He nods. “The State Police are sending additional detectives later this morning. We’re setting up a task force, so I’ll be sharing your story during the initial briefing.”
“Let me know if you need me to be there to face the music in person.”
“That won’t be necessary,” he says almost casually. “What I’ll say is, you thought the whole thing was a prank until you got to thinking about it later on. That’s when you realized that maybe the guy had been wearing a mask. So you told me all about it this morning. You didn’t see a vehicle and are unable to provide a physical description of the man other than dark clothes and shoes with some sort of a heel.”
She looks at him with gratitude. “Thank you, Norris.”
“Don’t mention it,” he says, waving her off. “No need for the whole damn world to discover how hard-headed you are.”
Gwendy laughs. “Now you sound like my mother.”
60
WHEN GWENDY WALKS INTO Room 233 on the second floor of Castle County General and sees the tears streaming down both her mother and father’s faces, her heart drops.
Mrs. Peterson is sitting on the edge of the hospital bed with her bare legs dangling over the side. She’s holding hands with her husband and leaning her head against his shoulder. She looks very much like a young girl. Doctor Celano stands at the foot of the bed, reading from an open chart. When he hears the door open, he turns to Gwendy with a big, toothy grin on his face.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Gwendy says, confused. “I got held up in a meeting.”
Her father looks up at her. His eyes are watery and dancing and he’s also wearing a broad smile.
“What’s going on?” Gwendy asks, feeling like she just stepped into the Twilight Zone.
“Oh, honey, it’s a miracle,” her mother says, holding out her arms.
Gwendy goes to her and gives her a hug. “What is? What’s happening?” Her mother only squeezes tighter.
Mr. Peterson nods to the doctor. “Tell her what you just told us.”
Doctor Celano raises his eyebrows. “All of the scans came back clean. No sign of a tumor anywhere.”
“What? That’s great news, right?” Gwendy asks, afraid to get her hopes up.
“I’d say so.”
“But what about the blood results?”
The doctor waves the medical chart at her. “The blood work we took yesterday morning also came back clean. Your mother’s numbers are squarely in the normal range.”
“How is that possible?” Gwendy asks in disbelief.
“I wondered the same thing myself,” Doctor Celano says, “so I put in a request right away for additional blood work and rushed the lab for the results.”
“I was curious what was going on,” Mrs. Peterson says, laughing. “They took three more tubes before breakfast, and I told the nurse she was turning into a vampire.”
“The new tests came back normal. Again,” the doctor says, closing the chart and holding it at his side.
Gwendy stares at him. “Could it be a mistake?”
“A mistake was made, but not yesterday or today. I’m positive these results are accurate.” The doctor sighs heavily and the smile disappears from his face. “With that said, I want to assure you that I’ll get to the bottom of what went wrong in regards to Mrs. Peterson’s initial blood work on the 22nd. It was a reprehensible error, and I will find out where it occurred.”
“But what about the stomach pain? The vomiting?”
“That’s a bit of a mystery, I’m afraid,” the doctor says. “My best guess is she ate something that didn’t agree with her and the force of the vomiting agitated scar tissue that was caused by the chemotherapy. It’s happened to patients of mine before.”
“So what … what does this all mean?” Gwendy asks.
“It means she’s not sick!” Mr. Peterson says, putting an arm around Gwendy’s shoulder and giving her a shake. “It means we can take her home!”
“Today?” Gwendy says, looking at the doctor. She still can’t believe this is happening. “Right now?”
“As soon as we’re finished with her discharge papers.”
Gwendy gazes at Doctor Celano for a moment, and then looks back at her parents. Their faces are alight with happiness. “I’m starting to think that feather of yours really is magic,” her father says.
And then all three of them are laughing again and holding on to each other for dear life.
