Gwendy stands in the middle of the snow-covered field, eyes lifted to the sky, and watches as the black hat disappears into the trees beyond the road. When she turns around, the staggered human chain of searchers has moved on without her.
40
HOMELAND CEMETERY IS THE largest and prettiest of Castle Rock’s three graveyards. There are tall iron gates out front with a lock, but it’s used only twice a year—on graduation night at the high school and on Halloween. Sheriff George Bannerman is buried in Homeland, as is Reginald “Pop” Merrill, one of the town’s most infamous—and unsavory—citizens.
Gwendy drives through the ornate gates just as dusk is settling over the land, and she can’t decide whether the cemetery, with its rolling hills and stone monuments and lengthening shadows, appears tranquil or menacing. Maybe both, she decides, parking along the central lane and getting out. Maybe both.
Knowing where she’s going, she walks a direct route, punching her way through knee-deep snow to a scattering of grave markers that rest atop a steep hillside skirted by a small grove of pine trees. There are smudges of naked earth here where the tree’s thick branches have prevented snow from accumulating below. The treetops sway back and forth overhead, whispering secrets to each other in the cold breeze.
Gwendy stops in front of a small marker in the last row. The trees grow close together, blocking the day’s dying light and casting the ground in shadow, but she knows what’s carved onto the headstone by memory:
She drops to a knee in the snow, only several inches deep here, and traces the grooves with her bare fingertips. As always, she thinks whoever was in charge of the inscription did a pretty shitty job of it. Where were the exact dates of Olive’s birth and death? Those were important days to remember and should have been included. And what did “Our Loving Angel” have to say about the real Olive Kepnes? Nothing. It said nothing at all to keep her memory alive. Why didn’t it mention that Olive had an infectious laugh and knew more about Peter Frampton than anyone else in the world? Or that she was a connoisseur of all types of candy and bad horror movies on late night television? Or that she wanted to be a veterinarian when she grew up?
Gwendy kneels in the snow—feet numb despite her waterproof boots thanks to hours of fruitless searching earlier in the afternoon—and visits with her old friend until the pools of shadow melt together into one, and then she says goodbye and slowly walks back in the dark to her car.
41
GWENDY LOCKS THE CAR and is halfway up the sidewalk to her condo when she hears footsteps behind her.
She glances over her shoulder, scanning the length of parking lot. At first she doesn’t see anyone, even though she can still hear the hurried footfalls. Then she spots him: a man, lost in the shadows between streetlights, striding toward her. Maybe thirty yards away and moving fast.
Gwendy hurries to the entrance and punches in her security code with shaky fingers. She tries to open the door but it doesn’t budge.
She looks behind her again, panicking now. The man is closer. Maybe fifteen yards away. She can’t be a hundred percent certain in the dark, but it looks like he’s wearing a ski mask, obscuring his face. Just like in her dream.
Gwendy punches in the code again, concentrating on each button. The door buzzes. She flings it open, steps inside, and slams it shut behind her, sprinting up the stairs to the second floor. As she fumbles with her keys outside the door to her condo, she hears someone rattling the entrance door downstairs, trying to get in.
She finally gets the door unlocked and rushes inside. After locking the deadbolt, she hurries to the front window and takes a peek outside.
The parking lot is empty. The man is nowhere in sight.
42
“MORNING, SHEILA,” GWENDY SAYS, a little too eager for the early hour. “I’m here to see Sheriff Ridgewick.”
The scarecrow-thin woman with bright red hair and matching eyeglasses looks up from the magazine she’s reading. “Hey there, Gwendy. Sorry I missed you the other day. Heard there was some fireworks.”
Sheila Brigham has manned the glass-walled dispatch cubicle at the Castle County Sheriff’s Department for going on twenty-five years now. She’s also in charge of the front desk and coffee maker. Sheila started on the job fresh out of community college, when bell-bottoms were all the rage and George Bannerman was patrolling The Rock. She got married and raised a family here, and took good care of Alan Pangborn during his decade-long stint, and, unlike most folks, didn’t let the fire of ’91 scare her away, even though she’d spent nearly three weeks in a hospital bed in the aftermath of that disaster.
“I’m afraid I didn’t inspire much confidence in our elected officials,” Gwendy says.
Sheila waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry yourself none about that. Carol Hoffman’s mean as a hornet on a good day—and she doesn’t have many of those.”
“Still, I feel horrible. That poor woman.”
Sheila makes a grunting sound. “You want to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for that husband of hers.”
“Can’t argue with you there.”
She picks up her magazine again. “You can go on back. He’s waiting for you.”
“Thank you. Merry Christmas, Sheila.”
She makes that same grunting sound and returns her attention to reading.
The door to Sheriff Ridgewick’s office is open, so Gwendy walks right in. He’s sitting behind his desk talking on the telephone. He holds up a finger, mouths “one minute,” and gestures for her to sit down. “I understand that, Jay, I do. But we don’t have time. I need it yesterday.” His face darkens. “I don’t care. Just get it done.”
He hangs up and looks at Gwendy. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem,” she says. “Now what’s all the secrecy about? Why couldn’t you just tell me on the phone?”
The sheriff shakes his head. “Don’t like that cellphone of yours. Last thing we need right now is a leak.”
“You’re as paranoid as my father. He’s whipped himself into a frenzy. Thinks all the world’s technology’s going to collapse when the clock strikes midnight next week.”
“Tell that to Tommy Perkins. He claims he picks up a half-dozen cellphone conversations every day on that shortwave of his.”
Gwendy laughs. “Tom Perkins is a dirty-minded, senile old man. You really believe what he says?”
The sheriff shrugs. “How else did he know about Shelly Piper being pregnant before the rest of the town?”
“Probably did the deed himself, the old perv.”
The sheriff’s jaw drops, his mouth forming a perfect O. “Gwendy Peterson.”
“Oh, hush,” she says, waving a hand at him. “And stop stalling, Norris. Is the news that bad?”
The smile fades from his face. “I’m afraid it is.”
“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.”