Gwendy’s Final Task

After the obligatory reception, there’s a car waiting to take Winston back to his hotel suite, but he decides to walk instead. He needs the fresh air, plus he’d skipped breakfast this morning and is starving. Walking at a rapid pace, he cuts across McKinley Avenue, picks up South Euclid, and then takes a left onto Parkview. From there, he stops to buy three hot dogs and a bottle of Diet Pepsi from a street vendor and settles his considerable bulk on an empty bench overlooking the northeastern corner of Forest Park. From where he’s sitting he can spot the pale oval of the skating rink—still six weeks out from opening weekend—as well as the seventh fairway of the Highlands Golf Course, which he wouldn’t be caught dead playing. It’s strictly for small-timers.

He’s wiping a dribble of mustard off his shirt when a fluorescent green Chrysler swings up to the curb beside him. It looks to be roughly two miles long. Winston gives the car a once-over, but is unable to determine what year it rolled off the assembly line. All he knows is that it looks very old and in cherry condition, and he’s never seen another car like it. I wonder if it’s for sale, he thinks idly.

The driver’s side window glides down. A man with short blond hair and striking emerald eyes, the bottom half of his face hidden behind a red bandana, leans his head out of the car and says, “Hop in. Let’s go for a ride.”

Winston grins. He’s always liked a cheeky bastard, having been one himself all his life. “Nice ride, mister, but that’s not gonna happen.” He starts to ask the stranger why he’s wearing a mask—few people wear masks anymore, not since the arrival of the vaccines a couple years ago—but he never gets that far.

“I don’t have much time, Mr. Winston. Get in.”

Winston’s eyes narrow. “How do you know my name?” The answer to that is obvious; he’s seen it in the papers or on one of the business channels, where Gareth Winston is a fixture. “Who are you?”

“A friend. And I know lots of things about you, Mr. Winston.”

Because of the red bandana, Winston is unable to see the stranger’s mouth, but he’s nonetheless certain that the man is smiling. “I don’t know who the hell you think you’re talking to, but—”

“When you were twelve, you broke into your neighbor’s house while they were away on vacation. Frank and Betsy Rhineman. Nice people. It’s a shame their son died so young.”

“How do you know the—”