victim might be a man who did have some connection to the world. A husband, a father, someone whose destruction would leave a hole. While Quentin knew that even if this business killed him, what difference would it make? His will had been changed to turn everything over to his parents. They would allow Wayne to follow through with all the existing partnerships, and then they'd do a pretty good job of philanthropy, getting rid of his entire fortune before they died, except for whatever they needed to make sure they finished out their lives in comfort. His death would leave the same hole in the world that a fish leaves when it's pulled wriggling out of the ocean.
So why should he turn this over to somebody else? Quentin was expendable. Be a good soldier, he told himself. March the march, up to the front, take aim, and fire your best shot. Then die if you must. But let it be with a bullet in front, not in the back. Facing the enemy.
Oh, aren't we getting dramatic? He laughed at himself and changed to another radio station as the previous one faded into the white static of the falling snow.
The Jersey Turnpike was closed. He started searching for alternate routes and ended up, about three in the morning, driving the deserted streets of downtown Philadelphia. A policeman pulled him over.
"Don't appreciate the joyriding, mister," said the cop. "Can't you see it's dangerous out here?"
"Got no place to go, Officer," said Quentin. "The airports are snowed in and I want to get back to DC."
"Find a motel and get to sleep."
"Then my car will be covered in snow and I'll be stuck in a city that's closed down tight."
"Better than having us dig you out of a snowbank three days from now, stiff as a board."
"Officer, will it be OK if I promise to find a safe place to bed down, and then just keep driving where I want? Or are you going to follow me and arrest me for trying to get home?"
The policeman looked at him with disgust. "Do what you want." Then he went on back to his patrol car.
Do what I want. Well, that's great advice. But what if the thing I want most in all the world can't be done? Because I want to go home, Officer, and home isn't that apartment in Herndon and it isn't my folks' house in California. Home is where the people who live there need me to come home to them, and worry about me when I'm gone. There's no such place on this earth, no matter how far I drive.
What's so wrong with feeling sorry for myself? Better that than trying to get other people to feel sorry for me. And somebody sure ought to, because my life is definitely in the pitiful range, if it hasn't already dropped on down into disastrous.
Oh, Lizzy, why did you have to go riding that night? Or why couldn't I have gone with you? Why couldn't we have done the transplant the other direction? It was a brain you needed, and mine was OK. You would have done so much better with it than I ever have. Why couldn't they transplant my life into you, so you could live it for me?
"Buck up, Tin," said Lizzy.
She was sitting beside him, shifting her weight in the seat to get comfortable.
"You're a pretty good snow driver. That's something they didn't bother teaching us in driver's ed back in high school."
"Thanks," said Quentin. "Sorry. I didn't mean to call you."
"No sweat. Truth is that I like it when you do. Time doesn't pass out there the way it does for you, so you can't exactly get bored, and there's plenty to do, depending on how you define do, but I gotta say I miss having a body. I never really used it, Tin."
"I was just thinking that myself."
"No, you were thinking that you were as useless as the turd of a dog who just died."
He laughed in spite of himself.
"You were thinking that you're the guy who really needs a hand grenade to land in his foxhole so he can dive on it, save his buddies, and have the President give the Medal of Honor to his parents, along with eight boxes containing his remains."
"Lizzy, is there any way through this thing?"
"There are a thousand ways through this thing, Tin. But they might all end up with you dead."
"Is that so bad? You're doing OK."
"Sure. Death's all right. But not worth going through any extra trouble to get here. You miss everything when you're here, Quentin. Even the pain. Even the despair."
"So is Mrs. Tyler right? Will the treasure box kill me?"
"Treasure box. What you mean is, is the beast real? Well, I didn't know what to call it till just now, diving into your memory to see what the old lady told you about it, but I'd say that's a pretty fair description of the bad thing in that house."
"She put it in the box. It isn't good to let it out."
"I don't know, Tin. As long as it's in that box, it's going to keep trying to suck people in to get the box open. But if it dies, maybe it'll be a while before somebody calls to it. Opens up to it and lets it in."
"Come on, Lizzy. Last time it got sucked into a year-old baby."
"She was lying to you, Tin."
"It wasn't in the baby?"
"Oh, it was, all right. But it didn't just happen along. Didn't just come. She called it."
"Man, that's even worse than what I said to her."
"She didn't realize that's what she was doing. She thought she had this brilliant baby, and so she wanted it to learn everything. She was pushing."
"Like those people who try to get their kids into college-prep nursery schools?"
"I guess."
"Or flashcards. They make their babies learn words from flashcards."
"She got the kid to call things it didn't have the brains to control. I don't care how smart a one-year-old is, Tin, walking and talking and all, it doesn't know how to deal with something as old as life itself. It came and the baby was gone, just hanging on to its own body like a passenger hanging from the back of the bus, begging the driver not to close the door."
"How did you learn all this, if the old lady doesn't know it?"
"After the passenger's been dragged long enough, he starts begging the driver to close it. Cut him loose. Even if it means he crashes onto the pavement."
"You found baby Paulie."
"I didn't like anybody else in that house. Baby Paulie was lonely and scared. I didn't realize how he was connected until now."
"So he was still there."
"Only sort of. Mrs. Tyler wasn't wrong. Best thing she could have done was cut him loose from a body he'd never have the use of again. If only she'd actually done it, instead of leaving him lingering, attached to that treasure box. But of course now it's too late. When that box opens, somebody's going to find themselves looking down the throat of the beast. And Paulie will still be along for the ride, as will the person the beast devours."
"Me."
"I hope not," said Lizzy. "Please don't."
"So I should run."
"I don't know. Maybe you should stay and win."
"Can I?"
"These witches are powerful, but you're not nothing. You've got some strength in you. And there's something else, too. You aren't trying to get something out of this."
"What, survival is nothing?"
"No, you don't even really care about that, either. One thing's for sure about all these guys, the witches and the beast. They want something. They're so hungry it hurts to be around them. They think that being hungry is the same as being strong. So the less you want, the weaker you look. Maybe that'll protect you."
"How hungry was Paulie when the beast took him?"
"Very, very hungry. Babies are nothing but hunger, and his mother was teaching him what to be hungry for. You can bet that even if the beast hadn't come, he would have grown up to be a monster."
Quentin laughed. "Yeah, I've seen children like that."
"No joke, Quentin. Monsters aren't born, they're made. By monster parents, or they make themselves by their own desires. But they don't come out of the womb deformed. There's always a path that leads away, even if they don't take it."
"Our parents weren't perfect either, Lizzy."
"But they were good people, and we knew that, we saw it. That's enough, if the child also wants to be good."
"And you learned all this by being dead?"
"No, Quentin. I learned all this by looking into your memories and seeing what you've learned without even realizing you learned it."
"What, is this like Madeleine? Am I talking to myself again?"
"Ever since I died, Quentin, when you talk to yourself you're talking to me. I'm in there. I'm part of you. You didn't have to steal some relic of mine, the way those witches do. I gave you my heart long before they cut it out of me. Along with my kidneys and my corneas."
"Nowadays they take livers and lungs, too."
"Car parts, body parts—automobile accidents are the great growth industry of America."
"I know you got that out of my head," said Quentin. "I read that somewhere."
"Quentin, you are hungry for something."
"What?"
"For a good life. For a life worth living."
"Sure I am. Who isn't?"
"But what if the price of that was killing somebody else?"
"Come on, Lizzy."
"Sometimes good people have to do terrible things. Mrs. Tyler had to decide what to do when the beast took her baby, no matter whose fault it was that it got invited in. Mom and Dad had to decide to let them cut me apart and kill my body so some good use could come from it."
"I've never forgiven them for that, either."
"They've never forgiven themselves, either. But they went on living, like Mrs. Tyler goes on living. Because that's what good people do. They make the terrible choices sometimes, and then they live with the results, because they did right, or at least the closest thing to a right choice that they could find."
"So who are you telling me to kill?"
"The beast, Quentin."
"But you said when the box opens..."
"Find the beast and kill it. Send it back out into darkness."
"It'll just find somewhere else to come in again."
"Maybe not for a long time. And then someone else will have to find it and kill it. But you will have done your part here and now."
"Lizzy, I've never even hit anybody in anger in my life."
"Don't be angry now, either. No matter who it is, no matter what they've done to you. Even the beast itself—don't be angry, don't be hungry for revenge. Because if it takes you down its throat, then you'll be the one begging for someone to cut you free."
"Like you begged me."
She shrugged. "Look. Baltimore signs. That's close to Washington, right?"
"Like halfway from Philadelphia, maybe. With this snow I may never get there. I'm insane to be pushing on through like this."
"No, you're close now. You're going to make it."
"Lizzy, why can't you stay with me all the time? Just to talk to? Think what we could do together. The life we could live!"
"Nothing you do can turn it into a life for me. And if I'm here with you, it won't be a life for you, either. You called to me a lot, after that first year, but you didn't see me showing up, did you? Not till you were in real trouble. The rest of the time I left you alone."
"I didn't want you to leave me alone, Lizzy."
"Sometimes we get what we don't want."
It was hard to see, his eyes awash with tears of longing and regret. "Lizzy, I'm scared."
"Good idea."
"And it hurts. Losing you. Losing her."
"Take an aspirin," said Lizzy. She always used to say that when he complained.
"We take Tylenol now. And whatever it is. Advil."
She joined in the old game. "Excedrin. Anacin."
"Bufferin. Goodey's Headache Powders. Lizzy, don't leave me, please."
In that moment she was gone. He paid the toll and went down into the tunnel that would take him under Baltimore. Somewhere on the other side of the tunnel was the witch who had sent Madeleine to him, the witch who had led him to the treasure box, the witch who wanted to feed him to the beast.
It was just before dawn when he got onto the belt-way around Washington. With the blizzard there was so little traffic that he made better time than usual. The snow made everything feel silent, though Quentin knew that inside the car the noise was the same as always. He rounded a curve and the Mormon temple loomed, brightly lit as always, but even more dreamlike and fantastic in the falling snow. Right where the temple looked most like a Disneyland castle, someone had written in huge letters on an overpass Surrender Dorothy! The letters had been plastered over, but patches of lighter gray marked where they had been, which made him think of the caption and smile.
Then he thought of the Wicked Witch of the West flying over Oz to write those words in the sky and the smile faded. No flying broomsticks for these witches. But still they flew. Who knew how many witches were observing him here in this car as he drove? Hi, Rowena. Howdy, Mrs. Tyler. Showing me off to the coven? Look, here's the boy! You should have seen him bouncing around with that succubus we sent him! Married her, poor sap! Can you believe it?
What fools these mortals be.
He got off the freeway at the toll road, which had been recently plowed but no one was driving on it, not westbound anyway. He was alone in a white world. One tollbooth was manned, but he drove through one of the coindrops because he didn't even want the human interaction of paying a toll. Now that he was near home, his sleepiness was almost overpowering. He started chanting exit names. Wolf Trap Farm Park. Hunter Mill. Wiehle. Reston Parkway. He got off at the Fairfax County Parkway, threw another quarter into a coindrop, and now there was some traffic. If one lonely pickup truck spinning its wheels at an intersection counted as traffic.
He pulled the rental car into a snowfilled parking space and walked past his own car, which had snow piled up to the windows. Most of the other cars were also covered, untouched since the blizzard started. No one in their right mind would have been out driving in this. The sky brightened a little as he climbed the stairs to his condo. The sun must have risen behind the snow and clouds. He let himself into his apartment, stripped off his clothes, and fell into bed.
He woke just after noon. The phone was ringing. He answered it in his sleep.
"Wake up, Quentin!" the phone was shouting.
"What?" said Quentin. "Who is this?"
"For the ninth time, it's Wayne Read. Quentin, are you awake now? Say something coherent please. This is a test."
"Hi, Wayne."
"What did you do, drive all night through a record-setting blizzard? Have you got the brains of a roach?"
"Roaches all stayed in for the storm."
"Smart roaches. If you're not going to wake up, Quentin, don't answer the phone, let your machine take it."
"Didn't know I'd answered it. What do you want?"
"I have the name and address you wanted. They really are called Duncan but the number's not listed and they don't own the house so it wasn't easy finding them. Ray and Rowena Duncan." He gave the address. "The investigator there in DC says that it's a townhouse complex in Sterling, at Sugarland and Church. Sugarland crosses Dranesville Road at the last light before Route 7. Does all this mean anything to you?"
"Yeah."
"Have you written this down, or should I call again later?"
"I'm writing it." He fumbled for a pencil. Then he realized that if he opened his eyes, the job would be easier. "It's bright. Sun must be shining."
"Yeah, the blizzard is over for now. It's on the news. In California they love talking about eastern blizzards. It makes us all feel smart."
"Californians need that now and then," said Quentin.
"Well, you are one, so you'd know."
