Treasure Box

19. Into the Grave

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 Sa

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 Sa

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 pla

Finally it was over, and at the end of the day it came down to this: Quentin Fears and Sally Sa

"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 co

"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 ru

"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 co

"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?