Gwendy’s Final Task

22

THE VIDEO CONFERENCE IS a big hit, a real smasheroo. No slip-ups, no Brain Freezes, and Gwendy actually manages to have fun. In fact, the entire flight crew has a good time, culminating in a rowdy, impromptu toast—vacuum-sealed pouches of orange juice, apple juice, and lemonade raised high in the air—saluting Senator Peterson for a job well done. Even Gareth Winston, who is grasping a fruit juice pouch in each of his meaty palms, looks almost happy for her. Or maybe, Gwendy thinks with a certain mean enjoyment, he finally managed to move his bowels.

“Okay, everyone,” Kathy Lundgren calls out. “Time to get back to work. We have less than twelve hours until we join our Chinese friends at MF-1.”

“May we never see them,” David Graves grumbles, and Kathy swats him playfully on the shoulder as he floats by.

Gwendy watches as the others begin to stroke their way back to their flight chairs. “Thank you all again! That was an unexpected and much appreciated surprise!”

Gwendy still feels pretty terrific, but the buzz is starting to fade. If her memory is correct—and that’s obviously a big if nowadays—the chocolate high used to last much longer. Days instead of hours. But then again, it’s been more than 25 years since she last ate one, so how much does she really remember? Added to that, she’s 64 now. Not quite a geezer, but getting there. Or do only men get to be geezers? Maybe she’s almost a geezerette.

Either way, she’s not complaining. She’s thrilled, in fact. Not to mention relieved. The first video conference is behind her. It will only get easier from here on out, now that she knows what to do. And perhaps best of all? Gwendy remembered their names—every last one of the other nine crew members. Plus she remembered their job titles and onboard duties and any other number of details she’d long ago misplaced.

She grabs the iPad from beneath her seat and swipes her way into her secure email account. Scanning the dozens of notices in her mailbox, she stops on an email from Progressive Insurance. It’s time-coded from earlier in the day. She opens it.

The email is two pages long and is signed (electronically, of course) by a Progressive Representative by the name of Frederick Lynn. She skims its contents. The insurance company is currently working on an estimate of the damage to her house. It has been secured with heavy plastic sheeting and wooden framework where necessary. The power has been turned off and the remaining items in the refrigerator and freezer removed. The Castle Rock Sheriff’s Department as well as the Maine State Police will be keeping an eye on it, in case of thieves or ordinary garden-variety souvenir hunters. Also, her neighbors—Ed and Lorraine Henderson—promise to keep a close watch.

The insurance company doesn’t expect to hear back from Ms. Peterson until her return from outer space (Mr. Freddy Lynn actually uses those exact words, which brings another smile to Gwendy’s face), but they need to ask one important question: does Mrs. Peterson have any pets that may have gotten loose during the fire? They found no food or water dishes, but it’s standard procedure to ask. After that, there’s a lot of technical policy information she has little interest in reading.

Gwendy thanks God that Brigette has Pippa the sausage-dog and hits the REPLY button. She types, “No pets. Thanks for all you’re doing.” And hits SEND.

I’ve just sent my first email from outer space, she thinks incredulously.

She refreshes the mailbox screen and scrolls until she finds an email from Norris Ridgewick. It’s shorter than the insurance letter, but just barely.

April 17, 2026

Dear Gwendy,

I’m very sorry about the fire. I’ve spoken with Brian Gardener at the CR Sheriff’s Department and he’s going to make sure no one gets within shouting distance of your house. I also rode out and talked to your father, so he wouldn’t have to hear about the fire on the news. He was pretty down, but I told him the insurance folks would fix it up as good as new. (Although they never do, which we both know.) He asked me to give you all his love.

