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.
"Wake up, Quentin!" the phone was shouting.
"What?" said Quentin. "Who is this?"
"For the ninth time, it's Wayne Read. Quentin, are you awake now? Say something coherent please. This is a test."
"Hi, Wayne."
"What did you do, drive all night through a record-setting blizzard? Have you got the brains of a roach?"
"Roaches all stayed in for the storm."
"Smart roaches. If you're not going to wake up, Quentin, don't answer the phone, let your machine take it."
"Didn't know I'd answered it. What do you want?"
"I have the name and address you wanted. They really are called Duncan but the number's not listed and they don't own the house so it wasn't easy finding them. Ray and Rowena Duncan." He gave the address. "The investigator there in DC says that it's a townhouse complex in Sterling, at Sugarland and Church. Sugarland crosses Dranesville Road at the last light before Route 7. Does all this mean anything to you?"
"Yeah."
"Have you written this down, or should I call again later?"
"I'm writing it." He fumbled for a pencil. Then he realized that if he opened his eyes, the job would be easier. "It's bright. Sun must be shining."
"Yeah, the blizzard is over for now. It's on the news. In California they love talking about eastern blizzards. It makes us all feel smart."
"Californians need that now and then," said Quentin.
"Well, you are one, so you'd know."
"How'd you get the address?"
"Very clever detective work indeed, Quentin. Our guy in Manhattan drove up to the rest home, walked in, and asked the superintendent for the address of the next of kin of Mrs. Anna Laurent Tyler. The superintendent—I think you know her—"
"Sally Sannazzaro."
"Thanks, I didn't want to try pronouncing it myself. She asked who wants to know. He said he was representing Quentin Fears and she said OK and gave it to him. She also gave him a message for you."
"If it's along the lines of drop dead, save it for later."
"No, it's along the lines of sorry I was such a bitch, and Mrs. Tyler says sorry too, and please come back she wants to talk to you."
"She called herself a bitch?"
"A direct quote."
"Did the words 'cast iron' come into it?"
"She didn't elaborate, but I'm sure you can pick the metal you want."
"So I guess she's not mad at me anymore."
"Quentin, I would say that was the gist of the message. But I can repeat it if you want."
Quentin didn't know why he felt so relieved, but he was almost giddy with it. "That's good. That's really good."
"Have you been drinking?"
"Driving all night. I'm still not awake."
"A word of advice. Don't go seeing these people until you are awake."
"Sure."
"See a movie. I recommend something light and stupid. Take your mind off your troubles. Not The American President, that's too stupid. Not Sabrina, it'll just break your heart that you're not in love. Broke mine anyway. Unless of course you are."
"Am what?"
"In love."
"Wayne, am I paying three hundred an hour for this?"
"Three fifty. I'm paid to give good advice. Twelve Monkeys will make you wonder if you're crazy, don't see that one either."
"Do you actually see all these movies?"
"I have to do something while my wife is going around to country bars, Quentin. I don't like my job well enough to work late every night. Though I'll admit that your recent activities have kept me hopping. Sort of information central here. I keep getting reports from all fifty states about how Madeleine Cryer never existed there, either."
"Sorry. You can call that part of the search off. Nobody's going to accuse me of killing her. They've got more to fear from an investigation than I do."
"Too late. I've already got all the reports and all the bills. Thanks to fax machines, every invoice is instantaneous."
"So pay 'em. You need me to send you another check?"
"No, I've still got plenty in the account. Quentin, get up, take a shower, go to a movie. Some mindless sequel. Grumpier Old Men. Father of the Bride Two. No, I take that back, that might depress you too."
"Good-bye, Mr. Ebert."
"Siskel. For Pete's sake, Quentin, I run every day. Good-bye."
Quentin got up, showered, armed himself with a broom, and went out to clear the snow off his car. He didn't have a shovel but the ice chipper from the rental car helped him get the deepest stuff, which had frozen. Most of the other cars in the lot had already been cleared off. A lot of spaces were empty now. People must be going back to work. Or else just getting out of the house before they went insane. Plows must have come through because the roads were drivable and traffic looked about normal.
He took the broom back up to the front door but didn't even bother unlocking it to put it inside. Nor did he go in to get the address he had written down. He wasn't ready.
Instead he took Wayne's advice, sort of. He drove to the Reston Town Center and put the car in the parking garage and walked to the theater. A big handmade sign in the window said Yes!!!!! We are open!!!! Quentin walked up to the box office and asked what was worth seeing and the ticket seller said, "Twelve Monkeys is the greatest movie ever made," so Quentin bought a ticket and went inside. It wasn't the greatest movie ever made but it was very good and every bit as disturbing as Wayne had said it would be. The message seemed to be, you can't change anything and you'll end up dead so why try? But it was certainly heroic, almost noble along the way. And everybody struggling to figure out what was real and what wasn't, Quentin absolutely knew what that was like. Also, the movie left him wondering how they decided that Bruce Willis got three naked butt shots and a fleeting moment of frontal nudity in the battle scene, while Brad Pitt only had one butt shot while he bounded around on beds in the mental hospital. Was there some hierarchy of nudity in Hollywood? The more millions you get, the more you get to moon the audience?
It was with thoughts like this that he walked through the dazzling sunlight to the Rio Grande, which was doing decent business for four-thirty in the afternoon. He sat down and looked at the menu while the couple at the next table talked about how nice it was to get out of the house, a lot better than having the police discover them later after they murdered each other, and should we get two orders of pork tamale appetizers or just split one, and where are the chips, didn't the waiter hear them when they asked for more chips? Quentin looked up at them—a red-cheeked dark-haired woman and her husband with blond thinning hair—and he said, "I'm not eating my chips, do you want them?"