Gwendy's Magic Feather

69

GWENDY PULLS UP A chair and sits next to Sheila Brigham inside the dispatch cubicle, listening to the radio calls as they come in. She recognizes Sheriff Ridgewick right away, although his voice sounds much deeper over the airwaves, and State Trooper Tom Noel, who was a year behind her at Castle Rock High and grew up two blocks away from Carbine Street. The others are strangers to her, their words terse and clipped, but Gwendy can hear the excitement simmering in their voices.

The sheriff and Deputy Footman are in the lead car, followed by a large convoy of Castle County Sheriff’s Department, Castle Rock Police Department, and Maine State Police vehicles. They’ve just crossed over the old railroad bridge on Jessup Road and will be splitting up and surrounding the Browne’s ranch house in a matter of minutes.

Despite numerous requests and a half-hearted attempt at bribery (involving one of Mr. Peterson’s prized fly fishing rods), the sheriff refused to allow Gwendy to ride along with him or his men—the press would have a field day, he argued, especially if something went wrong and she were injured—so this is the closest she’ll get to the action.

She stares at the radio with nervous anticipation, tapping her foot on the ugly green carpet and chewing her fingernails. Sheila has already scolded her twice for not being able to sit still, but Gwendy can’t help it. She’s running on fumes and nearly a half-dozen cups of coffee. It’s almost ten o’clock in the morning and she hasn’t slept a wink. In fact, she didn’t even make it home last night.

Shortly after 1:00 AM, not long after meeting Gwendy at the stationhouse, Sheriff Ridgewick got in touch with a Detective Tipton of the Buffalo Police Department. Files were pulled. Phone calls made. Doors knocked on. By 6:00 AM, a senior official from the Administration Office at the University of Buffalo verified that Lucas Tillman Browne of Castle Rock, Maine was dismissed from the School of Dental Medicine—just before the conclusion of his third semester—after numerous female students filed sexual harassment and stalking complaints against him. Shortly after 8:00 AM, State Police detectives learned from the Tomlinsons and the Parkers that both families had hired handyman Charles Browne the previous spring to power-wash the aluminum siding on their houses. In both instances, Mr. Browne had been accompanied by his son. It’d been so long ago the families had simply forgotten. This treasure trove of new information led to a search warrant being issued for the Browne residence and the surrounding property.

“I’ve got eyes on a single male subject,” the radio squawks, and Gwendy can picture Sheriff Ridgewick sitting in the driver’s seat of his cruiser, squinting through a dirty windshield. “Check that, two male subjects in the garage. Second man’s working under the truck.”

“Copy that. We’re in position out back.”

“All good at the fence line. He comes this way, we got ’em.”

“Approaching subjects now. Detective Thome is at my twelve o’clock blocking the driveway. Stand by.”

Three-and-a-half minutes later: “Warrant has been served. Both subjects cooperating. Detectives entering the residence. Stand by.”

The radio goes mostly silent then. Someone requests a new pair of gloves be brought inside the house. Another officer asks if he and his men should continue to turn away traffic at the intersection. Deputy Portman responds in the affirmative.

Gwendy pulls in a deep breath, lets it out. Sheila takes a bite of her donut and stares intently at the radio monitor, the expression on her face unchanged.

“How in the world are you so calm?” Gwendy asks, breaking the silence. “I’m dying over here.”

Sheila gives her a dry look, smudges of white powder stuck in the corners of her mouth. “Twenty-five years on the job, honey. Seen and heard it all by now. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen!” She takes another bite of donut and continues with her mouth full. “I’ll tell you this, though… if you don’t stop chewing on those nails of yours, you’re gonna have to walk across the street to the drugstore in about five minutes and buy yourself some Band-Aids.”

Gwendy lowers her pinky finger from her mouth and crosses her arms like a sullen teenager.

“Sheila, come back,” the radio squawks.

She wipes powdery fingers on her blouse and keys the mic. “Right here, Sheriff.”

There’s a crackle of static, and then: “I’ve got a message for our visitor.”

“Roger that. She’s sitting right next to me gnawing on her fingers.”

“Tell her… we got our man.”