Gwendy's Magic Feather

38

THE NEXT DAY DAWNS clear and cold. A brisk wind blows in from the east, swirling amongst the treetops and drifting mounds of snow against the tires of parked cars and the sides of buildings. In the glare of morning sun, the blanket of ice-crusted snow is almost too brilliant to look at.

Gwendy pulls her car to the shoulder of the narrow back road and takes off her sunglasses. A half-dozen sheriff’s department vehicles are parked in a staggered line in front of her. A group of uniformed officers huddle between two of the cars, heads down, lost in conversation. An open field of maybe fifteen or twenty acres bordered by deep woods stretches out along the right side of the road. Thick trees crowd the other side, blocking the sun’s rays and dropping the temperature there by at least ten degrees.

Sheriff Ridgewick spots her car and disengages from the other men. He starts walking in her direction, so Gwendy gets out and meets him halfway.

“Thanks for coming on short notice,” he says. “I thought you’d want to be here.”

“What’s going on?” she asks, zipping up her heavy jacket. “Did you find the girls?”

“No.” He looks out across the open field. “Not yet. But we did find the sweatshirt Carla Hoffman was wearing the night she disappeared.”

She looks around. “All the way out here?”

He nods and points at the northeast corner of the field. Gwendy follows his finger and, squinting, she can just make out a couple of dark figures camouflaged by the backdrop of trees. “One of my men spotted it this morning. Wind was blowing so hard it was actually moving across the field. That’s what caught his attention. That and the color.”

“Color?”

“We knew from talking to Carla’s older brother that she’d been wearing a pink Nike sweatshirt the night she was taken. The officer saw something small and pink tumbling across the field and pulled over. At first he thought it was just a plastic grocery bag. Wind blows hard like today, these trees act like a kind of wind tunnel and all kind of crap flies through here. Empty cans. Fast food litter. Plastic bags, paper bags, you name it.”

“Sounds like your officer deserves a raise for checking it out.”

“He’s a good man.” The sheriff looks closely at Gwendy. “All of my men and women are.”

“So what happens next?”

“Evidence is out there now looking at the sweatshirt. Deputy Footman’s pulling in some additional bodies to conduct a search of the surrounding area. You’re welcome to help if you’d like. Half the town will probably show up if we let ’em.”

Gwendy nods her head. “I think I will. I have a hat and gloves in the car.”

“Helluva way to spend the day before Christmas Eve.” He sighs deeply. “Anyway, probably another hour or so before we get started. Might as well get inside and run the heater.” He starts back toward the other men. “There’s coffee and donuts in one of the patrol cars if you want.”

Gwendy doesn’t acknowledge the offer. She’s staring at the snow-covered field, her brow furrowed. “Sheriff… if your deputy found the sweatshirt blowing around on top of the snow, and it just stopped snowing yesterday afternoon sometime, that means the sweatshirt was left sometime in the last…” She thinks. “Sixteen hours, give or take.”

“Maybe,” he says. “Unless it was somewhere under cover and the wind shook it loose after the snow stopped.”

“Huh,” Gwendy says. “I didn’t think of that.”

“All I know is there are no houses within three miles of us and this stretch of road is mainly used by hunters. The sweatshirt either found us by accident or we were meant to find it.” He glances at the men huddled between the cars and then looks back at Gwendy. “My money’s on the second one.”