Gwendy’s Final Task

“Later that same year, my rookie year, I caught a 911 for a domestic right around Christmas. Neighbor reported loud crashes and screaming coming from the house next door. When I pulled up, a man was sitting on the front porch covered in blood. He was crying and holding a butcher knife. He’d just finished slicing and dicing his wife and twin girls, and arranging their bodies around the dining room table. He’d placed salads in front of each of them and laid out napkins on their laps. We found a pan of burnt-to-crisp lasagna still baking in the oven. The man gave up without a fight, and when we cuffed him and put him in the back of a squad car, he said clear as day—and I’m not the only one who heard him that night—“the clown made me do it.” And then he never spoke a single word again. Ever. He’s still up at Juniper Hill as far as I know.”

The lead agent yawns and shuffles his notes.

“Moving ahead, Detective. On Friday, November 29, 2019, Mr. Ryan Brown of Castle Rock was killed in a hit-and-run in your jurisdiction. You were the lead detective on-scene and in charge of the case, correct?”

“I wasn’t first on scene, but yes, I was the detective in charge.”

“And the results of your investigation?”

“We were unable to locate or charge any suspects.” Mitchell once more flashes the goofball smile.

“Did you actually search for any suspects?”

“Nope.”

“Was there, in fact, anything even resembling an official investigation into Ryan Brown’s death?”

“Nope.” This time the goofball smile is accompanied by a small chuckle.

“And why not, Detective?”

“Because of the money.”

“Are you saying you were bribed to not investigate Ryan Brown’s death?”

“Yup.”

“By whom?”

“I don’t know. Never got a name.”

“Are there other members of the Derry Police Department involved in this conspiracy?”

“Yup.”

“And who might they be?”

“Officers Ronald Freeman and Kevin Malerman.” Mitchell raises a fist. “My bros!”

“What can you tell us about the man who bribed you?”

“Tall. Thin. White. Wearing a long yellow coat. Old-fashioned, kinda sharp-looking white dress shoes. He talked funny.”

“You mean he spoke with an accent?”

“No, like his tongue was too big for his mouth. Or maybe like his voicebox was stuffed with crickets.”

All the interrogators stir at that.

“Anything else?”

“Yup,” Mitchell says agreeably, “he wasn’t human.”

“Excuse me?”

“His face … it kept changing. Slipping.”

Gwendy’s throat is suddenly desert-dry.

“His face was slipping? Not following you, Mitchell.”

“It was like he was wearing a mask, but not the rubber or cheap plastic kind kids wear on Halloween. It kept slipping, giving me glimpses of what was underneath.”

“And what was that?”

“A monster.”

“Can you describe what you saw under the mask?”

“Dark bristly hair, scaly skin, red lips, black eyes. And some kind of a snout. Like a wolf or a weasel. Maybe a rat.”

“How many times did you meet with this wolf-man?”

“Twice. He initially approached me at the crime scene. And then a second time at my home when he brought me the money.”

“How much did the man pay you?”

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

One of the others says something. It’s off-mike, but Gwendy thinks it might have been Fuck me.

“Did he explain why he wanted the Ryan Brown investigation to go away?”

“Nope.”

“Did he say if he was working for someone else?”

“Nope.”

“The man was alone both times?”

“Yup.” Mitchell pauses and adds, “I thought he might kill me, you know.”

“What kind of vehicle did the man drive?”

“Never saw one. He arrived on foot both times. He had a button on his lapel. At first I thought it was some kind of a badge. But it wasn’t. It was a big crimson eye and it was watching me the whole time we talked.”

The man by the door says, “A tinfoil hat can help with that.” There’s some laughter, but the chief interrogator doesn’t join in and it dies quickly.

“Had you ever met the victim, Ryan Brown, before his death?”

“Nope.”

“Did you play any role in luring Ryan Brown to Derry?”

“Nope.”

“How about Gwendy Peterson? You knew who she was?”

“Sure. The bitch always polluting my TV before the election. All those damn commercials. I couldn’t watch a single Red Sox game that season without having to listen to her libtard drivel.”

Gwendy extends her middle finger to the laptop screen.

“Do you know a man named Gareth Winston?”

“No, but I’ve heard the name.”

“Where?”

Mitchell gives his loopy smile. “Not sure.”

“Last question for now and then we can take a short break. Have you ever heard of the Sombra Corporation?”

“Nope.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Yup.”

And that’s all there is.

34

GWENDY FIRES OFF A brief note to Charlotte Morgan, thanking her and commending her for a job well done. There’s nothing else Charlotte can do for her at the moment, but that could change in a hurry.