61
IN MOST OF EASTERN Maine, news of an approaching nor’easter—still four or five days out but already gaining strength at a monstrous rate—fills the airwaves and front pages of newspapers over the next forty-eight hours. There’s very little panic in this part of the world, even when it comes to the bigger storms—but there is an underlying sense of dread. Blizzards mean accidents—both on the roads and closer to home. There will be broken bones and frostbite; overturned cars in ditches and downed power lines. Elderly folks will be rendered housebound, unable to venture out to grocery stores and pharmacies; meals and refills will be missed and illnesses will slither under drafty door cracks with insidious stealth and take hold. The youngsters won’t fare much better, as they gleefully abandon whatever common sense they possess in the first place to rush headlong outside into the storm to build forts and wage snowball wars and hurtle down tree-speckled hills at breakneck speeds on flimsy slivers of drugstore plastic. If town folks are lucky, no one will need a mortician. But then again nor’easters aren’t usually harbingers of anything even close to resembling good luck.
This time, in the western half of the state, it’s a different story altogether. The approaching blizzard is relegated to page two or even three, and only discussed in detail during the weather portion of most television newscasts. The three missing Castle County girls dominate local media coverage from early morning drive-time to the eleven o’clock nightly news. Family members and friends, schoolmates and even teachers are interviewed, all offering a slightly modified version of the same somber story: the three girls are kind and talented and have never been in any kind of trouble; they certainly didn’t run away from home. Sheriff Norris Ridgewick and State Police Detective Frank Thome are also constant on-air presences. They continue to offer the same grim-faced reassurances that their respective departments are doing everything humanly possible to locate the missing girls and the same passionate requests for information from the public. Their singular message and lack of originality in delivering that message prompts one local reporter to write that both men “are reading from the same uninspired script.”
Despite the lack of recovered bodies or anything else resembling proof, the Portland press have already begun to throw around the “serial killer” moniker and have dredged up no fewer than three sidebar articles relating to Frank Dodd and his stint as “The Castle Rock Strangler” in the early 1970s.
In Castle Rock, there are no mentions of Boogeyman Dodd in the press—although there are plenty of whispers in the bars and restaurants and stores; in a small town like The Rock, the whispering never ends. The December 30, 1999 edition of The Castle Rock Call features large photos of each of the three girls above the front-page fold and a banner headline running just below that reads: MANHUNT TURNS UP NO CLUES – TASK FORCE PUZZLED.
Gwendy Peterson takes one look at the newspaper and tosses it unread onto her parents’ dining-room table. “Let’s go, slowpokes!” she yells upstairs. “We’re going to be late!”
Gwendy and her father have spent the past two days taking excellent care of Mrs. Peterson—at least that’s what they would claim if asked. Mrs. Peterson, on the other hand, would tell a completely different story; without hesitation or filter, she’d tell you they’ve spent the past two days driving her bat-shit crazy.
Despite the doctor’s words of assurance—both at the hospital and during a follow-up phone call yesterday afternoon—Mr. Peterson insisted that his wife remain on the family-room sofa for the remainder of the week, resting and recovering under a pile of blankets.
For once, Gwendy took her father’s side of the argument, and the two of them wore a path in the carpet leading to and from the sofa, trying to make sure she was comfortable and adequately entertained. In the process, they also wore out Mrs. Peterson’s patience. After two days spent reading a half-dozen magazines from cover to cover, watching hours of television, knitting, and working on another jigsaw puzzle until she was seeing double, Mrs. Peterson finally lost it, shortly after lunch, hurling the television remote at her husband and declaring, “Stop babying me, dammit! I feel fine!”
And it seems like she really does. Only one short nap yesterday, and nothing at all so far today. The color has returned to her face and her appetite—as well as her spunky attitude—is back to normal. In fact, a short time ago, she not so subtly hinted (insisted) that Gwendy and Mr. Peterson take her out to dinner tonight, and not just any old restaurant, either. She has Gwendy call her favorite Italian bistro, Giovanni’s, in neighboring Windham, and make a reservation for three (which they’ll be late for if they don’t leave the house in the next few minutes).
