"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 to 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.