Gwendy's Magic Feather

28

THE FIRST PERSON GWENDY sees when she walks into the Castle Rock Diner on Sunday morning is Old Man Pilkey, the town’s retired postmaster. Hank Pilkey is going on ninety years old and has a glass left eye as the result of a fly-fishing accident. Rumor has it his second wife, Ruth, got drunk on moonshine and caused the injury while they were honeymooning in Nova Scotia. When Gwendy was young, she was terrified of the old man and dreaded tagging along with her parents to the post office on Saturday mornings. It wasn’t that she was spooked or even grossed out by the shiny prosthetic eyeball. She was simply a nervous wreck that she’d go into some kind of weird staring trance and cause the old guy discomfort or, even worse, embarrassment.

Fortunately, years of practice have helped to ease Gwendy’s fears, and when she swings open the diner’s front door—a pair of HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? posters taped to the outside of the thick glass—at a few minutes before ten and Old Man Pilkey spots her with a toothless grin, hops down from his stool in front of the long Formica counter and opens his saggy arms in greeting, Gwendy looks him in the eye and hugs him back with genuine affection.

“There’s our hometown hero,” he croaks, gripping her shoulders with bony fingers and holding her at arm’s length so he can get a good look at her.

Gwendy laughs and it feels good after the long night she’s just had. “How are you, Mr. Pilkey?”

“Fair to middling,” he says, easing back onto the stool. “Fair to middling.”

“And how’s Mrs. Pilkey?”

“Ornery as ever, and twice as sweet.”

“Fair words to describe the both of you,” Gwendy says and gives him a wink. “Enjoy your Sunday, Mr. Pilkey.”

“You do the same, young lady. My best to your folks.”

Gwendy walks to an empty table by the window, nodding hello to several other townspeople, many of them dressed in church clothes, and sits down. Gazing around the diner, she estimates she knows two-thirds of the people in there. Maybe more. She also estimates that maybe half of them voted for her last November. Castle Rock’s her hometown, but it’s still—and probably always will be—a Republican hotspot.

“I thought that was you.”

Gwendy looks up, startled.

“Jesus, Norris. You scared me.”

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Whole damn town’s on edge.” He gestures to the empty chair. “Mind if I sit?”

“Please,” Gwendy says.

The sheriff sits down and adjusts his gun belt on his hip. “I got your message. Was planning to call you back this morning, but I needed coffee first. Late night.”

Norris Ridgewick is two years older than Gwendy and has occupied the Castle County Sheriff’s Office since taking over for Alan Pangborn in late 1991. Standing a hint over five-foot-six and weighing in at an even one hundred and fifty pounds (wearing his uniform, shoes, and sidearm), the sheriff doesn’t make much of a physical impression, but he more than makes up for it by being resourceful and kind. Gwendy has always believed that Norris carries a deep well of sadness within him—most likely due to losing his father when he was just fourteen years old and his mother a decade later. Gwendy likes him a lot.

“Why so late?” she asks. “Anything new with the girls?”

The sheriff’s eyes wander around the diner. Gwendy follows his gaze and notices many of the other diners have stopped eating and are staring at them. “Not much,” he says, lowering his voice. “We’re checking out some leads with the Tomlinson girl. A part-time teacher at her school. A custodian at the dance studio she attended. But neither are exactly what I’d call… prime suspects.”

“And the Hoffman girl?”

He shrugs and waves to get a waitress’s attention. “That one’s even tougher. We’ve got the timeframe down to just under fourteen minutes. That’s how long the brother was out of the house. In those fourteen minutes, someone smashed the glass on the back door, entered the house, took Carla Hoffman from her bedroom, and disappeared without a trace.”

“Without a trace,” Gwendy repeats in a whisper.

He nods. “Or much of a struggle, evidently. No prints on the door or anywhere inside the house. It’d snowed that morning but the kids had a snowball fight in the yard, so it was a mess. No chance of boot- or footprints. Could’ve come by car, but none of the neighbors saw or heard anything.”

“Anything coming in on the tip-line?” she asks. “I saw the Hoffmans put up a reward.”

“Bunch of calls… but only a handful worth following up on, which we’re doing.”

“Nothing else?”

The sheriff shrugs. “We’re trying our damnedest to find a connection between the two girls, but so far it’s not there. They live in different neighborhoods, attend different schools, have different hair color, body types, hobbies. No sign that they knew each other or had close mutual friends. Neither has a boyfriend or has ever been in any kind of trouble.”

“What are the chances the two disappearances aren’t related?”

“Doubtful.”

“What’s your gut say?”

“My gut says I need coffee.” He glances around for the waitress again.

Gwendy gives him an irritated look.

“What?” he asks. “You believe in all that gut instinct mumbo jumbo?”

“I do,” she says.

The sheriff pulls in a deep breath, lets it out. He glances out the window before meeting Gwendy’s eyes again. “Lotta weird shit has happened in the Rock over the years, you know that. The Big Fire in ’91, boogeyman Frank Dodd murdering those folks, Sheriff Bannerman and those other men getting killed by that rabid Saint Bernard, hell, even the Suicide Stairs. You believe it was an earthquake that knocked them down, I got a bridge to sell you.”

Gwendy sits there and offers up her best poker face, an expression she’s nearly perfected after less than a year in Washington D.C.

“I hope to hell I’m wrong,” he says, sighing heavily, “but I have a feeling we’re never gonna see those girls again. Not alive anyway.”