Gwendy's Magic Feather

70

“TURN IT UP, GWEN,” her father says, sitting down on the arm of his recliner. He’s staring at the television screen with rapt fascination.

“I’ll be making a few brief comments,” Sheriff Ridgewick says into the tangle of microphones set up outside the stationhouse, “and then I’ll hand it over to State Police Detective Frank Thome to answer any questions.”

He flips open a notepad and starts reading. “Earlier today, the Castle County Sheriff’s Department and the Maine State Police executed a search warrant on a residence located at 113 Ford Road in northern Castle Rock. A number of personal items belonging to Rhonda Tomlinson were discovered under a loose floorboard in one of the bedrooms. After interviewing multiple residents of the home, a suspect, Lucas Browne, age twenty, was placed into custody. After receiving permission from the owner of the residence, Charles Browne, age fifty-nine, to search a family-owned cabin located near Dark Score Lake, officers discovered fourteen-year-old Deborah Parker shackled and unconscious inside the cabin’s dirt cellar. She has been reunited with her family and is currently receiving medical treatment at a local hospital.”

The sheriff looks up from his notepad, the dark circles under his eyes telling the rest of the story. “After an extensive search of the property surrounding the cabin, officers were able to locate the remains of Rhonda Tomlinson and Carla Hoffman buried a short distance away. Both families have been notified and the victims’ remains will be transported to the Castle County Morgue in due course pending further investigation. Lucas Browne has been charged in the abductions and murders of Miss Tomlinson and Miss Hoffman and the abduction and torture of Miss Parker. Additional charges are pending. Lucas Browne remains in custody at this time at the Castle County Sheriff’s Department. Detective Thome will now take your questions.”

Sheriff Ridgewick steps away from the makeshift podium and stares down at the ground.

“Well.” Mr. Peterson sighs. “Far from a happy ending, but it’s the best we could’ve hoped for I suppose.”

“Those poor families,” Mrs. Peterson says, making the sign of the cross. “I can’t even imagine what they’re going through.”

Gwendy doesn’t say anything. The last eighteen hours have been a whirlwind—and her brain and body are still struggling to recover.

Earlier in the afternoon, the sheriff confided in her with great detail the horrors they’d discovered inside the Brownes’ house and cabin: a pair of Ziploc sandwich baggies found under a second loose floorboard in Lucas’s bedroom, the first containing assorted jewelry belonging to Lord-knows-how-many-women, and the second baggie containing fifty-seven teeth of various shapes and sizes. In the cellar of the cabin, they found a macabre toolkit consisting of a selection of bloodstained pliers, an electric drill, and several power saws. Gwendy wondered how long it would take for the press to get hold of this information.

“Good for Norris Ridgewick,” Mr. Peterson says, still staring at the television. “About time the people in this town gave him his due.”

Gwendy’s cellphone rings. “I better take this.” She gets up from the sofa and walks into the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Got a minute?”

“Were your ears burning, Sheriff?”

“Every day for the last two weeks,” he says, wearily.

“We just watched a replay of your press conference. You did well.”

“Thanks.” He pauses. “I still feel strange not mentioning your part in the investigation. Feels wrong to get all the credit.”

“I figure a lot of that credit is overdue around here.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.”

“I do have one question for you.”

Here it comes. “What’s that?” she asks.

“I know the whole dental school thing tipped it off for you. And the cowboy boots. But how did you really know?”

Gwendy doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her words are carefully chosen and as honest as she can make them. “It was just a strong… feeling. He gave off this seriously creepy vibe, a kind of hunger, you could feel it wafting off him.”

“So you’re saying it was… gut instinct?”

She can picture him rolling his eyes. “Something like that.”

“Well, whatever it was, I’m grateful. You saved that girl’s life.”

“We did, Norris.”

“Are you home right now? I want to drop off the report I just finished writing. Make sure we’re on the same page.”

“I’m at my parents’ house, but I could swing by the station after dinner.”

“That’ll be too late. You mind if I bring it by there?”

“That’s fine. I’ll be here.” And she thinks, If he tries to shake my hand, I’ll just tell him I’m coming down with a bug, better not to touch me. Just like I told my parents earlier this afternoon.

“Great, give me fifteen minutes.”

But it only takes ten.

Gwendy is leaning across the dining room table, looking for a corner piece of the latest jigsaw puzzle—the nighttime skyline of New York City—when the doorbell rings.

“That’s Norris,” she says, getting up from the table.

“Make sure you invite him in,” Mrs. Peterson says.

Gwendy walks into the foyer. “You must have been speeding—” she says, swinging open the door. The words die in her throat. “Ryan?”

Her husband is standing on the porch, a bouquet of flowers in one hand, his camera bag in the other. His face is clean-shaven and tanned, and his eyes are twinkling with nervous anticipation. He looks like a little boy bouncing on his heels and grinning.

“I know how you like surprises,” he says.

Gwendy squeals with excitement and throws herself into his arms. He drops the camera bag and picks her up with his free hand, spinning her around. Her lips find his, and as he twirls her around and around on the porch of the house she grew up in, she thinks: There’s nothing bad in this man, only home.