Treasure Box

by Orson Scott Card

  "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.

  15. Snow

  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.

  16. The User

  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.