Gwendy's Magic Feather

23

A LIGHT SNOW IS falling from a low-hanging, slate gray sky when Gwendy lands at the Castle County Airport out on Route 39. Nothing heavy, just a kiss on the cheek from the north that will leave yards and roadways coated with an inch or so of slush by dinnertime.

She called ahead before boarding the plane and asked Billy Finkelstein, one of only two full-timers at Castle County Airport, to jump her car battery back to life and pull her Subaru hatchback out of one of the three narrow hangars that run alongside the wooded shoulder of Route 39.

Billy is true to his word, and the car’s waiting for her in the parking lot, both the engine and heater running hard. She thanks Billy, sliding him a tip even though it’s against the rules, and nods hello to his boss, Jessie Martin, one of her father’s old bowling partners. She loads her carry-on into the front passenger seat and tosses her tote bag on top of it.

On her way home, Gwendy makes a pair of quick phone calls. The first is to her father to let him know she landed safely and that she’ll be there for dinner tonight. Mom’s asleep on the sofa, so she doesn’t get to speak to her, but Dad’s pleased as punch and looking forward to seeing Gwendy later.

The second call is to Castle County Sheriff Norris Ridgewick’s cellphone. It rings straight to voicemail, so she leaves a message after the beep: “Hey, Norris, it’s Gwendy Peterson. I just got back into town and figured we ought to touch base. Give me a buzz when you can.”

As she presses the END button on her phone, Gwendy feels the Subaru’s back tires momentarily loosen their grip on the road. She carefully steers back into the center of the lane and drops her speed. That’s all you need, she thinks. Hit a telephone pole, knock yourself unconscious, and have the button box discovered by some nineteen-year-old snowplow driver with a tin of Red Man in his back pocket and frozen snot crusted on his lip.