Gwendy’s Final Task

Gwendy’s anger has diminished, but it’s been replaced by a soul-dragging heaviness that makes her head feel as if it weighs about a million pounds. It was just yesterday that she couldn’t sit still—did she really go for a run or did she dream that?—but now she can’t seem to make herself get up off the tiny sofa. She considers stretching out and taking a nap, but every time she closes her eyes, she sees Ryan’s lifeless body and the trail of bloody smear marks across the road, and all she hears in the dark silence of her mind is that awful high, barking laughter.

Finally, after giving herself a pep talk (at age sixty-four, Gwendy’s mental pep talks are still delivered in her mother’s voice), she closes her laptop and forces herself to get up and get moving. After depositing a handful of balled-up Kleenex in the zero-g wastebasket and closing the lid, she washes her face with cold water. Four more days, she reminds herself again, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She’s not happy with what she sees. Her eyes are swollen from crying, and there’s a hint of barely contained hysteria in her gaze. NG, she thinks. Better do something about that before you show up at dinner. The last thing she needs to do is give Kathy and company a reason to start worrying about her again.

But those men weren’t men. They were from … somewhere else. Probably the same somewhere else the button box came from. Did Mr. Farris steal it to keep it safe? Gwendy doesn’t know—probably never will—but she thinks there’s a good chance he did.

It occurs to Gwendy there’s one thing she does know: she’s about to break bread with a man who had a hand in her husband’s death. How heavy that hand was she isn’t sure, but that doesn’t really matter. Does it? There’s a brief moment where she struggles to remember the man’s name—she thinks it might be Gary or maybe even Gregory—but then it comes back to her in a flash of certainty that is rare for her during these dark times. His name is Gareth Winston. He’s a billionaire, but he’ll never have enough money or power. He’ll always want more. And he knows the combination to the steel case marked CLASSIFIED MATERIAL. She’s sure of that, too.

35

THERE ARE FOUR OF them at the table when Gareth Winston bounce-walks his way into the cafeteria. Gwendy is sitting next to Adesh Patel. She looks younger and livelier than the reflection she saw in her bathroom mirror minutes ago. She’s just finished telling Kathy Lundgren and Bern Stapleton all about Boris the scorpion’s impressive display in the Bug Lab. At the conclusion of her story, she jumps to her feet, exclaiming “Maar!” and lunges across the table toward her former training partner. Bern Stapleton nearly screams and spills half a cup of apple juice, which floats in front of his jumpsuit. He’s still trying to catch it with a ball of napkins when Gwendy spots Winston.

Please keep going, she thinks. Please sit somewhere else.

But of course he doesn’t. Squeezing his considerable bulk onto the chair, Winston settles with a grunt. He immediately reaches for his food tray, detaches it from the magnet holding it to the table, and floats it over to him. He peers through the thin mesh, nods approvingly at what he sees, opens the diagonal zip in the center of the mesh with a thumbnail, and begins to eat pasta in greedy gulps. A few drops of red sauce float in front of him. To Gwendy they look like drops of blood.

“Not bad,” he says, finally looking up at the others. “It’s not Sorrento’s in the Bronx, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

“I’m so glad you’re pleased,” Kathy says. “Perhaps TetCorp can hire the head chef from Sorrento’s to handle meal preparations for their Mars shuttles.”

“Now that’s an idea,” Winston says, pointing a finger at the flight commander and chewing noisily. He looks over at Adesh. “They even have a vegetarian menu for people like you.”

The entomologist leans close to Gwendy and whispers, “People like me, don’t you know.”

“There’s a lovely Italian restaurant in Maine called Giovanni’s. You ever heard of it, Mr. Winston?” It’s an innocent enough question, but something in Gwendy’s tone causes the others at the table to turn and stare at her. Only Winston doesn’t seem to notice.

He shakes his head. “Can’t say I have. Where is it?”

“It’s in a little town in Maine called Windham, about forty-five minutes north of Castle Rock. They make a stuffed shrimp a la Guiseppi to die for. It’s been written up in all the foodie magazines.”

“Hmpph.” He takes a drink of lemonade and belches into his hand. “I’ll have to check it out sometime.”

“I’ve actually been meaning to ask you,” Gwendy says. “Have you spent much time in Maine during your travels?”