Gwendy’s Final Task

There are none, and although Doc goes through the rest of his questions and tasks, the test is effectively over with that little lesson in syntax. Gwendy finishes the whole thing in nineteen minutes and stands up, holding the edge of the table to keep her feet from floating off the floor.

“Are you satisfied?”

They look back at her uncomfortably. After a brief silence Kathy says, “You’re angry. I get that and I’m sorry, but we’re in an environment where there’s no room for error. And I think I speak for Sam and Doc when I say you’ve eased our minds considerably.”

“Completely eased mine,” Sam says. “I have no hesitation about suiting up with you and going outside.”

“I am angry,” Gwendy says, “but not at you guys. Your jobs are difficult, but so is mine. The difference is that mine is thankless. This damned country is so polarized that forty percent of the electorate in my home state thinks I’m a piece of shit no matter what I do.”

She surveys them and yes, she is angry at them, at this moment she almost hates them, but it won’t do to say so. Still, she has to vent. If she doesn’t, she’ll explode. Or go back to her room and do something stupid. Something that can’t be taken back.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve seen signs saying COMMIE BITCH waving at you from the back of your town hall meetings. On top of that, my husband is dead, half my fucking house burned down, and I had to come in here so you guys could make sure I don’t need to be fitted up with Pampers and a drool-cup.”

“That’s a little heavy,” Kathy says mildly.

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Gwendy lets out a sigh, thinking, You want heavy? Try living with what’s in my wall safe. That’s really heavy. “Can I go now? Got work to do. You guys probably do, too. Sorry about the mouth. It’s been building up.”

Doc Glen stands up. Floats, actually. He reaches a hand across the table to her. “No need to apologize on my behalf, Gwendy.” She’s glad he’s left her title behind and reverted to her name. “You’ve got some hard bark on you, and in your job that’s a requirement. Get some rest. I can’t give you an Ambien, but maybe a glass of warm milk before you turn in will help. Or a Melatonin. That I do have.”

“Thanks.” Gwendy takes his hand. There’s no flash, only a sense that he means well. She looks around and forces herself to say it. “Thank you all.”

She leaves and returns to her suite in great lolloping leaps, her hands opening and closing. I could fix this whole problem with the button box, she’s thinking. And you know what? It would be a pleasure.

Once inside she opens the closet door, moves the spare pressure suit aside, then makes herself stop. She wants to take the button box out—it wants me to take it out, she thinks—and in her current state of mind the buttons along the top would look too inviting. She had to eat the chocolates so she could pass their goddamn test, but now she’s faced with this anger, this fury, and it’s like a black doorway she dares not go through. What’s on the other side is monstrous.

How I hate it, Farris said. How I loathe it. If she never understood that before, she understands it now. But he said something else, and it resonates in her mind now: There is simply no one else I trust to do what needs to be done.

She understands, even in her current state, that if she takes the button box out now, that trust will almost certainly be broken. He gave it to her because she’s strong, but there are limits to her strength.

If I have to feel this way, I have to focus it on something other than the box and stay focused until the effect of the chocolates wears off. What?

But with her mind clear, the answer is also clear. She bounces to her desk and powers up her iPad. The emails she sends from her senatorial account are encrypted, and that’s a good thing. She writes to Norris Ridgewick.

Norris: You said that on your trip to Derry you met with “the local constabulary.” The detective in charge of investigating Ryan’s death was Ward Mitchell. Did you meet him? And if you did, did you trust him?