"How'd you get the address?"
"Very clever detective work indeed, Quentin. Our guy in Manhattan drove up to the rest home, walked in, and asked the superintendent for the address of the next of kin of Mrs. Anna Laurent Tyler. The superintendent—I think you know her—"
"Sally Sannazzaro."
"Thanks, I didn't want to try pronouncing it myself. She asked who wants to know. He said he was representing Quentin Fears and she said OK and gave it to him. She also gave him a message for you."
"If it's along the lines of drop dead, save it for later."
"No, it's along the lines of sorry I was such a bitch, and Mrs. Tyler says sorry too, and please come back she wants to talk to you."
"She called herself a bitch?"
"A direct quote."
"Did the words 'cast iron' come into it?"
"She didn't elaborate, but I'm sure you can pick the metal you want."
"So I guess she's not mad at me anymore."
"Quentin, I would say that was the gist of the message. But I can repeat it if you want."
Quentin didn't know why he felt so relieved, but he was almost giddy with it. "That's good. That's really good."
"Have you been drinking?"
"Driving all night. I'm still not awake."
"A word of advice. Don't go seeing these people until you are awake."
"Sure."
"See a movie. I recommend something light and stupid. Take your mind off your troubles. Not The American President, that's too stupid. Not Sabrina, it'll just break your heart that you're not in love. Broke mine anyway. Unless of course you are."
"Am what?"
"In love."
"Wayne, am I paying three hundred an hour for this?"
"Three fifty. I'm paid to give good advice. Twelve Monkeys will make you wonder if you're crazy, don't see that one either."
"Do you actually see all these movies?"
"I have to do something while my wife is going around to country bars, Quentin. I don't like my job well enough to work late every night. Though I'll admit that your recent activities have kept me hopping. Sort of information central here. I keep getting reports from all fifty states about how Madeleine Cryer never existed there, either."
"Sorry. You can call that part of the search off. Nobody's going to accuse me of killing her. They've got more to fear from an investigation than I do."
"Too late. I've already got all the reports and all the bills. Thanks to fax machines, every invoice is instantaneous."
"So pay 'em. You need me to send you another check?"
"No, I've still got plenty in the account. Quentin, get up, take a shower, go to a movie. Some mindless sequel. Grumpier Old Men. Father of the Bride Two. No, I take that back, that might depress you too."
"Good-bye, Mr. Ebert."
"Siskel. For Pete's sake, Quentin, I run every day. Good-bye."
Quentin got up, showered, armed himself with a broom, and went out to clear the snow off his car. He didn't have a shovel but the ice chipper from the rental car helped him get the deepest stuff, which had frozen. Most of the other cars in the lot had already been cleared off. A lot of spaces were empty now. People must be going back to work. Or else just getting out of the house before they went insane. Plows must have come through because the roads were drivable and traffic looked about normal.
He took the broom back up to the front door but didn't even bother unlocking it to put it inside. Nor did he go in to get the address he had written down. He wasn't ready.
Instead he took Wayne's advice, sort of. He drove to the Reston Town Center and put the car in the parking garage and walked to the theater. A big handmade sign in the window said Yes!!!!! We are open!!!! Quentin walked up to the box office and asked what was worth seeing and the ticket seller said, "Twelve Monkeys is the greatest movie ever made," so Quentin bought a ticket and went inside. It wasn't the greatest movie ever made but it was very good and every bit as disturbing as Wayne had said it would be. The message seemed to be, you can't change anything and you'll end up dead so why try? But it was certainly heroic, almost noble along the way. And everybody struggling to figure out what was real and what wasn't, Quentin absolutely knew what that was like. Also, the movie left him wondering how they decided that Bruce Willis got three naked butt shots and a fleeting moment of frontal nudity in the battle scene, while Brad Pitt only had one butt shot while he bounded around on beds in the mental hospital. Was there some hierarchy of nudity in Hollywood? The more millions you get, the more you get to moon the audience?
It was with thoughts like this that he walked through the dazzling sunlight to the Rio Grande, which was doing decent business for four-thirty in the afternoon. He sat down and looked at the menu while the couple at the next table talked about how nice it was to get out of the house, a lot better than having the police discover them later after they murdered each other, and should we get two orders of pork tamale appetizers or just split one, and where are the chips, didn't the waiter hear them when they asked for more chips? Quentin looked up at them—a red-cheeked dark-haired woman and her husband with blond thinning hair—and he said, "I'm not eating my chips, do you want them?"
They seemed horribly embarrassed at having been overheard and refused his offer with thanks and apologies. But Quentin had meant it. He had momentarily forgotten that at a restaurant everyone is supposed to pretend there's an eight-foot wall around each table. Except the waiters, of course, who are supposed to pretend that each table is the only one they're waiting on. Like living in a small town. Notice me when I want to be noticed, but why are you prying when I want to be left alone?
The waiter brought the other couple their drinks and then came to Quentin's table to get his order. As Quentin spoke to the waiter, he saw the couple raise their glasses to him in a cheerful toast. He smiled back at them. OK, so maybe sometimes the walls did come down.
He ate, he went home. The sun was setting. He couldn't put this off forever. He got the address and drove to the dwelling place of the witch who had chosen him to be her enchanted tool.
There should have been a flame leaping from a chimney, or the silhouettes of devils dancing on the window shades. Instead it seemed a perfectly ordinary northern Virginia townhouse, in a row of five with varied façades in a feeble attempt at individuality and charm. Much like Quentin's own. The porch light was on.
I know you're expecting me, he said silently. I know you've been watching me, you've been waiting for me to work up the courage to come here. So go ahead and open the door and end the pretense.
But the door remained closed.
He climbed the steps and rang the bell. After a reasonable wait, a man came to the door. "Yes?" he said.
"Mr. Duncan?" asked Quentin.
"Yes. Do I know you?"
"My name is Quentin Fears."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not expecting you. Should I be?"
"Are you serious?" asked Quentin. But to all appearances the man was completely oblivious as to who Quentin was and what he was there for. "Mr. Ray Duncan?"
"Yes." The man was growing a bit impatient.
"Your wife is Rowena Tyler Duncan?"
"What about her?"
"And her mother is Anna Laurent Tyler?"
"Yes." Now he looked concerned. "Has something happened to her?"
"I'd like to come in, if I might, and talk to you and your wife together."
"Who are you?" Ray demanded.
"I was at the rest home yesterday, talking with Sally Sannazzaro. With the airports closed I had to drive the whole way to talk to you today."
"If you have a message from Ms. Sannazzaro, why didn't she simply call?"
Quentin was through talking. Whatever game these people were playing, he was fed up with it. He stood and waited in silence.
Finally Duncan's curiosity overcame his suspicion. He opened the door wider and invited Quentin inside.
It was your ordinary overdecorated living room. Perhaps a little bit too Architectural Digest, but not so much as to offend the eye, as long as you stood with the fireplace at your back. Quentin took that position, but not for aesthetic reasons. It gave him a view of the front door, the passage to the kitchen and dining room, and the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.
"Have a seat, Mr.—Pierce, was it?"
"Fears, Mr. Duncan." Quentin sat in the red paisley chair, moving the white pillows from it and laying them on the floor. "Is your wife at home?"
"Fixing dinner."
Quentin thought of the breakfast he had at the Laurent house in Mixinack, and had no pity. "Please bring her out here."
"State your business, Mr. Fears."
Quentin's patience was done. "I've come here this once. I won't come again. And I won't stay another minute unless your wife faces me now."
"Faces you! Sir, you can pick yourself up and head for the door or I'll—"
A woman appeared in the passage between kitchen and dining room. "What is it, Ray?"
"Don't come out here, Ro. In fact, call the police, please. We have an intruder here who—"
But the woman ignored his instructions and came on through the dining room to the living room.
Quentin could not help but think that he had seen her before. For that matter, now that she stood beside her husband, they both looked vaguely familiar. But she especially—he had seen her. Spoken with her? Whatever the occasion, it wouldn't come to mind. Perhaps it was simply that she bore some resemblance to Madeleine. After all, Rowena created the succubus, it had to have some of its creator inside it.
Inside her. Whom was he trying to fool? He still thought of Madeleine as a woman, as his wife, despite his best efforts to expunge her from his heart.
"Rowena Tyler Duncan," said Quentin. "My name is Quentin Fears."
When she showed no reaction to his name, he went on. "I spoke with your mother last night."
Rowena's face darkened. "What do I care?" She turned to leave the room.
"And I rode back to Mixinack with Mike Bolt."
She stopped and, slowly, turned back to face him. She looked agitated. "Our old gardener."
"Chief of police in Mixinack now," said Quentin.
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Married and has several children."
Rowena nodded.
Ray Duncan was a bit nonplussed. "Who's this Mike Bolt guy? What are you talking about?"
"A childhood friend of mine," said Rowena.
"Oh, don't be so modest," said Quentin. "She enthralled him years ago. In the kitchen of her mother's house, as I heard the story."
"What do you want," Rowena whispered fiercely.
"Don't be coy," said Quentin. "I'm not here because of what I want. I'm not the one who's been playing games, Rowena. Quite the contrary. So drop the pretense and tell me what you want so we can decide what to do about it."
Rowena and Ray looked at each other. Whatever passed between them, it did not make them more cooperative.
"Sir," said Ray, "you seem to know more about us than we're comfortable with, but I assure you that we have no idea who you are."
He seemed so honest that for a moment Quentin wondered if perhaps he had been fooling himself. But Mike Bolt had seen the writing on the signs, and on the door back in the Laurent house. And Madeleine had disappeared, leaving no foot-prints. It was real, it had happened, Mrs. Tyler admitted it, and Rowena was a witch.
"I know more than you think," said Quentin. "I know that Rowena looked into her mother's mind many years ago and saw a memory of what seemed to be a terrible crime. And for all I know, it was a crime, a monstrous, indecent act. The murder of Rowena's brother, Paul, when he wasn't yet two years old."
Rowena covered her face with her hands.
"Ro, is this true?" Ray seemed genuinely appalled.
"Your wife, Mr. Duncan, is quite aware that her mother believed that it wasn't Paul she was killing, but rather something that she calls 'the beast.' It's Mrs. Tyler's belief that this creature took possession of her young son's body, and from then on her true son was already gone and could never be recovered. All that was left was for her to kill the beast. But not quite kill it. She kept it imprisoned somehow in a box that is kept in the parlor of the family mansion on the Hudson. Am I getting this right, Rowena?"
Her face still buried in her hands, Rowena nodded.
"But for some reason, Mr. Duncan, Rowena has decided she wants that box open."
Rowena looked up, startled. "Oh, no. Oh, please, no."
Ray was alarmed as well. "What is it, Ro?"
Rowena leapt to her feet and rushed to the foot of the stairs. Then, changing her mind, she hurried back to her chair and sat down, wringing the tail of her shirt. "It's none of your business," said Rowena. "Nor Mother's!"
"Oh, that would be my opinion, too, if you hadn't drawn me into it with that whole charade that's been ruining my life for the past year."
"Charade?" asked Ray.
"Why don't you tell him, Rowena? He might accept it better coming from you."
Rowena looked confused, but then apparently made up her mind. "You tell it, Mr. Fears. Tell us both."
"Madeleine," said Quentin. "My wife. The succubus that you created, Rowena. Are you honestly telling me that your husband has no idea that you're a witch?"
Ray rose to his feet and started for the kitchen. "I'm calling the police."
"Stop, Ray," said Rowena.
"The man's insane, Ro."
"No, we have to hear him out," she said. "We have to find out what's been going on."
Ray leaned against the wall, clearly furious at having been vetoed by his wife.
"You believe your wife Madeleine is a succubus created by a witch, Mr. Fears?" asked Rowena.
"She took me to the house you grew up in. I was made to believe that it was occupied. I met several of your dead relatives, and a couple not so dead. Your mother was there, in spirit if not in body. And your brother Paul, though of course Madeleine called him 'Uncle Paul.' Just as she called Mrs. Tyler 'Grandmother.' " And then Quentin stopped. Because, while his words clearly caused Rowena great pain, it was just as clear that she was hearing of all this for the first time. And now it finally dawned on Quentin that if Madeleine had been created by Rowena, why wouldn't Rowena have made her a woman of her own age? She was more or less the same age as Quentin. And Rowena could easily have supplied all the memories needed to make Madeleine completely convincing as a child of the sixties and seventies, like Quentin.
Instead Madeleine had been ignorant of many things she should have known. She covered it by pretending to have had a sheltered childhood, but in fact Madeleine could not have been the creation of a grown woman. Especially not in the parlor, where she had become a petulant, spoiled brat, acting like a child of... ten.
"Your daughter," Quentin said softly. "Of course she's also... one of you."
"A witch," said Rowena miserably. "Ray, go wake up Roz."
