29
AFTER BREAKFAST, GWENDY STROLLS across the street to the Book Nook and picks up the Sunday editions of both The New York Times and The Washington Post. The owner of the bookstore, a stylish woman in her mid-fifties named Grace Featherstone, greets her with a hug and several minutes of colorfully worded grievances relating to President Hamlin. Gwendy stands at the counter, unable to get a word in, nodding enthusiastically. When the older woman finally takes a breath, Gwendy pays for the newspapers and a pack of mints. Then she goes outside and sits in her car, scanning both publications for news about Timor, or more importantly, photographs from Timor.
Several years earlier, Ryan was sent to Brazil to help cover a story about a number of seaside villages that had been taken over and eventually destroyed by a local drug lord. He spent three weeks hiding in the jungle with armed guerillas, unable to contact home in any fashion. During this time, the only way Gwendy was able to confirm Ryan’s safety was by locating his photo credits in the daily newspapers and a handful of websites on the Internet. Ever since, in similarly trying times, this method became Gwendy’s safety net of last resort. Just seeing Ryan’s name printed in tiny type next to one of his photographs was enough to calm her heart for the next day or two until the next photo made an appearance.
Gwendy checks and double-checks both papers—her fingertips growing dark with smudged ink, the passenger seat and dashboard disappearing beneath a mountain of loose pages and advertising circulars—but doesn’t find any photographs. Each newspaper carries a brief article, but they’re buried on inside pages and are mostly rehashes of old stories. The Associated Press recently reported online that a United Nations force consisting of mainly Australian Defense Force personnel was deployed to East Timor to establish and maintain peace. After that, not much else was known.
30
GWENDY SPENDS THE MAJORITY of Sunday afternoon Christmas shopping with her mom. Their first stop is the Walmart, where Gwendy picks up a couple of jigsaw puzzles for her father and Mrs. Peterson snatches the last remaining Sony Walkman on the shelf for Blanche Goff, her longtime neighbor and friend “to use on her morning strolls around the high school track.”
Gwendy’s cellphone rings as they’re walking to the parking lot. It’s her father checking in to see how Mom is faring. Gwendy gives her mother a look and tells him everything’s fine and promises to keep an eye on her. Before she hangs up, Mrs. Peterson grabs the phone from her daughter’s hand and says, “Just watch your football games and leave us alone, you old nag.” The two of them climb into the Subaru, stashing their bags in the back seat and giggling like a couple of teenagers.
The truth is Gwendy has been keeping close tabs on her mother, and so far she’s delighted with what she’s seen. Mrs. Peterson is still a bit frail and she’s definitely slower on her feet, but all that’s to be expected after everything she’s been through. More important, to Gwendy at least, is the fact that her mother’s cheery attitude and whip-smart sense of humor are back, not to mention that sweet smile of hers. There’d been barely a glimpse of those things during the eight weeks of chemotherapy.
After Walmart, the two women grab a light lunch at Cracker Barrel and head to the mall out on Route 119. The two-story shopping mall is as crowded and noisy as a Friday night football game—it seems like half of Castle Rock’s teenage population is there that afternoon—but they don’t let it take away from their fun. Gwendy and her mom spend the next couple hours knocking off the final items on their gift lists, eating double-scoop ice cream cones while people-watching in the food court, and singing along to the never-ending selection of Christmas carols playing over the mall’s sound system.
At their final stop of the day, Gwendy leaves her mom sitting on a bench outside of Bart’s Sporting Goods, and goes inside to purchase a rain-suit for Ryan to wear kayaking. It was his only gift request before he left, and she’s determined to have it waiting for him under the tree. Gwendy is stuffing the credit card receipt into her bag and not looking where she’s going when she bumps into another shopper on her way out of the store.
“I am so sorry,” Gwendy says and then looks up and sees who it is. “Oh my God, Brigette!”
The tall, blonde woman laughs and picks up the shopping bag that was jostled from her hand. “Same old Gwendy, always running somewhere.”