Now to the real reason I’m writing. I hope you won’t be mad, but the last few years I’ve been doing a little digging of my own about Ryan and his mysterious trip to Derry. A man can only fish so much, you know! You never asked me to get involved, but I figured it was worth a shot. Worst I could do was burn up some gas money and waste a little time. I guess I would’ve made a pretty crummy detective because for the longest time I wasn’t able to find out much of anything, and I sure didn’t get any help from the local constabulary. They basically told me to buzz off. I decided to take one more shot at it last week. No luck. Until, that is, I was getting ready to come on back to the Rock. I stopped to gas up at one of those no-name extra barrel stations, the kind where a fellow actually pumps your gas and washes your windshield. This guy was named Gerald “Gerry” Keele, an oldtimer who was sort of refreshing because he didn’t have any of that (excuse the language) “fuck you and the horse you rode in on” Derry attitude. I asked my questions, showed him Ryan’s picture, and right away he said yeah. He especially remembered the GWENDY FOR SENATE stickers, because there were three of them plastered across his back bumper.

That makes Gwendy wipe away a tear.

He said Ryan asked directions to Bassey Park because he had to meet a man there, by the big Paul Bunyan statue. Keele laughed and said, “I can give you directions, but you won’t find Big Paul because he’s long gone.” Ryan jotted down the turns and drove off. I thought that was all I was going to get, but then Keele said something else. I was recording on my phone, so I can give it to you exactly. He said, “There’s an abandoned warehouse past the gas station, on the corner of Neibolt and Pond. Soon as your boy paid and left, an old Chrysler pulled out from behind that warehouse. Big as a boat it was, and an ugly green color that almost hurt your eyes to look at. I could be wrong, but I almost thought it was following the man you’re asking about.”

Now I bet I know what you’re thinking, Senator Gwendy, because I’m thinking the same: it’s a great big damn bust-out-crying shame that there was no surveillance footage of that accident … if it was an accident. I would just about love to know if the car that mowed down your husband and left him dead in the street was an old green Chrysler, big as a boat.

Only that doesn’t seem right. Didn’t someone call her and say her husband had been hit by some other kind of car? And of a different color? Gwendy thinks so, but she can no longer trust her memory. She isn’t even sure there was a call. At least she can still read, so she finishes Norris’s email.

That’s all I have, and I think it’s all I’m going to get. That’s a strange town, and I could live just as long and die just as happy if I never set foot inside the Derry city limits again. I’ll keep digging if you want me to, but I honestly don’t think there’s more to find out. I hope you’re not upset I started in the first place. I meant well. In the meantime, safe travels up there. I respect your courage, but all I can say otherwise is better you than me.

Your friend,

Norris

Gwendy can hear Norris’s voice—surprisingly deep for a man of his slender build—as she reads the email for a second time. When she’s finished, she just sits there staring at the iPad screen, her eyes gradually losing focus. The good feelings she’s been reveling in for the past couple of hours have vanished and been replaced by … she doesn’t exactly know what. Shock? Confusion? Fear? Yes, all of those things. Confusion she’s used to since her mind started to go. The others, less so.

“Save my seat,” she says to no one in particular. “I’m off to use the ladies’.” She unbuckles her safety harness and swims her way down to the common area on level four. What in the world were you up to, Ryan?

The shiny white lavatory door is closed, and once again Gwendy is reminded of the sterile morgue lockers she’s seen so often on television. The panel above the latch reads AVAILABLE. Unsure if she really needs to pee or if she’s simply going through the motions, Gwendy reaches for the door. Before she can open it, someone grasps her shoulder from behind.

She lets out a squeak and spins around, arms flailing. Gareth Winston is floating a foot or so off the ground, a startled look on his face.

“Jumping Jesus, Winston! Don’t ever sneak up on me like that again!”

“Sorry,” he says, drifting backward. He doesn’t look particularly sorry. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I usually make a lot of noise when I come into a room. I’m kinda clumsy that way.” He shrugs his ample shoulders. “But I’m as light as a feather up here. It takes some getting used to.”

“It certainly does,” Gwendy says.

“Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for giving you a hard time before. It’s none of my business what’s in that case of yours and I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

Gwendy can’t believe her ears. Not that long ago she’d questioned whether the phrase “thank you” existed in Gareth Winston’s vocabulary. She would have bet her last dollar that the words “I apologize” did not. She’s pleasantly surprised to find that she’s mistaken. “Apology accepted.”

“When you have as much money as I do, you sometimes fall into bad habits, like always thinking you should get your way. I’m working on it.”

