Treasure Box

by Orson Scott Card

  Quentin said nothing. This was obviously a very difficult memory for Chief Bolt—he was trembling, and his voice was thick with emotion.

  "She told me her brother had been murdered."

  Quentin felt a chill run through him.

  But the chief wasn't done yet. "She told me her mother killed him."

  What a wonderful family, thought Quentin. Grandmother, with blood on her hands.

  "I take it you never arrested Mrs. Tyler for the crime," said Quentin.

  "I didn't believe her. I told Rowena that she must have overheard something and misunderstood it. What evidence did she have, I asked. How could she possibly know something that happened before she was born? And she just looked at me and said, 'I know what I know, Mike.' "

  "And?"

  "And when I didn't believe her, she didn't see me anymore. She wasn't in the kitchen when I finished my day's work. I hung around each day, waiting. Came early and stayed late. Worked especially hard, but I never saw her."

  "She hid from you?"

  "I couldn't even ask, because if I asked that would imply that I had some right to ask, and I was the gardener's assistant, for Pete's sake. But I didn't have to ask, I knew what she was telling me. After a couple of weeks I quit and became a cop in Albany, which was a bigger city than I wanted to live in, and after a couple of years the job I've got now was open and they hired me and I came back and I just couldn't stay away from this house, I'd stop by here and Mrs. Tyler would talk to me and tell me news about Rowena and how she was sorry I just missed her. And then she got married and I told you the rest."

  "Do you believe her now?"

  "I was five when Paul Tyler died. But I looked it up in the library. The Mixinack paper was a daily in those days and the story filled the front page for a week. A real tragedy. The chauffeur backed over the baby. Didn't see him toddle behind the car after he started it up."

  "Doesn't sound like murder."

  "Chauffeur left at once for England. Distraught, poor guy. Wasn't even here for the inquest. The family didn't blame him, they even paid his way. Out of the country. He was the only witness."

  "But who would doubt what happened?"

  "So here you are, with a New York limo driver to back up your story about seeing lights and servants here, and a wife who claimed to have grown up in this house. And you have breakfast with people whose names are all on headstones in the graveyard. Including a boy that Rowena told me was murdered by his own mother. If that was true, how could she know? How?"

  Quentin didn't answer.

  "Because in this house," said Bolt, "the dead walk."

  Quentin looked away. Walked to the entrance of the graveyard and looked out over the falling snow. He heard Bolt come up behind him, looked over his shoulder at him.

  "So I'm crazy, is that it?" asked Bolt.

  "Have you ever seen anything yourself?" asked Quentin.

  "Only one thing," said Bolt.

  Quentin waited.

  "The door at the back of the entry hall, the back left—it doesn't open."

  The parlor door.

  "Your footprints led right up to that door, and then back out again, but I didn't see where you turned around," said Bolt. "You've been in that room, haven't you?"

  Quentin nodded.

  "It opened for you."

  "I sure can't go through walls."

  "The cook said that nobody ever went in that room," said Bolt.

  "I'm not surprised to hear it," said Quentin.

  "Can't see in through the windows."

  Quentin looked over at the house. "Takes kind of a tall ladder to find that out, doesn't it?"

  "The old lady asked me to keep an eye on the house."

  "Apparently the parlor is an exception."

  "Am I right?" asked Bolt.

  Quentin nodded. "As far as I know. Yeah, you're right. I ate breakfast with some dead people."

  "Except one," said Bolt.

  "Grandmother," said Quentin.

  "You see why I had to have your answer before I took you out to see her."

  "Well what was that about beating me up in the kitchen?"

  "Because I was hoping I was wrong and you were just a rich guy jerking people around."

  "Why would that be better?"

  "Because if baby Paul was murdered, that would explain why the house is haunted. And that would explain how Rowena knew that somebody murdered him."

  "And you didn't believe her."

  "And I lost her."

  Quentin leaned against the arch. "Well, Chief Bolt, sometimes folks just screw up."

