They seemed horribly embarrassed at having been overheard and refused his offer with thanks and apologies. But Quentin had meant it. He had momentarily forgotten that at a restaurant everyone is supposed to pretend there's an eight-foot wall around each table. Except the waiters, of course, who are supposed to pretend that each table is the only one they're waiting on. Like living in a small town. Notice me when I want to be noticed, but why are you prying when I want to be left alone?
The waiter brought the other couple their drinks and then came to Quentin's table to get his order. As Quentin spoke to the waiter, he saw the couple raise their glasses to him in a cheerful toast. He smiled back at them. OK, so maybe sometimes the walls did come down.
He ate, he went home. The sun was setting. He couldn't put this off forever. He got the address and drove to the dwelling place of the witch who had chosen him to be her enchanted tool.
There should have been a flame leaping from a chimney, or the silhouettes of devils dancing on the window shades. Instead it seemed a perfectly ordinary northern Virginia townhouse, in a row of five with varied façades in a feeble attempt at individuality and charm. Much like Quentin's own. The porch light was on.
I know you're expecting me, he said silently. I know you've been watching me, you've been waiting for me to work up the courage to come here. So go ahead and open the door and end the pretense.
But the door remained closed.
He climbed the steps and rang the bell. After a reasonable wait, a man came to the door. "Yes?" he said.
"Mr. Duncan?" asked Quentin.
"Yes. Do I know you?"
"My name is Quentin Fears."
"I'm sorry, but I'm not expecting you. Should I be?"
"Are you serious?" asked Quentin. But to all appearances the man was completely oblivious as to who Quentin was and what he was there for. "Mr. Ray Duncan?"
"Yes." The man was growing a bit impatient.
"Your wife is Rowena Tyler Duncan?"
"What about her?"
"And her mother is Anna Laurent Tyler?"
"Yes." Now he looked concerned. "Has something happened to her?"
"I'd like to come in, if I might, and talk to you and your wife together."
"Who are you?" Ray demanded.
"I was at the rest home yesterday, talking with Sally Sannazzaro. With the airports closed I had to drive the whole way to talk to you today."
"If you have a message from Ms. Sannazzaro, why didn't she simply call?"
Quentin was through talking. Whatever game these people were playing, he was fed up with it. He stood and waited in silence.
Finally Duncan's curiosity overcame his suspicion. He opened the door wider and invited Quentin inside.
It was your ordinary overdecorated living room. Perhaps a little bit too Architectural Digest, but not so much as to offend the eye, as long as you stood with the fireplace at your back. Quentin took that position, but not for aesthetic reasons. It gave him a view of the front door, the passage to the kitchen and dining room, and the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.
"Have a seat, Mr.—Pierce, was it?"
"Fears, Mr. Duncan." Quentin sat in the red paisley chair, moving the white pillows from it and laying them on the floor. "Is your wife at home?"
"Fixing dinner."
Quentin thought of the breakfast he had at the Laurent house in Mixinack, and had no pity. "Please bring her out here."
"State your business, Mr. Fears."
Quentin's patience was done. "I've come here this once. I won't come again. And I won't stay another minute unless your wife faces me now."
"Faces you! Sir, you can pick yourself up and head for the door or I'll—"
A woman appeared in the passage between kitchen and dining room. "What is it, Ray?"
"Don't come out here, Ro. In fact, call the police, please. We have an intruder here who—"
But the woman ignored his instructions and came on through the dining room to the living room.
Quentin could not help but think that he had seen her before. For that matter, now that she stood beside her husband, they both looked vaguely familiar. But she especially—he had seen her. Spoken with her? Whatever the occasion, it wouldn't come to mind. Perhaps it was simply that she bore some resemblance to Madeleine. After all, Rowena created the succubus, it had to have some of its creator inside it.
Inside her. Whom was he trying to fool? He still thought of Madeleine as a woman, as his wife, despite his best efforts to expunge her from his heart.
"Rowena Tyler Duncan," said Quentin. "My name is Quentin Fears."
When she showed no reaction to his name, he went on. "I spoke with your mother last night."
Rowena's face darkened. "What do I care?" She turned to leave the room.
"And I rode back to Mixinack with Mike Bolt."
She stopped and, slowly, turned back to face him. She looked agitated. "Our old gardener."
"Chief of police in Mixinack now," said Quentin.
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Married and has several children."
Rowena nodded.
Ray Duncan was a bit nonplussed. "Who's this Mike Bolt guy? What are you talking about?"
"A childhood friend of mine," said Rowena.
"Oh, don't be so modest," said Quentin. "She enthralled him years ago. In the kitchen of her mother's house, as I heard the story."
"What do you want," Rowena whispered fiercely.
"Don't be coy," said Quentin. "I'm not here because of what I want. I'm not the one who's been playing games, Rowena. Quite the contrary. So drop the pretense and tell me what you want so we can decide what to do about it."
Rowena and Ray looked at each other. Whatever passed between them, it did not make them more cooperative.
"Sir," said Ray, "you seem to know more about us than we're comfortable with, but I assure you that we have no idea who you are."
He seemed so honest that for a moment Quentin wondered if perhaps he had been fooling himself. But Mike Bolt had seen the writing on the signs, and on the door back in the Laurent house. And Madeleine had disappeared, leaving no foot-prints. It was real, it had happened, Mrs. Tyler admitted it, and Rowena was a witch.
"I know more than you think," said Quentin. "I know that Rowena looked into her mother's mind many years ago and saw a memory of what seemed to be a terrible crime. And for all I know, it was a crime, a monstrous, indecent act. The murder of Rowena's brother, Paul, when he wasn't yet two years old."
Rowena covered her face with her hands.
"Ro, is this true?" Ray seemed genuinely appalled.
"Your wife, Mr. Duncan, is quite aware that her mother believed that it wasn't Paul she was killing, but rather something that she calls 'the beast.' It's Mrs. Tyler's belief that this creature took possession of her young son's body, and from then on her true son was already gone and could never be recovered. All that was left was for her to kill the beast. But not quite kill it. She kept it imprisoned somehow in a box that is kept in the parlor of the family mansion on the Hudson. Am I getting this right, Rowena?"
Her face still buried in her hands, Rowena nodded.
"But for some reason, Mr. Duncan, Rowena has decided she wants that box open."
Rowena looked up, startled. "Oh, no. Oh, please, no."
Ray was alarmed as well. "What is it, Ro?"
Rowena leapt to her feet and rushed to the foot of the stairs. Then, changing her mind, she hurried back to her chair and sat down, wringing the tail of her shirt. "It's none of your business," said Rowena. "Nor Mother's!"