Gwendy's Magic Feather

39

SHERIFF RIDGEWICK IS RIGHT about one thing: half the town of Castle Rock shows up for the search. At least, that’s how it appears to Gwendy as she takes her place in the long, arcing line of locals, most of the women dressed in colorful winter coats and boots, most of the men wearing the standard autumn uniform of an adult New England male—camouflage. As they begin fanning out across the field, Gwendy looks around and sees old folks walking alongside young couples, and young couples walking alongside college and high school kids. Even under these dreary circumstances, the sight brings a brief smile to her face. For all of its dark history and idiosyncrasies, Castle Rock is still a place that takes care of its own.

The sheriff’s instructions to the group are simple enough: walk slowly, side by side, with no more than five or six feet separating you from the person on your right and the person on your left; if you find something, anything, don’t touch it and don’t get too close, call for one of the officers and they’ll come running.

Gwendy stares at the snow-covered terrain in front of her, willing her feet to move deliberately, despite the frigid temperature pushing her to pick up the pace. Her cheeks burn and her eyes water from the constant gusts of wind. For the first time that morning, her thoughts stray to the button box. She knows that eating the chocolate was a mistake, a moment of weakness, and is determined not to allow it to happen again. Sure, it made her feel better last night—okay, it did much more than that, if she’s being perfectly honest with herself. And when she looked in the bathroom mirror this morning—feeling more rested and purer in soul than she’s felt in months—and noticed the dark circles that had taken up residence under her eyes the past few weeks had vanished, all of a sudden the magic chocolates didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.

But then she remembered her finger brushing against the smooth surface of the red button and that little voice whispering inside her head—Be careful what you daydream because that box can hear you thinking—and she shuddered at the memory and tried her best to push it far, far away.

“Gwendy, dear,” a voice says, startling her from her thoughts. “How is your mother doing?”

Gwendy cranes her head forward and looks first to her right, and then to her left. An older woman, a few spots down the line, lifts a gloved hand and waves.

“Mrs. Verrill! I didn’t even see you there.”

The woman smiles back at her. “That’s okay, dear. It’s hard to tell who’s who all bundled up like this.”

“Mom’s doing much better. Thank you for asking. She’s back in the kitchen and ready to kick my father out of the house so she can have some peace and quiet.”

Mrs. Verrill lifts a hand to her mouth and chuckles. “Well, please tell her I said hello and that I would love to stop by and see her sometime.”

“I’ll do that, Mrs. Verrill. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to see you.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Gwendy smiles and returns her focus to the field of untouched snow stretching out before her. She guesses it’s maybe another fifty or sixty yards before they reach the tree line. Then what? she thinks. Do we turn around or plow ahead? She must have missed that part of Sheriff Ridgewick’s—

Sensing that the man walking to her immediate right is staring at her, Gwendy glances in his direction. She’s right; his brown eyes are closely studying her. The man is young, early twenties, and underdressed in an untucked flannel shirt and Buffalo Bills baseball cap. He suddenly grins and looks right past her. “I told you it was her, Pops.”

“Excuse me?” she says, confused.

A quiet voice from her left says, “I thought for sure she was too young to be a governor… or senator.”

Gwendy looks from her left to her right and back again. “I’m… I’m not either one.”

The older man scratches at his unshaven chin. “Then what are ya?”

“I’m a—”

“She’s a congresswoman,” the young man says with a look of embarrassment. “I told you that.”

“I’m afraid you two have lost me,” Gwendy says, exasperated. “Have we met before?”

“No, ma’am. My name is Lucas Browne and that there’s my father.”

“Charlie,” the other man says, placing his hand on his stomach and giving a little bow. “Third generation Castle Rock.”

“Wait a minute, so your name is… Charlie Browne?”

He bows again. “At your service.”

The younger man groans and blushes an even deeper shade of red.

They’re actually kind of charming, Gwendy thinks.

“Anyway, I saw you standing there when the sheriff was talking,” Lucas says. “I nudged my Pops and told him who you were.” He looks at his father with a raised chin. “But he didn’t believe me.”

“I didn’t, I admit it,” he says, hands raised. “I thought you had to be a lot older to work high up in the government like that.”

Gwendy gives him a big smile. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. Thank you.”

Beaming, the older man puffs his chest out. “My boy there, he’s the smart one in the family. Two years of college down in Buffalo… before he ran into a bit of trouble. But he’ll go back and finish what he started one day soon. Ain’t that right, son?”

Lucas, suddenly looking like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world right then, nods his head. “Yes, sir. One day.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you both,” Gwendy says, anxious to move on from the conversation. “It’s always nice to get to know—”

“What’s that?” Lucas asks, pointing at a small dark object emerging from the trees in front of them. A murmur of raised voices travels down the line of searchers. People start pointing. Someone on the far left flank breaks formation and chases after the object, slipping and sprawling face-first in the snow. Several people sarcastically cheer.

At first, Gwendy thinks it’s a plastic grocery bag, like the sheriff had described earlier. It’s the right size and shape, and it’s riding the wind’s currents, up, down, swirling in tight little circles, tumbling wildly to the ground, and then surfing back up again.

But then, halfway across the open field, the object appears to inexplicably change direction in mid-flight. Banking hard to the right, it heads directly toward her

—and Gwendy flashes back to a blustery golden-hued April afternoon she once spent at the side of a boy she loved, flying kites and holding hands and feeling like their happiness would last forever and—

at that moment, she understands it’s a hat swooping toward her in the whipping wind—a small, neat black hat.

The dark object suddenly veers to the left, hurtling away from her at terrific speed, and for one fleeting, hopeful moment, Gwendy believes she’s wrong, it’s just a grocery bag after all—but then the wind squalls again and it loops back around, coming closer and closer, swerving and somersaulting across the frozen ground directly at her feet—

—where Lucas Browne leaps forward and stomps on it, abruptly halting its long journey.

“Would you look at that?” Charlie Browne says, eyes wide as 1891 silver dollars. He bends down to pick it up.

“Stop!” Gwendy shouts. “Don’t touch it!”

The older man jerks his hand back and looks up at her. “Why not?”

“It… it could be evidence.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, straightening up and smacking himself a good one on the side of his head.

A small crowd has gathered around them by now.

“What is it?”

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Did you see that sucker move? Almost like someone was working a remote control.”

Deputy Footman sidesteps his way through the group of onlookers. “What’ve you got there?”

“Sorry about that, officer,” Lucas says, removing his boot from the object. “Only way I could stop it.”

The deputy doesn’t say anything. He drops to a knee in the snow and carefully examines the object.

It’s not a grocery bag, of course.

It’s a hat—a small, neat black hat.

Faded with age, tattered and worn around the edges of the brim, a ragged three-inch tear slicing across the top of the crushed dome.

“This thing’s been out here forever,” the deputy says, rising to his feet. “It’s no help to us.” He walks away, and the crowd begins to dissipate.

Gwendy doesn’t move. Biting her lip, she stares down at the black hat, almost hypnotized by the sight of it, unaware that Charlie Browne and his son are watching her. Is Farris sending some kind of a message? Or is he playing games with me? Making up for lost time?

She bends down to get a better look at the filthy hat—and a gust of wind picks it up and swoops it away from her, sending it hurtling toward the road. It climbs and climbs, then plummets to the ground, rolling on its side like a child’s Frisbee for several yards before lifting up and taking flight once again.

Gwendy stands in the middle of the snow-covered field, eyes lifted to the sky, and watches as the black hat disappears into the trees beyond the road. When she turns around, the staggered human chain of searchers has moved on without her.