“I know quite a few people in Washington D.C. who could use some help with that. And they don’t have a fraction of your bank account.”

Winston laughs. “Well, thanks for accepting my apology. I’ll let you get on with your …” He gestures at the lavatory door. “… you know.”

Gwendy offers him a genuine smile—she could get used to this new and improved Gareth Winston—and extends her hand. “Thank you for being so gracious.”

Winston reaches out and takes it.

Suddenly Winston appears very clear to her, very bright and in focus, almost as if he’s somehow lit from within, and everything else around him falls away. Thinking about it later, she’ll be reminded of a moment from the second time she had the button box in her possession, when she stepped inside the mind of a madman the Castle Rock newspaper called The Tooth Fairy. And, of course, when her old friend Charlotte Morgan knew she was thinking of the Great Pyramid.

Although Gareth Winston is still smiling, he’s not smiling inside. He’s never smiling inside. But he is in love. The man he’s in love with is sitting behind the wheel of a car. Gareth is in the passenger seat, looking at him. It may be impolite to stare, but Gareth can’t tear his eyes away from that face. Gareth thinks it’s the face of a blond angel. He thinks he would give away everything he owns if the blond angel allowed him just one kiss.

Only in this flash—it lasts maybe two seconds, four at most—Gwendy sees the driver as he really is. His real face is old, haggard, and rotting from the inside out. His eyes are milky with cataracts. His lower lip has lost all its tension and sags away from blackening teeth. She has a terrible premonition that Richard Farris will look this way before too long.

The car is big. And old. The acre of hood is a weirdly vibrant green that hurts her eyes to look at. The word on the oversized steering wheel—

Winston jerks back, breaking their grip. His eyes are wide in their pockets of fat. “Jesus, woman!” No humble I’m-sorry in that voice now. He sounds pissed off. And scared. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Gwendy says. The vision is already fading. If she can’t get to her little notebook soon, it will be entirely gone, like a dream ten minutes after waking. “Static electricity, I guess.”

Dr. Dale Glen goes floating by, peering at something on his iPad. “Very likely. It’s common up here.” He says it without looking up from whatever he’s reading.

“Whew, it was strong, whatever it was,” Winston says, and manages a fake comic-book laugh: Ha! Ha! “You’ll have to excuse me, Senator. I have some emails I need to answer.”

Off he goes, leaving Gwendy by the lavatory door. She has to try twice to unlatch it. Adesh floats by and asks if she’s okay. She doesn’t say anything—isn’t sure she can—but nods, her hair floating above her head like seaweed. She finally opens the door and pulls herself inside. She fumbles for the button that will light the IN USE panel on the outside (there are no locks in the common area, a safety precaution in case someone has a medical emergency) and tries to raise the lid on the toilet. It won’t come. A red panel lights up, saying PRESSURIZE.

Right, almost forgot (now she forgets so much). She thumbs the button to the right of the toilet and the red light goes out. There’s a low humming as the toilet does whatever it’s supposed to do so she can lift the lid without yanking all of the air in the tiny capsule first into the bowl and then into space. It occurs to her that if Kathy is up front in the control area, she will have seen the warning light blink on and then off. And if she’s not there, Sam Drinkwater or Dave Graves probably is. She hopes they’ll just shrug it off. Probably they will, but it’s not good. Forgetting such elementary things from their training sessions is definitely NG.

Gwendy lowers her coverall, sits, and turns the proper dial to its lowest setting. She feels a gentle sucking sensation that means her pee will go down instead of just floating around under her butt in globules. She lowers her face into her hands as she urinates. Something just happened when she took Gareth Winston’s hand. Something important. Something about a car. Or two cars, of different colors? Possibly something about Ryan as well, but probably not; probably she’s mixing up Norris’s communique with what just happened when she took Gareth Winston’s hand.

Whatever it was, it’s gone.

Goddamn what’s happening to me, Gwendy thinks. Goddamn it to hell.

She might be able to get it back if she ate one of the chocolates, and it’s a tempting idea, but she must not. Even one was dangerous, and it probably doesn’t matter.

Does it?