"Ro, you know how she hates us to waken her from a nap."
"What's she doing?" Quentin asked. "Flying around spying on people?"
"She doesn't understand how dangerous it all is," said Rowena.
Ray was at the foot of the stairs. "What are you talking about?"
"Please, Ray. Go get her."
Ray sighed and trotted on up the stairs.
Rowena faced Quentin and spoke earnestly. "My daughter is a remarkable girl, Mr. Fears. Very talented and... strong. Maybe if I had let my mother teach me, I could have controlled her the way my mother was able to control me during my child-hood. A child with such powers, such knowledge—it takes extraordinary care to keep them from running amok. But I couldn't trust my mother on anything, not after what she did to Paul."
"You never knew Paul."
"Yes I did," said Rowena. "He came to me every day as I was growing up."
Quentin knew the truth at once. "That wasn't Paul, Rowena. That was the beast."
She shook her head, then burst into tears. "I don't know," she said. "I just knew that I didn't want Mother to... if she was the kind of woman who killed disobedient children, then how could I bring my daughter under her care? I haven't been able to control Roz for years now. I'm afraid sometimes that she's controlling me. She studies things, figures them out, and... whole days disappear and I don't know what happened. I know she rules her father. He's completely enthralled. When I did that to Mike, I had no idea, I didn't know what I was doing. I've left him alone ever since—"
"Then who's been sending him to try to murder your mother?"
Rowena's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, no. No, she couldn't."
"Yes I could, Mother," said a petulant child's voice from the stairs.
A young girl slowly came down the stairs, her hair looking a bit slept-in, but otherwise neat as a pin. Quentin could imagine how she had looked during her nap—arms at her sides in perfect symmetry, nothing moving, the way Mrs. Tyler lay while her spirit was off keeping watch or whatever it was she did with it. Rewriting traffic signs, for instance.
Then the girl's face became visible as she finally got to a low enough step, and Quentin realized why Mr. and Mrs. Duncan had looked so familiar. He had seen all three of them before. In the Giant food store on Elden Street, right before his first hallucination of Lizzy.
"That's right, Quentin," said Roz. "You didn't like me, as I recall."
"I thought you were an insufferable spoiled brat."
Roz gave her best cutey-pie grin. "Well, I showed you, didn't I?"
"Showed me I was right."
"Showed you what real power is!" Her smile turned vicious. "You had your treasure of a sister in your mind. Comparing her to me. So I made you see her. Drove you crazy with it."
Quentin glanced at Rowena, sitting in her chair, and Ray Duncan, who had followed his daughter down the stairs and was now sitting on the couch. How were they taking this?
They both sat staring off into space.
"I shut them down," said Roz. "There's no reason for them to know all this."
"You created Madeleine just to torture me for daring to think what's obvious to everyone who sees you?"
"No, stupid. I showed you your sister because of that. But then, when you were sitting there watching the vision I made for you, what should happen but she turns up!"
"Who?"
"Lizzy," said Roz. "Your dead sister. Her spirit. Well, I wasn't calling her. She didn't even notice me. It was you who called her. What a joke on me! You had some of the power! Who would have guessed it?"
"Nothing like what you can do."
"Yeah, well, I'm kind of remarkable. The way Uncle Paul was. Only Mother didn't kill me the way Grandmother killed her precious baby boy. That's a nice thing to find in the family closet."
"You only got your mother's memory of it, with all her misunderstandings."
"I would have gotten Grandmother's memories directly, but I knew how strong the old lady is. She and Mother were battling it out constantly. That's how I learned half of what I know, watching their struggles to keep each other from watching them. It was easy to take control of Mother—she was completely off her guard. And Father, of course, is just a human."
"And therefore not worth considering."
"I need him for a phone call now and then."
"You're telling me you just improvised all this?"
"Come on, why not?" said Roz. "You were stronger than most humans. I thought about that for a few minutes and I realized that maybe I could use you to open the treasure box for me."
"Is that what your mother calls it?"
"Mother has no idea what it really is or how to use it. Power beyond belief. Grandmother filled her with horror stories about it, but that's because neither of them has a spark of creativity. Me, I think of all kinds of things that no one has ever thought of before. Least of all the dragon. It can be killed, which only sets it free to possess somebody else. It can also be captured, which is what Grandmother did. But I've done research neither of them thought of doing. There are books, if you know how to sort the nonsense from the truth. I'm only eleven, but I'm—how to say it mildly?—the school system calls me 'gifted.' "
Quentin wanted to smack that smug little mouth.
"So much for your being a nonviolent kind of guy, right, Quentin?"
He also hated the way she called him by his first name.
"What would be better?" she asked. "Should I call you 'Tin'?"
In that instant, she stopped being a little girl. She was transformed into Madeleine. Quentin's heart leapt in spite of all he knew.
And then she was Madeleine naked, prancing around the room like a stripper in some cheap movie.
He had done it before; he could do it now. He forced himself to know that she wasn't real.
She didn't go away.
"It's harder to get rid of me," said Madeleine, sitting in Ray's lap and twirling his hair, "when there's a real person inside the shell."
Harder but not impossible. Quentin remembered the bratty little girl and after a shimmering moment there she was, sitting on her father's lap, twirling his hair.
"You're a terrible lover, you know, Quentin. Any woman who ever sleeps with you is going to have to fake every orgasm."
It was obscene hearing language like that from a child.
"Your fault, Quentin," she said. "I wasn't interested in any of that stuff till you started pawing at Madeleine that night in your living room. It was obvious I was blowing it, so I had to read up and spy on Mom and Dad and figure out what this sex crap was all about. I finally got it, though, didn't I? Made all your fantasies come true, didn't I?"
Quentin looked away from her in shame.
"Oh, come on, here you are, you wanted to face me, didn't you? So face me. Be a man. Buck up."
"You don't want me to be a man," said Quentin. "You want me to be a tool."
"But we did have fun, didn't we? Playing with politics like we did. We made a great pair, spending your money to change the face of American politics. Whoever rules America rules the world. If you'd had the stomach for it, I might have forgotten all about the treasure box and gone for the big game. Not the '96 elections, but by the year two thousand we would have been ready. Both candidates for president would have belonged to us. But you just couldn't do it. Couldn't follow through. I knew from then on that you'd be nothing but trouble. So... plan B."
"The treasure box."
"It was really plan A all along, I knew that," said Roz. "I knew you'd wimp out because that's the way you are, soft at the core, like Mother. You just don't have the heart to do anything powerful. Even keeping her like this—I couldn't do it if she had any spine at all. She's a witch! She could shuck off my control if she wanted to. If she even knew I was doing it. But she keeps thinking that she loves me, and that makes it easy to control her. The way I could control you as long as you loved Madeleine."
"But you couldn't get me to open the box."
"That was Grandmother. She didn't know it was me, of course, because I cover everything I do with Mother's spirit. Just some of it, to serve as my mask."
"So it's you controlling Mike Bolt. Through your mother. And you constantly blocking Mrs. Tyler from seeing what you're doing."
"Easy easy easy."
"But you can't do everything at once."
"I don't have to. I just follow the people who matter. The people who amount to anything."
"You're afraid, though," said Quentin. "Or you wouldn't be trying to kill your grandmother."
"Of course I'm afraid, bonehead. This is powerful stuff we're dealing with. This dragon, it's no joke! And Grandmother can interfere. I want her out of the way. She's overstayed her welcome by about a decade."
"By coincidence, your lifetime."
"She's a baby-killer, Quentin. She deserves to die." Roz giggled. "Come on, get in the spirit of this."
Quentin shook his head. "I came here thinking that maybe we could do business. Maybe we could work out a way for me to get you what you want and have done with it. But no, I don't think so."
"I'm not worthy?" she said with mock regret.
"Who needs a beast with you in the world?"
The words didn't even seem to sting her. "Everybody's a critic. Well, let's see. That means Quentin Fears doesn't want to go back to Grandmother's house and open my treasure box for me. How sad for me! Poor Roz doesn't get her way! Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!"
Come on, you evil little witch, get to the point.
"Impatient, huh? Like I said, I only follow the ones that matter. For instance, that investigator your lawyer hired here in DC. While you were in talking to the grande dame, I was out at his car, enthralling him. He's mine, Quentin. So he gave you the address of this house, sure—when I was ready."
"Ready? You were taking a nap."
"You went to a movie and had dinner. I had things to do. The point is—you remember, I was making a point—the point is that your little investigator, he also ran an errand for me."
Quentin felt sick, though he had no idea what she might have made the fellow do.
"He went to a graveyard in California and did a little digging," said Roz. "Got me a nice chunk of your sister's body. And since I also knew her name—you didn't know that was needed, did you?—since I knew her name, I was able to summon her. He just got back with it this morning. I've got your sister all locked up tight. A prisoner just like the dragon. Only she's not powerful at all. She can't get out, not even a little bit of her. She just exists inside her—well, let's just call it her home, why don't we?"
"The beast already has you."
"I'm stronger than the dragon. That's what Mother and Grandmother have never taken into account. What if somebody comes along who's so strong she doesn't have to kill the beast, or imprison it? I'm the one who will tame the dragon, and ride it wherever I want."
"Cowboy in the rodeo," said Quentin.
"And you'll help me, Quentin. It'll be in your body that the dragon lives while I'm riding it. I think that's only fair. I gave you the best year of your life. Well, not quite a year, but close enough. Once I got the hang of it, you had better sex than any man ever gets, night after night. And I was good company, too. The perfect wife. I paid in advance for the use of your body now. You won't suffer, you know. In fact, you and your precious Lizzy will be reunited. When your body dies, anyway. Nothing lasts forever, right? You have my word that after the dragon has your body, Lizzy comes out of the—place. Free again. So you get paid again. Come on, Quentin, it's a good bargain. Your sister for my dragon. Plus the happiest year of your life. You can't ever say you were cheated."
Quentin felt as if he were already dead.
"You may even get some vicarious pleasure out of seeing how the dragon and I use your body. You're thinking that I'm pure evil, I know that, but you're wrong. I'll use all that power to do good. Unite the world under one strong ruler. Peace on earth. Good will toward men. Hitler was Hitler before the beast got him. Caligula was already a strutting little bastard."
What do you think you are?
"Sticks and stones, Quentin. That's all I ever wanted power for. To do good for everybody. You'll see, this is all for the best. You were lucky to be chosen. And when I get old enough and reach puberty, I'll probably mate with your body, so that your children will inherit the kingdom of the whole earth. Like the book of Revelation promises—a thousand years of peace."
"It also promises devastation."
"That all depends on how stubborn people are about resisting me. You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs. Don't wince at the cliché, Quentin. It only became a cliché because it's true."
Quentin rose to his feet and walked on leaden feet toward the door. "I won't help you," he said.
"Oh, Lizzy will be so sorry to hear that."
"She'll understand."
"But you don't understand, Quentin. This isn't something temporary. If you don't help me, I'll never, never let her out."
Quentin stopped in the doorway. "Your lifetime and never are two different spans, little girl. You only think you're immortal."
"I don't have to live forever. I just have to bury your sister's dwelling place in the backyard, and—tell me, Quentin—who's going to dig it up? How many thousands of years before erosion finally exposes it? And even then, you don't know what her container is made of. But I'll give you a hint. It isn't biodegradable."
Quentin could hardly breathe, he was so filled with impotent rage.
Roz got up from her father's lap and skipped to the stairs. "I'm just a little, little girl," she said. "You shouldn't be so mad at me."
"I want you to die," said Quentin.
"Someday I will. Now say good-bye to my parents."
She bounded on up the stairs.
Almost at once, Mr. and Mrs. Duncan came back into focus. Ray looked quite startled. "I must have dozed off, for heaven's sake! What was I thinking of?"
Rowena, however, had an unutterable sadness on her face as she looked up at Quentin.
"I can't deny it anymore," she said. "My daughter rules me, doesn't she?"
"Only because you love her," said Quentin. "Though how and why, I can't guess."
Tears flowed down Rowena's cheeks. "Because she's mine. Because I'm not my mother. I love my children."
"Your mother loved her children too," said Quentin. "But give your mother credit for this much: The beast stole her child. She didn't raise hers to be a monster."
"Do you dare to judge me?" said Rowena.
Quentin shook his head. "I don't judge you for what you've done, or haven't done. But if you let her do what she's planning, then I blame you, yes."
"I don't care what you blame me for," said Rowena. "I'm not my mother!"
"Too bad for the human race," said Quentin. "Too bad for your daughter. She thinks she can control the beast."
Suddenly Rowena and Ray went slack again. Roz appeared at the top of the stairs.
"That's enough, Quentin," she said cheerily. "A little learning is a dangerous thing."
"And absolute power corrupts absolutely," Quentin answered.
