“Tell me.”
He gets up and closes the door. Returning to his desk, he opens a drawer and takes out a large envelope. “Take a look,” he says, handing it to Gwendy.
She opens the flap and slides out a pair of glossy color photographs. It’s hard to tell what the three small white objects are in the first photo, but the second shot is a close-up view and much clearer. “Teeth?” she says, looking at the sheriff.
He nods in response.
“Where’d they come from?”
“They were found inside the pocket of Carla Hoffman’s pink sweatshirt.”
43
GWENDY’S STILL THINKING ABOUT the three small teeth hours later as she showers and gets ready to attend Christmas Eve mass with her parents.
Forensics have already confirmed that the teeth are archetypal for a female Carla Hoffman’s age, and Sheriff Ridgewick’s in touch with the girl’s dental office to determine if they have X-rays on file. Carla’s parents know about the sweatshirt but haven’t been told about the gruesome discovery made inside the pocket. “It’s our first concrete piece of evidence,” the sheriff had confided to Gwendy. “We need to see where it leads before news of it gets blabbed all over town.”
The discovery of the teeth had pushed thoughts of last night’s terrifying encounter in the parking lot out of Gwendy’s mind, but they return to her now, twenty-four hours later, as she’s selecting a dress for church.
The whole thing feels like a bad dream. The man was wearing a mask, she’s sure of that now. But at this time of year, ski masks are common. Other than that, she doesn’t remember much of anything. Dark clothing, maybe jeans, and some kind of shoes or boots with a heel. She definitely heard him before she saw him. Another thing, she hadn’t noticed any strange cars in the lot, so he either parked somewhere nearby and came in on foot, or he lived close by.
But why would anyone want to do that? she thinks, settling on a long black dress and a pair of leather boots. Was he just trying to scare her? Or was it more than that? For that matter, did he even know it was her? Maybe the whole thing was just a prank. Or had nothing to do with her at all.
Gwendy also wonders why she chose not to say anything about it to Sheriff Ridgewick this morning, although she has a theory about that. It all points back to the chocolate owl she ate a couple of nights earlier. It’s true that eating the chocolate immediately infused her with a sense of calm energy and clearness of vision—both the internal and external variety—but it did more than that: it gave her back her sense of balance in the world; a sense of confidence that was sorely lacking these past few months. Missing Ryan, floundering at her job, worrying about her mom and a President with the IQ of a turnip and the temperament of a schoolyard bully … all of a sudden, she felt like she could shoulder her share of the load again, and more. All thanks to some kind of wonder drug … or candy, she thinks. It was an uneasy feeling to have, and in some ways it made her feel even guiltier about eating the chocolate. After all, she wasn’t a lost and insecure teenager like the first time the button box came into her life. She was an adult now with years of experience at handling the curve balls life threw at her.
She’s strapping on her seat belt and pulling out of the parking lot on her way to meet her parents at church when that dreaded question rears its ugly head once again: How much of her life is her own doing, and how much the doing of the box with its treats and buttons?
Gwendy has never been less sure of the answer.
44
FOR AS LONG AS Gwendy can remember, the Petersons have attended the 7:00 PM Christmas Eve mass at Our Lady of Serene Waters Catholic Church, and then gone crosstown to the Bradleys’ annual holiday party afterward. When she was a little girl, Gwendy would often spend the drowsy drive home with her head resting against the cool glass of her back-seat window, searching the night sky for a glimpse of Rudolph’s glowing red nose.
The church service tonight lasts a little more than an hour. Hugh and Blanche Goff, the Petersons’ longtime next-door neighbors, arrive a few minutes late. Gwendy happily scoots over to make room for them in the pew. Mrs. Goff smells like mothballs and peppermint breath mints, but Gwendy doesn’t mind. The Goffs were never able to have children of their own, and she’s like a surrogate daughter to them.