  "I can't say I screwed up," said Bolt. "I love my wife and my kids. I have a good life. And if I'd gotten involved with the Tylers, well—look how good it's all worked out for you."

  "Which is not to say that Madeleine fits into the haunted house theory," said Quentin.

  "Does she have to be buried here to haunt it? Or maybe she was secretly buried."

  Quentin shook his head. "There's just one little problem with the ghost theory, Chief. I met Madeleine in Washington, DC at a party. We traveled all over the country together. Must be five hundred people shook her hand at parties and fundraisers and dinners, not to mention our wedding. I don't think she's a ghost."

  "Well, then, we're back to my original theory, and I have to wonder if you have any witness besides yourself who saw her alive last night."

  "Can't we just agree that some really weird stuff happened here the night I slept over?" said Quentin.

  "Mr. Fears, before I take you to see the old lady, I have to point out to you that one of the main reasons I didn't believe Rowena is because I knew Mrs. Tyler. She's one of the best people I know. And there is not a chance, not one skinny chance in hell that she would murder anybody, let alone her own baby."

  "And my wife Madeleine loved me so much there's not a chance she'd ever leave me."

  "She's a ghost, son," said Chief Bolt. "I mean for Pete's sake, she disappeared in this graveyard, didn't she? That's why you were looking for her here, wasn't it?"

  Quentin nodded.

  "Just cause her name isn't on a marker doesn't mean she isn't dead."

  "Chief, you stick to your theory and I'll stick to mine."

  "Well, hell, son, since we're both believing in the impossible, can't we at least get our stories straight?"

  "Not till I figure out how your story fits in with my story."

  "Well if you'd tell me your story, maybe I could help you make it fit."

  Quentin considered this a moment. "All right," he said. "On the drive to Grandmother's house."

  "I don't know as we'll have enough time. It isn't far."

  "Over the river and through the woods, right?"

  "That describes the route to every house in this part of the country, son."

  "Quentin," said Quentin. "Please call me Quentin."

  "I'm Mike," said the chief.

  "Mike, I'm ready to try Bella's chili now."

  "Not a good idea if you're going to tell me your story while you eat. Nobody can talk with a mouth full of Bella's chili."

  "We'll work it out."

  They went back into the house so Bolt could turn off all the lights. The entry hall was the last room, of course, and before Bolt turned off the light at the front door, he strode the length of the hall and stood in front of the parlor door and tried to open it. Tried hard. Nothing happened.

  He turned to Quentin and shrugged. "See?" he said.

  "Oh, I believed you," said Quentin.

  "Well come here and try it yourself," said Bolt.

  "I don't think so."

  "You went in that room, you said. I'm just asking you to try the door. I'm right here beside you."

  "Well, that takes care of the trespassing charge, and breaking and entering. But I keep thinking, what's on the other side of that door, holding the handle so you can't turn it?"

  "Look," said Bolt, "we've already established that there's nobody but you and me in this house solid enough t
o leave a footprint."

  Quentin walked slowly toward Bolt, who stood back to give him access to the door. Quentin paused in front of it, then reached out to touch the handle.

  A single shining word appeared on the door:

  NO

  Behind him, Bolt gasped. Quentin turned to face him. "You see it?"

  Bolt was backing up, just as Quentin had done a few days before, when he first saw the writing.

  Someone else had seen it. Quentin knew it was absurd in the face of whatever danger lay behind the parlor door, but at this moment he was almost giddy with delight at having a witness. "It's just words," Quentin said. "It won't hurt us."

  "Just the same," said Bolt. "I think I'm done here for now."

  That was fine with Quentin. "Let's go get some lunch."

  The chief's fingers trembled as he locked the door of the house from the outside.

  "You keep this locked all the time?" asked Quentin.

  "Always."

  Deadbolt, handset. Two locks.

  "Well, it wasn't locked when Madeleine and I came here," said Quentin.

  "She had the key?"

  "She doesn't leave footprints, Mike," said Quentin. "I don't think she can carry keys."

  "Well, this deadbolt needs a key, inside or out," said Bolt. "And it was locked when I got here, after your call."

