Gwendy’s Final Task

EPILOGUE

ONE NIGHT SOME TIME after all these things, Gwendy Peterson’s father sits at his window in the nursing home where he lives—frailer, more unsteady, but, as he often says, not too bad for an old fella. He’s looking out at the stars and thinking that somewhere out there in their endless multitude, his daughter continues her pilgrimage. Her phone, brought to him by a nice Indian man named Adesh Patel, is in his lap.

Patsy Follett, Gwendy’s mentor, might not have had as many witty sayings as Oscar Wilde, but she’d had her share. One of them was A scandal lasts six months. A scandal that’s also a mystery lasts six years. It’s only been three years since Senator Peterson and the billionaire businessman disappeared into space, but the march of current events has driven it from the forefront of people’s minds. Not from Mr. Peterson’s, however. It’s hell to outlive your only child, and the fierceness of his loss is mitigated by only two things: the knowledge that he can’t have much longer himself, and he has her voice to comfort him. Her last recorded message. The world doesn’t need to know she died a hero; it’s enough for Mr. Peterson that he knows.

A week after Adesh Patel’s surprise appearance, Gwendy’s dad had another visitor. A woman, this time. The day manager of the Castle View Nursing Home—a haughty little fellow with a pencil-thin mustache who insisted the residents address him as Mr. Winchester—sauntered into the sunroom where Alan was playing Hearts with Ralph Mirarchi, Mick Meredith, and Homer Baliko. He introduced the tall blonde lady towering over his shoulder as Deputy Director Charlotte Morgan of the Central Intelligence Agency. He quickly shooed the other men out of the room, and after offering their guest a ridiculous half-bow, left them alone.

The woman flashed Mr. Peterson a bemused look—a look that said I’m sorry you’re stuck here with such a first-class tool—and sat down across from him. “Please call me Charlotte, Mr. Peterson. I’m an old and dear friend of your daughter’s.”

“In that case, you better call me Alan.” He rubbed the gray whiskers on his chin, wishing he’d shaved this morning. This lady is a looker. “And I didn’t figure you came all this way to talk about spies and foreign policy.”

“No, sir, not today.” She smiled and reached over to touch his hand. “But I do have something important to tell you. Something highly confidential that you must promise to never repeat to anyone else.”

He raised his right hand in the air. “So help me God.”

“That’s good enough for me.” She took a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure they were still alone in the sunroom. Mr. Peterson, suddenly feeling as if he were playing a bit role in a James Bond spy film, did the same. When he looked back at his daughter’s old friend, he was surprised to see that there were tears shimmering in her eyes.

“I could lose my job and end up in Leavenworth for what I’m about to tell you, but I don’t care. I loved Gwendy. She was family.”

“Whatever it is, it’ll go to my grave with me.” And probably sooner than later, he thought.

“Your daughter didn’t sneak out for an illicit space walk. Anyone who truly knew her knows that part of the story is bullshit.” She took a deep breath—the kind that says you’re past the point of no return now—and continued. “Gareth Winston was a bad man, Mr. Peterson. And he’d gotten a very bad idea into his head—a dangerous one. Gwendy found out and put a stop to it before it was too late. She sacrificed her life so that others—millions of others—could live. I suppose that sounds awfully dramatic, but I swear to you it’s true.”

Alan nodded. “That sounds like our Gwendy.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine the courage it took for her to do what she did. But she completed the task willingly, and I believe with only one regret: that she would never return home to see you again. She talked about you and your wife all the time. She adored you, Mr. Peterson.”

“The feeling was mutual,” he said in a choked and tired voice.

With the memory of her visit fading, he stares down at the iPhone resting in his lap. And as he has done on so many other occasions, he presses the PLAY button and closes his eyes.

Hi Dad,

I don’t have much time, but I wanted to tell you I’m sorry. Please don’t be too sad, and whatever you do, don’t waste a precious minute on being angry or bitter. And no matter what you hear or see on the news, just remember this: I had a job to do, an important one, and I did it the best way I knew how. A long time ago, back when I was a little girl in pigtails running around the playground at Castle View Park, you told me something I’ve never forgotten: when faced with the choice of doing the right thing or nothing at all, you do what’s right. Every single time. I am so proud to be your daughter. There wasn’t a better father anywhere in the world. Please smile when you think of me. Please remember the good times. How lucky we were—you and me and mom! The Three Musketeers, she used to call us! Okay, I better get going. You know how I hate to be late. Goodbye for now, Pa. I love you with all of my heart, and I will see you again. Mom and I both will. I left you a surprise inside the envelope. It’s yours now. Take good care of it. It’s very special. You might even say it’s …

“Magic,” he whispers in the silence of his dark room.

Alan Peterson pulls out the small white feather from the pocket of his robe. It’s never far from him these days. He stares at it, remembering, and then places the feather upon the windowsill beside him. It’s immediately bathed in moonlight. His eyes are once again drawn to the night sky outside the window. There are so many stars tonight. Even with the oak tree blocking much of his view, he can spot the Milky Way and Taurus the Bull. High above its tallest branches, Orion the Hunter peers down at him. The words suddenly slip into his head unbidden. Mr. Peterson has no idea where they came from or what they mean, but he likes the sound of them so much he says them out loud: “There are other worlds than these.” Sitting there, staring up at the infinite darkness, he thinks they are easy words to believe.

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