Gwendy closes her eyes and loses herself in Father Lawrence’s sermon, his soothing voice as much a part of her childhood memories as Saturday morning swims with Olive Kepnes at the Castle Rock Rec Pool. Few of the priest’s stories are new to her, but she finds his words and delivery comforting nonetheless. Gwendy watches the simple joy in her mother’s face as Mrs. Peterson sings along with the choir and, a short time later, stifles a giggle when Mr. Goff breaks wind during Holy Communion, earning a gentle elbow to the ribs from her father.
When the service is over, the Petersons file out with the rest of the congregation and stand outside of the church’s main entrance, mingling with friends and neighbors. The most boisterous greetings are reserved for Gwendy’s mom, as this is her first time back at church in weeks. There is one exception, however. Father Lawrence wraps Gwendy up in a bear hug and actually lifts her off the ground. Before he disappears back into the rectory, he makes her promise to come back soon. Once the crowd thins out, Gwendy walks Mr. and Mrs. Goff to their car in the parking lot, and then she follows her parents to the Bradleys’ mansion on Willow Street.
Anita Bradley—as Castle Rock gossips have enviously whispered for going on three decades now—married old and married rich. After her husband Lester, a wildly successful lumber tycoon nineteen years her senior, suffered a fatal heart attack in early 1991, many locals thought that once the funeral services were completed and legal matters attended to, Anita would pack up house and head for the sunny shores of Florida or maybe even an island somewhere. But they were wrong. Castle Rock was her home, Anita insisted, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
As it turns out, her staying was a very good thing for the town. Anita has spent the almost nine years since her husband’s death donating her time and money to a long list of local charities, volunteering her sewing expertise to help out the Castle Rock High School Theatrical Society, and serving as the head of the library’s Board of Trustees. She also makes a ridiculously delicious apple pie, which she sells at Nora’s Bake Shop all summer long.
A smiling and moderately tipsy Anita—her long, thick gray hair styled into some kind of gravity-defeating, triple-decker, power tower—welcomes the Peterson family inside her home with dainty hugs and papery soft (not to mention, sandpapery dry) kisses on their cheeks. The three-story Bradley house sprawls more than seven thousand square feet atop the rocky hillside and is filled with room after room of turn-of-the-century antiques. Gwendy has always been terrified of breaking something valuable. She takes her parents’ coats and, adding her own, leaves them draped over a Victorian sofa in the library. Then she heads into the bustling, high-ceiled great room, searching for familiar faces, anxious to make an appearance and get back home again.
But, as is often the case in Castle Rock, familiar faces her age prove difficult to find. Most of Gwendy’s close friends from high school never returned to The Rock after attending college. Like her, many of them took jobs in nearby Portland or Derry or Bangor. Others moved to distant states, only returning for occasional visits with parents or siblings. Brigette Desjardin is one of only a small handful of exceptions to this rule, and appears to be the only one in attendance here at the Bradleys’ annual Christmas party. Gwendy bumps into her by the punch bowl—there are no unfortunate spills this time around—and enjoys a spirited but brief conversation with Brigette and her husband Travis before a PTA friend of Brigette’s drunkenly interrupts them. Gwendy smiles and moves on.
Of course, there are plenty of others waiting to speak with Gwendy. While familiar faces are scarce, friendly—and merely curious—faces are not. It seems as if everyone there wants a photo or a quick word or two with the Celebrity Congresswoman, and the barrage of questions comes
fast and furious:
Where’s your husband? Where’s Ryan? (“Overseas working on assignment.”)
How’s your mom feeling? (“Much better, thank you, she’s here somewhere, I’m actually trying to find her.”)
What’s President Hamlin really like? (“Ummm … he’s a handful.”)
How’s it going down there in DC? (“Oh, it’s going okay, trying to fight the good fight every day.”)
Why aren’t you drinking? Hold on, let me grab you something. (“No, thanks, really, I’m kind of tired and not much of a drinker.”)
What about those missing girls? (“It’s terrible and it’s frightening, and I know the sheriff and his people are doing everything humanly possible to find them.”)
I saw you running the other night. Don’t you ever get tired of all that running? (“Actually, no, I find it relaxing—that’s why I do it.”)
