Gwendy’s Final Task

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 The good feelings she’s been reveling in for the past couple of hours have vanished and been replaced by … she doesn’t exactly know what.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.