  "And there were no other footprints but mine?"

  "None."

  They looked at each other for a long moment.

  "I think," said Quentin, "that we can safely conclude that there's something or someone in this house that can lock and unlock doors."

  Bolt reflected on this for a moment. "You know, trying to open that parlor door was about the stupidest idea I ever had."

  "Chili," said Quentin. "Lunch. And then the old lady's rest home."

  "Anyplace will do," said Bolt as he shambled down the snow-covered steps. "As long as it isn't here."

  The chili was hot, but this was Mixinack, not San Antonio, so it wasn't hot enough to stop Quentin from telling his whole story to the one person on earth who had to believe it. Then they got in Quentin's car and started driving north, despite the thickening storm.

  13. Salad

  It was a hundred-mile drive up the valley. The snow was deep and the plows were out in force, as the towns of the Hudson Valley locked down for yet another major storm. "We need some relief," said Chief Bolt. "About time we had another winter Olympics in Lake Placid. Only sure way of preventing snow for a whole winter."

  "You're just getting old," said Quentin. "I still love the snow."

  "You're just from California," said Bolt. "If you grew up shoveling it, you wouldn't think it was so nice. You sure you know how to drive in it?"

  In answer, Quentin accelerated and then did a sharp enough lane change on the highway to set the car fishtailing a little on the snow. He handled it immediately, stabilizing the car and drifting back down to a safer speed.

  "Next time just answer with your mouth," said Bolt. "I don't need a demonstration of stunt driving."

  "I spent a winter in South Bend and another in Duluth and another in Laramie."

  "Sounds like you need a new travel agent. Turn off at the next light."

  "Left or right?"

  "Right puts us in the railroad right-of-way, so I guess left."

  "Since we're out of your jurisdiction, can I tell you that nobody likes a smug bastard with a badge?"

  "I don't want to be liked, Quentin, I just want to get some of this chili out of my system."

  "How far are we from the rest home?"

  "They put these things close to the main highways so the families won't have any trouble visiting. Not that many of them do. Left at the next light. Then the next right and it's on the right."

  "What's it called?"

  "I don't remember. It's the only rest home there. Looks like a big motel, only less parking and no neon."

  "It looks more like a prison than a motel," said Quentin, when it came into view.

  "Yeah, well, you haven't seen many prisons, then."

  "I meant except for no bars on the windows."

  "And no twenty-foot fences and guard towers and floodlights and checkpoints."

  "So when did I say I was an expert on anything?" said Quentin. He pulled the car to a stop in a parking place. At least he was pretty sure it was a parking place. There were plenty of choices but no visible lines. Now that he was here, he wasn't sure what he hoped to accomplish. Bolt said she was in a coma, or at least not coherent. If that was true, there was no hope of learning anything useful from her. Yet she had called him, asked him to find her. Or had she? How did he know the message was really from her? Up against an illusionist like the User, how could he ever be sure what was real?

  The snow was real, he was confident of that. Thick and cold as it worked its way up his pantlegs and down into his running shoes.

  The front door of the rest home was unlocked, but there was no one at the reception desk. There was a bell. Chief Bolt rang it, but nobody came.

  "Hello?" called Bolt. Quentin walked on into the main hallway and looked left and right. Nobody.

  "They can't all be out on a field trip," said Bolt.

  "Probably shorthanded, in this storm," said Quentin. "It's four o'clock. Maybe everybody's fixing dinner."

  "Dining hall's straight ahead, kitchen's off to the left," said Bolt.

  Sure enough, the cook and two attendants were frantically making dinner. "Forget looking for people and pitch in and cut up lettuce for the salad!" cried the cook.

  "Yeah, right," said Bolt.

  "Why not?" said Quentin. "It's not like we have an appointment."

  "I could do this at home!" Bolt protested.

  "Yes, but here we'll be doing it out of pure virtue." He was already washing his hands.

  "Thank you!" cried the harried cook.