How worried should I be about what’s going on with North Korea? Do you think we’re going to war? (“Don’t lose any sleep over it. A lot of awfully bad things would have to happen for the United States to go to war, and I don’t believe it’s going to happen.”) Gwendy’s not so sure about this last one, but she figures it’s part of her job to keep her constituents calm.
By the time she locates her parents sitting in a corner on the opposite side of the room talking to a co-worker from Dad’s office (the man also requests a “real quick photo,” which Gwendy dutifully smiles for), she feels like she’s just finished an all-day publicity whirlwind for one of her book releases. She also has a splitting headache.
Once they’re alone, she tells her parents she’s exhausted and asks if they’ll be okay at the party without her. Her mom fusses that Gwendy needs to stop working so hard and orders her right home to bed. Her father gives her a sarcastic look and says, “I think we can survive without your guiding light for one night, kiddo. Go home and get some rest.” Gwendy swats him on the arm, kisses them both goodnight, and starts across the room toward the library to get her coat.
That’s when it happens.
A muscular hand reaches out from the sea of people and grabs Gwendy by the shoulder, spinning her around.
“Well, well, well, look who it is.”
Caroline Hoffman suddenly looms in front of her, bloodshot eyes narrowed into slits. The hand gripping Gwendy’s shoulder begins to squeeze. Her free hand balls into a meaty fist.
Gwendy glances around the room, looking for help … but Mr. Hoffman is nowhere in sight, and none of the other partygoers seem to have noticed what’s happening. “Mrs. Hoffman, I don’t know what—”
“You make me sick, you know that?”
“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way, but I don’t know—”
The hand squeezes harder.
“Let go of me,” Gwendy says, shrugging the woman’s hand off of her. She can smell Mrs. Hoffman’s breath—and not beer, the hard stuff. The last thing she wants to do is antagonize her. “Listen, I appreciate the fact that you’re upset and you don’t like me very much, but this isn’t the time or the place.”
“I think it’s the perfect time and place,” Mrs. Hoffman says, an ugly sneer spreading across her face.
“For what?” Gwendy asks heavily.
“For me to kick your stuck-up little ass.”
Gwendy takes a step back, raising her hands in front of her, in shock that this is actually happening.
“Is everything okay?” a tall man Gwendy has never seen before asks.
“No,” she says, voice trembling. “No, it’s not. This woman has had too much to drink and needs a ride home. Can you help her find someone? Or perhaps you can call her husband?”
“I’d be happy to.” The man turns to Mrs. Hoffman and tries to take her arm. She shoves him away. He slams into a couple behind him, knocking the other man’s wineglass out of his hand. It tumbles to the floor and shatters—and now everyone in the room is staring at the tall stranger and Mrs. Hoffman.
“What are y’all gawking at?!” she slurs, the color rising in her chubby cheeks. “Buncha blue-ballers!”
“Oh, my,” someone behind Gwendy says.
Gwendy takes advantage of the distraction and quickly slips away into the library where she digs out her coat from the now massive pile on the sofa. She puts it on, rubbing away furious tears, and starts pacing in front of the sofa. How dare she put her hands on me? How dare she say those things? Pacing faster now, she can feel the heat intensifying throughout her body. All I was trying to do was help her rude ass and she acts like—
A loud crash comes from the next room.
And then cries of alarm.
Gwendy hurries back into the great room, afraid of what she might find.
Caroline Hoffman is lying unconscious on the hardwood floor, her arms splayed above her head. A nasty gash on her forehead is bleeding heavily. A crowd has gathered around her.
“What happened?” Gwendy asks no one in particular.
“She fell,” an old man, standing in front of her, says. “She’d calmed down some and was walking out on her own and she just spun around and fell and hit her head on the table. Darnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“It was almost like somebody pushed her,” another woman says. “But there wasn’t anybody there.”
Remembering the flush of anger she’d just experienced and a long-forgotten dream about Frankie Stone, Gwendy stumbles out of the house in a daze and doesn’t look back.
Head spinning, it takes her several minutes to remember where she parked her car. When she finally locates it near the bottom of the Bradleys’ long driveway, she gets in and drives home in silence.