Brigette Desjardin was two years ahead of Gwendy at Castle Rock High. Back in those days, they ran indoor track together and spent a lot of time at each other’s houses.
“I haven’t seen you since what … the Fourth of July parade?” Gwendy asks, giving her friend a hug.
“You ran into me that day, too.”
Gwendy covers her mouth. “Oh my God, you’re right, I did. I am so sorry.” Gwendy had knocked a glass of lemonade right out of Brigette’s hand and all over her brand-new sundress. “I never used to be so darn clumsy, but I think I’m making up for lost time these past few years.”
“That’s okay, Gwen,” says Brigette, laughing. “I think I know a way you can make it up to me.”
“Tell me.”
Brigette raises her eyebrows. “Well, you probably haven’t heard, but I was elected president of the PTA in September.”
“That’s terrific,” Gwendy says with sincere admiration. “Congratulations.”
“Oh, whatever.” Brigette rolls her eyes and smiles. “Miss Big-Shot Senator.”
“I’m not a—”
“Anyhoo, I’m in charge of the New Year’s Eve celebration this year—weather permitting, we’re holding it outside in the Common—and I was wondering …”
Gwendy doesn’t say anything. She can guess what’s coming next.
“. . . if you might stop by and say a few words?”
One of her mother’s favorite sayings flits through her mind: Don’t choose the easy thing to do, choose the right thing to do.
“It would only be for three or four minutes, but I understand if you can’t or don’t want to or you already have other—”
Gwendy places a hand on her old friend’s shoulder. “I’d be happy to.”
Brigette squeals and throws her arms around Gwendy. “Thank you, thank you! You have no idea what this means to me.”
“Just make sure you’re not holding a mug of hot chocolate when you see me coming.”
Brigette giggles, relaxing her bear hug. “Deal.”
“I’ll give you a call next week so you can tell me when and where to show up.”
“Perfect. Thank you again so much.” She starts walking away, and then turns back. “A very merry Christmas to you and your family.”
“Merry Christmas. I’m glad I ran into you.”
Gwendy turns and starts wading through the crowded promenade. Halfway to the bench where she’d left her mom, Mrs. Peterson comes into view and Gwendy raises a hand to wave—but she never gets that far.
Her mother isn’t alone.
A stab of terror piercing her chest, Gwendy starts pushing her way through the crowd.
31
“WHO WAS THAT?” GWENDY nearly shouts, frantically scanning the throng of shoppers behind the bench. “Who were you just talking to?”
Mrs. Peterson looks up in surprise. “What … what’s wrong?”
“The man with the black hat, the one you were just talking to … did you know him?”
“No. He said he’s visiting with friends in town. He asked me a couple of questions and went on his way.”
“What friends?”
“I didn’t ask him that,” Mrs. Peterson says. “What’s going on, Gwen?”
Up on her tip-toes now, still searching the crowd. “What kind of questions did he ask?”
“Well, let me think … he asked how I liked it here in Castle Rock. I told him I’d lived here my entire life, that it was home.”
“What else?”
“He wanted to know if I could recommend a good restaurant for dinner. He said he hadn’t had a decent hot meal in weeks and was very hungry, which I thought was rathe
r odd considering how nicely he was dressed.”
“What else?”
“That was it. It was a very brief conversation.”
“What did he look like? Can you describe him?”
“He was …” She thinks for a moment. “Tall and thin and probably about your age. I think he had blue eyes.”
Mrs. Peterson stands and picks up her shopping bags from the bench. “Now are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to start worrying about you, too?”
Thinking fast, Gwendy looks at her mom with that same blank poker face. “There’s a reporter who’s been bothering me these past few weeks. He’s persistent and not a very nice man. For a minute, I was afraid he followed me all the way up here from DC.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Peterson says, and Gwendy immediately feels horrible for lying to her. “This gentleman seemed very kind, but I guess you can never really tell, can you?”
Gwendy gives her a quick nod. “It’s getting harder and harder, that’s for sure.”
