Gwendy's Magic Feather
Page 15
“And that’s all one can ask for in any such endeavor. Knowing you as I do, I believe you did quite well this time around, too.” He rests his hand on the carry-on suitcase, drumming his long, slender fingers along the zipper. “Ignoring the temptation of the buttons is a difficult chore during the best of times. Not many are able to resist. But, as you well know by now, when left alone, the box can be a strong force for good.”
“But I didn’t leave it alone,” she says with a whine in her voice she remembers well from adolescence. “Not completely. I pulled the lever … a lot.”
Farris nods his head ever so slightly.
“Will my mother be okay? The chocolates cured her, didn’t they?” And then almost as an afterthought: “I had to try.”
“Hospitals have been known to make mistakes, particularly when it comes to those pesky blood tests. Samples get contaminated; glass tubes get mislabeled. Happens all the time. I trust you left her with a sufficient supply?”
“I did,” she says, sounding like a guilty teenager.
A minivan pulls to the curb in front of them. The side door slides open and a woman and young girl climb out carrying suitcases. They both say cheerful goodbyes to the driver, the door slides shut, and the van drives away. The woman and girl walk to the back of the line at Baggage Check and never once glance in their direction on the bench.
“What happened with Lucas Browne and my friend’s husband … the awful things I saw in my head … the box did that, right? Was it because of the chocolates? Will it happen again?”
“That’s not up to me. When it comes to the button box, some things—many things—remain beyond my reach.”
She gapes at him. “But if you don’t know the answers, then who does?”
Farris doesn’t respond, just studies her through squinting eyes that appear almost gray now. The hat lays a thin line of shadow over his brow. Finally, he says: “I do, however, have one resolution for you that I believe you’ve been anxious about for quite some time now.”
“What?” Gwendy asks, and the whiny tone is back. The idea that Richard Farris is not, in fact, the omnipotent force behind the button box’s power, but rather some kind of glorified courier, not only pisses Gwendy off but also terrifies her.
He leans closer, and for one tense moment, Gwendy fears he’s going to reach out and take her hand. “Your life is indeed your own. The stories you’ve chosen to tell, the people you’ve chosen to fight for, the lives you’ve touched …” He waves his hand through the air in front of his face. “All your own doing. Not the button box’s. You have always been special, Gwendy Peterson, from the day you were born.”
Gwendy forgets to breathe for a moment. She feels an enormous weight crumble from atop her shoulders, from around her heart. “Thank you,” she manages, voice trembling.
Farris cocks his head, as if listening to a faraway voice. “Alas, my time is up. Your husband is on his way. Lovely man he is, too—a storyteller in his own right.”
“What about the box?” Gwendy blurts.
“Already taken care of.”
She looks at him, momentarily confused, and then she picks up her carry-on bag and gives it a shake.
It feels empty. It is empty.
“How did you—?”
Farris laughs. “You should know better by now than to ask such silly questions, young lady.”
It feels strange to be called “young lady” by a man who appears to be roughly the same age as she. Then again, every minute of this experience feels strange, almost dreamlike.
“I must go,” he says, standing, and Gwendy’s certain he’s going to take out his old-fashioned watch from the pocket inside his coat and check the time—but he doesn’t. “Although I slowed his progress quite a bit, your husband’s a dedicated man and he’ll be here shortly.” He looks down at Gwendy with that same glimmer of affection shining in his eyes. “And then the two of you shall check your bags and soar up and away into a long and prosperous and happy life together.”
“If we ever make it through that line,” Gwendy says jokingly.
“What line?” he asks.
She looks up and points. “That one.” But now there’s no one waiting in front of the Baggage Check booth. Not a single person.
“What the …?”
When she turns back to the bench, Richard Farris is gone.
She gets to her feet and looks around—but he’s nowhere in sight. The sidewalk and road are empty. He just vanished into thin air. But not before leaving a goodbye present for her.
Sitting on top of Gwendy’s carry-on bag is a very familiar small white feather.
72
“ALL SET,” RYAN SAYS, jogging across the street. They pick up their suitcases and head down the sidewalk toward Baggage Check.
“What took you so long?” Gwendy asks.
“Elevator was out of order. Had to walk down three floors. Then I realized I’d forgotten to lock the damn car, so I had to walk all the way back up again.”
Gwendy laughs. “My little worrywart.”
“Learned it from you,” he says, sticking his tongue out at her.
She puts a hand on his arm, stopping him, suddenly serious. “I was thinking about what you said. In the car.”
He gives her a questioning look.
“You were right,” she says. “When I get there tomorrow, I’ll listen and learn, and then I’ll do the work. Whatever it takes. However long it takes.”
He leans close to her so their foreheads are touching. “Now that sounds like the Gwendy Peterson I know.”