"Bite me," she said. Then she gave him a little wave. "Open the door and out with you, babe."
He wanted to think of something he could say that would wither her with its brutal cleverness. But nothing came to mind. And there was no point in trying to talk to Rowena and Ray, not when they were in this condition.
"Roz," he finally said.
"Yes, Tin, my pet?" She spoke the term of endearment so ironically that it cut him to the heart. Because he would be her pet, if she won her gamble. If she lost, he would still be the dragon's mount, the beast's own steed, and Lizzy would never get out of prison.
"Maybe I'll do it," he said.
"Lizzy will be so glad to hear it."
"You've got to bring Lizzy with you. Whatever you've got her in, bring it."
"Not a chance," said Roz. "You think I'm stupid? I'm just a widdow widdow girr." Her baby talk made him want to smack her all over again. "We wouldn't want nasty badums to stwangow me, would we?"
"As if I could."
"Just in case you get any ideas about that," she said, "remember that I'm not an illusion like Madeleine was. If it comes to a fight between us, I'll win. You can't fight a witch, Quentin. You aren't that strong."
"If I decide to do it, how do I let you know?"
"I'll know, you big silly goof." She did her cutesy giggle again.
"What makes you think you'll succeed this time, when last time you failed?"
"I have a better plan."
"For instance?"
"I'll be there myself this time," she said. "And there'll be a little less interference."
"You're no match for your grandmother, if that's what you mean."
"I'm a match for anybody," she said. "I'm younger than Alexander was when he inherited his father's kingdom."
"You're not as smart as you think you are."
"You're not smart enough to judge. Now go away, Mr. Fears. My parents get so stiff and sore when I put them out like this, sitting up."
Quentin opened the door and left, the door ajar behind him. He was halfway down the steps when he heard her. "That was a childish gesture, Quentin! Leaving the door open! What a big baby!"
He ignored her and returned to his car.
There had to be a way to stop her. The trouble was, he didn't know enough to have any hope of discovering it. But that was all right. Mrs. Tyler wanted to see him again. She would help him figure out what to do to get Lizzy free without turning loose the beast upon the world.
Though he also knew that if it came to a choice between Lizzy's freedom and saving his own life, or even saving the world, he wouldn't even have to think about it. His own life was worthless to him now. And the world? The world could take care of itself. The dragon had been abroad in the world before, and the world survived. Besides, even dragons don't live forever. Peter, Paul and Mary didn't know what they were talking about.
Dragons die, yes. Wouldn't that be a joke on Roz and the beast, both? If he took a huge dose of poison just before opening the treasure box? Let the dragon have his body, and then it drops dead!
But that wouldn't get Lizzy out of the prison. He had to have a better plan than that. Mrs. Tyler would know what he should do. He had to get back to Mrs. Tyler.
Quentin called the rental car company and explained why the car he rented at La Guardia was about to be left at Dulles. The clerk he talked to had a singsong nasal voice, which would have been annoying enough by itself. What really drove him up the wall was her air of complacent superiority and utter unwillingness to admit the tiniest shred of merit in Quentin's position.
"That car isn't authorized for return at another airport, sir."
"But that's where it's going to be returned."
"But you can't return it there, sir."
"But that's where I am."
"You signed a contract promising to return the car to La Guardia."
"There was a storm. La Guardia was closed down."
"A contract is a contract. Don't you keep your contracts, Mr. Fears?"
"I'm trying to return the car. You have an office at Dulles."
This cycle was repeated about three times before Quentin finally lost patience. He didn't raise his voice. In fact, he spoke more quietly. "Let me explain it to you very simply. You don't have a choice because I didn't have a choice. La Guardia was closed and I had to get to DC. Now I'm here, and I'm flying back to New York from Dulles. FAA regulations won't allow me to check the car as luggage."
"You signed a contract, Mr. Fears. If you don't intend to—"
Quentin was fed up with being accused of breaking his word. "I'm saying this only once. If you want to talk instead of listening, that's fine with me."
"Go ahead, Mr. Fears."
"I paid for the collision damage waiver. That means if I wreck the car I don't have any problem about not returning it. Also, if the car is stolen I'm off the hook. So either you can have your people at Dulles accept the car, or I'll leave it at a Seven-Eleven with the keys in the ignition and the motor running, and you can have your insurance company reimburse you. Which will it be?"
"You'll have to speak to my manager."
"I have a better idea. You speak to the manager. If he or she has any questions, here's the number of my attorney."
Quentin put his kit into a bag along with his last clean shirt, socks, and underwear. He'd buy more if he needed it. He also took his cellular phone, and on the way to the airport he called Wayne Read and told him about his problem with the rental car company.
"Quentin, you shouldn't let clerks like that get to you. The madder you get, the more they enjoy it."
"I know, Wayne. They get a little power and it goes to their heads. I just don't want to be delayed."
"I'll call them. Don't worry about it."
"I'm five minutes from Dulles."
"I'm very, very quick."
He was. The car return people accepted his contract without a quibble. "That's just fine, Mr. Fears. All taken care of."
Sometimes it was very nice to have money and lawyers. Why ordinary people didn't strangle arrogant bureaucrats more often, Quentin didn't know. But then, bureaucrats were ordinary people. Maybe most people simply understood about having to obey stupid rules at work. They went along because they didn't want to cause some other poor schmuck any trouble. Everybody had to do what it took to keep their jobs.
Yeah, but they didn't have to take so much pleasure in it.
As he walked through the airport he thought, So I have money and that means I can buy my way free of a lot of petty annoyances. Somebody bothers me, I can have my lawyer deal with it. Is that evil, somehow? To have that much power? How much power do you have to have before you're a monster? How easy do you have to make your own life at others' expense before you're evil and deserve to be destroyed?
Sitting on the plane, Quentin decided that he hadn't crossed the line. Yet. He knew he wasn't a tyrant. Yet. But he also knew that the line wasn't very clearly drawn. When did Roz cross it? Because he was pretty sure that she had. Controlling your own parents, using them as tools, creating a succubus to seduce some poor sap into sacrificing his body so you can try to harness an even worse monster than yourself—all those things were over the line.
At the same time, he had to recognize that once he turned things over to Wayne, there was no guarantee that it would all be handled kindly and politely. For all he knew, Wayne was the lawyer from hell, calling the head of customer relations and explaining that Quentin Fears, who had enough money to carry out a hostile takeover next week, was being harassed by an ignorant clerk in the New York office and could he please be allowed to return his car at Dulles? And then the company bigwig got on the phone and took care of everything. Part of which might be the serious chewing out of that clerk at La Guardia. Or maybe a bad evaluation. Or maybe losing her job. Maybe because she had messed with the wrong man, with Mr. Big Shot Millionaire, that clerk was going to go home and tell her widowed mother and three younger siblings, of whom she was the sole support, that she had lost her job.
Just because I don't see how it's done doesn't cleanse me of evil that's done in my name, with my money. Maybe the only difference between me and Roz is how far over the line we've chosen to go, and how honest we are about what we want in the world. I tell myself I never sought power, that I don't care about money, that I'm just going about doing good.
The woman at the car rental company in New York was a jerk. She probably didn't lose her job or even hear about the matter again. But Quentin didn't know. Just as Roz had no idea of what she was doing to the people she controlled. That private investigator who flew to California and somehow managed to dig up the grave of a girl who died decades ago and take some part of her body—he couldn't stop himself, but now he had to live with having done it. Roz didn't care. Roz didn't wonder about it. But was that the only difference between them—that she didn't have a second thought about it, but he wondered and felt a little guilt?
Besides, how did he know she felt no guilt? Maybe she was racked with it all the time, but went ahead because she knew she was doing good. She would unite the world under one government. She would end all war. No more Bosnias or Rwandas, Somalias or Chechnyas. Lebanon at peace. Chiapas without corruption or oppression. Colombia without the cartelistas. Joyous celebrations of liberty in Tiananmen Square. The end of mismanagement in Zaire. The end of assassinations in Haiti. If these were the dreams of Roz's heart, then who was he to say that the few lives she ruined weren't a fair price for the good she would accomplish? How was her action any different from a government drafting soldiers and sending them off to die in a noble cause? There were noble causes. Why couldn't this child's cause be noble, too?
Almost he could make himself believe that there was no moral difference between himself and Roz. That he had no right to judge her. That it really came down to a contest for survival. The law of the jungle. On her side, powers far beyond any that Quentin could bring to the battle. On his side, whatever advantage came from age and experience over the shortsightedness and impulsiveness of youth. But morally, no real difference between them. Or worse—that the hopes of the world rested on her victory, and if he succeeded in thwarting her, the one bright hope for the future would be extinguished.
No no no, he shouted inside himself. That isn't right. That's all a lie. But he couldn't think of how he could ever be sure.
Is she the one putting these doubts into my mind? Trying to get me to come along willingly? The succubus wasn't enough, so let's try hoodwinking the boy.
But it didn't work that way. These witches could make people see things. They could enthrall them and force their obedience. They could cause people to forget things. But they couldn't enter Quentin's mind and force him to think a certain way, or he would never have been able to win free of his belief in Madeleine when she returned to him in his bed. These doubts came from his own mind. He was still his own man, alone inside his head.
Roz can't make me think a certain way—but she can see what I'm thinking. And that means that if I'm to have any hope of stopping her, I can't allow myself to think of my own plan. Which means I can't have a plan. Which means I might as well give up, because she does have a plan and I'm one of the pawns.
Aw, don't sell yourself short, Tin, old boy, he told himself. You're at least a knight. Maybe a bishop. Maybe even a rook.
But not the queen.
And the king was locked inside the treasure box.
That's my mistake, he realized. Roz is not the enemy. No matter how much I hate and fear and resent her, no matter how I might want to avenge my humiliation at her hands, the real danger is the one who stole Paul Tyler's life from him and waits now for the lid of the box to open so he can leap to another body and take control. The beast seduced Rowena with its lies. How did he know it wasn't also seducing Roz? Come to me, I'll serve you, you can rule over me. You're the one with the power. I'll jump into that Quentin Fears's body and then you enthrall him and you've got me. Good plan! Good plan!
Roz is not the enemy. Roz is being fooled by the beast as surely as I was fooled by Madeleine.
And truth to tell, in the contest between Roz and the dragon, Quentin might not even qualify as a pawn. Even as the game unfolded, he wouldn't understand what he was seeing. They were out of his league.
At La Guardia he rented another car—from a different company this time, because he didn't want to think again about what he might or might not have done to that clerk. He drove north on roads now banked with snow like canyon walls on either side, where the plows had pushed it all. No scenery, just the white lights of oncoming cars, the red lights of the cars ahead, and the looming walls of filthy snow.
As he neared Mixinack, he read Mike Bolt's number off his card and phoned him. Maybe it was crazy to go back to him, knowing that he had been under Roz's control. But now that Rowena was more aware of what was going on, Roz wouldn't have such free access to him. As long as Bolt stayed away from the rest home, he was a good man. A friend. And he had a right to know how this all came out.
Bolt answered the phone.
"This is Quentin. I'm about five minutes out of Mixinack. You offered me a place to stay. The couch in the den or something."
"It's midnight," said Bolt. "Are you serious?"
"I met Rowena today. She's living in Virginia."
"Is she... what you said? Is she your enemy?"
"She's a witch, Bolt. But I'm not good at picking out bad guys and good guys today. We'll talk about it when I get there."
"Is she coming here? Will she come to Mixinack?"
"I think so," said Quentin. "For all I know they beat me here."
"You really drove back to DC last night in that storm? They said nobody was getting through."
"They were off by at least one. They always are."
"And you're already back."
"Yeah, well, I'm a frequent flier."
"So come on over." Bolt reminded him of how to get there. And then: "Is she still beautiful?"
"Rowena?"
"No, her dog."
"Mike, you're married."
The joking tone was gone when he answered. "Please. Tell me."
"She's beautiful, yes." Though Quentin was quite certain that she would look even more beautiful to Bolt than she looked to him.
"I wasn't crazy to love her, was I?"
"Bolt, we're all crazy to love anybody. But it drives us even crazier if we don't."
"Was that, like, a wise and pithy saying?"
"You better have it posted on your fridge before I arrive."
As he negotiated the side streets of Mixinack, which hadn't been as thoroughly plowed as the highways, Quentin finally found the moral certainty he had been wishing for and despairing of all the way there. It was Lizzy. Lizzy held hostage. The right and wrong of it just didn't matter in the face of that. He would do what it took to get Lizzy out. And that meant staying alive himself, alive and free. Because he was pretty sure that whether the beast won or Roz did, Lizzy's bright spirit would be forgotten in her prison cell if Quentin wasn't there to find her and let her go.
Bolt's wife was up when he got there. Quentin saw at once that she had been asleep; her hair was tousled despite the brush that had been passed over it a couple of times, and her eyes were heavy with weariness. But she met him with a smile when Bolt introduced them. "My Leda," he said, casting an arm across her shoulder.