32
THE COLD AIR FEELS good in Gwendy’s lungs and the burn in her legs is like catching up with an old friend. After dropping off her mom at the house, she wanted nothing more than to drive home to the condo and head straight upstairs to bed, but her brain had other ideas. Especially after the scare she experienced at the mall.
She follows Pleasant Road down the winding hill, the street well lit and cheery with yard after yard of twinkling Christmas lights, until it runs into Route 117. The road grows darker here, just the occasional pole lamp casting dim globes of sickly yellow light onto the ground below, and she picks up her pace, heading for the old covered bridge that stretches across the Bowie Stream.
Running is usually just as much an act of meditation for Gwendy as it is a form of exercise. On those rare bad weather days when she’s forced to work out on the treadmill or StairMaster at the YMCA, she often listens to music on her Sony Walkman—usually something upbeat and peppy like Britney Spears or the Backstreet Boys; a fact Ryan never fails to give her grief about—but during her outside jaunts, she almost always prefers to run in silence. Just her and her innermost thoughts, the familiar sounds of the city or the countryside, and the rhythmic slap of her shoes punishing the asphalt.
Tonight she’s thinking about her husband.
Of course, she’s worried about him and anxious he won’t make it home in time for Christmas, but she knows those concerns are out of her control and even a little bit selfish. Ryan has a job to do, a sometimes dangerous job he loves with all his heart, and she supports that passion unconditionally—as he does hers. It’s part of what makes them work so well together. On a daily basis, they may prefer the simplicity of each other’s company—a walk in the woods, a game of gin rummy at the kitchen table, a late night double-feature at the drive-in—to crowded black tie events and fancy art openings, but when work calls they each know the drill. True passion is almost always accompanied by sacrifice.
So why all the angst this time? Gwendy wonders, as she approaches the old bridge. It’s not like this is their first rodeo. Ryan’s gone away on dozens of other assignments since they’ve been together.
A steady stream of likely answers trickles through her mind as she runs: it’s because of the holidays; it’s because her mother is still recovering from a life-altering illness; it’s because the button box is back in her life and she doesn’t have a clue what to do with it.
Gwendy considers the question a little longer, then checks off All Of The Above and picks up her stride, focusing on the road ahead.
The streetlight attached to the covered bridge’s outer planking is dark, most likely having served as target practice for some bored townie with a .22 rifle. The entrance looms ahead like a dark, hungry mouth, but Gwendy doesn’t break pace. She glides into the heart of the pitch-dark tunnel, rapid footsteps echoing around her, reminding her, just as they did when she was a little girl, of the old fairy tale about the evil troll living under the bridge.
It’s just a story, she tells herself, pumping her arms. Nothing’s going to reach out and grab you. Nothing’s going to leap down from the rafters and—
She’s a few yards away from reaching the exit when she hears a noise in the darkness behind her. A furtive scratching like claws scrambling across pavement. A finger of dread tickles the length of her spine. She doesn’t want to turn and look, but she can’t help herself. A pair of close-set eyes, unblinking and coal-red, watches her from deep within the shadows. Gwendy feels her legs begin to falter and wills them to keep moving, her breath coming fast and ragged. By the time she looks away, she’s clear of the bridge and back under the stars on Route 117.
Probably just a stupid raccoon, Gwendy thinks, sidestepping around a pothole in the road. Pulling cool air deeply into her lungs, she keeps running, a little faster now, and doesn’t look back.
33
WITH ALL OF HER Christmas shopping completed and the bulk of her work correspondence caught up, Gwendy spends the Monday and Tuesday before Christmas settling into an almost scandalously lazy routine. For her, anyway.
On Monday morning, she sleeps in (waking almost ninety minutes later than her usual 6:00 AM, having forced herself not to set her alarm the night before) and remains in bed until nearly noon, catching up on news programs and movies on cable. After a luxuriously long bubble bath, she makes a light lunch and retires to the sunroom, where she stretches out on the loveseat and alternates between staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows and daydreaming, and reading the new Ridley Pearson thriller deep into the afternoon. Once the December sun begins its inevitable slide toward the horizon, she marks her page, leaves the thick paperback on an end table, and goes upstairs to change clothes. Then she grabs her keys and heads to her parents’ house for dinner.