Gwendy turns at the sound of footsteps and can’t believe her eyes. “Wow,” she says, getting up from the table. “You look like a million bucks, Mom.”
“A billion,” a smiling Mr. Peterson says, coming down the stairs behind her.
Mrs. Peterson is wearing a dark blue dress underneath a long gray sweater. For the first time in months, she has on lipstick and eye shadow. Gold earrings dangle from her ears and a single pearl necklace hangs around her neck.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Peterson says primly. “If you keep up the compliments, I will consider forgiving the both of you.”
“In that case,” Mr. Peterson says, extending his arm toward the front door, “your chariot awaits.”
62
THE DRIVE FROM CASTLE Rock to Windham takes forty-five minutes but dinner is worth every mile of it. Both Gwendy and Mrs. Peterson order stuffed shrimp a la Guiseppi, side salads, and cups of seafood bisque. Mr. Peterson decides on chicken cacciatore and devours an entire loaf of Italian bread all by himself before his entrée arrives. “You keep that up,” Mrs. Peterson tells him, “and we’ll be visiting you in the hospital.”
After they finish eating, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson take to the dance floor and slow dance to back-to-back ballads sung by a Frank Sinatra look-alike set up on a small stage by the bar. At the conclusion of the last song, Mr. Peterson dips his wife over his bended knee, before pulling her close for a kiss on the cheek. They return to the table giggling like a couple of high-school sweethearts.
“You sure you don’t want to give it a whirl, Gwennie?” her father asks, sliding out Mrs. Peterson’s chair for her. “I still have a little gas left in the tank.”
“I’m stuffed. I think I’ll just sit here until I float away.”
“Will there be dessert for anyone?” the waitress says from over Mrs. Peterson’s shoulder.
“Not me,” Gwendy says, groaning.
Mr. Peterson pats his full belly. “None for me, either.”
“No, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Peterson says, and as her husband asks the waitress for the check, she turns to Gwendy. “I think I’ll just have one of those yummy chocolates of yours when I get home instead.”
63
GWENDY JOGS UP THE last hilly stretch of Pleasant Road, sticking as close to the shoulder as she can. After two close calls this morning, she’s especially wary of the increased traffic, even at such an early hour. It’s been three long days since fourteen-year-old Deborah Parker disappeared from Fortier Pond, but the neighborhood is still bustling with a combination of police and sheriff vehicles, volunteer searchers, and curious lookie-loos, mostly out-of-towners with their noses pressed against the glass of their windshields.
Gwendy’s schedule on this chilly final day of the twentieth century is remarkably clear (a fact she grudgingly attributes to a lack of anything resembling a healthy social life). After she finishes her run and showers, she plans to catch up on some overdue email correspondence, then swing by her parents’ house for a quick check-in—Mr. and Mrs. Peterson are going next door to the Goff’s later this evening for dinner—and then it’s back home for an exciting afternoon of John Grisham before it’s finally time to leave for Brigette Desjardin’s PTA New Year’s Eve party. She’s already prepared a five-minute speech for the occasion and is hoping she doesn’t have to stick around for much longer than that.
As she turns the corner and her building comes into view, Gwendy’s thoughts turn to the button box and the miniature chocolate animals.
So far, she’s given her mom a total of seven pieces of chocolate—the first one a tiny turtle she smuggled into the hospital along with several cartons of fruit juice, and the most recent an adorable little pig when they got home from the restaurant last night.
Before pulling the lever on the left side of the box and slipping the bite-sized chocolate turtle into a sandwich bag and stuffing it into the zippered pocket of her backpack to take to the hospital, Gwendy agonized long and hard over the decision. She knew from firsthand experience that the button box dispensed not-so-tiny doses of magic along with its animal treats—but she also knew the gifts were rarely delivered without consequence. So what exactly was going to happen the first time she gave someone else one of the chocolates? How about a whole bunch of them? Gwendy didn’t know the answers, but in the end, she was willing to roll the dice.
