Despite the lack of recovered bodies or anything else resembling proof, the Portland press have already begun to throw around the “serial killer” moniker and have dredged up no fewer than three sidebar articles relating to Frank Dodd and his stint as “The Castle Rock Strangler” in the early 1970s.
In Castle Rock, there are no mentions of Boogeyman Dodd in the press—although there are plenty of whispers in the bars and restaurants and stores; in a small town like The Rock, the whispering never ends. The December 30, 1999 edition of The Castle Rock Call features large photos of each of the three girls above the front-page fold and a banner headline running just below that reads: MANHUNT TURNS UP NO CLUES – TASK FORCE PUZZLED.
Gwendy Peterson takes one look at the newspaper and tosses it unread onto her parents’ dining-room table. “Let’s go, slowpokes!” she yells upstairs. “We’re going to be late!”
Gwendy and her father have spent the past two days taking excellent care of Mrs. Peterson—at least that’s what they would claim if asked. Mrs. Peterson, on the other hand, would tell a completely different story; without hesitation or filter, she’d tell you they’ve spent the past two days driving her bat-shit crazy.
Despite the doctor’s words of assurance—both at the hospital and during a follow-up phone call yesterday afternoon—Mr. Peterson insisted that his wife remain on the family-room sofa for the remainder of the week, resting and recovering under a pile of blankets.
“Recovering from what?” Mrs. Peterson retorted. “I ate something bad and puked. Big deal. End of story.”
For once, Gwendy took her father’s side of the argument, and the two of them wore a path in the carpet leading to and from the sofa, trying to make sure she was comfortable and adequately entertained. In the process, they also wore out Mrs. Peterson’s patience. After two days spent reading a half-dozen magazines from cover to cover, watching hours of television, knitting, and working on another jigsaw puzzle until she was seeing double, Mrs. Peterson finally lost it, shortly after lunch, hurling the television remote at her husband and declaring, “Stop babying me, dammit! I feel fine!”
And it seems like she really does. Only one short nap yesterday, and nothing at all so far today. The color has returned to her face and her appetite—as well as her spunky attitude—is back to normal. In fact, a short time ago, she not so subtly hinted (insisted) that Gwendy and Mr. Peterson take her out to dinner tonight, and not just any old restaurant, either. She has Gwendy call her favorite Italian bistro, Giovanni’s, in neighboring Windham, and make a reservation for three (which they’ll be late for if they don’t leave the house in the next few minutes).
Gwendy turns at the sound of footsteps and can’t believe her eyes. “Wow,” she says, getting up from the table. “You look like a million bucks, Mom.”
“A billion,” a smiling Mr. Peterson says, coming down the stairs behind her.
Mrs. Peterson is wearing a dark blue dress underneath a long gray sweater. For the first time in months, she has on lipstick and eye shadow. Gold earrings dangle from her ears and a single pearl necklace hangs around her neck.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Peterson says primly. “If you keep up the compliments, I will consider forgiving the both of you.”
“In that case,” Mr. Peterson says, extending his arm toward the front door, “your chariot awaits.”
62
THE DRIVE FROM CASTLE Rock to Windham takes forty-five minutes but dinner is worth every mile of it. Both Gwendy and Mrs. Peterson order stuffed shrimp a la Guiseppi, side salads, and cups of seafood bisque. Mr. Peterson decides on chicken cacciatore and devours an entire loaf of Italian bread all by himself before his entrée arrives. “You keep that up,” Mrs. Peterson tells him, “and we’ll be visiting you in the hospital.”
After they finish eating, Mr. and Mrs. Peterson take to the dance floor and slow dance to back-to-back ballads sung by a Frank Sinatra look-alike set up on a small stage by the bar. At the conclusion of the last song, Mr. Peterson dips his wife over his bended knee, before pulling her close for a kiss on the cheek. They return to the table giggling like a couple of high-school sweethearts.
“You sure you don’t want to give it a whirl, Gwennie?” her father asks, sliding out Mrs. Peterson’s chair for her. “I still have a little gas left in the tank.”
“I’m stuffed. I think I’ll just sit here until I float away.”
“Will there be dessert for anyone?” the waitress says from over Mrs. Peterson’s shoulder.
“Not me,” Gwendy says, groaning.
Mr. Peterson pats his full belly. “None for me, either.”
“No, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Peterson says, and as her husband asks the waitress for the check, she turns to Gwendy. “I think I’ll just have one of those yummy chocolates of yours when I get home instead.”
63
GWENDY JOGS UP THE last hilly stretch of Pleasant Road, sticking as close to the shoulder as she can. After two close calls this morning, she’s especially wary of the increased traffic, even at such an early hour. It’s been three long days since fourteen-year-old Deborah Parker disappeared from Fortier Pond, but the neighborhood is still bustling with a combination of police and sheriff vehicles, volunteer searchers, and curious lookie-loos, mostly out-of-towners with their noses pressed against the glass of their windshields.
Gwendy’s schedule on this chilly final day of the twentieth century is remarkably clear (a fact she grudgingly attributes to a lack of anything resembling a healthy social life). After she finishes her run and showers, she plans to catch up on some overdue email correspondence, then swing by her parents’ house for a quick check-in—Mr. and Mrs. Peterson are going next door to the Goff’s later this evening for dinner—and then it’s back home for an exciting afternoon of John Grisham before it’s finally time to leave for Brigette Desjardin’s PTA New Year’s Eve party. She’s already prepared a five-minute speech for the occasion and is hoping she doesn’t have to stick around for much longer than that.
As she turns the corner and her building comes into view, Gwendy’s thoughts turn to the button box and the miniature chocolate animals.
So far, she’s given her mom a total of seven pieces of chocolate—the first one a tiny turtle she smuggled into the hospital along with several cartons of fruit juice, and the most recent an adorable little pig when they got home from the restaurant last night.
Before pulling the lever on the left side of the box and slipping the bite-sized chocolate turtle into a sandwich bag and stuffing it into the zippered pocket of her backpack to take to the hospital, Gwendy agonized long and hard over the decision. She knew from firsthand experience that the button box dispensed not-so-tiny doses of magic along with its animal treats—but she also knew the gifts were rarely delivered without consequence. So what exactly was going to happen the first time she gave someone else one of the chocolates? How about a whole bunch of them? Gwendy didn’t know the answers, but in the end, she was willing to roll the dice.
It wasn’t until the other morning at the hospital when Doctor Celano gave them the miraculous news that she finally felt at peace with her decision. How could she not after that? But if Gwendy was holding onto any lingering doubts—and, okay, maybe there were just a few—it was the graceful dip at the end of that last slow dance and the dreamy look on her mother’s face when Mr. Peterson planted the tender kiss on her cheek that sent those doubts packing once and for all. Gwendy knew she would remember that moment and her parents’ laughter for the rest of her life (however long that might be).