Gwendy’s throat is suddenly desert-dry.
“His face was slipping? Not following you, Mitchell.”
“It was like he was wearing a mask, but not the rubber or cheap plastic kind kids wear on Halloween. It kept slipping, giving me glimpses of what was underneath.”
“And what was that?”
“A monster.”
“Can you describe what you saw under the mask?”
“Dark bristly hair, scaly skin, red lips, black eyes. And some kind of a snout. Like a wolf or a weasel. Maybe a rat.”
“How many times did you meet with this wolf-man?”
“Twice. He initially approached me at the crime scene. And then a second time at my home when he brought me the money.”
“How much did the man pay you?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.”
One of the others says something. It’s off-mike, but Gwendy thinks it might have been Fuck me.
“Did he explain why he wanted the Ryan Brown investigation to go away?”
“Nope.”
“Did he say if he was working for someone else?”
“Nope.”
“The man was alone both times?”
“Yup.” Mitchell pauses and adds, “I thought he might kill me, you know.”
“What kind of vehicle did the man drive?”
“Never saw one. He arrived on foot both times. He had a button on his lapel. At first I thought it was some kind of a badge. But it wasn’t. It was a big crimson eye and it was watching me the whole time we talked.”
The man by the door says, “A tinfoil hat can help with that.” There’s some laughter, but the chief interrogator doesn’t join in and it dies quickly.
“Had you ever met the victim, Ryan Brown, before his death?”
“Nope.”
“Did you play any role in luring Ryan Brown to Derry?”
“Nope.”
“How about Gwendy Peterson? You knew who she was?”
“Sure. The bitch always polluting my TV before the election. All those damn commercials. I couldn’t watch a single Red Sox game that season without having to listen to her libtard drivel.”
Gwendy extends her middle finger to the laptop screen.
“Do you know a man named Gareth Winston?”
“No, but I’ve heard the name.”
“Where?”
Mitchell gives his loopy smile. “Not sure.”
“Last question for now and then we can take a short break. Have you ever heard of the Sombra Corporation?”
“Nope.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yup.”
And that’s all there is.
34
GWENDY FIRES OFF A brief note to Charlotte Morgan, thanking her and commending her for a job well done. There’s nothing else Charlotte can do for her at the moment, but that could change in a hurry.
Gwendy’s anger has diminished, but it’s been replaced by a soul-dragging heaviness that makes her head feel as if it weighs about a million pounds. It was just yesterday that she couldn’t sit still—did she really go for a run or did she dream that?—but now she can’t seem to make herself get up off the tiny sofa. She considers stretching out and taking a nap, but every time she closes her eyes, she sees Ryan’s lifeless body and the trail of bloody smear marks across the road, and all she hears in the dark silence of her mind is that awful high, barking laughter.
Finally, after giving herself a pep talk (at age sixty-four, Gwendy’s mental pep talks are still delivered in her mother’s voice), she closes her laptop and forces herself to get up and get moving. After depositing a handful of balled-up Kleenex in the zero-g wastebasket and closing the lid, she washes her face with cold water. Four more days, she reminds herself again, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She’s not happy with what she sees. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and there’s a hint of barely contained hysteria in her gaze. NG, she thinks. Better do something about that before you show up at dinner. The last thing she needs to do is give Kathy and company a reason to start worrying about her again.
But those men weren’t men. They were from … somewhere else. Probably the same somewhere else the button box came from. Did Mr. Farris steal it to keep it safe? Gwendy doesn’t know—probably never will—but she thinks there’s a good chance he did.
It occurs to Gwendy there’s one thing she does know: she’s about to break bread with a man who had a hand in her husband’s death. How heavy that hand was she isn’t sure, but that doesn’t really matter. Does it? There’s a brief moment where she struggles to remember the man’s name—she thinks it might be Gary or maybe even Gregory—but then it comes back to her in a flash of certainty that is rare for her during these dark times. His name is Gareth Winston. He’s a billionaire, but he’ll never have enough money or power. He’ll always want more. And he knows the combination to the steel case marked CLASSIFIED MATERIAL. She’s sure of that, too.
35
THERE ARE FOUR OF them at the table when Gareth Winston bounce-walks his way into the cafeteria. Gwendy is sitting next to Adesh Patel. She looks younger and livelier than the reflection she saw in her bathroom mirror minutes ago. She’s just finished telling Kathy Lundgren and Bern Stapleton all about Boris the scorpion’s impressive display in the Bug Lab. At the conclusion of her story, she jumps to her feet, exclaiming “Maar!” and lunges across the table toward her former training partner. Bern Stapleton nearly screams and spills half a cup of apple juice, which floats in front of his jumpsuit. He’s still trying to catch it with a ball of napkins when Gwendy spots Winston.
Please keep going, she thinks. Please sit somewhere else.
But of course he doesn’t. Squeezing his considerable bulk onto the chair, Winston settles with a grunt. He immediately reaches for his food tray, detaches it from the magnet holding it to the table, and floats it over to him. He peers through the thin mesh, nods approvingly at what he sees, opens the diagonal zip in the center of the mesh with a thumbnail, and begins to eat pasta in greedy gulps. A few drops of red sauce float in front of him. To Gwendy they look like drops of blood.
“Not bad,” he says, finally looking up at the others. “It’s not Sorrento’s in the Bronx, but it’ll do in a pinch.”
“I’m so glad you’re pleased,” Kathy says. “Perhaps TetCorp can hire the head chef from Sorrento’s to handle meal preparations for their Mars shuttles.”
“Now that’s an idea,” Winston says, pointing a finger at the flight commander and chewing noisily. He looks over at Adesh. “They even have a vegetarian menu for people like you.”
The entomologist leans close to Gwendy and whispers, “People like me, don’t you know.”
“There’s a lovely Italian restaurant in Maine called Giovanni’s. You ever heard of it, Mr. Winston?” It’s an innocent enough question, but something in Gwendy’s tone causes the others at the table to turn and stare at her. Only Winston doesn’t seem to notice.
He shakes his head. “Can’t say I have. Where is it?”
“It’s in a little town in Maine called Windham, about forty-five minutes north of Castle Rock. They make a stuffed shrimp a la Guiseppi to die for. It’s been written up in all the foodie magazines.”
“Hmpph.” He takes a drink of lemonade and belches into his hand. “I’ll have to check it out sometime.”
“I’ve actually been meaning to ask you,” Gwendy says. “Have you spent much time in Maine during your travels?”
“Not really. Visited a couple of times. Once to go moose hunting in the Allagash. But the trip was a bust.”
“My wife and I went camping at Acadia National Park the summer after we got married,” Bern Stapleton says. “Beautiful place. I’m pretty sure we conceived our first child inside that tent.”