In which Quint pays a visit, just like it says on the tin.

CHAPTER 23: QUINT PAYS A VISIT

TIME AND LOCATION: 10:17, Becky's house
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies, sunshine
FORTUNE: "A storm cannot be comforted, only endured."

Quint knocks once, twice, and when there is no answer after a minute or so, he starts shouting.

"Becky, it's me, Quint! I'm at the front d-"

He almost falls off the steps as the door is flung open. A pale arm reaches out, grabs him by the collar and hauls him inside the darkened lobby. He hears the door slam behind him, then the tickle of breath hissing into his ear.

"Shh! Don't talk!"

"Becky, wha-"

He feels the slight shadow beside him grip his arm with steel-laced fingers. Stumbling slightly, he lets himself be dragged towards a sliver of gray light on the other side of the room. They pass a circular mirror on the wall to his left; he turns to look at it as they go by and catches a glimpse of himself, those pale arms still clutching him around his shoulders as if rescuing him from drowning. Soon he finds himself in the bedroom, the smell of stale clothes seeping into his nostrils. He lets himself be pushed onto the bed, mildly stunned, and hears the sounds of multiple locks being turned, one after the other.

Lying on the rumpled sheets, Quint props himself up on his elbows, watching Becky's hunched silhouette as it fumbles with the door.

"Ain't ya even gonna turn on some lights? Maybe crack a window or two?"

"No. No open windows. I've had five new locks put in; that should be enough for now."

"For now? Becky, wouldja please come over here and tell me what the hell's going on?"

Becky straightens and turns, her face washed out and unreadable in the musty darkness. She comes towards him, jerkily, and he sees that her hands are shaking.

"Quint... Oh, Quint..."

She collapses next to him on the bed, partially against him, her body like some heavy lifeless mannequin as he tries to hold her in his arms. "I'm sorry, Quint," she gasps, dark brown hair trailing messily across her eyes. "I'm sorry I can't tell you everything, but I can't leave the house. I know it looks crazy, the locks and all, but I can't take any chances. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes," he almost lies, then thinks better of it. "No! I don't understand! Baby, what's wrong? Is someone after you?" Quint's voice lowers. "Is it... Jack?"

He brushes her hair away so he can see her more clearly. Her skin is clammy against his and it seems like she hasn't showered in a few days. The whites of her eyes jump out at him, darting glances left and right, her hand on his back clenching and unclenching. Now, he thinks, would probably not be the best time to tell her about the police cruiser he passed on the way here, going in the opposite direction. In her current state, the most trivial piece of information might be enough to shatter her like a china doll.

"Jack? Who's Jack?"

"The guy who runs the gas station. Oh yeah, I guess you've never really been introduced to him... You oughta be grateful about that, too, he's a total asshole."

He can almost feel her heart rate slowing as she listens to him talk, distancing herself from the paranoia. Encouraged, he goes on: "He's the one who's been helping me out with... gettin' rid of the supply. He gets all sorts of customers from all over the country, truckers mostly, so I can charge a higher rate. It's what's going to get us out of this rut, Becky, remember? That's why I was so hard on you about the next batch... I don't need it so much anymore, but if we're gonna be together, we'll need more dough."

"Money's not an issue, Quint. You're still working at your dad's bar, and I... I get enough from my sister. I mean, look at this house. It's more than enough for the both of us."

"…I don't like it."

"What don't you like about it? We'll be together, won't we?"

"It just… It doesn't feel like I'm earning my way yet, that's all."

Becky looks up at him, dark eyes accusing. "And what we're doing now is supposed to make you feel like a decent human being? You've got to stop, Quint. I don't want you doing it any more."

"It's a little late for that, Becky. We're not the only ones involved in this now."

"You can stop any time you want, you're just making excuses! Please, Quint, do it for me…"

Quint wants to let go of her, but she's clinging to him with that desperate strength, and he can't bear to push her away.

"Who else would I be doing this for? Sallie? My dad? I'm doing this for you, Becky! Becky, look at me!"

Her trembling is turning into something approaching a full-blown seizure. She bucks and twists in Quint's arms, but her fingers, frozen into grasping claws on his collar and shoulder, are immovable.

"Sallie? Oh god, Sallie... Anna, I'm sorry, I'll won't tell anyone, I swear, please god please-"

Quint lets himself fall backwards on the bed, gaining more leverage with which to restrain her. He feels like a living strait jacket as she writhes against him, choking out half-formed syllables and incomprehensible apologies to people not present in the room. It's like she's a character in a movie who's been possessed by demons; but Quint is no exorcist and there isn't church around here for miles, and those are the only scenarios in which he can think of a solution for whatever supernatural terror has her in its grip.

It's also the worst timing he could possibly think of. As Becky's sobs lurch through her body and into his, the warmth of their closeness on the bed offset by the marble-like chill of her hands on his neck, he thinks of the tiny box nestled in the inner pocket of his jacket. It lies pressed between them, waiting. Quint imagines its contents growing cold, like a carton of Chinese takeout left on the counter overnight.

He turns off his mind, lets himself be emptied into the void of Becky's impenetrable anguish. Her crying becomes like the rain: A steady, unbroken deluge in the midst of this beautiful summer's day.

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