  "Does this mean I can go back to bedpan duty now?" said one of the attendants.

  "Break's over, back on your heads!" said the other. Nobody laughed.

  Quentin took a big knife and started hacking at the lettuce. Soon Bolt was beside him, peeling and slicing cucumbers. "I always feel like I'm emasculating something when I do this," said Bolt.

  "Didn't know you cops lived such metaphorical lives."

  "Told you I was a poet."

  They chopped for a while in silence, except for the songs the cook began but never finished. A line or two of some Elvis song or a Four Seasons tune in full falsetto, and then she'd peter out, humming and getting the melody wronger and wronger until it was some other song which she would drift into singing till she ran out of lyrics.

  "I know why we're doing this," said Bolt.

  "Oh?"

  "Because you're scared of the old lady and you're putting off meeting her."

  "That's why I'm doing this," said Quentin.

  "Yeah, well, I have no will of my own."

  "No wonder you send the other cops out to run your speed traps. 'No, Officer, I was only going twenty-five.' 'Oh, sorry, my mistake, what was I thinking?' "

  It took longer than Quentin thought it would. Ten minutes, twenty, thirty, but finally it was done, three huge bowls of green salad, with cucumbers, radishes, cherry tomatoes sliced in half, carrot shavings, and garbanzo beans. It actually looked pretty good.

  "If only some of the customers had teeth," said Bolt.

  "They all have teeth," said an attendant, "if they remember to bring 'em." By now he was in full sweat, taking trays of chicken out of the oven and putting more in.

  "Hate to chop and run," said Bolt.

  "You were a great help," said the cook. "I was really joking when I asked you to help, and I probably broke sixty regulations by letting you do it, but I usually do this with a staff of four, some of which know what they're doing."

  "Bon appetit," said Quentin.

  Out in the dining room, a few residents were scattered around at the tables, though no food was being served. Apparently they brought the
ones in wheelchairs early. And some of the slow walkers probably needed a head start. Shorthanded as they were, the attendants were running around like country club towel boys.

  "Hard to believe this," said Quentin. "Working so hard, and no tips."

  "Yeah, well, that's because the nurse who runs this place is a cast-iron bitch," said Bolt.

  In a moment the nurse in question charged into the dining room heading for the kitchen. At first glance she seemed middle-aged, but that turned out to be the uniform and her businesslike air and her complete lack of makeup. Actually she couldn't be much over thirty, maybe younger, and if she hadn't stopped cold and given Quentin and Chief Bolt a hostile look, she might even have been attractive. "My evening shift can't get through the blizzard," she said, "but I still get visitors."

  "We made the green salad," said Quentin.

  "Oh, get real," said the nurse. "There is no salad fairy." She brushed past them and went on to the kitchen. At the door she stopped and called out to a big Polynesian-looking attendant, "Bill! Escort these two guys to the reception area, would you?" Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

  As Bill the Polynesian approached, Bolt pulled out his badge and held it up. Bill took a few more steps as he recognized what it was, then gestured for them to sit down wherever they wanted.

  The nurse emerged from the kitchen in a slightly better mood. "I shouldn't let non-employees handle the food, but I can't think of what you could do to poison a green salad," she said. "Mrs. Van Ness says you washed your hands."

  "Could have done surgery," said Bolt.

  "I know you," she said to him. "You're the cop from Mixinack who used to visit Mrs. Tyler."

  "It's nice to be recognized."

  "Who's the other salad fairy?"

  Quentin rose to his feet. "Quentin Fears," he said.

  "Sally Sannazzaro," she said. "I'm the medical officer and acting superintendent of this medium-care facility." They shook hands. "Are you a lawyer?" she said. "You don't look like a lawyer."

  "Good," he said. Why had she thought he might be a lawyer? "You don't look like the medical officer and acting superintendent of a medium-care facility, either."

  "Yes I do," she said pointedly.

  This is going so well, thought Quentin.

  Bolt took a step toward the door. "You won't be feeding the bed-care patients till later. Mind if we go visit Mrs. Tyler right now?"