"Caf or decaf?" she asked, shrugging off her husband's arm and playfully jabbing at him with her elbow.
"No coffee," said Quentin. "You shouldn't have gotten up, I didn't want to be any trouble."
"If you didn't want to be trouble, you'd've stayed in a motel," said Bolt. "Come on, Quentin, how many times you think we have millionaires sleeping on our couch? Let us play the openhearted host."
"You're very kind. Decaf then, or hot chocolate."
"Which? Got 'em both," said Leda.
"Chocolate then."
She made hot chocolate for all three of them, and then pulled a half-finished quart of vanilla ice cream out of the freezer. They all put a dollop of the ice cream into the hot chocolate and then took spoonfuls of it, ice cold and scalding hot at the same time. As he ate, Quentin noticed the swans all over the kitchen. Swans of wicker, porcelain, stuffed fabric, wood; painted on pots, printed on paper and framed, embroidered on cloth, patterned in the wallpaper.
"Leda and the swan," said Quentin. "I guess that means the swan is you, right, Mike?"
"The god in disguise who comes and carries off the beautiful damsel," said Bolt. "Zeus. God of lightning and thunder. Thunder bolts, right?"
"Careful," said Quentin. "It makes Hera jealous."
"Yeah, well, there is no Hera," said Bolt. "The woman who gets up at night with my kids, she's the only woman for me."
She smiled at him, wan with fatigue, but pleased nonetheless at what he said. "Look at him, this is my romancer," she said. "The swan could pick me up, I don't think it could fly. God never made no swan that big."
Quentin could hear how she exaggerated the Bronx in her speech as she modestly refused her husband's worshipful words. A sweet woman, a good woman. And Bolt did love her. Too bad how he was in thrall to a witch whose daughter now had control of her and of the men she happened to possess. If Rowena wanted him, he'd walk away from Leda without a backward glance. And yet he'd know that he had done it. Could he bear living with that? Roz certainly wouldn't care; would Rowena?
They finished the chocolate. Quentin refused to talk about his plans. He didn't have any. He couldn't afford to have any. Drive to the rest home? Stay here waiting for Roz to arrive?
Leda went back to bed after rinsing the mugs. Bolt showed Quentin to his room. Not a couch, a fold-out bed, nicely made. A TV with a remote. "Not the Ritz," said Bolt.
"Beats Motel Six, though," said Quentin.
"Good night, then. You won't need no alarm in this house. We'll keep the door closed, but the pitter-patter of little feet will probably sound like World War II."
"I won't mind."
Bolt turned to go.
"Mike. Would I be wasting my time if I asked you for the loan of a gun?"
"You don't need a gun. Guns just go off and hurt people."
"You know what I'm up against."
"You can't shoot women who don't leave footprints, Quentin."
"The ones I'll be with, they leave footprints."
"Have you ever fired a gun?" asked Bolt.
"I promise you I won't shoot it around any civilians."
"What's to stop them from taking it away from you and shooting you with it?"
"I've got to have something, Mike."
"I'll get you something for self-defense. But don't even think about lethal force, Quentin. If there's any lethal force needed, I'll do it."
"You plan to be there?"
"Wouldn't miss it."
"But will you be a free man, Mike?"
"What do you mean?"
"Rowena owns you, Mike. Her mother said so."
"Her mother's lying," said Bolt cheerfully. "I owe her a lot, but what she says about Rowena, you just got to consider the source."
No point in arguing with him. Maybe Mike would be an asset, maybe he wouldn't. But since Quentin refused to think of any plan besides to wing it, he didn't let himself consider the question.
"Aw, don't look so glum, Quentin. Just think—you've been seduced by a succubus and now you get to have a showdown between the witches and the macho guys."
"Sweet of you to include me with the macho guys," said Quentin.
"That's what it means to be... pals." Bolt grinned.
"Not just guys, but pals." Quentin laid his hand on his heart. "I'm touched."
Bolt shook his head. "Yeah, well, just remember that if one of us has to die in that house tomorrow, I sure hope it's you."
"I know Leda wouldn't have it any other way," said Quentin.
Bolt closed the door behind him as he left. Quentin undressed, and as he crawled onto the creaking, sagging fold-out bed with the paper-thin mattress he knew it would be the worst night of his life. He was asleep in three minutes.
In the morning, Quentin pulled on his clothes and staggered into the kitchen, where Leda was making pancakes and slapping them down on the kids' plates. "Don't you want to use the bathroom before you eat?" she asked.
"If the pancakes are ready now," he said, "I'm not going off to the bathroom and letting these guys eat them all."
The kids laughed and Leda introduced them and they ate breakfast together. Not until they had charged off to school did he realize that he hadn't seen Bolt this morning. Why hadn't he noticed? It was incredible that he hadn't noticed.
Roz, what are you doing?
"Where's Mike?" he asked, dreading the answer.
"Oh, he had some errands he had to run. He told me to tell you that's the burden of the working man. Also I'm supposed to give you this." She handed him a small spray can. Nothing was written on it by the manufacturer, but a label saying "MixPolDep" had been affixed to it. "It's Mace. The real thing, not pepper spray. Tear gas. He says don't use it outdoors because it's bound to blow right back in your own face, and if you use it indoors make sure your hand is no more than a foot from your target's face."
"He really thinks I'm a klutz, doesn't he?"
"I don't know about that," said Leda, "but he gives the same instructions to new cops when they start working for him."
"I can live with that," said Quentin. "Thanks for the breakfast. Best meal I've had in a week."
Which was true. What he had thought he was eating in the Laurent mansion was better, but it wasn't, strictly speaking, a meal.
"Should I wait for him to get back?" Quentin asked.
"He says do what you need to. If you aren't waiting for him at the department, he'll drive on out to the house. Don't start without him, he says."
"Fair enough," said Quentin.
Then dread stabbed through him and he thought, I wasn't going to let Bolt out of my sight. I've got to go looking for him. He's already got at least an hour's head start on me. Got to call Sally and warn her that Bolt is on the loose.
But he didn't call her. He went to the bathroom and showered and shaved and got dressed in the last of his clean clothes. Maybe it would be the last time he'd ever need clean clothes anyway.
For a moment, as he left the house, he remembered vaguely that he had some kind of errand to run. Something that had seemed very urgent when he thought of it back in the kitchen, right after breakfast, but what was it? Couldn't remember. Well, if it was that urgent it would come back to him.
He drove to the police department. The receptionist said, "Chief Bolt was here a minute ago. He stepped out for a minute. He says for you to wait."
Only then did he remember his urgent errand, and in that moment relief swept over him. Bolt had just stepped out. Everything was going to be fine.
He opened the door and found Sally Sannazzaro waiting in Bolt's office.
She jumped to her feet. "I can't believe it," she said. "Mrs. Tyler said I'd find you here. I thought she meant that Chief Bolt would tell me how to reach you, but no, here you are!"
"It's fate," said Quentin. "You drove all the way down here? You must have left at five in the morning."
"I left at eight. The roads are clear and it's later than you think."
"Thanks for not holding a grudge," he said.
"No, I was terrible. Bolt just gets under my skin. Maybe he fools you with a nice-guy act, but I swear he's evil."
Quentin shook his head. "When he's himself, he's a good guy. He loves his wife and kids."
"Well, I guess I've only seen him when he wasn't himself," said Sannazzaro. "What about you? Are you yourself right now?"
"I hope not," said Quentin. "I'm trying to work up the courage to do some really stupid and dangerous stuff today."
"If you know it's stupid..." But she didn't finish the sentence. They both knew that sometimes stupid, dangerous stuff had to be done.
"What brought you down here?" asked Quentin.
"I'm on Mrs. Tyler's errand," she said. "Somehow she knew you'd be here."
"Amazing woman. I guess this means she's talking to you again."
"She's so alert since you visited. Even more than when she first came to the rest home. She assures me that you didn't cure her, but Quentin, I—can I call you Quentin again? Still?"
He had a sudden impulse to say, Only if I can call you Mrs. Fears. But he didn't say it. He knew at once that this sudden desperate desire he felt for Sally Sannazzaro was nothing but eve-of-death syndrome. The same need that made soldiers on the verge of war want to marry someone or sleep with someone, to leave seed behind in case they didn't come back.
She misunderstood his hesitation. "So you're still angry?"
"No, I'm not angry at all. I don't know what I'm feeling. Please call me Quentin."
She rested her hand on his for a moment, to cement their reconciliation.
Then she took a large manila envelope out of her purse. It had been folded in quarters to fit. She unfolded it, opened it, and pulled out a Ziploc bag filled with gray hair.
"She sent me her hair?" Quentin asked.
"I didn't say she was sane, Quentin, I just said she was alert. I can't explain it to you—she got up, found the scissors, and hacked her hair off before I even got there this morning. She looks dreadful but she said you'd know what it was for. And if you don't, there's a note."
"What does it say?"
"She didn't tell me I could read it."
He thought of the grande dame, complaining when he didn't seal the note he was leaving with her, and he smiled.
"You think I read it anyway?"
"I smiled because I knew you didn't," said Quentin.
She rolled her eyes. "That was mean," she said.
"Mean?"
"Of course I read it. One of my residents cuts off all her hair, gives it to me in a plastic bag, and tells me to take it to a millionaire in a town where he doesn't live so how do I know he's even there, and you think I didn't read the note?"
By now Quentin had it open and was reading it.
Dear Quentin,
If this is with you, then I am with you. Wear it over your heart. It isn't much, but it's all I can do for you now. Don't let it touch your skin. If it touches your skin, it won't be able to resist taking you, even if it wants her more. It's in your hands. God be with you.
Yours sincerely, Anna
"You read this?" asked Quentin.
"Does it make any sense to you?"
It hadn't at first. Until he realized that when she said not to let it touch his skin, she didn't mean her hair, she meant the beast. Or did she?
"She's crazy, isn't she?" asked Sally. "I love her, but the old lady's gone bananas, hasn't she?"
"Is that a clinical term?" asked Quentin.
"It's a serious question. I knew she was mentally gone as soon as I read it. But I couldn't let it go. I knew I had to come down here and show it to you."
"She's not crazy, and you know it," said Quentin.
Sally hesitated a moment, then nodded. "I know. But I want to know what this is for."
Quentin opened his shirt, then took it off. "Bolt must have some duct tape in here somewhere. He's too macho to have nothing but this wimpy office tape."
Sally joined him in opening drawers and file cabinets. "So you aren't going to explain anything?"
"Sally, all I'll do by explaining is make you think I'm even crazier than Mrs. Tyler."
"Here it is. This file drawer is like a tool cabinet."
"Help me tape this bag over my chest, would you? And don't bother with the cheap joke about putting hair on my chest. I know how stupid this looks."
"Quentin, I don't know what you think you're doing, but this isn't exactly a bulletproof vest, you know." One thing Quentin really liked about her: She might be complaining, but at the same time she was still taping.
He had to tell her the truth. It wasn't fair to leave her in the dark. And if he was going to lose this struggle, he didn't want Bolt to be the only one who knew what was at stake. "Mrs. Tyler's a witch, Sally. She can send her spirit out of her body into the world. Wherever some relic of her physical body is, she can focus and be drawn to it. I'm wearing this so when I confront the devil, I'll have her power between him and my heart."
Sally shook her head. "OK, don't tell me." She patted the bag on his chest, now outlined with duct tape. "You were right, it really does look stupid."
"Her daughter Rowena is also a witch," said Quentin. "Mike Bolt worked for the family as a kid, and she kissed him and enthralled him so that whenever she wants to, he's her complete slave and does whatever she commands. That's why he tried to smother Mrs. Tyler. He probably didn't even know he was doing it."
Now she knew he wasn't joking, but that didn't mean she believed it. "Come on, Quentin." She wound the tape all the way around his torso several times. "Why would Mrs. Tyler's daughter send some guy to kill her?"
"Because Mrs. Tyler killed her son, Paul, when he was a baby, and Rowena knows it and never forgave her." There was no point in trying to explain about Roz and the treasure box and Madeleine. Even this much was obviously more than Sally could believe.
"This story is crazier than Ross Perot," said Sally.
He pulled on his shirt and buttoned it over the bag of hair taped to his chest.
Sally was still trying to find something believable in Quentin's account. "Chief Bolt really did intend to kill Mrs. Tyler?"
"He doesn't intend anything," said Quentin. "It all depends on what the witch who controls him wants him to do."
"You're the one with witch friends, Quentin. When is the next time he's going to try it?"
They stood looking at each other for a long moment, there in Chief Bolt's office, as they thought of at least one possible reason why he wasn't there in the office with them. Why hadn't they realized it before?