45
WWHEN GWENDY GETS HOME fifteen minutes later, she changes into a nightgown, washes her face and brushes her teeth, and goes directly to bed. She doesn’t turn on the television, she doesn’t put her cellphone on charge, and for the first time since its return, she leaves the button box locked inside the safe overnight.
46
GWENDY DOESN’T CHECK ON the button box the next morning, either. Another first for her.
Christmas dawns dark and gloomy with a suffocating layer of thick clouds hanging over Castle Rock. The weather forecast calls for snow by nightfall, and the town DPW trucks are already busy dropping salt as Gwendy makes her way down Route 117 to her parents’ house. Almost all of the homes she passes still have their Christmas lights glowing at ten-thirty in the morning. For some reason, instead of looking cheerful and festive, the dim lights and murky sky provide a depressing backdrop to her drive.
Gwendy expects to pass the day in the same blue mood she went to bed with but is determined to hide it from her parents. They have enough on their plate without her ruining their Christmas celebration.
But by the time the brunch table is cleared and presents are exchanged in the living room, Gwendy finds herself in a surprisingly cheery mood. Something about spending Christmas morning in the house she grew up in makes the world feel safe and small again, if only for a short time.
As they do every year, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson fret about Gwendy going overboard and spoiling them with gifts—“We asked you not to do that this year, honey, we didn’t have much time to get out and shop!”—but she can tell they’re surprised and pleased with her choices. Dad, still dressed in a robe and pajamas, sits in his recliner with his legs up, reading the instructions for his brand-new DVD player. Mom is busy modeling her L.L.Bean jacket and boots in the full-length hallway mirror. A stack of jigsaw puzzles, assorted shirts and sweaters, a TiVo so Mom can digitally record her shows, a men’s L.L.Bean winter jacket, and subscription gift cards to National Geographic and People magazine sit under the tree, next to Ryan’s unopened presents.
Gwendy is equally pleased with her own gifts, particularly a gorgeous leather-bound journal her mother found in a small shop in Bangor. She’s sitting on the living-room sofa, relishing the texture of the thick paper against her fingertips, when her father reaches out with a large red envelope in his hand.
> “One more little present, Gwennie.”
“What’s this?” she asks, taking the envelope.
“A surprise,” Mrs. Peterson says, coming over and sitting on the arm of her husband’s recliner.
Gwendy opens the envelope and slides out a card. A glittery Christmas tree decorates the front of it. A little girl with pigtails stands at the foot of the tree, looking up with wonder in her eyes. Gwendy opens the card—and a small white feather spills out and flutters to the carpet at her feet.
“Is that—?” she starts to ask, eyes wide, and then she reads what her father has written inside the card …
You have ALWAYS
believed in magic,
dear Gwendy, and magic
has ALWAYS believed in you.
… and she can no longer find the words to finish.
She looks up at her parents. They’re both sitting there with goofy grins on their faces. Happy tears are forming in her mother’s eyes.
Gwendy bends down and picks up the feather, stares at it with disbelief. “I just can’t …” She turns the feather over in her hand. “How did you … where did you find it?”
“I found it in the garage,” her father says proudly. “I was looking for a 3/8 inch screw in one of those cabinets you liked to play with so much when you were little, the ones with all the little drawers?”
Gwendy mutely nods her head.
“Slid out the last drawer in the last row, and there it was. I couldn’t believe it myself.”
“You must have hidden it there,” her mother says. “What? Almost thirty years ago.”
“I don’t remember,” Gwendy says. She looks up at her parents and this time she’s the one wearing the big goofy grin. “I can’t believe you found my magic feather …”
47
WHEN GWENDY IS TEN years old, her family spends a week in upstate New York visiting with one of Mr. Peterson’s first cousins. It’s July and the cousin (Gwendy can no longer remember his name nor the names of his wife or three children; as best as she can recall, they never saw them again except at the occasional wedding or funeral) has a summer home on a lake, so there’s plenty to do. Canoeing, swimming, fishing, jumping off tire swings, even water skiing. There’s also a small town nearby with a mini golf course and water slide for the tourists.
Gwendy's Magic Feather Page 9