Gwendy’s Final Task

“All right, fine,” Gwendy said. Because really, what else could she say? Ever since Richard Farris had shown up for the third time, she had felt like a rat in an ever-narrowing corridor, one that had no exit. It’s a suicide mission, she’d told Farris that night on the back porch, and you know it.

The test had been set for 1700 hours, and at this moment it was 1640. Time to get ready.

Which meant it was time to take the button box out of the safe.

27

WHILE SERVING IN THE U.S. House of Representatives, Gwendy had had good connections. As a member of the Senate, she had even better ones, and she never needed one more than after her latest Brain Freeze. The specialty of the house is crankshafts, for Christ’s sake. She thought of calling Charlotte Morgan, then rejected the idea out of hand. Charlotte was a spook, after all. She might decide that letting Gwendy hold onto the button box was too great a risk. Gwendy knew that letting anyone else hold onto it would be an even greater one.

After some thought she called one of her new friends: Mike DeWine at the NSA. She told him she needed to make an appointment with a psychiatrist who was completely trustworthy. She asked if Mike knew such a person, knowing he would; the NSA kept a close watch on any developing mental problems in its staff. Secrets must be kept.

“Losing your grip, Senator?” Mike asked amiably.

Gwendy laughed cheerily, as if that wasn’t exactly what she was afraid of. “Nope, my marbles are all present and accounted for. I’m involved in a review of the NDS—that’s for your ears only, Mike—and I have some very delicate questions.”

NDS stood for National Defense System, and that was enough for Mike. No one likes the idea of mentally unstable people in charge of the nuclear arsenal.

“Is there a problem I should know about?”

“Not at present. I’m being proactive.”

“Good to know. There’s a guy … hold on a sec, the name escapes me …”

Join the club, Gwendy thought, and couldn’t help smiling. Losing one’s shit really did have its funny side, she supposed. Or would, if a box that could destroy the world wasn’t involved.

“Okay, here it is. Norman Ambrose is our top go-to shrink. He’s on Michigan Avenue.” Gwendy wrote down the address, plus Ambrose’s office number and personal cell. Thank God for NSA info, Gwendy thought. “He’s probably booked into the twenty-third century, but I think you’ll be able to jump the line. Being a United States Senator and all.”

Gwendy was able to jump it, and was sitting in Dr. Ambrose’s office the following afternoon. After listening to him reiterate his promise of absolute confidentiality, she took a deep breath and told him she was afraid she was suffering from early-onset Alzheimer’s or dementia. She told him that if it was true, no one could know until she completed a certain high-priority task.

“How high?” Ambrose asked.

“The highest, but that’s all I can say. It may be a year before I can do the job I need to do. More likely two. It might even be three, but God, I hope not.”

“May I assume that if certain people discovered your condition—if it indeed exists—this job would be taken from you?”

Gwendy gave him a bleak smile. “That can’t happen. If anyone tried, it would be a disaster.”

“Senator—”

“Gwendy. Please. In here I’m Gwendy.”

“All right, Gwendy. Is there a history of Alzheimer’s or dementia in your family?”

“Not really. My Aunt Felicia went gaga, but she was in her late 90s.”

“Uh-huh, good. And you lost your husband fairly recently?”

“Yes.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss. Added to that you have all the responsibilities of a new Senator to deal with. You may be suffering from simple stress.”

“There’s no blood test for Alzheimer’s, is there?”

“Unfortunately, no. The only way we can confirm the diagnosis—other than by observing the constant deterioration of the patient’s medical faculties—is by autopsy after death. There’s a written test which is a good marker, however.”

“I should take it.”

“I think that’s a good idea. In the meantime, can I suggest a practical way of dealing with these Brain Freezes, as you call them?”

“God, yes! I’d do enemas three times a day if I thought it would help!”

Dr. Ambrose smiled. “No enemas, just a process of association, and you may have almost come to it on your own.” He had a yellow legal pad on his lap. Now he turned back a page and studied the notes he’d made during her story. “When writing about this little restaurant, Simone’s, you found you were unable to remember a certain word. Do you remember it now?”

“Sure. Hotdogs.”

“But you wrote—?”

“Crankshafts,” Gwendy said, and felt herself blush.

“You knew it was wrong, so you tried again. Do you recall your second stab at it?”

Gwendy was having a clear day, not even a trace of mental fog, and she remembered at once. “Burgomeister.” Her blush deepened. “I wrote ‘You’ll never have a better burgomeister.’ Stupid, right?”