Quentin opened the door and rushed out to the receptionist. "Where's Chief Bolt?"
"He doesn't report to me, Mr. Fears, it's the other way around."
"Can't you raise him by radio?"
"He didn't take a radio car."
"I thought all police cars had radios."
"The radio cars are all needed for on-duty officers," she said. "He was going out of the city anyway, what does he need a radio car for?"
"Out of the city? Where?"
"Check with me Friday when he has me type up his mileage report for the week."
Sally put her hand on his arm. "Quentin, I'm going back to the rest home."
"If he's really there, Sally, you can't stop him yourself. You get in the way, he'll plow right through you."
"I'll call the police," she said. "I'll call them as I go."
The receptionist looked puzzled. "What are you two talking about?"
"Nothing to do with you," Quentin reassured her. "Thanks for letting us use Chief Bolt's office."
"Oh, he said you should make yourselves comfortable if you showed up."
"Ourselves?" said Quentin. "He was expecting both of us?"
"Sure. Sally Sannazzaro and Quentin Fears. He wasn't sure you'd come in, Mr. Fears, but he said you were coming for sure, Ms. Sannazzaro."
Sally looked at Quentin with tear in her eyes. "There's no way he could have known that."
"I've been telling you the truth, Sally," said Quentin. "Whatever the witch who controls him needs him to know, he knows."
"I wish I had time to ask you why all this is happening," said Sally. "Wish me luck."
"Good luck, Sally." But he could see in her eyes that she already knew it was too late.
"Good luck yourself," she said. Then she practically flew out the door. Quentin heard her sensible nurse's shoes make ringing footfalls as she ran down the corridor out toward the parking lot.
With a sick feeling, Quentin followed her out into the hall, more slowly. Maybe he should go with her, head north, try to stop Mike. But it was obvious to him that Roz was manipulating things this morning. If she allowed him to go north, it was because it didn't matter—she had blocked him easily enough this morning, just by making him forgetful. In all likelihood, Mike had left an hour before, while Quentin was still showering. It would be easy for Roz to fool the receptionist into thinking Bolt had "just" stepped out even if he had never come in this morning at all. If Roz wanted Mrs. Tyler dead, it was already too late.
Quentin's only hope was to make sure that if Mrs. Tyler died today, she didn't die in vain. His job was to go ahead with whatever awaited him at the Laurent house. The Duncans were undoubtedly there already. Roz was an eleven-year-old kid. She wouldn't wait. They probably left for Mixinack before Quentin was through arguing with the rental car clerk on the phone. They probably arrived at the house before he even woke up this morning.
One thing for sure, though. They wouldn't start without him. He was the one who had to be there to open the box. That made him the guest of honor. He got in his car, pulled out onto the main thoroughfare, and headed south for the Laurent house.
Sally Sannazzaro was on the phone the minute she got her car out onto the road. "Chief Todd, this is Sally Sannazzaro. I'm down in Mixinack, and I have reason to believe that an armed man is going to attempt to kill one of my residents."
"This the same guy from the other night?"
"Yes."
"The police chief from Mixinack?"
"He's made an attempt before."
"It's pretty ugly when one police department arrests the chief of another one."
"We can sort it out later."
"How do you know he intends violence?"
"While we're talking about this, he could be shooting her. The resident in question is in room 368, that's third floor, the end of the south wing on the left, her name is Anna Tyler, she's an old woman, bedridden, completely helpless."
"Why would he have it in for a—"
"Don't just send a couple of patrolmen as if it were a domestic disturbance call or something, I have reason to believe Chief Bolt is having a psychotic episode. He's going to be extremely hard to stop."
"I sure hope you aren't just crying wolf, Ms. Sannazzaro."
"I sure hope I am."
She disconnected the phone. It was out of her hands. All she could do was drive north and hope she was wrong, hope that Quentin was as crazy as his story and Chief Bolt was just out in Mixinack somewhere running a speed trap or something.
But Quentin Fears didn't seem crazy. He seemed like the soul of rationality. A nice guy. How many millionaires stop to help a rest home make salad on a stormy night?
Got to stop thinking about the salad. Got to stop thinking about Quentin Fears. Drive, that's all I can do right now, drive north. Taping the old lady's hair over his heart. But that's what she asked for. And Chief Bolt did try to smother her. Can three people share a psychosis? Am I bringing the total to four?
Mike Bolt opened the glass door and walked right past the reception desk. There was no reason to skulk or hide. She didn't see him. None of them would see him. He was invisible. Two attendants walked past him as he stood before the elevator. His gun was in his hand—nothing subtle about what he was doing. But they didn't notice he existed.
Deep inside him, some lost part of himself was crying out, "I've got a gun, you fools! Somebody stop me!"
Outside, sirens wailed. Cars crunched through ice-crusted snow. Car doors slammed. The elevator door opened. Mike stepped on and punched the 3 button. He watched four policemen charge into the rest home, hands on their guns. Mike was in plain sight, framed in the closing elevator door, but they didn't see him. One of them inquired at the reception desk as two others took off at a run along the corridor, one left, one right. The fourth ran straight for the elevator, but instead of trying to get on as the elevator door slowly closed, he punched the up button. The door reopened, but the policeman didn't get on. He just stood there, tapping his foot impatiently, waiting. Finally the door closed completely without the policeman ever having seen the man he was there to find.
That lost inner part of Mike Bolt fell silent in despair.
Quentin pulled into the drive at the Laurent house, a place far too familiar to him now. He remembered how nervous he had been the first time, in the back of the limo, worried about meeting Madeleine's family. Would they like him? What a joke. But still he wished that he could go back. That Madeleine could be real, that the life he thought he had could be the real life.
A Lincoln Town Car with Virginia plates sat in front of the house, its engine idling. The doors were closed and it seemed unoccupied. As Quentin walked past the car on the way into the house, he glanced inside and saw that the driver's seat had been leaned back as far as it would go, and Ray Duncan was lying there, eyes closed. He must have driven all night to get here. The witches were leaving him outside to sleep. Apparently he wasn't going to be useful in today's little drama.
But he wasn't asleep. Or perhaps the crunch of Quentin's feet in the snow had wakened him. He gave a little wave and sat up. Quentin walked around the car to the driver's side as Ray rolled down the window. "Ro and Roz are already inside," he said. "I'm taking a nap."
Thanks for introducing me to the wonderful world of the obvious. "Must have been a tough drive."
"I like it," said Ray. "Makes me feel useful." He grinned.
I wonder if I looked as pathetic as this when I was Madeleine's lapdog. "Well, don't let me keep you awake."
"I just hope you like the house. Beautiful place but too big for us to keep up. I don't know what the rush is for, but I'll tell you, I'll be glad to get it off our hands. Rowena always gets so upset when you talk about it—either moving in or selling it. But last night after you came over to talk about buying it, well, she changed her mind. I shouldn't tell you this, but let's just say that we're pretty motivated sellers."
Quentin smiled. "We'll see."
A pair of driving gloves lay on the seat beside Ray. Quentin remembered what Mrs. Tyler's note said. Don't let it touch his skin. Maybe he shouldn't open the treasure box with bare hands.
"You going to need those gloves for the next little while?" asked Quentin.
Ray looked down as if noticing them for the first time. "No, you need them? Go right ahead." He handed the gloves through the window. "Got climate control in here, but I bet the house is an iceberg."
The house is whatever your daughter decides it is. "Thanks, Ray."
He heard the window rolling up behind him as he walked around the car and up the stairs.
Roz and Rowena were waiting for him on chairs in the entry hall. Rowena sat like a lady; Roz had her feet up over the arm of the chair. "Took you long enough," said Roz. "You flew and we got here first."
"Didn't know it was a race," said Quentin. To Rowena he said, "Hope you didn't have any trouble getting in. But of course you have a key."
"No, we don't," said Rowena. "The door was open."
"Chief Bolt locked it when we left here the other day."
Roz sighed. "Why are we discussing locks and keys?"
"Because, as your mother will tell you, the thing inside that box is stronger than you think," said Quentin. "Don't open it, Roz."
"I'm not going to. You are." Roz grinned saucily.
"Haven't you explained it to her, Rowena?" said Quentin. "That thing is supposedly trapped inside the box, but still it has power enough seeping out to lock and unlock doors. It's not like you. It has the power to make changes in the physical world. It's so far out of your league that it's insane of you to think you can control it."
Roz got up and started skipping around the room. "Grown-up talk. It's a good thing for you I need you to be free. When my parents lecture like this, I shut them up. I feel sorry for other kids who have to listen."
"Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe the beast is deceiving you as surely as you deceived me? 'Come on, it's not so strong, you can control it, you can ride this horse,' just a bunch of lies to fool you into doing what it can't do for itself—break your grandmother's seal and get out?"
"No, Quentin. Stupid impossible ideas don't occur to me." She looked down at his hands. "You won't need those gloves."
"It's cold in here."
"How stupid do you think I am? I said, you won't need those gloves!" Her face grew nasty and dangerous-looking, filled with rage.
"I think I do," said Quentin.
She transformed before his eyes into a monstrous travesty of a woman, long nails reaching for him, sharp teeth brandished in his face. "Take off the gloves," hissed the monster's voice. "Nothing will happen until you do. Lizzy won't be free until you do."
It was no good. She could find even the most pathetic sort of plan in his mind. Quentin pulled off the gloves.
"Nice to see you for a moment without the cute façade," he said. Immediately Roz returned to her little-girl self.
"Ha ha, break my heart," she retorted. "And don't think I'm not perfectly aware of Grandmother's pathetic attempt to thwart me. I've taken care of her already."
Quentin felt sick at heart. He'd been right about not having a plan, because whatever fragments of a plan had occurred to him or to Mrs. Tyler had been foreseen and forestalled. Poor Mrs. Tyler. Did Roz mean the old lady had been pinned down to her bed again? Or worse? Could Roz really make her mother's poor thrall commit murder?
"I could make him bite his own feet off," said Roz. "The only reason I don't do it with you is because the dragon won't ride in you if you aren't free."
"Let's do it," said Quentin.
As if in answer to him, the door to the parlor flew open, slamming against the wall. For a moment Roz looked startled, nervous. Then she turned back to him and grinned at him. "The steed may buck, but in his heart he still wants to be ridden."
"That may be the stupidest thing ever said by anybody," said Quentin.
"Say what you want, Quentin. I won't have to hear it much longer."
"Where's Lizzy?" asked Quentin.
"Out in the car. As soon as we finish, I'll set her free."
"What if you're wrong? What if you lose your gamble in there?"
"Then it won't matter much what happens to Lizzy, will it?"
"I'm not doing it if I'm not sure she's getting out."
Roz turned into Madeleine, looking sweet and shy. "If you don't do it, Tin, I'm afraid she won't have any chance of getting free. We'll just have to bet on my success, won't we?"
Quentin closed his eyes, refusing to see Madeleine.
"Harder to get rid of the illusion when I'm inside it, isn't it, Tin?"
He turned his head away.
The voice was Roz's when it came again. "Let's stop playing games. The door is open. It's time."
He opened his eyes. It was Roz again. She gestured for him to lead the way into the parlor.
This room wasn't as ratty-looking as the other rooms in the house. No windows had been broken. The dust was thick but no spiders had made webs, no rats had gnawed at it. The place was still. Only Quentin's own footprints led into the room. The treasure box, sitting on its pedestal, seemed to glow just a little. To throb with inner light.
Mike Bolt came out of the elevator and walked down the corridor. One of the two cops who had run for the stairways when they first arrived was already coming out of Mrs. Tyler's room, as the other jogged up to join him. "He hasn't been here yet."
"If he's coming at all."
"Well, we're supposed to keep watch on the door."
"Wild-goose chase, just like the other night. I don't know why they let psycho nurses run a place like this."
As they complained, Mike walked right between them. They didn't see him.
He went through the open door of Mrs. Tyler's room. She lay on the bed, her eyes open. She was struggling to rise from the bed, but each time she arched her back, she fell right back onto the sheet. She stopped struggling and turned her head to look at him. "I guess she's got us both, hasn't she, Mike?" she said.
He raised his pistol, aimed it at her head, and fired once, twice. Each time, the force of the bullet threw her farther toward the edge of the bed. Thrice. The fourth bullet knocked her off the bed. A bloody smear across the pillow marked the passage of the old woman's head.
Mike turned around and suddenly the presence that had engulfed and controlled him was gone. He looked down at the gun. What was he doing with this gun? Why was he in this empty hospital room? He stepped through the door and looked down the hall.
Two policemen were standing there. Mike called to them. "Where's Mrs. Tyler? Isn't she supposed to be in this room?"
"Who the hell are you? Where did you come from? Get out of there!"
