Sheriff Ridgewick steps away from the makeshift podium and stares down at the ground.
“Well.” Mr. Peterson sighs. “Far from a happy ending, but it’s the best we could’ve hoped for I suppose.”
“Those poor families,” Mrs. Peterson says, making the sign of the cross. “I can’t even imagine what they’re going through.”
Gwendy doesn’t say anything. The last eighteen hours have been a whirlwind—and her brain and body are still struggling to recover.
Earlier in the afternoon, the sheriff confided in her with great detail the horrors they’d discovered inside the Brownes’ house and cabin: a pair of Ziploc sandwich baggies found under a second loose floorboard in Lucas’s bedroom, the first containing assorted jewelry belonging to Lord-knows-how-many-women, and the second baggie containing fifty-seven teeth of various shapes and sizes. In the cellar of the cabin, they found a macabre toolkit consisting of a selection of bloodstained pliers, an electric drill, and several power saws. Gwendy wondered how long it would take for the press to get hold of this information.
“Good for Norris Ridgewick,” Mr. Peterson says, still staring at the television. “About time the people in this town gave him his due.”
Gwendy’s cellphone rings. “I better take this.” She gets up from the sofa and walks into the kitchen. “Hello?”
“Got a minute?”
“Were your ears burning, Sheriff?”
“Every day for the last two weeks,” he says, wearily.
“We just watched a replay of your press conference. You did well.”
“Thanks.” He pauses. “I still feel strange not mentioning your part in the investigation. Feels wrong to get all the credit.”
“I figure a lot of that credit is overdue around here.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“I would.”
“I do have one question for you.”
Here it comes. “What’s that?” she asks.
“I know the whole dental school thing tipped it off for you. And the cowboy boots. But how did you really know?”
Gwendy doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her words are carefully chosen and as honest as she can make them. “It was just a strong… feeling. He gave off this seriously creepy vibe, a kind of hunger, you could feel it wafting off him.”
“So you’re saying it was… gut instinct?”
She can picture him rolling his eyes. “Something like that.”
“Well, whatever it was, I’m grateful. You saved that girl’s life.”
“We did, Norris.”
“Are you home right now? I want to drop off the report I just finished writing. Make sure we’re on the same page.”
“I’m at my parents’ house, but I could swing by the station after dinner.”
“That’ll be too late. You mind if I bring it by there?”
“That’s fine. I’ll be here.” And she thinks, If he tries to shake my hand, I’ll just tell him I’m coming down with a bug, better not to touch me. Just like I told my parents earlier this afternoon.
“Great, give me fifteen minutes.”
But it only takes ten.
Gwendy is leaning across the dining room table, looking for a corner piece of the latest jigsaw puzzle—the nighttime skyline of New York City—when the doorbell rings.
“That’s Norris,” she says, getting up from the table.
“Make sure you invite him in,” Mrs. Peterson says.
Gwendy walks into the foyer. “You must have been speeding—” she says, swinging open the door. The words die in her throat. “Ryan?”
Her husband is standing on the porch, a bouquet of flowers in one hand, his camera bag in the other. His face is clean-shaven and tanned, and his eyes are twinkling with nervous anticipation. He looks like a little boy bouncing on his heels and grinning.
“I know how you like surprises,” he says.
Gwendy squeals with excitement and throws herself into his arms. He drops the camera bag and picks her up with his free hand, spinning her around. Her lips find his, and as he twirls her around and around on the porch of the house she grew up in, she thinks: There’s nothing bad in this man, only home.
71
FOR THE FIRST TIME in her life, Gwendy wants to tell someone about the button box.
She glances over at Ryan in the driver’s seat. She hates keeping such a big secret from him—any secret, for that matter—but she worries that it could be dangerous for her husband to know about the box. She also doesn’t like the idea of him not having a choice in the matter. If she decides to tell him, he’s stuck with the knowledge—and the responsibility—whether he wants it or not. How is that any better than what Richard Farris has done to her? Twice now!
“Penny for your thoughts,” he says, checking his rearview mirror and signaling to change lanes. “You’re awfully quiet. Worried about the emergency session?”
She nods her head. “Yes.” And it’s the truth.
“You’ll do great, honey.”
“I honestly don’t even know what I’m supposed to do, what my role in all this will be.”
“You’ll listen and learn, and then you’ll step up and lead. It’s what you always do.”
She sighs and stares out the window. Frozen ponds and farm buildings, snow-swirled into gray ghosts, blur past in the distant fields. “Hopefully we can talk some sense into the man. But I’m not holding my breath.”
“If I know you, you won’t rest until you do.”
The call came in the night before. On the other end of the line was the Speaker of the House himself, Dennis Hastert. His message was brief and to the point: both the House and Senate would reconvene on Monday, January 3 at 9:00 AM, five days ahead of schedule. Gwendy thanked him for the call and hung up and then told Ryan. They’d only left her parents’ house a couple of hours earlier, and he hadn’t even had time to unpack his bags yet.
She was afraid to leave the button box inside the safe at the condo—what if Ryan decided to go home without her at some point and he opened it?—and Castle Rock Savings and Loan was closed because it was Sunday, so she had no choice but to take the box along with her.
As soon as that problem was solved, another complication rose in its place: because of the short notice, she was unable to arrange for a private plane out of Castle County Airport and was forced to fly out of a larger commuter airpark just south of Portland. But the extra drive and the inevitable questions from Ryan (“Since when do we fly private?”) were worth the hassle if only to avoid the X-ray machines at the airport.
“How about I drop you out front with the luggage?” Ryan asks, steering the car off the exit ramp and onto the access road for Portland South Airpark. “I’ll go park in the garage and meet you inside.”
“Sounds good. We should have plenty of time.”
Ryan pulls up to the section of curb marked UNLOADING ZONE in front of the main building—unlike the Castle County Airport, this place actually has more than one, not to mention multiple runways and a three-story parking garage—and unloads the luggage from the trunk, including Gwendy’s carry-on containing the button box. He leaves Gwendy standing at the curb and drives across the street to the garage.
She looks around and sees two large families waiting in line with their suitcases at Baggage Check (in this case, a makeshift fiberglass booth with a pair of oversized grocery carts parked beside it). Several young children are doing their best to squirm out of their parents’ grip, and one little girl, her face beet-red and stained with tears, appears on the verge of a major tantrum. A lone, harried-looking airport employee is ticketing the mountain of expensive luggage with the efficiency and speed of a sloth. If he has any help on this second day of January, it’s currently nowhere in sight.