It wasn’t until the other morning at the hospital when Doctor Celano gave them the miraculous news that she finally felt at peace with her decision. How could she not after that? But if Gwendy was holding onto any lingering doubts—and, okay, maybe there were just a few—it was the graceful dip at the end of that last slow dance and the dreamy look on her mother’s face when Mr. Peterson planted the tender kiss on her cheek that sent those doubts packing once and for all. Gwendy knew she would remember that moment and her parents’ laughter for the rest of her life (however long that might be).
Gwendy offers a cheerful good morning to her across-the-hall neighbor exiting the building and bounds up the stairs to the second floor, feeling light on her feet. She unzips her pocket and pulls out her key and cellphone. She’s reaching for the doorknob when she notices the MESSAGE light blinking on her telephone.
“No, no, no,” she says, realizing she forgot to turn on her ringer. She pushes the button to retrieve her messages and holds the phone up to her ear.
“Hey, honey, I can’t believe I got through! Been trying for days! I miss you so—”
The message cuts off in mid-sentence.
Gwendy stares at her phone in disbelief.
“Come on …” She fumbles with the buttons, trying to find out if there’s another message. There isn’t. She hits the REPEAT button and stands in front of her door, listening to those four seconds of Ryan’s voice. Over and over again.
64
GWENDY SITS CROSS-LEGGED ON the bed, wet hair wrapped in a towel, and hits SEND on the email she just finished writing. Once the modem disconnects from dial-up, she closes her laptop. A look of concern on her face, she swings her legs off the bed and starts to get dressed. She’s tying her shoes when the phone rings.
“Hello?” Trying not to get her hopes up.
“Gwendy, it’s Patsy Follett. I catch you at a bad time?”
“Patsy!” she says, excited to hear the congresswoman’s voice. “I just responded to your email.”
“And I just opened it and read it. Figured it’d be easier to call.”
“Well, how are you?” Gwendy asks. “Happy New Year!”
“Happy New Year to you, too. I was doing great until I talked to my friend in the Senate this morning. Then, not so great.”
“You really think we’re going to be called back early?”
“That’s what he said. Some kind of emergency session because of President Big Mouth and
Korea. First time it’s happened since Harry flippin’ Truman.”
“That means there’s more going on behind the scenes than the news is telling us.”
“Evidently,” Patsy says with disgust in her voice. “I gotta admit this is the first time I’ve actually been scared the idiot’s going to get us in another war.”
Gwendy looks across the bedroom at the button box on the dresser. She walks over to it.
“I lose you, Gwen?”
“No, no, I’m right here. Just thinking.”
65
GWENDY ONLY STAYS AT her parents’ house for a short time that afternoon, just long enough to talk Patriots football with her dad (he thinks Pete Carroll has to go after another fourth-place finish; she believes he deserves one more year to turn things around) and help her mom pick out an outfit for the New Year’s Eve dinner later that night at the Goffs.
She’s already outside on the front porch digging in her coat pockets for her car keys when Mrs. Peterson swings open the door and stops her. “Hold on a second. I need to talk to you about something.”
Gwendy turns around. “You need to get back inside, Mom, before you catch a cold. It’s freezing out here.”
“This’ll only take a second.”
It’s bad news, Gwendy thinks, reading the expression on her face. I knew it was too good to be true.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
“Oh, Mom,” Gwendy says. “What is it?”
“I should’ve told you before now, but I kept chickening out.”
Gwendy goes to her. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’ve checked my bag, I’ve looked everywhere, I even called the hospital … but I can’t find your magic feather anywhere.”
Gwendy stares at her—and starts laughing.
“What?” Mrs. Peterson asks. “What’s so funny?”
“I thought … I thought you were going to tell me you were sick again, that the hospital had made another mistake.”
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