Mike stepped back into the room as he heard them rushing toward him. He saw the blood on the pillow. He walked to the foot of the bed, looked behind it. There she lay on the floor, obviously dead, her head almost completely blown away. He looked down at the gun in his hand. He remembered firing it.
"Mrs. Tyler," he whispered. "Oh, sweet Lord, no."
"Drop it! Drop it right now."
The men in the doorway were pointing their guns at him.
"Did I do this?" he asked them.
"Drop it and get your hands on your head."
Mike leaned down as if to lay down the gun. But when he was fully bowed, his arms in shadow, he brought up the gun to his mouth and blew out the back of his head before the policemen could respond. He flopped back against the wall, arms flailing. The policemen fired then, by reflex, filling him with bullets. But he never felt them. He was already gone.
Quentin stood before the box. "Why are you standing so far from me, Roz?" he asked. "Afraid?"
"Prudent," she said with a smile.
"You mind my asking you what's actually in this box?"
"From what I've read," said Roz, "it could be either the baby's heart or its head. I'm betting it's the heart. I don't think even my late grandmother would have the stomach to cut the head off her own baby."
"She's not dead!" cried Rowena.
Quentin turned to see the woman standing in the farthest corner of the room, in the shadow. She was cringing as if in pain. Or as if she was hoping to avoid pain.
"Is too, Mother," said Roz. "I used your power over that boyfriend of yours. Hope you don't mind. He was a crack shot. I wanted the job done right."
"It's a lie," whispered Rowena. "Murdering your own grandmother."
"Isn't that what you always taught me, Mother? How evil Grandmother was? The baby-killer. Now I've evened the score. If you don't believe me, ask Quentin. He has a relic of hers. He can call her now." Roz turned to him. "Go ahead, Quentin. Call her by name."
"Mrs. Tyler," he murmured.
"By her name" said Roz.
"Anna Laurent," he said. "Anna."
Mrs. Tyler stood across the box from him, just as she had when he was here before.
"Is it true?" he asked. "Are you dead?"
"Yes," she said. "Poor Mike. He's so worried about his family."
"Listen to her," said Roz. "Pretending to care about the man who killed her. She doesn't care about him. She doesn't care about anything. Except that she lost!. She never even knew it was me she was fighting."
Mrs. Tyler turned her head and gazed levelly at Roz. If she felt any surprise, Quentin couldn't see it. But then, could you surprise the dead?
Roz was still gloating. "Always thought it was her own stupid weak daughter fighting her. Look at your daughter, Grandmother!"
Now Mrs. Tyler looked at Rowena, and her eyes softened. Love? Pity, at least.
"There she is, your softhearted daughter, the one who couldn't bear the idea of hurting anybody. Well, I'm your true child, Grandmother. I have the kind of strength you had—only more of it! What I did to you was nothing but justice! Can you deny it?"
"I don't deny anything," said Mrs. Tyler quietly. "Oh, Rowena, if only you had believed me."
Rowena was looking out the window, tears streaming down her face.
"How sad for the old ladies," said Roz. "All caught up in their little drama. Well guess what, ladies. This isn't about you. You were either tools or obstacles, that's all. Mother was a tool, and I used her. Grandmother was an obstacle, and I pushed her out of the way. Because what I'm doing really matters in the world. I was always too large to live in your little soap opera. I was born bigger than your minds could even comprehend. So stick around and see what power is for."
Mrs. Tyler looked at Quentin over the treasure box and gave him a tight little smile.
"Do it, Quentin!" cried Roz. "Open my treasure box."
Mrs. Tyler nodded slightly.
Roz laughed. "Oh, Grandmother, do you really think you're still a player in this game?"
Quentin reached out and gripped the sides of the box. He had been in this pose before, but then he had had no notion of what was inside it. Now he felt the nakedness of his skin as he touched the warm, soft wood.
"Lift the lid," said Roz.
This time there was no Uncle Paul to stop him. He lifted the lid a little. For a moment nothing happened. He looked up at Mrs. Tyler. As he did, a long slender red artery snaked out from under the lid and attached itself to one of the veins on the back of Quentin's right hand.
He cried out in fear, not pain. He reached with the other hand to pry it away, but the artery was now a part of his own body, and when he pulled on it, his hand moved with it. Two more arteries snaked out and attached to his left hand.
"Should've kept the gloves," Roz jeered.
Quentin tried to resist, but his hands weren't obeying him very well. He wanted to leap away from the box, but his hands reached for the lid in spite of his strongest effort. His hands flipped the lid open.
It was like opening the inside of a human chest. A lacy network of veins and arteries was attached to the lid and the walls of the box, and more and more of them reached out to attach to Quentin's hands and bare forearms.
Roz started walking toward him, smiling but also terrified. "Good," she said. "Possess him. Possess him."
"Stop it, Roz," whispered Rowena.
"Too late, Mother," said Roz. "Once it starts, it can't be stopped."
With terrified eyes, Quentin looked at Mrs. Tyler. She appeared solemn but not afraid. Watching him.
A huge heart rose up out of the box, drawn up by the arteries now attached to Quentin at a dozen points. It was beating, but not rhythmically.
"Hurry," whispered Roz, coming closer. "Take him."
"The heart only has a couple of minutes," said Mrs. Tyler, her voice as mild as if she were giving an explanation to a class. "Inside the box it couldn't die, but outside it has to have a host. Don't fight it Quentin. Take the heart to your chest."
In an agony of fear Quentin looked at her. It was all he could do to keep his hands from seizing the heart—and now she was telling him to surrender? To let the heart have him?
"Only a couple of minutes, and then it will have to stay where it is," said Mrs. Tyler. "Put it on your chest."
Quentin stopped fighting the impulse. At once his hands flew to the heart, seized it, ripped it from the network of arteries in the box. At once the unused veins withered and shriveled until they looked like last year's kudzu vines. The box no longer throbbed.
Quentin's hands hesitated only a moment. Then they snatched the heart to his own chest, where it clung to the cloth of his shirt, beating, beating.
"Done," said Roz.
"Done," said Mrs. Tyler.
"Roz, don't!" cried Rowena.
"And now to make you mine," said Roz. She came closer. "Bend down, Quentin, so I can kiss you." Suddenly she was transformed into Madeleine. "Kiss me, Tin. Kiss me one last time."
She was close to him. In front of him. He could see Mrs. Tyler behind her. With her hands she mimed prying something free of her chest. He understood at once. But did he have the strength to do it?
Alone he didn't. If the beast hadn't wanted to go to her, he never could have done it. But it did want to go. And because of Grandmother's hair between Paul's disfigured heart and his own flesh, the last remnants of her power had been there to help keep the beast from taking full possession of him. Quentin reached up his hands, took hold of the heart, and ripped it away from his body. With Madeleine right in front of him, the same motion pushed it into her chest.
In that instant she changed back into Roz, only where Madeleine's chest had been, there was the naked skin of Roz's face. The heart was already attaching to her in a dozen, in scores of places. And the veins were dropping away from Quentin's hands. He backed away, free of the thing, but unable to stop watching what was happening to Roz.
The heart slid down her face, under her jaw, to her neck, and down inside her shirt. Roz was terrified. "Mother!" she cried. "Help me! Mother!"
"Now you know," Mrs. Tyler said to Rowena. Her voice was thick with bitterness. "Now you know why I did what I did."
"Can't you stop it?" Rowena whispered.
"I already did, once, when it possessed my little boy," said Mrs. Tyler. "But at present, inconveniently, I'm dead."
"Mother!" Roz's voice was more frantic. "Mother!" she screamed. And then the voice became a gurgle.
Roz stumbled, fell to one knee. Her shape began changing. Her arms shriveled and drew up inside her sleeves and disappeared. Wings broke the fabric of her blouse, tearing it open across the back; they spread wide, a ten-foot, then twenty-foot span, lithe as black silk, thin as paper. Quentin could see the light of the window through a wing. Her head rocked back, her jaws opened. A huge serpentine tongue flicked out once, twice, and then her face collapsed into a new shape. The head of a dragon. It opened its jaws to reveal a vast array of teeth, and roared.
Into the roar there came another sound. A popping sound. One. Two. Three.
The dragon shape collapsed. It was Roz again, only there was a bloom of blood on the side of her head, and another on her belly. She looked over her shoulder at her mother with terrified eyes. "Mommy," she whispered.
Rowena fired again, knocking Roz down to the floor. Only the girl's torn clothes showed how the dragon had transformed her a moment ago. The heart hung limply throbbing at her throat. It was feverishly trying to get away, but it was weak now. Rowena fired into the heart.
"Don't waste bullets on that thing," said Mrs. Tyler. "It already had possession of Roz's body. That's the body that has to die."
Sobbing, Rowena sent her last two bullets into her daughter's head.
Eyes open, Roz rocked onto her back and died.
"You had to do it," said Mrs. Tyler. "You had no choice. You can live with this, Rowena. I know you can, because I did."
Rowena, her eyes dead, turned to Quentin. "Get out of the house. Get out or die."
Only now did Quentin realize that the beast had not gone. It didn't have a living body now, but it still had some power to move things in the physical world, as it had when it was in the box. The floorboards under Roz's body buckled as if some immense gopher were burrowing there. The rippling moved like a wave under the pedestal; the box fell and crumpled. The wave passed under Quentin and threw him off his feet. Now the walls were rippling, as paintings leapt out and fell to the floor, as plaster split away in chunks and slid down the wall.
"Get out," said Mrs. Tyler. "Both of you."
Quentin got up, tried to take Rowena's hand to help her. She shoved him away. "I just killed my baby," she whispered. "I'm not leaving her."
With the room bucking like a horse, Quentin staggered for the door and hurled himself into the entry hall.
If anything, it was worse out here. The foot of the stairway had come loose and was now pawing at the ground like a cat's foot, daring him to try to get past without being caught and crushed. There was no way he could reach the front door.
He ran for the library. Books were flying from the walls, smacking him like a flock of suicidal birds. There was no passage there. The dining room. The stairway snatched at him as he passed, but he made it inside. But as he stood there, panting, the dustcover on the table came to life and fluttered toward him as if to engulf him in a net of fine embroidery. It blocked all doors leading from the room. So Quentin ran for the tall window and threw himself through it like a high jumper, back first, shattering glass around him into shards like icicles.
He landed in leafless bushes, prickly and thorny, but it was kinder than the glass would have been. Scratched and bleeding, he pulled himself free and ran around to the front of the house. Ray Duncan was standing in the open door of the Lincoln, staring horrified at the house, which was trembling and, here and there, bulging with the passage of the invisible beast.
"What's happening? What's happening?" he demanded when he saw Quentin.
"Get in the car and drive!" cried Quentin.
"Rowena's in there! Roz! My little girl!"
"Roz is dead and Rowena won't come out. Come on, man! Save yourself!"
"Roz!" cried Duncan. "Rowena!" He ran up the stairs to the porch.
The moment he reached the front door, the front wall suddenly burst as the stamping foot of the stairway lunged out, knocking him down, then smashing him, again, again, his lifeless body flopping under the stairs like a mouse under a cat's paw.
Quentin left the Lincoln and ran to his own car, got in, started it, backed it all the way out to the highway. Then he stopped. "Lizzy," he said. Roz had said they brought Lizzy's prison with them.
He tried to drive back into the property, but the wheels spun and his car slid sideways. He stopped, got out of the car and ran, slipping and sliding on ice and snow, toward the house. As he ran, he plunged his right hand—still bloody from the veins that had been attached to it—into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cellular phone. He punched in 911, pushed send. "Tell the Mixinack police to get down to the old Laurent house! I don't know the address, they'll know where it is! The Laurent house. Send fire trucks. Ambulances! No, I can't stay on the line."
He jammed the phone back into his pocket as he reached the Lincoln. The house was shuddering on its foundations. The top story collapsed into the third floor. Glass burst and flew out in all directions. He reached in through the driver's door and fumbled to remove the key from the ignition. Got it. He ran back to the trunk and opened it. Then he flung the key toward the porch, where Ray Duncan might have dropped it as he ran for the house.
There was only one suitcase in the trunk of the car. He yanked it out, flung it open on the snow, and pawed through it. Only a few articles of clothing, a few kit items. A champagne bottle. Had Roz really been that certain of having a celebration afterward?
He opened every zipper compartment. He found only a couple of boxes, one holding stationery, the other some gold chains and pearls. There was nothing else that could hold a relic of Lizzy's. Roz lied. She didn't have Lizzy's prison with them.
Then he looked again at the champagne bottle. Picked it up. Could some part of Lizzy possibly fit inside?
Suddenly Mrs. Tyler was standing before him.
"Get away while you still can."
"I have to set Lizzy free."
"Get away."
She was gone.
