43
GWENDY’S STILL THINKING ABOUT the three small teeth hours later as she showers and gets ready to attend Christmas Eve mass with her parents.
Forensics have already confirmed that the teeth are archetypal for a female Carla Hoffman’s age, and Sheriff Ridgewick’s in touch with the girl’s dental office to determine if they have X-rays on file. Carla’s parents know about the sweatshirt but haven’t been told about the gruesome discovery made inside the pocket. “It’s our first concrete piece of evidence,” the sheriff had confided to Gwendy. “We need to see where it leads before news of it gets blabbed all over town.”
The discovery of the teeth had pushed thoughts of last night’s terrifying encounter in the parking lot out of Gwendy’s mind, but they return to her now, twenty-four hours later, as she’s selecting a dress for church.
The whole thing feels like a bad dream. The man was wearing a mask, she’s sure of that now. But at this time of year, ski masks are common. Other than that, she doesn’t remember much of anything. Dark clothing, maybe jeans, and some kind of shoes or boots with a heel. She definitely heard him before she saw him. Another thing, she hadn’t noticed any strange cars in the lot, so he either parked somewhere nearby and came in on foot, or he lived close by.
But why would anyone want to do that? she thinks, settling on a long black dress and a pair of leather boots. Was he just trying to scare her? Or was it more than that? For that matter, did he even know it was her? Maybe the whole thing was just a prank. Or had nothing to do with her at all.
Gwendy also wonders why she chose not to say anything about it to Sheriff Ridgewick this morning, although she has a theory about that. It all points back to the chocolate owl she ate a couple of nights earlier. It’s true that eating the chocolate immediately infused her with a sense of calm energy and clearness of vision—both the internal and external variety—but it did more than that: it gave her back her sense of balance in the world; a sense of confidence that was sorely lacking these past few months. Missing Ryan, floundering at her job, worrying about her mom and a President with the IQ of a turnip and the temperament of a schoolyard bully… all of a sudden, she felt like she could shoulder her share of the load again, and more. All thanks to some kind of wonder drug… or candy, she thinks. It was an uneasy feeling to have, and in some ways it made her feel even guiltier about eating the chocolate. After all, she wasn’t a lost and insecure teenager like the first time the button box came into her life. She was an adult now with years of experience at handling the curve balls life threw at her.
She’s strapping on her seat belt and pulling out of the parking lot on her way to meet her parents at church when that dreaded question rears its ugly head once again: How much of her life is her own doing, and how much the doing of the box with its treats and buttons?
Gwendy has never been less sure of the answer.
44
FOR AS LONG AS Gwendy can remember, the Petersons have attended the 7:00 PM Christmas Eve mass at Our Lady of Serene Waters Catholic Church, and then gone crosstown to the Bradleys’ annual holiday party afterward. When she was a little girl, Gwendy would often spend the drowsy drive home with her head resting against the cool glass of her back-seat window, searching the night sky for a glimpse of Rudolph’s glowing red nose.
The church service tonight lasts a little more than an hour. Hugh and Blanche Goff, the Petersons’ longtime next-door neighbors, arrive a few minutes late. Gwendy happily scoots over to make room for them in the pew. Mrs. Goff smells like mothballs and peppermint breath mints, but Gwendy doesn’t mind. The Goffs were never able to have children of their own, and she’s like a surrogate daughter to them.
Gwendy closes her eyes and loses herself in Father Lawrence’s sermon, his soothing voice as much a part of her childhood memories as Saturday morning swims with Olive Kepnes at the Castle Rock Rec Pool. Few of the priest’s stories are new to her, but she finds his words and delivery comforting nonetheless. Gwendy watches the simple joy in her mother’s face as Mrs. Peterson sings along with the choir and, a short time later, stifles a giggle when Mr. Goff breaks wind during Holy Communion, earning a gentle elbow to the ribs from her father.
When the service is over, the Petersons file out with the rest of the congregation and stand outside of the church’s main entrance, mingling with friends and neighbors. The most boisterous greetings are reserved for Gwendy’s mom, as this is her first time back at church in weeks. There is one exception, however. Father Lawrence wraps Gwendy up in a bear hug and actually lifts her off the ground. Before he disappears back into the rectory, he makes her promise to come back soon. Once the crowd thins out, Gwendy walks Mr. and Mrs. Goff to their car in the parking lot, and then she follows her parents to the Bradleys’ mansion on Willow Street.
Anita Bradley—as Castle Rock gossips have enviously whispered for going on three decades now—married old and married rich. After her husband Lester, a wildly successful lumber tycoon nineteen years her senior, suffered a fatal heart attack in early 1991, many locals thought that once the funeral services were completed and legal matters attended to, Anita would pack up house and head for the sunny shores of Florida or maybe even an island somewhere. But they were wrong. Castle Rock was her home, Anita insisted, and she wasn’t going anywhere.
As it turns out, her staying was a very good thing for the town. Anita has spent the almost nine years since her husband’s death donating her time and money to a long list of local charities, volunteering her sewing expertise to help out the Castle Rock High School Theatrical Society, and serving as the head of the library’s Board of Trustees. She also makes a ridiculously delicious apple pie, which she sells at Nora’s Bake Shop all summer long.
A smiling and moderately tipsy Anita—her long, thick gray hair styled into some kind of gravity-defeating, triple-decker, power tower—welcomes the Peterson family inside her home with dainty hugs and papery soft (not to mention, sandpapery dry) kisses on their cheeks. The three-story Bradley house sprawls more than seven thousand square feet atop the rocky hillside and is filled with room after room of turn-of-the-century antiques. Gwendy has always been terrified of breaking something valuable. She takes her parents’ coats and, adding her own, leaves them draped over a Victorian sofa in the library. Then she heads into the bustling, high-ceiled great room, searching for familiar faces, anxious to make an appearance and get back home again.
But, as is often the case in Castle Rock, familiar faces her age prove difficult to find. Most of Gwendy’s close friends from high school never returned to The Rock after attending college. Like her, many of them took jobs in nearby Portland or Derry or Bangor. Others moved to distant states, only returning for occasional visits with parents or siblings. Brigette Desjardin is one of only a small handful of exceptions to this rule, and appears to be the only one in attendance here at the Bradleys’ annual Christmas party. Gwendy bumps into her by the punch bowl—there are no unfortunate spills this time around—and enjoys a spirited but brief conversation with Brigette and her husband Travis before a PTA friend of Brigette’s drunkenly interrupts them. Gwendy smiles and moves on.
Of course, there are plenty of others waiting to speak with Gwendy. While familiar faces are scarce, friendly—and merely curious—faces are not. It seems as if everyone there wants a photo or a quick word or two with the Celebrity Congresswoman, and the barrage of questions comes fast and furious: