Tonight, she jogs at a fast clip along the centerline of Route 117, enjoying the feel of her heart pounding in her chest. The snow stopped falling several hours earlier, right around dinnertime, and the plows are busy clearing side streets at this late hour. The main roadways are eerily empty and hushed. At the bottom of the hill, she passes a group of men wearing hardhats and orange vests with CRPW stenciled on them: Castle Rock Public Works. One of them drops the shovel he’s working and gives her an enthusiastic round of applause. She flashes the man a smile and a thumbs-up, and keeps on trucking.
The tiny piece of chocolate the button box dispensed was in the shape of an owl, and Gwendy stared in rapt fascination at the amazing details—the staggered lines of each feather, the pointy tip of its beak, the pools of dark shadow that made up its eyes—before popping it into her mouth and allowing it to dissolve on her tongue.
There was a moment of complete satisfaction—at what, she didn’t know, maybe everything—and then a rush of startling clarity and energy spread throughout her body. All of a sudden, she not only no longer felt like crying, her entire body felt lighter, her vision seemed clearer, and the colors in the condo appeared brighter and more vibrant. Was this what it was like when she was younger? She couldn’t exactly remember. All she knew was that it suddenly felt like she’d sprouted wings and could fly up into the sky and touch the moon. She immediately changed into workout clothes and running shoes, and headed outside.
No, not immediately, she reminds herself, as she cruises past the Sunoco station toward Main Street and the center of town.
Something else happened first.
In the midst of all those good feelings, those wonderful feelings, she suddenly found herself fixating on the red button at the left side of the box, and then slowly reaching out with a finger and touching it, caressing its glassy surface, and the thought of actually pressing it and erasing President Richard Hamlin from the face of the earth wormed inside the basement of her brain like the wisp of a forgotten dream just before waking.
Whoa, girl, a little voice whispered inside her head. Be careful what you daydream because that box can hear you thinking Don’t you doubt it, not even for a second.
Then, and only then, did she carefully withdraw her finger and go upstairs to change into running gear.
38
THE NEXT DAY DAWNS clear and cold. A brisk wind blows in from the east, swirling amongst the treetops and drifting mounds of snow against the tires of parked cars and the sides of buildings. In the glare of morning sun, the blanket of ice-crusted snow is almost too brilliant to look at.
Gwendy pulls her car to the shoulder of the narrow back road and takes off her sunglasses. A half-dozen sheriff’s department vehicles are parked in a staggered line in front of her. A group of uniformed officers huddle between two of the cars, heads down, lost in conversation. An open field of maybe fifteen or twenty acres bordered by deep woods stretches out along the right side of the road. Thick trees crowd the other side, blocking the sun’s rays and dropping the temperature there by at least ten degrees.
Sheriff Ridgewick spots her car and disengages from the other men. He starts walking in her direction, so Gwendy gets out and meets him halfway.
“Thanks for coming on short notice,” he says. “I thought you’d want to be here.”
“What’s going on?” she asks, zipping up her heavy jacket. “Did you find the girls?”
“No.” He looks out across the open field. “Not yet. But we did find the sweatshirt Carla Hoffman was wearing the night she disappeared.”
She looks around. “All the way out here?”
He nods and points at the northeast corner of the field. Gwendy follows his finger and, squinting, she can just make out a couple of dark figures camouflaged by the backdrop of trees. “One of my men spotted it this morning. Wind was blowing so hard it was actually moving across the field. That’s what caught his attention. That and the color.”
“Color?”
“We knew from talking to Carla’s older brother that she’d been wearing a pink Nike sweatshirt the night she was taken. The officer saw something small and pink tumbling across the field and pulled over. At first he thought it was just a plastic grocery bag. Wind blows hard like today, these trees act like a kind of wind tunnel and all kind of crap flies through here. Empty cans. Fast food litter. Plastic bags, paper bags, you name it.”
“Sounds like your officer deserves a raise for checking it out.”
“He’s a good man.” The sheriff looks closely at Gwendy. “All of my men and women are.”
“So what happens next?”
“Evidence is out there now looking at the sweatshirt. Deputy Footman’s pulling in some additional bodies to conduct a search of the surrounding area. You’re welcome to help if you’d like. Half the town will probably show up if we let ’em.”
Gwendy nods her head. “I think I will. I have a hat and gloves in the car.”
“Helluva way to spend the day before Christmas Eve.” He sighs deeply. “Anyway, probably another hour or so before we get started. Might as well get inside and run the heater.” He starts back toward the other men. “There’s coffee and donuts in one of the patrol cars if you want.”
Gwendy doesn’t acknowledge the offer. She’s staring at the snow-covered field, her brow furrowed. “Sheriff… if your deputy found the sweatshirt blowing around on top of the snow, and it just stopped snowing yesterday afternoon sometime, that means the sweatshirt was left sometime in the last…” She thinks. “Sixteen hours, give or take.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Unless it was somewhere under cover and the wind shook it loose after the snow stopped.”
“Huh,” Gwendy says. “I didn’t think of that.”
“All I know is there are no houses within three miles of us and this stretch of road is mainly used by hunters. The sweatshirt either found us by accident or we were meant to find it.” He glances at the men huddled between the cars and then looks back at Gwendy. “My money’s on the second one.”
39
SHERIFF RIDGEWICK IS RIGHT about one thing: half the town of Castle Rock shows up for the search. At least, that’s how it appears to Gwendy as she takes her place in the long, arcing line of locals, most of the women dressed in colorful winter coats and boots, most of the men wearing the standard autumn uniform of an adult New England male—camouflage. As they begin fanning out across the field, Gwendy looks around and sees old folks walking alongside young couples, and young couples walking alongside college and high school kids. Even under these dreary circumstances, the sight brings a brief smile to her face. For all of its dark history and idiosyncrasies, Castle Rock is still a place that takes care of its own.
The sheriff’s instructions to the group are simple enough: walk slowly, side by side, with no more than five or six feet separating you from the person on your right and the person on your left; if you find something, anything, don’t touch it and don’t get too close, call for one of the officers and they’ll come running.
Gwendy stares at the snow-covered terrain in front of her, willing her feet to move deliberately, despite the frigid temperature pushing her to pick up the pace. Her cheeks burn and her eyes water from the constant gusts of wind. For the first time that morning, her thoughts stray to the button box. She knows that eating the chocolate was a mistake, a moment of weakness, and is determined not to allow it to happen again. Sure, it made her feel better last night—okay, it did much more than that, if she’s being perfectly honest with herself. And when she looked in the bathroom mirror this morning—feeling more rested and purer in soul than she’s felt in months—and noticed the dark circles that had taken up residence under her eyes the past few weeks had vanished, all of a sudden the magic chocolates didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.