“How may I help you, folks?” the smiling man sitting inside the booth asks.
“We’re on Flight 117,” Ryan says, checking the paperwork. “Scheduled to take off at 3:10. We’d like to check three bags please.”
The man picks up a clipboard and scribbles something on a sheet of paper. “Can I see your IDs, please?”
Ryan pulls out his wallet and shows the man his driver’s license. Gwendy fishes her license out of the side pocket of her purse and slides it across the counter. The man picks it up, double-checks the name, and then hands it back to her. “That’ll do it,” he says. He walks out from behind the booth and places their bags into one of the oversized carts. Unclipping a walkie-talkie from his belt, he keys the button and says, “Flight 117 baggage pick-up. Come and get ’em, Johnny.”
A muffled voice answers, “Copy that, boss, be there in a flash.”
Gwendy and Ryan start walking up the sidewalk toward the main building, but Gwendy turns back after a couple of steps and returns to the luggage cart. She throws her empty carry-on bag in with the others. Then she reaches into her coat pocket. “Here you go, sir. Happy New Year.” She tosses something to the man inside the booth.
He reaches up and snags it. Staring down at the shiny silver coin lying heads-up in his palm, his face brightens. “Hey, now, thank you very kindly, ma’am.”
Gwendy laughs. She turns around and takes Ryan’s hand and they walk into the airport together.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
BEV VINCENT READ THE earliest version of this short novel and, despite his busy schedule, supplied invaluable feedback in record time. Bev also kept the secret and calmed my nerves on a near daily basis. Billy Chizmar read that same early draft and emailed me from his college dorm room in Maine with some simple advice that made the backstory hum a lot smoother. As usual, Robert Mingee caught my last-minute mistakes and cleaned me up for public viewing. Brian Freeman and the good folks at CD did what they always do when I disappear into my writing cave for weeks at a time: they took care of business and let me focus on the words. Ed Schlesinger of Simon & Schuster came on board at the eleventh hour and his insightful notes undoubtedly made Gwendy’s Magic Feather a better book.
I’m indebted to all of these fine people for their wisdom and encouragement. Just remember, I’m old and stubborn, so any mistakes you stumble upon are mine and mine alone.
I also want to thank artists extraordinaire Ben
Baldwin and Keith Minnion for returning for another round and giving such beautiful life to Gwendy’s story. I put Gail Cross of Desert Isle Design through the ringer on this project and, as usual, she came through with flying colors.
Much appreciation to my agent Kristin Nelson for all her hard work on this book and for always asking “What’s next?”
Finally, I’m immensely grateful to my friend, Steve King, not only for his generous and thorough edit of Gwendy’s Magic Feather, but also for trusting me to return to Castle Rock and Gwendy Peterson’s life.
More from this Series
Gwendy's Button Box
Book 1
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JEFF ZINGER
RICHARD CHIZMAR IS THE co-author (with Stephen King) of the New York Times bestselling novella, Gwendy’s Button Box. Recent books include The Long Way Home, his fourth short story collection, and Widow’s Point, a chilling tale about a haunted lighthouse written with his son, Billy Chizmar, which was recently made into a feature film. His short fiction has appeared in dozens of publications, including Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and The Year’s 25 Finest Crime and Mystery Stories. He has won two World Fantasy awards, four International Horror Guild awards, and the HWA’s Board of Trustee’s award.
Chizmar’s work has been translated into more than fifteen languages throughout the world, and he has appeared at numerous conferences as a writing instructor, guest speaker, panelist, and guest of honor.
Follow him on Twitter @RichardChizmar or visit his website at: Richardchizmar.com
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR:
SimonandSchuster.com/Authors/Richard-Chizmar
SimonandSchuster.com
Facebook.com/GalleryBooks
@GalleryBooks
ABOUT THE ARTIST
KEITH MINNION SOLD HIS first short story to Asimov’s SF Adventure Magazine in 1979. He has sold over two dozen stories, two novelettes, an art book of his best published illustrations, two story collections, and one novel since. Keith was a book designer and illustrator from the early 1990s to the 2010s, and also did extensive graphic design work for the Department of Defense. He is a former schoolteacher, DOD project manager, and officer in the U.S. Navy. He currently lives in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia, pursuing oil and watercolor painting, and sometimes even fiction writing.
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Gallery Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Richard Chizmar
Foreword © 2019 by Stephen King
Interior artwork © 2019 by Keith Minnion
Interior design © 2019 by Desert Isle Design, LLC
Previously published in 2019 by Cemetery Dance Publications
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First Gallery Books trade paperback edition January 2020
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Cover design by Anna Dorfman
Cover photographs: man © Frankie’s/Shutterstock; Feather © 1933bkk/Shutterstock
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN 978-1-9821-3972-8
ISBN 978-1-9821-3973-5 (ebook)