After nearly three months of being waited on in her own kitchen, Mrs. Peterson is finally feeling strong enough to cook again. Under the watchful eye of her husband, Mrs. Peterson prepares and serves a steaming hot casserole of beef stroganoff and a Christmas tree-shaped platter stacked with homemade rolls. The food is delicious, and Mrs. Peterson is so openly and endearingly pleased with herself, her smiles bring tears to her husband’s eyes.
After dinner, Gwendy and her father shoo Mrs. Peterson into the den while they clear the table and wash the dishes. Then they join her in watching A Christmas Carol on television and crack open a new jigsaw puzzle.
At a few minutes before nine, Gwendy bids her folks goodnight and drives back to the condo. She considers going for a run, but decides against it, working the three-digit combination on the safe instead, and taking out the button box.
It keeps her company at the foot of the bed while she changes into a nightgown and brushes her teeth. She finds herself talking to it more and more now, just as she did when she was younger. The box doesn’t answer, of course, but she’s almost certain that it listens—and watches. Before she puts it away for the night, she sits on the edge of the mattress, places the box in her lap, and pulls the lever by the red button. The narrow shelf slides out and on it is a tiny chocolate monkey. She admires the fine detail, and then slowly lifts it to her nose and inhales. Her eyes flutter closed. When she opens them again, she gets up and walks at a deliberate pace to the bathroom where she flushes the chocolate down the toilet. Unlike last time, there is no panic and there are no tears. “See?” she says to the box as she reenters the bedroom, “I’m in control here. Not you.” And then she returns the button box to the safe and goes to sleep.
Tuesday is more or less a repeat performance of the day before, and there are moments when Gwendy can’t help but think of scenes from Groundhog Day, that silly movie Ryan likes so much.
She starts the day by again sleeping in and lounging in bed for most of the morning. Then she takes a long bath, finishes the Pearson novel shortly after lunch, and devours the first four chapters of a new John Grisham.
She’s not in much of a holiday mood, but she forces herself to haul out the artificial tree a
nd boxes of ornaments from the crawlspace. She sets up the tree in the corner of the family room and hangs last year’s wreath on the front door. When dusk descends upon Castle Rock, she goes upstairs to change and heads to her parents’ for another dose of Mom’s home cooking. Lasagna and salad are on the menu tonight, and Gwendy eats two generous servings of each. After dinner, she and her father once again take care of the dishes, and then join Mrs. Peterson in the den. Tonight’s feature is White Christmas, and when the movie’s over and the credits are rolling, Mr. Peterson shocks both his wife and daughter by rolling up his pant legs, doing his best Bing Crosby imitation, and performing the “Sisters” routine in its entirety. Mrs. Peterson, hardly believing her eyes, collapses onto the sofa laughing so hard she ends up having a coughing fit, prompting her husband to hightail it into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. She takes a big drink, starts hiccupping, and lets out a tremendous belch—and the three of them burst out in delirious laughter all over again. The party breaks up a short time later, and Gwendy heads home, snow flurries dancing in the beams of her car’s headlights.
She takes her time driving across town and walks into her condo at precisely nine-thirty, juggling and almost dropping the stack of Tupperware containers her mom sent home with her. There’s enough leftover lasagna, stroganoff, and cheesecake in there to last well into the New Year. She’s struggling to open the refrigerator when her cellphone rings. Gwendy glances at the counter where she left the phone next to her keys and turns her attention back to the refrigerator. She slides the largest container onto the top shelf next to half-empty cartons of milk and orange juice, and is trying to make room on a lower shelf when the phone rings again. She ignores it and jams in the other two containers, one after the other. The phone rings a third time as Gwendy is closing the refrigerator door, and it’s almost as if a lightning bolt reaches down from the heavens and strikes some sense into her.
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