Treasure Box

by Orson Scott Card

  "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 Sannazz
aro 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.

  18. The Dragon

  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 te
ll 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?