Quentin got up from his knees, still holding the champagne bottle, and ran down the lane toward his car. Behind him, the roof of the house fell through the last three stories until they were all pancaked on the foundation. The first of the police cars wailed toward him. He waved them into the lane, but they hadn't even emerged from the trees before the house burst into sudden explosive flames. Fire leapt out and engulfed the Lincoln, the suitcase lying open in the snow. The roof collapsed one last time, falling into the foundation. Flames, sparks, and debris flew into the air and settled back down in burning pieces all over what had once been the lawns and the drive. The police drove in, followed by firetrucks. They set to work subduing the blaze, but clearly there was nothing left, no possibility of survivors.
Quentin broke the champagne bottle with a stone. In the broken glass he saw it: The shriveled, skeletal hand of a teenage girl. "Lizzy," he whispered.
She sat in the snow in front of him, leaning against the car. Tears streamed down her face. "Thank you, Tin," she said.
"Lizzy, she had you—"
"Good work, Tin. I'm free and the beast is gone."
"Are you sure? It had control of the house, it was—"
"Only as long as there was still life in her body. Now that she's dead, the beast lost its connection to the world. Mrs. Tyler found me and told me everything. She knows so much, Quentin."
"Yes, but she's dead. And Roz's parents are dead, and what good did it do? The beast will just come back somewhere else."
"Not till someone invites it," said Liz. "Maybe not for a long time. You've done all you could. You stopped it here, before it could get a foothold. That's all that anyone can ever do."
"Lizzy, what if I hadn't found you?"
"But you did. Mrs. Tyler led you. As soon as she found me, she made you realize." Lizzy glanced around. "They're coming to question you. Don't let them see you talking to me—they'll think you're crazy. And don't leave my hand here, Quentin. I don't want to be tied to this place."
She disappeared. He reached down and picked up her desiccated hand and put it in his jacket pocket.
A policeman sauntered over to him. "You the one called this in?"
"I was here to see the house," said Quentin. "They drove up from Washington to show me the house."
"Somebody was in that place?"
"I just got here. I was out at their car, talking to Mr. Duncan, when the roof started collapsing. He yelled about Rowena and Roz being inside and he ran for the house and it caught him. I called for help but it was too late for any of them. Should I have gone in, Officer? I was so scared, I drove out here and my car got stuck but then I ran back and I thought I should try to help them but the house was collapsing and—"
"No, no, you did the right thing. If you'd gone in there you'd just be dead, too."
"It crushed him right there on the front porch." It took no effort at all for Quentin to let the emotion pour out, to dissolve in tears—of relief, of exhaustion, of grief for the good people who had died. All of them—even Roz. She was just a child. She never understood what she was doing until it was too late. Ray Duncan never understood anything at all.
"Here, man, come on, sit down, get in your car and sit down for a minute." The policeman opened the door and helped him in. "Wait here, will you? We've got questions, but there's no rush, you can get ahold of yourself first, OK?"
Quentin sat there, getting control of himself, as a fireman approached the cop who had been talking to him. "I can't believe a house could collapse like that. Must've had termites out the wazoo."
The cop shook his head. "Just before this call came in, we got word. The old lady used to live here, she still owns the place. She got her head blown off in a rest home upriver. Our own chief. Used to work here as a gardener. He went crazy and killed her and then blew off his own head." The cop looked away for a moment, as if to contain his own emotions. "Family man, decent guy, good boss, good cop. You never know."
"The owner of this house just got killed?"
"It's like the old lady's revenge, the house collapsing like that. It can't just be a coincidence, she gets murdered and then her house caves in."
Quentin spoke up from the car. "I think they were her family."
The cop and the fireman came closer. "What?"
"The Duncans. They said their mother owned the house, they were selling it for her. She was in a rest home up the river, they said."
"You mean the people inside the house were her kids?"
"And her granddaughter. All the family she had in the world."
"Dear God in heaven," murmured the cop. "The whole family in a single hour, a hundred miles apart."
"Nobody's ever going to believe a story like that," said the fireman. "Straight out of The X-Files."
They went on talking. Quentin closed his eyes. It was over. The ending was lousy, but it could have been worse. For him. For everybody.
Except Mike Bolt's family. It was hard to think how it could possibly be worse for them.
Sally Sannazzaro pulled up to the barricades in front of the rest home. The policeman recognized her, waved her in. They were bringing two bodies out of the building, both with sheets draped over their heads. News cameras flashed. TV crews shone floodlights that made it brighter than day on the bodies.
Chief Todd was standing by the ambulance. He waved her over, then thought better of it and walked to meet her as she got out of her car. "Nobody can figure out how he did it. My boys got here first, they verified that she was OK and then they stood watch at the door and they swear nobody could have got by them. But he did. Not one of them heard the shots, they just saw him standing in the doorway with a gun and she was already dead."
"And Bolt?"
"They couldn't even disarm him before he blew his own head off. That didn't stop them from pumping about eight more rounds into his body. Ms. Sannazzaro, we screwed up. I don't know how, because these aren't my worst guys. I don't know whether to fire them or drown them like puppies, I'm so mad. I'm so sorry."
She patted his shoulder and turned away. Tears ran down her cheeks. "I don't think it could have been stopped, Chief Todd," she said. "I think it was going to happen no matter what."
"I know you got a thousand things to take care of inside, the whole place is in an uproar, your staff will sure be glad to see you. I'll come by tomorrow and ask you some questions, all right?"
"Fine," she said.
She started for the entrance of the rest home. The newspeople noticed her and started firing off questions. She passed the ambulance as they loaded the second body onto it. She didn't pause to see which one it was. It didn't matter now.
All she knew was that there was only one person on God's green earth who could explain this all to her, and he was a crazy man wearing the dead woman's hair in a plastic bag taped to his chest.
Police questioning in two towns kept Quentin in the area for the next few days, and by then there was no reason to leave before the funerals. Besides, Sally Sannazzaro was there, also answering questions for the police, and then, after hours, assailing him with questions of her own.
Poor woman. She was trying so hard to believe him. Not a skeptic like Wayne Read, she nevertheless had no evidence for her own eyes, as Mike Bolt had had. It didn't help that immediately before he told her the true story, she read through his litany of deceptions to the police as he gave a more believable version of Mike Bolt's activities prior to going on his murderous mission.
Yet she stayed with him as much as possible during the days of inquisition and grief. It finally occurred to him that she stayed with him, despite her doubts, because she needed him right now. He was actually good for something that didn't involve money or opening boxes containing mythical beasts.
Before Mike Bolt's funeral, as he and Sally sat with Leda Bolt in her living room, he felt how empty and powerless his money was when pitted against real problems. Yet it could do something. He promised her that all her children would have a college education, that they would never lack for anything. If it was hard for them to continue living in Mixinack, he would pay for them to move anywhere they wanted.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked. "You barely knew Mike."
"I knew him better than anyone but you, in those last few days of his life. He became my friend. How long do you have to have a friend before you can help his family after he dies?"
She burst into tears.
In a few moments her crying softened and he spoke to her again, his hand on her bowed back. "Leda, it's going to be hard for you, but even harder for your kids. I don't know how to tell you in a way that will make you believe me, but it's true, and so I'm going to say it anyway. If you tell your kids that their father was a good man, through and through, that will be the truth. If you tell them that even though it was his body that held the gun and pulled the trigger, their father never chose to kill Mrs. Tyler, and if he chose to kill himself it was only because he thought he had killed her. But it wasn't him. It was someone else, someone who is dead now, too, using his body against his will. Your children are not the children of a murderer or a psychotic. Their father was sane and good. You married a fine man and he loved you with his whole heart and you made him happy. You should all be proud of him."
Leda cried all the harder as she turned and threw her arms around him and clung to him. He held her as she wept. Across the room from him, her hair bright in the light through sheer curtains, sat Sally Sannazzaro, watching him, tears on her own cheeks. She nodded to him. He had done well.
Quentin and Sally stood together beside Mike Bolt's grave with the Mixinack police department, the entire dozen of them, defiantly loyal to him no matter how he met his end. They knew without Quentin telling them that it wasn't the Mike Bolt they knew who did what was done at that rest home. And from the way they gathered around Leda Bolt and her children, Quentin suspected that the family would not be leaving Mixinack; they would be well watched over here.
Later that day, Quentin and Sally were perhaps the only mourners among the curiosity-seekers gathered at the four new graves in the old Laurent family cemetery. The walled graveyard was the only structure left standing on the Laurent estate. Quentin had already set Wayne Read to work buying the place. He planned to fence it from the road, fill in the foundation of the house, and let it go wild. A little nature preserve. A small, untended graveyard. Let the dead tend each other undisturbed. Let no house grow in this place for a hundred years. Somewhere the beast would be on the prowl again, searching for another heart, another host. But not in this place. This place had had the last of the dragon.
Finally it was over, and at the end of the day it came down to this: Quentin Fears and Sally Sannazzaro on the sofa of her apartment. It was time to face her unbelief in him. Because he didn't want to walk away and leave her in her doubts. "Sally," he said. "I didn't make this up. I'm not stupid enough to make up something this crazy. Until this century, most people believed in witches. The things that've happened here this week, the things that happened to me over the last year, they would have been a marvel or a horror, but not a surprise. We were just born in the wrong time, that's all."
"I don't know about that," said Sally. "I think a time without witches is better."
"But this isn't a time without witches. I wish it had been."
"It is now," said Sally. "In our lives, anyway."
"I hope."
"I'm taking your word for it that you're not insane."
"I was hoping you didn't make it a habit to invite psychos for long conversations over ice cream in your apartment."
"Ben and Jerry's soothes the savage breast a lot better than music," she said. She took another bite of Wavy Gravy.
"I have to ask you something, Sally," said Quentin.
"Go ahead. I don't have to answer."
"You're not a witch yourself, are you? Pretending to disbelieve my story so I won't suspect what you are?"
"Why do you ask? Are you feeling enchanted?"
"Maybe a little."
"That's the aftermath of grief and shock. You want to cling to somebody."
"True. But when the shock is over, and the grief is under control, won't I still want to cling to somebody? Isn't that, like, normal?"
"But you might be more selective in whom you cling to. I'm not a witch, Quentin, but people have called me similar things."
"Yeah, well, I'm a lonely recluse. It's either you in my life or I turn into Howard Hughes. My last chance. Save me, Sally."
"Are you really, really rich, Quentin?"
"Yeah. And thanks to Madeleine, I have political connections all over the country, too."
"Screw 'em. Let's just leave. Now that the funerals are over. Let's leave the country and go to Europe. South America. Africa. India. China. Australia."
"Are you serious?"
"Separate rooms, Quentin. I'm not that kind of girl. But you can afford it, can't you?"
"First class all the way."
"Let's see if we like each other when we're not making salads or running rest homes or watching decent people destroy themselves and each other."
"As long as you don't mind stopping in California first," he said. "I've got to put something back where it belongs."
She knew what he was talking about. She nodded and looked away as her eyes filled with tears.
"Do you have a passport?" he asked.
"No. How good are your political connections?"
"Get the picture taken and we'll see how fast the system can be made to work."
She reached over and took his hand. "If you ever take me to meet your parents, Quentin, I promise not to get along with them too well."
He laughed and looked down into his ice cream dish. "And if I ever think that you remind me of my sister Lizzy, I promise not to mention it."
She smiled. "Even if it doesn't work out, Quentin, I'm still glad I know you."
"Once you duct-tape a Ziploc bag to a man's chest, there's no going back."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. It felt very good. The weight of it. The smell of her hair. Her hand in his. It was different from the way it had been with Madeleine. There wasn't the same sharp thrill to it. It was quieter this time. But it was also better. Right from the start, it was better. If he had ever known a woman like Sally, perhaps he couldn't have been so completely fooled by a fake.
Or maybe he was being fooled again. After all, Madeleine had been created by an eleven-year-old girl—a gifted one, to be sure, but she got everything she knew about sex from books or from Quentin's own head. An adult witch with real experiences could do a better job, couldn't she?
He tried very hard to doubt Sally Sannazzaro's existence. To pretend that the pressure of her hand, the weight of her head, all was illusion. That her strength and kindness were drawn from his own need. That her temper and sternness had been created only to make her more plausible in the aftermath of Madeleine.
But when he opened his eyes, she was still there, looking up at him.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Trying to make you disappear."
She thought about that for a moment. "It isn't going to work," she finally said.
"Good," he said. And then he kissed her. It wasn't a perfect kiss. They bumped noses. They laughed. "If you're a fake," he said, "don't ever tell me."
And so they would go on, apart or together as love and chance and time might decree, surrounded always by the silent, beloved dead, and answering their silence with the shout of life. That was the invisible treasure box that Quentin had been given long ago but only now found and opened. There was power in it; the kind of power that disappears when it is taken, yet grows as fast as children when it is shared.
Copyright © 1996 by Orson Scott Card
ISBN 0-06-109398-X
Cover illustration by David Nielsen